Welcome to My World

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘She with you?’ asked the stocky bloke behind the counter, tending to Harri’s order.

  ‘You could say that. I’m meeting her for a friend.’

  ‘Too scared to show up, was he? I would be. She makes Jodie Marsh look virginal.’

  Harri smiled and sorted through the change in her purse.

  ‘Can I take a couple of those chocolate muffins as well, please?’

  ‘No problem. That’s five ninety, please.’

  Harri handed over her money. ‘Thanks.’

  Stocky Bloke grinned. ‘You’re welcome. Just promise me you won’t take make-up tips from that thing, OK?’

  ‘I think I’m safe on that score, thank you!’

  Chelsea was texting when Harri rejoined her at the table, her nails making squeaky clicks as they hit the keys. Ending her acrylic communication, she tossed the phone carelessly onto the table, where it spun across the polished wood. ‘This Alex – he’s fit, yeah?’

  ‘Well, you saw his photo, so—’

  ‘And he’s loaded?’

  Harri frowned. ‘I, er, don’t know if I’d say that, exactly.’ Chelsea leaned forward, her silicone enhancements bobbing across the table top and almost toppling her muffin in the process. ‘But he has his own coffee shop, right? So I mean, he must be raking it in.’

  Stocky Bloke, who had begun to clear the table next to them,

  sniggered. ‘Yeah, chick, all closet millionaires, us coffee-shop owners.’

  ‘Er – nobody asked you,’ retorted Chelsea, giving him a look that could have withered steel. Turning back to Harri, she raised an overplucked, pencilled eyebrow. ‘So when am I meeting him?’

  Harri reached in her bag for her diary. ‘Let me just check. Is tomorrow night any good for you?’

  ‘Can’t do. I don’t finish work till six and then me and the girls are hitting the town.’

  ‘Oh, right. Birmingham?’

  Chelsea shot a disdainful look at Harri. ‘No. Wolverhampton.’

  ‘Ah, sorry. My mistake.’

  ‘Yeah, well, no offence, but I’m guessing it’s been a while since you went out. Only the chavs and desperados go to Broad Street now.’

  It was all Harri could do not to burst out laughing. This was turning out better than she’d hoped. Alex was in for the nightmare date of his life. ‘OK, how about next Monday evening? It’s only for a drink, anyway, to begin with.’

  A filthy smirk snaked its way over Chelsea’s collagen-pumped lips. ‘Yeah, well, I think you’ll find it won’t stop at one drink. When it comes to me, men always get more than they bargained for, know what I mean?’

  Harri took a large gulp of coffee to hide her smile.

  Driving home half an hour later, Harri was thrilled at the prospect of Alex’s comeuppance, even if the small, sensible part of her mind refused to be convinced. Still, she told herself, as revenge went, it was relatively tame: true, it would probably be the most excruciating hour of his life, but that was all. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

  * * *

  Despite Rob being frustratingly AWOL and Alex’s conversation with Jack still sitting uncomfortably in her mind, Harri didn’t have long to mull over everything, as Friday afternoon was unusually busy for SLIT – at one point the customers even creating a queue (something akin to the arrival of a rare comet as far as the staff were concerned).

  ‘If this goes on, we’ll have to get more chairs!’ George exclaimed excitedly as he dashed past Harri’s desk with an armful of brochures.

  Tom leaned back and smirked at Harri. ‘If this goes on, we should ask for more money.’

  ‘I reckon your pay rise is going to fund the new chairs,’ Nus called over. ‘Dream on, Tombo.’

  Tom pulled a face and returned to helping Mr and Mrs Talbot choose their coach tour.

  ‘I’m looking for a family holiday, somewhere child-friendly, for next June,’ said the young woman with the small child on her lap, sitting opposite Harri. ‘I notice you have some offers in the window. We want to take Jacob here on his first trip. We’ve been saving since he was born and think it’s the right time to book something.’

  Harri smiled and made a mental note of the family holidays SLIT currently had on offer, bearing in mind the usual desired locations for their customers: Cornwall, Devon, Pembrokeshire . . . ‘Great. So did you have anywhere particular in mind?’

  ‘Somewhere hot – Spain or Greece?’

