by Emlyn Rees
The next morning I wake up early and can’t get back to sleep. I lie in bed, a strange sense of calm descending. This is Saturday, the day that Fred’s getting married. All week I’ve been dreading going to pieces, but actually I feel fine. Fred’s made his decision. For whatever reason, he came back into my life after all these years and has gone again, and I have to take what I can from it.
I check to see that Lisa is in, before deciding to do a quick dash to the flower market to pick up a few supplies. I’ll be back before either Joe or Lisa is awake and it’ll be more useful than sitting in bed waiting for the day to start. I leave a note for Joe, just in case.
I love driving through London in the hour before dawn. It’s wonderful zipping through the streets without any traffic. As I drive down Ladbroke Grove and past Holland Park to Shepherd’s Bush, apart from the odd street-cleaning truck and milk float, there’s hardly anyone about. The street lamps hang over the road, as if they’ve been put there to ease my journey, and I play my usual game of trying to up my record of fourteen green traffic lights in a row.
I nearly make it, but as I get down to Earls Court I’m stopped by a red light at number thirteen. I wind down the window to smell the fresh air. A bakery lorry is parked and as a man unloads the large crates, I get a whiff of fresh baguettes.
I like the sense of other people dealing with life at this time of day. Ahead of me the bright neon sign on the twenty-four-hour chemist whizzes round and, opposite, the news-stand guy is arranging the first editions of the Saturday papers. He tuts as a couple of boys stumble across the road. They’re wearing sweatshirts, and look chilly and disorientated, as if they’ve just come out of a club. One of them throws his arm round the other’s shoulder as they stumble down the road. On the other side of the road, behind the dark windows of a pub, the illuminated logos of the beer manufacturers glare out from the pumps and a tramp looks in at the window.
I drive on down to the Embankment as the sky starts to lighten and I can see the dark tips of the trees in Battersea Park becoming distinct. The lights on Albert Bridge twinkle as I approach and a large barge blasts its horn as it passes underneath along the slick stretch of water.
I turn right into New Covent Garden market just past the Battersea Dogs Home. I drive through the barriers and follow the filter road through to the car park.
Saturday is a quiet day at the flower market. I usually come on a Monday when, from 3 a.m., it’s manic. But on a Saturday it’s much more peaceful and I like being able to have the space and time to chat to some of the traders.
I park in my usual spot, watching the lorry drivers sipping coffee from polystyrene cups, and reach behind the seat in the van. Inside the market the temperature is always chilled to keep the flowers fresh and I pull out the padded jacket I keep especially for my visits here.
It’s quiet in the car park and, with only the occasional van driving round the outer road, it still feels like the middle of the night. But as I walk towards the large warehouse and through the automatic swing doors everything changes.
Inside, the lighting is colour-corrected and it could be the middle of the day. The large floor space is packed with stalls and people, and there’s a sound system that plays chirpy music, only just audible over the crowd. As usual, I stop and take the time to let my nostrils fill with the heady scent of a million flowers. I feel my spirits lifting as I survey the wall of colour. It always amazes me how these beautiful blooms make it from all over the world. There are suppliers here who bring stock in from Holland, Columbia, Israel, Italy and Africa. As well as the usual florists’ staples of roses, carnations and chrysanthemums in every conceivable shape and shade, there are also the exotic and weird blooms that I love from Asia and the Caribbean, and every time I come I find something new.
The units around the perimeter of the vast hall are reserved for sundriesmen and foliage suppliers. I make my way over to Miranda’s stall, where ribbons, baskets, dried and silk flowers, oasis and wire are jammed so tightly together that it’s amazing she has room for herself. I find her behind a menagerie of dried moss animals. She supplies them to all the big hotels for more exotic flower arrangements and I have to duck under a huge camel to get to her. I chat for a while as she puts a big block of oasis into a bag for me, which, fortunately, she’s agreed to give me on credit.
I duck out past the camel and say hello to Hilary, my lily supplier. She’s surrounded by boxes and I look down into them. The long-stemmed white flowers look flawless and so velvety that I want to reach out and stroke them.
Harry, at the Hargreaves stand, is thigh deep in peonies and roses of every shade. He’s a salt-of-the-earth East Ender who’s been in the flower business all his life. He smiles when he sees me. ‘Watcha, Mickey,’ he says, with his usual grin. ‘Looking lovely this morning.’
‘Hi, Harry,’ I reply, flipping my hand to bat away his misplaced compliment. ‘Busy?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s been quiet all morning. Nice to have a breather, mind.’
Harry sets up at midnight and is often here until midday the next day. We don’t usually have a chance to talk much.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Nothing today, I’m afraid. I’m out of cash. Just browsing, really.’
‘Have you seen Jimmy this morning?’ he asks suddenly, as if he’s remembered something.
‘No.’ I shrug. ‘Why?’
‘He was looking for you.’
‘Me?’ I ask, alarmed. Jimmy is one of the managers here. I usually arrange payment with him and I feel my cheeks start to burn as I realise that my credit must have run out.
‘Says he’s got a message for you.’
Immediately, my money worries are put to one side as I think of Joe. My mobile phone is on the blink, so maybe he’s rung here, but I can’t think what could be wrong.
I thank Harry and hurry towards the stairs that lead to the mezzanine floor where all the offices are, bumping into Vince, one of the porters, on the way.
‘Jimmy’s looking for you,’ he says.
‘I know. Have you seen him?’
