The Beachside Flower Stall

by Karen Clarke

  Alarmed by the sight of the empty buckets, I flipped through the order book, found a delivery note, and rang the number at the top.

  ‘All Seasons Nursery,’ snapped a gravel-voiced woman, as if I’d interrupted her doing something vital. ‘It’s because we ’aven’t been paid, love,’ she said, once I’d explained who I was and why I was calling. ‘We sent a final reminder and our terms are clearly stated.’

  My heart dive-bombed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too.’ Her voice warmed up. ‘Your aunt’s a good customer normally, love, but we’re running a business here.’

  ‘I’ll pay by credit card,’ I said, and gave her my details. There was no need for Ruby to know.

  ‘Too late for today’s delivery,’ the woman said, cheerful now. ‘Jools will be back tomorrow, yeah?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ringing off, I examined the sparse selection of remaining flowers, and peered into the buckets, as if by magic something might be growing. Perhaps I could rearrange what was left – two stems per bucket – but I might as well stick up a sign saying: Nothing to see here, jog on.

  Would it be ethical to fill up with supermarket bouquets? But there wasn’t a supermarket close by, and I could hardly leave the stall to go and find one.

  I briefly considered calling Ruby. Perhaps she’d be galvanised into action – but then again, the reverse might be true. Although she’d seemed more positive the night before, planning the flowers for Megan’s wedding, her mood was still fragile after facing the state of her finances. This might send her into a fresh decline.

  ‘Excuse me, could I leave these with you?’ I looked up to see a young woman, holding out a yellow-and-white-striped paper bag. ‘They’re for Ruby,’ she added, her gaze enquiring beneath a blunt-cut fringe. ‘She hasn’t been in for her toffee whirls.’

  ‘I’m Carrie, her niece,’ I said. ‘She’s taking a little break.’

  ‘That sounds nice.’ She smiled in a friendly way. ‘I’m Marnie Appleton,’ she said, pressing a hand to her chest. ‘I run the sweet shop near the end of the parade.’

  ‘Oh!’ I took the proffered bag and peered inside. A deliciously buttery aroma escaped, but after last night’s feast I couldn’t face eating yet. ‘You won an award,’ I said, recalling what Mr Flannery had told me.

  ‘Well, it was more for the sweet shop than me,’ she said, with a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Ruby would probably have won if she’d entered, because she’s here every day, whatever the weather. At least I’ve a roof and four walls to protect me in winter.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to say so.’ I dimly wondered whether Ruby would be back on the stall before winter.

  ‘Actually, there’s another reason I’m here.’ Marnie glanced at the few flowers that were left. ‘I’d like to place an order.’

  ‘Great,’ I said, moving across to the workbench. ‘Let me get the book.’

  ‘No Jane?’ Marnie tucked a flyaway strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. ‘She’s usually here first thing.’

  ‘She’s on a break too,’ I said, squashing an unwelcome image of Jane trussed up in a corset with a riding crop, chasing her husband around a hotel room.

  ‘It’s a lot of work for one person,’ said Marnie, seeming concerned. ‘Have you done anything like this before?’

  ‘No, but it’s fine. It’s just that some flowers were stolen yesterday, and—’

  ‘Oh my god, I saw some in a wheelie bin round the back of the shop,’ she said, her brow crinkling. ‘I wondered where they’d come from.’

  I brightened. ‘Should I go and get them?’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother.’ She shook her head. ‘Even if they’re still there now, they won’t be fresh. I expect it was Biff, or one of his dozy mates from college, doing things for dares.’ Her tone suggested she’d been on the receiving end before. ‘They never learn, but I suppose they’re bored. I could have a word, if you like.’

  I looked past her, taking in the sweep of golden beach and the ancient pier jutting into the sea. We’d rarely visited this area when growing up, preferring the more obvious attractions of Weymouth, but although Shipley had a lovely, old-world charm, there probably wasn’t much for teenagers to do.

  ‘Thanks, but don’t worry,’ I said, opening the order book. ‘I’ll put it down to experience. Now, what can we do for you?’

  ‘It’s a christening for a friend’s baby, at the beginning of September,’ she said. ‘I offered to organise some flowers for the church.’