  This was such a shock to Harri that she found herself doing a double take. ‘S-sorry, did you say you’re looking for a holiday abroad?’

  A strange expression passed across her customer’s face. ‘Yes – that’s not a problem, is it?’

  Aware she was now staring at the lady as if she were seeing a mirage, Harri checked herself and grabbed a handful of brochures. ‘No, no, of course not, it’s just . . . Never mind. Right, well, we have a great selection here . . .’

  An hour later, most of the customers had left and Tom, Nus, Harri and George were gathered in the centre of the shop, recovering from the rush with well-earned mugs of tea.

  ‘In-cred-ible.’ George shook his red shiny head, his face flushed from the afternoon’s excitement. ‘I can’t remember a day like it.’

  ‘Oh, but you haven’t heard the best of it,’ said Tom. ‘Harri sold a holiday abroad.’

  This revelation was met with utter disbelief by George and Nus. ‘No!’

  ‘Yes, indeedy. Tell them, H.’

  Harri nodded. ‘Two weeks. Crete.’

  George blew out a whistle. ‘Well, I never. An extraordinary day all round then.’

  The phone on Harri’s desk interrupted their conversation and Harri wheeled her chair over to answer it.

  ‘Hi, Harri? It’s Emily. Sorry to ring you at work, but something amazing just happened.’

  ‘Must be the day for it,’ Harri replied. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing. What’s up?’

  ‘I quit!’

  Following the shock of the foreign holiday sale today, Harri found herself struggling to comprehend this news. ‘What? When?’

  ‘Just now! I walked into my boss’s office and handed in my resignation. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Well, I . . . no, I can’t. Are you – how are you feeling?’

  Emily giggled nervously and Harri could hear her breathing quickly. ‘I’m shaking! I’ll be OK – I think. I just wanted to thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  Harri could almost feel the glow emitting from Emily’s ef fervescent glee. ‘For what you said about being spontaneous.’

  ‘I said I couldn’t do it—’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that! I mean what you said about your friend doing it.’

  A thud of realisation hit Harri’s stomach. She closed her eyes. ‘Alex.’ She remembered mentioning his story over dinner at the farm in summer.

  ‘Yes, Alex. I need to meet this man and thank him – his story was just an inspiration. Next time you come over you must bring him!’

  ‘Right, well, I’m not sure he’d be up for the—’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go. I need to tell Stu. He owes me a tenner, actually: he bet me last night that I wouldn’t go through with it! I’ll call you next week and we’ll arrange to meet up, OK? Bye!’

  Harri slowly replaced the receiver and stared hard at the phone. This was turning out to be a very strange day indeed . . .

  Walking into the green-scented coolness of Eadern Blooms later that day felt like stepping into an oasis of pure calm. The familiar yellow tiles, white-painted walls and swathes of glorious flowers soothed Harri’s eyes and wrapped their loveliness around her heart like a warm jumper on a snowy day. So many things seemed to have happened this week to push her out of her comfort zone: Rob’s sudden change from attentive to distracted by the re-emergence of the Preston job; the continuing absence of Stella; Alex’s conversation with Jack and her resulting plot with the nightmare known as Chelsea Buckden; even Emily’s sudden spontaneity this afternoon
– what Harri needed more than anything right now was someone to listen to her.

  Auntie Rosemary was putting the finishing touches to a large basket arrangement, wrapping lengths of baby-pink ribbon around its handle and stapling an elaborate florist’s bow at the front. Harri loved watching her aunt work – the effortlessness with which she created amazing displays; stripping stems, curling ribbon and working her magic on blooms and foliage. Harri often wondered whether her aunt found comfort in bringing joy to so many people. Rosemary certainly seemed to be at her most peaceful when up to her eyes in greenery and multi-coloured flowers – and, knowing the problems she had contended with over the years: her husband leaving her with two small children to provide for – Harri could only assume that the cheery florist’s shop had been a source of strength and hope for her aunt.

  ‘Harri, sweetheart!’ Auntie Rosemary exclaimed when she looked up from her work. ‘What a wonderful surprise! It’s lovely to see you. Do you want to pop the kettle on and I’ll just finish this? Barnie’s coming to take it any minute.’

