by Mary Hooper
‘She doesn’t know.’
‘Oh, dear,’ Mum said. ‘I see trouble ahead. I bet the new husband won’t like it either.’
‘He hates Ella,’ I said. ‘He’s horrible to her. He might be quite pleased if her real dad came along one day and took her.’
‘Ah, well,’ Mum said, ‘I hope he does in a way, because that girl’s had a bit of a rough life, what with one thing and another.’ She shook her head thoughtfully. ‘But then things don’t always work out quite the way you expect.’ She frowned and then she said, ‘Should I do a few more gold ones, d’you think?’
I looked at the finished pots sitting in rows along the table. There were about ten of each, silver and gold. I shook my head. ‘I don’t like the gold ones so much.’
‘Everyone else does, though,’ Mum said, and she picked up the gold stuff she’d been using. ‘Pass me that brush, darling.’
‘I don’t know why you asked me, then!’ I draped my scarf, my pashmina, around my neck again. When Mum was painting it didn’t do to leave things lying around. ‘You don’t think it’s from Alex, do you?’
‘He couldn’t afford it!’ Mum said. ‘And quite honestly, love, he hasn’t got the style.’
‘You don’t like him!’ I said accusingly.
‘I do, you know I do. But he wouldn’t even think about buying someone a pashmina to match her eyes.’
‘D’you really think it cost a hundred pounds?’
‘Probably.’ Another gold pot emerged and was moved to the drying area. ‘Around that, I should think.’
I looked for a label. ‘Think what I could buy for a hundred pounds! Maybe I can take it back.’
‘Maybe you can give it back,’ she said. ‘I really don’t like you accepting a present like that from someone we don’t know.’
‘Mmm. Maybe,’ I said vaguely.
Dad came in and admired the scarf, and when Mum said it was from a secret admirer he looked startled.
‘Secret admirers,’ he said. ‘At your age!’
‘Of course.’ I wrapped the scarf around my face, wondering if I looked like an exotic foreign spy. ‘It’s never too early to start having secret admirers.’
‘So I see,’ he said, and he poked me in the tummy in a playful way. But neither Mum nor I told him how much it was worth.
In my room later, I got ready to meet Alex. I wanted to wear the pashmina, although it was nowhere near cold enough. And really, to be quite honest, a pale-blue woolly scarf wasn’t the sort of thing I would normally wear to go bowling. I looked in the wardrobe for something to go with it, though.
My wardrobe was a mess. I had no decent clothes – and come September it would really show, because there was no uniform in sixth form. That meant we would all be wearing our own stuff and, as I had absolutely nothing worth wearing, I was dreading it.
I wouldn’t mind if I had my own style. Ella, for instance, dresses a bit tarty so she always knows what sort of thing to go for. There’s another girl at school, Georgie, who’s Goth (and doesn’t seem to care that Goth went out ages ago), and two more who are kind of New Age or Gypsy, and a girl named Jasmine who wears everything oriental. It’s fine for them, they’ve decided what sort of style they are, so even if they wear something that’s not quite right, the sense of themselves that they’ve already established makes them look all right. Or at least that’s what I think.
I’m quite tall and thin and I look OK in long, flowing things so I could get away with looking Gypsy, apart from being fair instead of having dark Romany colouring. But I knew I couldn’t suddenly appear like that, transformed into Gypsy overnight as if I was born again. The two girls who’re into that look have been wearing it since they were about twelve.
It would make it easier if I was going to a different school to take my A levels, somewhere where no one knew me. I could start there being someone quite different, then. I wasn’t, though, so I had to stay ordinary. I ended up putting on jeans, of course, and an off-white T-shirt. Not exactly at the cutting edge.
When Alex knocked at the door, I hung the scarf over my shoulder before I went to answer it. I figured that if the scarf was from him by some faint chance (they’d fallen off the back of a lorry, say), then he’d see it and start laughing.
He saw it and said, ‘Got a stiff neck?’
I gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘D’you like it?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s all right. Why’re you wearing it?’
‘Someone sent it to me.’
‘Who?’ he asked.
We walked through to the garden. ‘No idea,’ I said airily. ‘Just someone who fancies me, I suppose.’
‘You must know,’ he said.
‘I don’t!’
We went on like this for a while, until he got ratty and I began to realise that I shouldn’t have hinted it was from a secret admirer. Alex just wasn’t the sort of boy who could shrug this off.
‘Look, I thought it might have been from you – that’s the only reason I’m wearing it,’ I said in the end.
He stared at me hard, his nose inches from mine. He was good-looking, dark, with thick, short hair that stood up in little points when it was gelled. ‘Take it off, then,’ he said.
‘All right! Don’t lose your rag about it. I don’t even like it that much!’ I lied. ‘It’s only some old scarf.’
Just then, Mum came into the garden and went towards the shed with a tray full of her pots. She beamed at us both. ‘Seen the scarf, Alex?’ she asked.
‘Could hardly miss it,’ he muttered.
‘A mystery, eh? Someone with money to burn, though!’
I glowered at her. Thanks, Mum.
He waited until she’d offloaded the pots and gone in again, and then he said, ‘I thought you said it was just some old scarf?’ He fingered it, frowning deeply. ‘Was it expensive? Is there something special about it?’
‘Apparently,’ I said. ‘From an Indian goat’s tummy or something – I don’t know.’ I tossed the scarf on to the garden seat as if I couldn’t care less about it. ‘Can’t we just shut up about it now?’
Neither of us mentioned it after that but Alex was just a little bit miffed for the rest of the evening. His game was off, too – usually he beats everyone else hands down but that evening even I beat him.
Chapter Three
A few days later, Ella brought all the forms about finding her dad into the shop and during our lunchtime break I helped her fill them in.
The first questions were quite straightforward – his full name and date of birth, and Ella had these. The next question asked if he was named on her birth certificate, and said that if he wasn’t, then they wouldn’t be able to help.
‘Is he?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘Course he is. He was married to my mum then.’
We went down the form. She couldn’t give any description to speak of, though she thought her dad had been quite tall, because she could just remember someone looming over her in her pushchair. I said that anyone would loom when you were small enough to be in a pushchair and she said she was positive he was tall and slim and distinguished-looking. (The pillock, by the way, is fat and squatty and wears shell suits.)
The form asked when she’d last seen him, and under what circumstances they’d parted, then wanted to know what sort of job he’d done. At the bottom of the page it asked if she would agree to publicity.
I pointed this out. ‘Do you?’ I asked. ‘D’you want his name given out on one of those Missing programmes on TV?’
‘Course I do,’ she said.
‘But what will your mum say when she finds out you’re looking for him? And suppose he doesn’t like being named on TV? Suppose it scares him off?’
She stared at me. ‘But he won’t be scared off! He’ll be pleased to be back in touch with me. He’ll be pleased I found him!’
Her eyes had filled with tears, so I hastily agreed with her. ‘Yeah, I expect he will,’ I said.
She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got
to write him a letter.’
‘What for?’
‘In case they find him. If they do find him, they send him a letter and see if he wants to be in touch.’ She waved the leaflet which had come with the forms. ‘They don’t let me know his address unless he gives permission.’
‘I shouldn’t write too much,’ I said cautiously. I knew what Ella was like. If left unchecked she’d write pages and pages, pouring out all her hopes, fears, and complaints about the pillock, etc. She’d probably end up saying that she wanted to live with him and his new family. ‘You want to take it gently. Don’t frighten him off by saying you want him to rescue you or anything.’
‘What shall I say, then?’ she asked. ‘You’re better at that sort of thing than I am.’
We got a pad to practise on, and after three goes, this is what she wrote.
Hello, Dad!
I expect you’ll be surprised to hear from me, but I’ve been dying to find you again for years. I know lots has happened since you were living with Mum, but I still think about you all the time.