  ‘I didn’t think people still got their babies christened.’

  ‘Beth’s very old-fashioned.’ Marnie gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘She’s thirty-two going on seventy.’

  I took down the details, glad to have a booking I could tell Ruby about. ‘Bunty’s an unusual name for a baby,’ I said. ‘I like it.’

  Marnie grinned. ‘Alex, my boyfriend, is campaigning for us to bring back more old names when we start a family,’ she confided. ‘Roger, Beverley, Nigel, that kind of thing.’

  ‘My parents are Judith and Ken,’ I said, getting into it. ‘You never hear of babies named Kenneth these days.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Marnie’s eyes danced. ‘Anyway, I’d better get back to the shop or Aggie, that’s my assistant, will be…’ She pursed her lips. ‘Actually,’ she said, smiling, ‘she’d probably manage perfectly well without me.’

  As she left, with a suggestion that I pop into the sweet shop some time, I slipped the toffees into my bag, then took out my phone and rang the number Calum had given me.

  ‘Doris Day. How may I help you?’

  My heart slipped. Resisting the urge to hang up, I said, ‘It’s Carrie here—’

  ‘Oh, Carrie, I hoped you’d change your mind.’ She sounded delighted. ‘I was thinking about it last night, while I was babysitting Erica. I’m sure Ruby’s son is angry at your aunt, and doesn’t want to upset his adopted family, but if they could sit down together and talk it out, I think it would enhance both their lives.’ She took a breath. ‘I know I’m oversimplifying, but sometimes the simplest solutions are the best.’

  I silently counted to five. ‘I wasn’t calling about that,’ I said, good manners preventing me from telling her to mind her own business. That, and the fact that I needed her help. ‘I was calling because our supplier didn’t turn up and I’ve almost run out of flowers, and one of your neighbours, Calum, said—’

  ‘Oh, Calum!’ Doris cut in, seeming unfazed that she’d got the wrong end of the stick. ‘He’s such a lovely boy, he’s a credit to his parents. He offered to cut my grass the other day, but I told him I’m as capable of gardening now as I was in my thirties, though my husband usually did it then.’ She paused. ‘Did I mention that Roger’s dead? It’s a blessing in a way, because he would never have accepted his son being married to another man.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, not sure what I was apologising for – the fact that her husband was dead, or had been homophobic. ‘The thing is, Calum said you had some lovely flowers in your garden that you could bring down, and some from their garden too. I know Jane wouldn’t mind,’ I said hastily. ‘I would come and get them myself, but I’m on my own at the stall.’

  ‘Ooh, yes, I saw Jane and Dennis throwing bags in their car the other day. Not that I was being nosey,’ she said, as if I’d passed judgement. ‘I was outside, dabbing some Brasso on my knockers.’ An involuntary snort escaped from me. ‘I know, door knockers must seem old-fashioned,’ she said, misunderstanding. ‘But Roger insisted we have them, front and back, a lion’s head, and one shaped like a trowel, because he did love his gardening.’

  I was starting to feel slightly hysterical. Time was marching on, and if Doris was unwilling or unable to supply me with flowers, I might have to close the stall until tomorrow.

  ‘I’ll pay you,’ I said, recklessly. ‘For the flowers, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ She sounded scandalised, as if I’d proposed a drugs deal. ‘It will be a favour to your aunt
,’ she said. ‘Give me half an hour.’

  While I waited, I rearranged the few flowers left, so they looked marginally less tragic, then double-checked there were no orders for that day, and that the phone was working, should anyone wish to call, then I ran into Cooper’s to grab a coffee, figuring there was nothing left worth stealing at the stall.

  Once back, I settled myself on an upturned bucket to check there were no further emails from Megan, relieved when I saw that there weren’t. On impulse, I googled her name, but there were too many Megan Fords, the most prolific being a feminist comedian. I furtively typed in Tom’s name, but the only reference that appeared – apart from his veterinary surgery – was on his father’s Wikipedia page, under ‘family’ beside all Mr Hudson’s business achievements.

