Page 37 of The Little Flower Shop By the Sea
It’s an antique hardback calledThe Language and Meaning of Flowers; its dust jacket is so delicate and worn at the edges that I can barely open the cover without the jacket crumbling between my fingers.
It seems to be a glossary of flowers. There’s a very detailed drawing of each flower, plus a description and the growing habits. At the top of each page the name of the flower is given in both English and Latin, along with its symbolic meaning. Daisy, for example, symbolises innocence; Marigold – grief, Iris – message. I laugh at the meaning of Poppy: Fantastic Extravagance.As if!
I flick gently through the pages, reading each flower’s meaning and the occasions when it should be given, and then I notice a handwritten inscription at the beginning of the book:
To my darling Daisy,
One day I hope to make your dream come true, and these and many more flowers you shall sell in your own Little Flower Shop…
All my love and deepest admiration today and forever more,
Your William
February 1887
‘What’s wrong?’ Amber asks appearing in the doorway still towelling her hair dry. ‘I was sensing negative vibes coming from up here a few minutes ago, so I got out of my bath.’ She looks at me, still staring at the book in shock. ‘What’s that? What do you have?’
‘This book belonged to my great-great-great-grandmother,’ I tell her holding the book up. ‘Look, here at the front, it’s inscribed “To my darling Daisy from your William”. Those are the names of my great-great-great-grandparents. That Daisy istheDaisy, the Daisy who owned the original Daisy Chain shop.’
‘You mean the lady that started your family’s empire?’
I wouldn’t exactly call it an empire…
‘Yes, that one,’ I agree, for the sake of argument. ‘Do you know the story then?’
‘Some,’ Amber says, grabbing a doughnut from the box and settling down next to me on the sofa, her damp hair cascading over her shoulders. ‘Tell me again though, I love a good story.’
I’d had this story told to me so many times over the years, I’d long since stopped listening when it was being recounted. But this is the first timeI’veever been asked to tell it to anyone. I look at Amber’s expectant face, and suddenly it feels very important I get this right.
‘Daisy was a flower seller on Covent Garden Market in the late nineteenth century,’ I tell her, closing the book up and placing my hand on the front cover. ‘She came from a big family, and a very poor background, so she was delighted when she managed to get a job selling flowers.’
Amber smiles, already enjoying the story.
‘Apparently her sisters had all gone into service, and that was what was expected of Daisy. But she decided differently, and took the job on the market. It didn’t pay that well, but she loved it.’
Amber nods approvingly.
‘In 1886, she met my great-great-great-grandfather William. William’s family owned a large company that grew and distributed flowers all over England. They met when he was delivering flowers to the market one day – the romanticised version of this story tells it as love at first sight, but I don’t buy that.’
Amber pulls a disapproving face, and waits for me to continue.
‘Anyway, atsome stagethey decided they wanted to get married, but William’s family didn’t approve of Daisy’s background and thought he was marrying beneath him. Again, there’s talk here of planned elopements and the like, but it depends who you talk to in my family and how romantic they want it to sound. I don’t think the guy would have given up all his inheritance for love, not back then… All right, all right,’ I say, as Amber folds her arms across her chest. ‘I’ll stick to telling the story. OK, so in a weird twist of fate, William’s father died unexpectedly and, as the only son, William inherited the family business. The first thing he did was to ask for Daisy’s hand in marriage, and she immediately accepted. They moved to Cornwall, opened Daisy’s longed-for flower shop, and the rest, as my family always say at this point, is history.’
‘That’s a great story,’ Amber says. ‘I never tire of hearing it.’
‘So you did know it! Why did you make me tell it if you knew Daisy’s story?’
‘Soyoucould hear it again,’ she says, raising her auburn eyebrows.
‘What? Why?’
‘Because she’s like you, isn’t she – Daisy?’
‘How on earth is a genteel Victorian girl who goes from selling flowers on Covent Garden Market to owning a shop here in Cornwallanythinglike me?’
‘How do you know she was genteel? She could have been feisty and ballsy, just like you.’
I look at Amber as though she’s lost it.
