Page 31 of The Little Flower Shop By the Sea
Today is Sunday, and it’s almost two weeks since I made my momentous decision about keeping the shop. Well, it’s momentous for me, I’ve never embraced responsibility in my whole life! And this morning we’re about to attempt our first stab at decorating the shop. We’ve decided to do it ourselves, as the quote I got from a local painter and decorator would have eaten into far too much of the money my mother had sent to help me get the shop up and running.
Even though my mother had lent me the money without any strings attached in an attempt to entice me into staying at the shop, I’d insisted I would pay her back as soon as the place was up and running and hopefully making a profit.
If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it my way.
So here we are, wearing our white painting overalls from the DIY shop in the next town. Amber has brightened hers up by tying back her unruly red hair with a brightly coloured headscarf, but I remain in my usual monochrome, the only difference being that my predominant colour on this occasion is white instead of black. There are unopened paint pots at our feet and we hold clean brushes and paint rollers in our hands.
We both sigh as we look at the empty walls, dressers and tables.
‘Where do we begin?’ I ask, looking up at the bare wall.
‘I have no idea,’ Amber says. ‘Have you ever decorated before?’
I shake my head.
‘Me neither,’ she says. ‘We always had someone in when I lived at home. The house and the rooms were too big to do it ourselves. Not that my mom would have sullied her hands decorating. It might have chipped her nails!’
I look across at Amber. The way she dresses and acts, I’d assumed she didn’t come from a wealthy background. I’m cross with myself; I of all people should know not to judge someone by their appearance. I only had to look in the mirror.
‘So, where do you think we start?’ I ask, looking down at an unopened tin of paint. ‘With that?’
‘Putting the kettle on is usually a good place to start when you’ve got the workmen in!’ a voice calls at the door, and we see Jake and a posse of people, including Woody, Belle, and some of the Women’s Guild ladies, wearing an assortment of mismatched outfits, and carrying brushes, rollers, sandpaper and a whole host of tools I hadn’t even considered we might need.
‘Come in, my friends!’ Amber calls, as everyone pours through the door. ‘If you don’t mind an American making you tea, I’ll put that kettle on at once!’
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask Jake, still astonished by the many folk pouring through the door.
‘We thought you could do with a hand,’ Jake says, propping a long-handled roller against the wall after Miley has left his shoulder and scampered after Amber. ‘You told Rita at the Mermaid you and Amber were going to be starting to decorate today, didn’t you?’
‘Yes…’
‘So she put the word out, and here we all are!’
I couldn’t believe how many people had come up to me in the days following my decision to keep the flower shop, all wanting to congratulate me, thank me, and tell me I’d done the right thing.
The Daisy Chain obviously held a very special place in many people’s hearts here in St Felix, and I was determined to find out why.
‘This is brilliant,’ I say, still finding it hard to believe everyone has turned out like this. I’m not used to people helping me. ‘I… I can’t pay you all though.’
Jake looks at me oddly. ‘Why would we want paying – we just want to help you.’
‘But why?’
‘Because that’s what friends and neighbours do – help each other.’
‘Sure. Yes. Of course.’ I smile awkwardly. ‘Well, thank you, this is… brilliant – I said that already, didn’t I?’
Jake smiles. ‘Yes, you did. But don’t thank me, thank Rita; she and Rich will be along later when they’ve done the breakfasts at the Mermaid.’ He looks around. ‘Right, so what should we do first?’
Luckily there are a few people in the decorating posse that know what they’re doing. So between them they organise us into teams, so we can get going in some sort of orderly fashion. Apparently there’s much rubbing down to be done first to remove flaking paintwork, and then cracks that must be filled. These things hadn’t occurred to me at all.
I thought you just painted over cracks: in decorating, and in life.
A while later I’m helping Charlie, Jake’s son, sand down one of the big wooden tables. Charlie is a lovely boy, tall like Jake, but whereas Bronte takes after Jake in colouring, I assume Charlie must take after his mother. He has bright blue eyes and pale blond hair, and his manner, although polite when spoken to, is quiet and unassuming.
‘Sorry you’ve got dragged in here on a Sunday morning,’ I say, trying to make conversation.
‘That’s OK,’ he says, rubbing the table leg with his piece of sandpaper. ‘Not much else to do. The weather forecast isn’t that great.’
