Page 3 of The Little Flower Shop By the Sea
‘But they close on a Monday, see. So if you’re looking for flowers, then I’m afraid you’re out of luck.’
‘Oh, never mind then,’ I say, hoping he’ll leave me alone. ‘Maybe another time.’
‘Staying in St Felix long, are you?’ he asks, obviously wanting to continue our conversation. He looks up at the sky. ‘Not the best day to see the town at its finest.’
‘I’m not sure. Hopefully not too long.’
He looks surprised at this.
‘I mean, maybe a few days.’ I look up at the sky like he had. ‘Depends on the weather…’
‘Ah, I see. Good plan. Good plan.’ He smiles. ‘Sorry about the shop, but – and I don’t mean any offence to the ladies when I say this, you understand – their ways with flowers are a bit old fashioned. If you’re in need of something more modern you could always pop up the hill to Jake. He’ll see you right.’
‘Jake being…?’ I enquire, wondering if I’ll regret asking.
‘He owns the local nursery up on Primrose Hill. They deliver flowers all round the area. Just between us –’ he leans in towards me and lowers his voice once more – ‘I always go there when I need flowers for thespeciallady in my life.’
‘And would that be… your mum?’ I can’t resist teasing him. This constable is completely unlike the officers of the Metropolitan Police I’ve encountered in London. Although, thinking about it, most of those encounters hadn’t exactly been amicable, I was usually being arrested. Nothing serious – my misdemeanours ranged from disturbing the peace, to drunk and disorderly, to my favourite: trying to climb on top of one of the lions in Trafalgar Square. I’d been a bit of a rebel in my younger days, that’s all. I wasn’t exactly a criminal.
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right,’ he mumbles, his cheeks reddening. ‘Flowers for my mum. Well, I must be off – things to do, you know. This town doesn’t run itself.’
I feel bad for teasing him, he seems a nice enough fella.
He gives me a quick salute. ‘Nice meeting you, miss.’
‘Yes, and you, PC…’
‘Woods,’ he says proudly. ‘But everyone around here calls me Woody. I try and stop them, but it’s kinda stuck now. I dread to think what my superiors would say if they knew – it hardly conjures up an air of authority.’
I grin. ‘I think it suits you. Well, thanks for the tip about the flowers, Wood—, I mean PC Woods. I’m sure it will come in handy.’
He nods. ‘Just doing my job, miss.’ Then he turns smartly on his shiny black shoes and sets off briskly up the cobbled street, arms swinging by his sides.
I turn and look at the shop again.
‘Right, let’s see what you’ve left me, Grandma Rose,’ I say, reaching into my pocket for the key my mother had pressed into my hand this morning, just before I dropped her and my father at Heathrow ready to fly back to the States. ‘Or should I say, let’s see what you’ve left me to sell…’
As I warily open the shop door for the first time in fifteen years I feel my throat begin to tighten as yet again I’m cast back to the day of the funeral.
‘Why on earth has Grandma Rose left me her flower shop?’ I’d protested in the quiet of the hotel lounge. ‘I hate flowers, and she knew that. Did she really hate me that much?’
‘Poppy!’ my mother had admonished. ‘Don’t say that about your grandmother, she loved you very much, as you well know. That shop is the original link in The Daisy Chain empire, she wouldn’t have left it to you unless she thought…’ There was a pause, and I knew what she was thinking: her mother must have been losing her mind to leave her precious shop to me.
You see I’ve heard it all before, too many times – how flowers have been in my family for ever… passed down through every generation. How at least one person in every branch of the Carmichael family owns, runs, or works for a florist. It was like a broken record that never came off the turntable. But it didn’t stop there. The Daisy Chain was now international: my mother had opened a flower shop in New York, a distant cousin had a florist business in Amsterdam, and another would be opening a shop in Paris later this year. Every Carmichael loved flowers – every one except me. I may have been burdened with my family’s tradition of calling all children flower-inspired names, but that’s where the floral affinity stopped. There were no flowers in my life, and I didn’t intend for that to change any time soon.
‘Go on…’ I’d prompted. I wanted to hear my mother say it. I knew I was the black sheep of the Carmichael family; I knew I was the one they talked about in hushed tones at family parties. Maybe my grandmother had seen past that, maybe she thought by leaving me her shop it might help me. How could she be so wrong?
My mother took a deep breath. ‘She wouldn’t have left you her shop unless she thought you could do some good with it.’
‘Perhaps.’ I’d shrugged.
‘Poppy,’ my mother said, rubbing her hands comfortingly over my upper arms, ‘I know this is difficult for you, really I do. But your grandmother has given you an opportunity here. An opportunity to do something good with your life. Please, at least give it a chance.’
My father had stepped forward then. ‘Couldn’t you at least go andlookat the shop, Poppy? For your mother, if not for yourself? You know what your grandmother’s shop means to her – and the whole Carmichael family.’
It’s begun spitting with rain, so I stop dithering on the doorstep of the shop, and dart inside, swiftly closing the door behind me. The last thing I want is for any of the other shop owners in the street to see I’m in here and come banging on the window for a chat. I’m not intending to stay long.
I resist the urge to turn on the light, so I have to try and make out the interior of the shop as best I can from what little daylight there is coming through the window.