I am getting on quite well at school and will be going into sixth form to take my A levels next year.
I have lots and lots to tell you. Please get in touch. Whatever has happened, you are still my dad and I really want to see you.
All my love,
Ella
‘Is that enough?’ she said anxiously. ‘Are you sure that’s all right?’
‘It’s perfect,’ I assured her.
She put it in her bag to post on the way home and we went upstairs to start on a coach party’s clotted-cream teas (two scones each, one miniature jar of jam, one small dish of cream and a pot of tea).
It was about four o’clock that the flowers arrived. I was clearing a table and pocketing a pound tip when I saw the florist’s van stop outside. I didn’t take much notice until the driver got out and came towards the shop carrying something dark-green and purple.
I was nearest the door and opened it. He handed over the bunch of flowers and said, ‘These are for Holly Devine.’
‘That’s me,’ I said, astonished.
‘There you go, then!’ he said, grinned and went off.
I stood there holding them while all the customers goggled at me and Mrs Potter beamed and nodded from behind the cash till.
Ella rushed over. ‘Ooh, what’ve you got now?’
Red as a beetroot, I put the flowers on the tray with the dirty crockery and carried the whole lot through to the kitchen.
Then I looked at them properly.
The flowers were anemones, blue and purple, tightly packed and surrounded by shiny green holly – the sort without any prickles. Around the whole bunch was a big, shimmering sheet of cellophane paper, and it had been wrapped so that the bottom of the cellophane was shaped into a vase and contained real water.
‘Where’s the note? Where’s the note?’ Ella said, staring at the flowers in envy.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think there is one.’
‘Holly for Holly!’ she said unnecessarily, pointing to the greenery.
‘I know,’ I said. They weren’t just any old bunch of flowers. They’d been chosen, and the bunch had been made up, specially for me. I’d never had a bunch of flowers given to me before. Let alone delivered by a van.
Mrs Potter had left the till and followed me into the kitchen. ‘How exquisite!’ she said. ‘D’you know who they’re from?’
I shook my head.
‘The same person that sent the scarf!’ Ella said. ‘Must be.’
‘I suppose so,’ I said.
My cheeks were still flaming, and to try and hide them I bent over the bunch again, pretending to look for a note. A damp, flowery smell came up to me and I sniffed deeply. Flowers, specially for me! Gorgeous flowers, not some naff old carnations bought from a garage or anything (Ella had once had those) but stylish, tasteful flowers.
‘And haven’t you any idea who they’re from?’ Mrs Potter marvelled. ‘Is it your birthday or anything?’
I shook my head.
‘Just think … it might be one of our customers.’ She looked out into the tea room, where a dozen men of assorted ages, shapes and sizes waited for their tuna baguettes or their egg-mayonnaise rolls. It had been raining for a while and they all looked damp, dishevelled, old – and highly unlikely to have sent me something so gorgeous. At least, I really hoped they were unlikely.
Stacey and Mandy, the other waitresses, had come into the kitchen now and were staring at the flowers, and the two women who worked in the kitchen stopped buttering bread and were staring too and saying, ‘Ooh, got a secret admirer, then?’ and ‘Someone means business and no mistake.’
‘Did you see where the van came from?’ Ella asked. ‘We could go in there and ask who sent them!’
Mrs Potter, suddenly realising that most of the shop staff were crowded into the kitchen, clapped her hands. ‘Come on! You can discuss it during your break, girls,’ she said. ‘There are half a dozen tables waiting for orders.’
I put my flowers carefully on a side shelf and went back to finish clearing my table. The rest of the afternoon, though, every time I had to go up to that end of the shop I glanced in at them, sitting there in all their purple and blue loveliness.
At five thirty we turned the sign on the door to say Closed and tried to hurry out those customers who were still sitting around by swishing a damp cloth over their tables and over them too, if they didn’t move fast enough. I cleared the dead crockery on my section and hurried downstairs to change. I wanted to get my flowers home and gloat over them.