‘He’s up there, I think.’ He nods towards the office windows.
‘Do you know what it’s about?’
‘There was a phone call,’ he says and my heart starts to beat faster.
I find Jimmy by the door. He’s in his late thirties and is completely bald. He’s holding a tray full of bedding plants and I have to wait for him to put them down.
‘There you are. Hang on,’ he says, putting the pansies down. He digs into the pocket of his jeans. ‘I got this for you.’ He pulls out a piece of paper and reads it. ‘This bloke … called about half an hour ago. Fred something or other …’
‘Fred?’ I ask, feeling like my heart has jumped into my throat. ‘What did he say?’
‘Said it was important. He said to tell you to meet him,’ says Jimmy handing over the paper. I take it from him and look at the scribbled writing.
‘Just meet him? Is that all?’ I ask. ‘I mean, did he say where, or when?’
‘He said if you wanted to, you’d know where.’
I stare at Jimmy for a second, my brain speeding ahead into overdrive.
‘You’re sure that’s all?’ I repeat.
‘The line was bad, I think he was on a mobile, but those were his exact words. If she wants to, she’ll know where. That was all.’
‘Oh,’ I mumble.
‘What is this guy? Some kind of secret agent?’ asks Jimmy.
‘Something like that.’
‘Sorry I can’t be more help,’ Jimmy says with a shrug.
‘It’s OK. Thanks,’ I mumble, clutching the piece of paper.
It’s turned into a bright, sunny morning by the time I get to Rushton. I don’t go to my parents, but instead park the van by the church and turn off the engine. I feel sick with apprehension. It’s ridiculous coming here. Fred’s not going to be here, I’m just following a foolish whim. Yet I’m still shaking with an emotion I can�
��t name, as I put my arms on the steering wheel and take a deep breath.
I called Joe from the flower market to see whether he could shed some light on Fred’s message, but he was just as vague as Jimmy.
‘Did you speak to Fred?’ I asked deliberately, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice
‘Yes.’ He yawned. ‘I saw your note and told him you were at the flower market.’
‘He didn’t say anything else?’
‘No. Is everything OK?’
‘I’m not sure, darling. Can you tell Lisa to open up for me? I’m going to have to do something.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I answered honestly.
And still I don’t know. I step out of the van and look around me. There’s not a soul in sight and the silence is only broken by the chirruping of sparrows in the large willow trees. Above me, the sky is a clear, pale blue.
Slowly I walk towards the gate. I’ve been racking my brains, trying to think where Fred would know I’d find him and the only place I could think of was where we first kissed. But even as I approach, I know he’s not here.
Hugging my arms round me, memories seem to crowd my head, like film footage. In the silence I can hear our shrieks of delight as we raced sticks under the bridge, the crackle of our worn-out tapes as we played air guitar, the tinkle of the nursery rhymes from the old ice-cream van. I run my finger along the old wood of the church gate, feeling in its roughness the long summer days that we whiled away, as if they’d never end.
I turn and lean back against the gate, scanning the road for Fred’s car, but the road remains clear. As the minutes tick by I feel tears of disappointment swelling in my chest. Fred’s not coming. Either that, or I’ve missed him, or guessed the wrong place. In the age of communication, we’ve failed each other yet again. I bite my lips together, feeling totally lost.
Then I hear the long, slow sound of a car horn. It’s coming from the direction of the bridge.
Then I’m running, running until I’m out of breath. I look up as I approach the bridge and stop in my tracks. Fred’s sitting on the low wall next to his car, looking across at me. For a second I’m stunned by how old he looks. Where did the time go? How did he stop being a child so quickly?
I make it on to the bridge and stop a few metres from him. As he stands up, all the maturity I saw when he was sitting has gone. Instead, in the angle of his head, all I can see is a little boy, waiting for me to take the lead, not realising that he was the one who always gave me my strength.
‘I hoped you’d come,’ he says. He looks tired, but even so, his eyes are shining as they lock with mine.
‘What’s going on?’ I gulp, trying to read his expression. ‘Aren’t you getting married?’
He shakes his head and his shoulders slump, as he runs his toe over the shiny cobbles of the bridge road. ‘No. Not any more.’
I stare at him, realising the enormity of what he’s saying. ‘You mean –’
‘It’s over. I mean, Rebecca … it’s … gone.’
My eyes widen and I want to reach out and hold him. ‘Was it terrible?’ I ask.
He nods and there’s a long pause.
I can hear the birds singing and the river bubbling below us, as we stare at each other. It’s as if we’re kids again and we’re taking on the world, making pacts and keeping secrets that are just ours. All of a sudden life seems so incredibly precious and so unbelievably short. The future that had seemed so mundane and inevitable is now blasted open with endless possibilities and I’m grinning so hard my face hurts.
We take the last step towards each other and we’re just inches apart. There are so many questions, but it doesn’t matter: the answer to them all is yes.
‘Looks like you’ve saved my life,’ I say.
‘Well, I owed you,’ Fred says, reaching out his hands.
I grab them, looking at how our fingers fold together and I know that, whatever it takes, I’ll never let go.
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Epub ISBN 9781446494134
Version 1.0
Published by Arrow Books 2002
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Copyright © Josie Lloyd & Emlyn Rees 2001
Josie Lloyd & Emlyn Rees have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the authors of this work.
First published in Great Britain in 2001 by William Heinemann
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ISBN 0 09 941482 1