  The sun warmed my arms as I clicked on the ‘Hudson’s Country Hotels’ website, and scrolled through photos of extravagant grey-stone buildings in picturesque settings, with lavishly landscaped gardens. More photos revealed plush bedrooms with mullioned windows and balconies, and elegant dining rooms, where ‘locally sourced food’ was cooked by award-winning chefs. They looked a lot less flashy than I’d expected – quite classy, in fact – but it was clearly not the kind of industry Tom would be happy working in, and it was just a pity his father wouldn’t accept that.

  I finished my coffee and moved into the shade as my neck began to burn, and taking The A–Z of Flowers and their Meanings out of my bag, memorised a couple more: lisanthus (gratitude and charisma) and gardenia (purity and sweetness).

  A family passed by, two young children carrying fishing nets on bamboo sticks, and the hot-and-bothered-looking dad paused to ask, ‘Do you know where we can catch crabs?’

  I could only imagine what Jasmine would make of that. ‘There’s a harbour on the other side of the bay,’ I said, putting my book away. ‘I think there are rock pools there.’

  ‘You think?’ He scowled. ‘Don’t you live around here?’

  They’d gone before I could think of a pithy retort like, ‘No. Actually, I don’t.’ On second thoughts, maybe it was just as well.

  Idly, I picked up my phone and logged on to My Single Friend, using the password that Jasmine had given me. Maybe it would do me good to meet someone who wasn’t a friend or colleague of Jasmine’s, or someone I worked with. Or Tom. Still reeling from my intense reaction, I determinedly scrolled through several matches in the area. Jack, aged twenty-nine, Toby, thirty-three, and Chas, thirty-nine.

  I clicked on Toby, after reading his short profile, which basically said he was a painter. He sounded less of a cliché than Jack, who claimed to love staying in watching films, and taking long walks on the beach ‘but not at the same time’, while Chas was ‘divorced and looking to play’, which didn’t appeal one bit.

  Also, Toby looked quite nice in his photo – a bit like Greg Rutherford, who I’d taken a shine to during the Olympics, and his subsequent stint on Strictly Come Dancing. He was gazing slightly to the left – Toby, not Greg Rutherford – looking slightly embarrassed, whereas Chas had posted a mirror-selfie, lifting his top to reveal a clutch of muscles, and Jack was posed with a sweater draped round his shoulders, as if heading to the golf course.

  I tried to think of a witty opener, before typing Hi! and hitting ‘send’. Jasmine was brilliant at first-liners, but I couldn’t pull them off.

  Too late, I looked at the profile she’d written for me.

  Sleeping Beauty looking for Prince Charming to wake her up. Failing that, a man with nice teeth will do. Must like Game of Thrones.

  In the profile picture I looked unusually seductive, my hair tumbling forward and my eyes half closed, the dressing gown I was wearing gaping around the boobs. In fact, I’d been full of cold and was dozing on the sofa in front of Gogglebox when Jasmine snapped the picture on her phone.

  ‘For god’s sake,’ I murmured, trying to work out how to delete it. It would be more realistic to use my driving licence photo, despite Jasmine protesting it made me look like an accountant.

  ‘But I am,’ I’d said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  A shadow fell over my phone, and I looked up to see Doris marshalling buckets of flowers with Mary Poppins style efficiency.

  I blinked and stood up. ‘How long have you been here?’ I said.

  ‘Not long.’ She picked up the watering can and trickled some water into the nearest bucket like a pro. ‘Shall I write out some labels?’ she said when she’d finished, tugging off her gardening gloves and twitching a crease out of her smart, cream trousers. ‘You might not know what some of these are called.’

  ‘I don’t know what any of them are called, but they’re gorgeous.’ I took snapshots with my eyes, while she chalked their names onto wooden markers. The deep orange centres were already attracting bees, as well as admiring glances from people wandering past. ‘They smell so good,’ I said, fingers tracing the silky petals of a pale pink flower with a beetroot-coloured middle.

  ‘Those are mine,’ Doris said proudly. ‘Oriental poppies.’ She pointed to a bucket of deep purple flowers. ‘Those are from Jane’s garden.’