*
‘So did you notice the name on the van that brought them?’ Mum said, examining the flowers carefully and marvelling over them in just the right way.
‘I didn’t,’ I said, ‘but Stacey said it was from the place up by the station. I went there on the way home but they were closed.’
‘Hmm,’ Mum said. ‘They’re gorgeous – but I don’t like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just don’t like the idea of you getting presents from someone you don’t know. There are some dodgy people around these days. I’ve a good mind to come up in the afternoons and meet you.’
‘Mum!’ I said. ‘Don’t you dare!’
She looked at me and frowned. ‘It might be someone who thinks you’re a lot older than you are. With your hair up like that, you look at least eighteen.’
I picked up the flowers and was just about to take them upstairs to my room so I could look at them and think about who might have sent them, when we heard Dad’s key in the lock.
‘See what Dad thinks,’ Mum said.
Dad came into the kitchen, yawning and looking tired, but he grinned when he saw Mum and me with our heads together. ‘What are you two up to?’ he said. ‘Looks like a conspiracy. Looks like I’ve got to go trailing round the shops tomorrow.’
I was a bit worried when I saw that smile – worried because for a split second I thought he might have sent the flowers and the pashmina. He’d sent me a Valentine card once, when I was about eleven. It had been a Saturday and Ella had rung me, hysterical with excitement, to say that a huge card with a silver heart had just arrived for her. I’d hardly thought about boys up till then – let alone Valentine cards – but when Ella had rung to tell me she’d got one, I suddenly, desperately, wanted one too.
Later I’d gone shopping with Mum and Dad and when we got back, there was the Valentine card, lying on the mat. It was a cheap and flimsy one, though, and I knew immediately and miserably that it had been bought from the Eight Till Late shop at the end of the road. Dad never, ever, owned up to sending it, mind you, but he didn’t have to.
The split second came and went, though, as I realised that he wouldn’t ever have sent me two such expensive things. He wasn’t tight, but he’d never splash his money around on things like that without good reason, even for me.
I showed him the flowers and then went through all the stuff with him that I’d j
ust been through with Mum (‘Really ought to be careful … must be up to no good … can’t take any chances in this day and age,’ etc.) and in the end I had to promise that I would take enormous care and always come home from the tea shop with Ella and never talk to strangers or anything like that.
Afterwards, I carried the flowers off to my bedroom and stared at them for about half an hour, wondering and dreaming a bit. Suppose they were from someone rich, young and gorgeous? And maybe he was rich because he was famous in some way – with one of the bands? But no, it couldn’t be that, because if anyone halfway famous, a singer or anyone, had come into the shop, we’d have noticed him. Anyway, even if it was someone fanciable, what was I supposed to do about it? I was going out with Alex, I couldn’t just dump him. Well, not unless this unknown someone was just too entirely wonderful and irresistible and swept me off my feet and wanted to take me to Venice. Whoever had sent the things was surely going to be someone interesting, and naturally I was going to look at every single man who came in the tea shop from now on: old, young, fanciable, frumpy – they were all going to be carefully scrutinised.
*
The next day, before work, Ella and I, giggling madly, called in at the station florists. I explained that I worked in Ye Olde Tea Shoppe and about the flowers and everything.
The woman looked on her computer screen and then shook her head. ‘I’m afraid the order was placed at another branch,’ she said. ‘All I had to do was carry out the instructions given.’
‘Which other branch, though?’ I asked.
The woman shrugged. ‘There’s no way of telling. The shop that the buyer called at contacted our central service line over the Internet.’
‘So could I ring this central line?’ I asked. ‘Maybe they’ll remember his name.’
The woman shook her head. ‘It’s all computerised. He might have ordered them on a credit card from our website and that’s just impossible to trace. Anyway – ’ she smiled – ‘it might not have been a he.’
Ella nudged me. ‘Whooo!’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I said. I wasn’t going to have it that my secret admirer was a woman. Anything but that. No, he was young, male, rich, gorgeous – and probably a film star.