  Like the rest of the shop, Eadern Blooms’ small kitchen was light, welcoming and homely: faded flowery tiles by the small yellow sink; Auntie Rosemary’s home-made bunting (which sometimes made an appearance in the front at Easter) hanging happily around the tiny window; the collection of mismatched mugs jumbled together by the kettle; teaspoons stacked haphazardly in an old lidless teapot; the patchwork tea cosy that had been there for as long as Harri could remember and that once served as a makeshift crown when she was playing princesses with her cousin Rosie.

  Harri looked through the steam at the small cork notice-board covered with a hotchpotch of photographs. There was a black-and-white image of Rosemary as a young woman, strikingly good-looking with her closely cropped, almost black hair and long, lithe limbs, posing with an ice-cream cornet and a pretty smile on holiday in Bridlington. A slightly creased colour photo featured a heavily pregnant Rosemary with a surly-looking toddler on her lap (Harri’s cousin James only discovered the power of charm many years later). And right in the middle, amidst weddings, christenings and funerals, flower shows, carnivals and birthdays, was a photo that caused Harri’s heart to beat furiously: Mum and Dad, looking happy and healthy, with Harri as a young child, all auburn curls and carefree smile. The sense of family that she missed so much was there in glorious Kodacolor for all to see. It was a perman ent testament to something that had once been so vital, living, real.

  Swept away by a tidal flow of nostalgia and longing, Harri reached out and stroked the fading gloss of the image, wiping away the condensation from the kettle steam as hot tears welled in her eyes. The rattling sound of Auntie Rosemary walking through the rainbow-coloured bead curtain from the shop brought her sharply back to the present.

  ‘How are you getting on, sweetheart?’

  Wiping her eyes quickly, Harri poured boiling water from the kettle into the old, bright yellow teapot and stirred it. ‘Almost done. Just drowned the teabags.’

  Rosemary squeezed Harri’s arm. ‘It always tickled me when your mum said that.’

  ‘I know.’ Harri’s eyes drifted back to the photographs and her aunt caught it immediately.

  ‘I still find it hard believing they’re gone,’ she said, her gentle voice suddenly small and vulnerable. ‘You know, even this afternoon, a lady walked past the window and I could have sworn it was your mum. All these years and I still expect her to walk in through the door . . .’ She sniffed, pulled an embroidered handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and wiped her nose. ‘Right then, let’s find some spare smiles from the cupboard and put them on, shall we? Can’t have us all mournful at the start of a weekend.’

  Ten minutes later, sitting on the high, pine stools behind the counter, Auntie Rosemary opened a pack of French Fancies and passed it to Harri. ‘You see? A good auntie never forgets her niece’s favourite cakes.’

  No matter how far away from her childhood the years took her, one glimpse at the brown-, pink- and yellow-iced cakes in their white, pleated cases brought the same childish thrill shimmering through Harri. Selecting her favourite (the pink one, of course), she inhaled its sugary, sweet aroma as she took a bite. ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled stickily, laughing at her own reaction to the fondant treats.

  ‘You’re welcome, my darling.’ Auntie Rosemary’s smile faded slightly. ‘Actually, I was meaning to tell you something that I – I’m not altogether proud of.’

  ‘Wait, let me guess: you have a secret crush on Jeremy Clarkson?’

  ‘Certainly not. I cannot abide the man – arrogant and self-opinionated. Such a shame, when his mother was the one who invented those lovely Paddington Bear toys.’

  ‘She did? Wow. Um, OK then: you wore crazy flares in the seventies?’

  Rosemary raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘Darling, everyone wore crazy flares in the seventies.’

  Harri laughed. ‘I know. I’ve seen photographic evidence of Mum and Dad. Oh! I’ve got it! You’re the latest recruit to the Birmingham mafia that Tom at work is always going on about?’

  ‘Harriet Langton, stop it. I’m trying to confess something here.’

  ‘Sorry, Auntie Ro. Confess away.’

  Her aunt took a deep breath. ‘I told Alex about your Venice postcard.’

  In all the madness of the past couple of days, Harri had forgotten Alex’s revelation about his conversation with Auntie Rosemary. While at the time she had been annoyed by her aunt’s uncharacteristic gossiping, today Harri couldn’t find it within herself to bear a grudge – especially in light of Rosemary’s contrite expression.