  The smell was like the best perfume, and I was blindsided by a memory; the scent of dew on Sweet Williams in my grandparents’ garden in Bridport. I hadn’t realised until that moment that I’d been carrying it with me for years. ‘These are better than anything from the wholesalers,’ I said, disloyally. ‘I have to pay you.’

  ‘I’ve already said no.’ Doris plucked a pair of secateurs from her canvas bag and trimmed a couple of stray leaves. ‘You can let me do you a favour instead.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  I should have known there was no such thing as a free lunch – or free flowers.

  ‘What kind of favour?’

  Doris reached inside her bag and drew out a folded piece of paper.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It might be an address.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘It’s either an address or it’s not.’

  She patted her hair as if checking it was still there. ‘It’s an address,’ she conceded. ‘For Ruby’s son.’

  I wasn’t sure I’d ever gasped before, but it was the only way to describe the sound that escaped me. ‘How—?’

  ‘I saw the baby wristband, and the letter, when I was cleaning Ruby’s bedroom, after you’d left the other morning. I’d already overheard her say his name was Peter Robson.’

  ‘Doris, that’s…’ immoral, outrageous, a diabolical invasion of privacy.

  The words were plugged in my throat, but before I could get them out, she said, ‘I think your aunt wanted us – you – to find them.’

  I stared. Could she be right? Ruby hadn’t made much effort to put the letter and photo away in the first place, and she’d known I was coming to stay.

  ‘This is emotional blackmail,’ I managed, as a group of women clustered round the stall, cooing over the flowers as if they were newborn babies.

  ‘We’re celebrating a hundred years of the Women’s Institute,’ said one, with a horsey smile. ‘Wish we’d asked you to do the flowers for our chapter’s celebration dinner, instead of that over-priced place in Weymouth.’

  ‘Next time,’ I said, realising too late we’d all be dead by then. ‘Are you a member of the Women’s Institute?’ I asked Doris, once the WI women had crossed to the ice-cream van. I was determined to ignore the crackle of paper I’d stuffed into my pocket.

  ‘Certainly not, I’m a maverick.’ Doris tugged a lacy handkerchief from the breast pocket of her blouse. ‘I don’t belong to groups,’ she said, bending to brush pollen off her gleaming court shoes. ‘Especially not groups of women, with their hormones.’ Straightening, she gave me an arch look. ‘Stop trying to change the subject,’ she said. ‘I might have found out where he lives, with a little help from my friend, but the rest is up to you.’

  ‘But Ruby said there was nothing anyone could do.’

  ‘Talk is cheap.’ Doris slipped her handkerchief into her bag.
‘Your aunt is clearly in crisis and needs your help.’

  ‘Not if it isn’t in someone else’s best interest,’ I said. ‘Her son doesn’t want anything to do with her, he said so in his letter. He threatened her with a restraining order.’

  ‘That was a long time ago, and there could have been any number of reasons why, back then.’

  ‘So why hasn’t he got in touch since?’

  ‘You can ask him that yourself,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s the favour you can do. Not for me, for your aunt.’

  I sidestepped a woman dragging her shopping trolley through the flower stall as if it was invisible. ‘But I’m already helping,’ I pointed out. ‘And say I did go and talk to him, and he got angry, it could make everything worse.’ Ruby’s words from the night before flashed through my head; her assertion that she’d never be happy, but still wanted to make her son proud. Didn’t she deserve a second chance?

  Maybe if I talked to Peter I could at least put her case forward, and if he slammed the door in my face it wouldn’t matter, as Ruby would never know. Of course, it would be better if he changed his mind and came to see her of his own accord, but that might never happen. And what if he did have a change of heart, but it was too late and Ruby had died – probably of a broken heart? He’d be filled with regret that his daughter had never met her grandmother. He might even have had more children…

  Normally, I shut down my imagination if it threatened to run riot, but suddenly it was rampaging all over the place. I could practically see Peter on his knees at Ruby’s graveside, tears dripping off his nose.

  ‘If I’d wanted to take it further I could have found him myself,’ I said churlishly. ‘There’s such a thing as the Internet, you know.’

  ‘You’ve enough on your plate,’ said Doris. ‘It was no trouble to ask—’

  ‘Your friend…’

  ‘Ellen Partridge.’

  ‘How come she knew where to look?’