  ‘I know. Don’t worry, I’m not going to relieve you of your auntie duties.’

  ‘Oh, Harri, I really am sorry. We were talking about all the places he’d visited so I thought how lovely it would be if he’d been to Venice and could tell you all about it. But he hadn’t been and – and since then I’ve felt so awful, betraying your confidence like that.’

  The mention of Alex sent a swell of nausea undulating inside Harri. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’

  ‘I’m so glad, sweetheart. He really is a smashing young man. I just hope all these young ladies you’re setting him up with are worthy.’

  Harri stuffed the last of her French Fancy in her mouth and chewed quickly, trying her best to ignore the wagging finger of her conscience. ‘So how’s your week been?’

  Auntie Rosemary picked up the teapot to top up their mugs. ‘Busy. As ever. There seems to be an inordinate amount of weddings this month. I reckon we’ve done twice the amount of bouquets and buttonholes than we did in July – and that’s supposed to be when everyone gets married. In fact, this weekend is the first for about six weeks when the girls and I haven’t had a church to dress. Mind you, I still have to deliver three sets of bridal party flowers in the morning, so I’ve not been let off the hook completely. Well, Barnie and I have to deliver them. Speaking of which,’ she pulled up her cardigan sleeve to look at her watch, ‘he should have been here half an hour ago. What on earth can be keeping him?’

  ‘Maybe it’s the traffic. George was saying there’s temporary lights on Lidgate Hill.’

  Auntie Rosemary winced. ‘Ooh, nasty. Well, if he’s caught in that, heaven knows when he’ll get here . . .’

  Just then, the door flew open and a flustered-looking man dressed in a dark blue polo shirt and jeans bustled into the shop. Barnie Davies was the owner of quite the most splendidly lustrous white hair in Stone Yardley. In fact, so flowing and full were his locks that he had been nicknamed ‘L’Oréal’ by the regulars at the Land Oak, who delighted in quipping, ‘Because you’re worth it!’ whenever they handed him a pint.

  He held up his hands as he approached the counter. ‘I know, I know! Traffic was horrendous, Rosemary – backed up from the other side of Ellingsgate. Why on earth the council decided Friday rush hour was the best time to dig up the road is beyond me.’ He stopped and smiled a twinkly-eyed greeting. ‘Hello, Harri. Glad you’re here: she’s less l
ikely to throttle me if you’re in the room.’

  Auntie Rosemary tutted and winked at Harri. ‘The man is impossible. I’m afraid this basket’s got to go out, Barnie. It’s for an eightieth birthday party at the village hall tonight and I promised it would be there before seven.’

  Barnie feigned frustration and jabbed his fists on his hips,

  making his ample belly bobble over the top of his jeans. ‘You are a slave driver, Rosemary Duncan.’

  ‘And you are lucky to have a job here, remember?’ Rosemary replied, flushing a little as an irresistible smile danced across her lips.

  ‘Competition was stiff for this job, you know,’ Barnie grinned at Harri. ‘Apparently at the interview it was between me and a spotty, seventeen-year-old, six-stone weakling. Personally, I think it was my suave and debonair demeanour that won her over in the end.’

  ‘I still have his number. I could call him right now . . .’

  ‘All right, I get the hint!’ He picked up the basket arrangement and turned to leave. ‘Don’t let her phone anyone, Harri!’

  ‘You have my word. Nice to see you, Barnie.’ Harri watched her aunt carefully as Barnie left the shop. ‘He’s a lovely man, isn’t he?’

  ‘Hmm? Yes, yes, I suppose he is.’

  ‘There’s no “suppose” about it! He likes you – and I think the feeling might just be mutual.’

  Horrified, Auntie Rosemary stared at her. ‘I – I – absolutely not! Barnie is an employee and a good friend.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Auntie Ro, there was more chemistry between you two just now than in a mad professor’s lab!’

  Rosemary’s hand shot up to the back of her hair, a subtle defence mechanism Harri had learned to spot over the years. ‘He’s a good man. But there’s nothing like . . . that going on.’

  ‘I think you’d both like it if there was, though. He’s not married, is he?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  Harri picked up a chocolate-iced French Fancy and slowly peeled off the white cake case. ‘Well, then . . .’