The Memories That Make Us
Page 15
‘So what happened? Why did you sell the farm?’
‘Giles got sick. The doctors said the sea air would do him good, and he’d always loved the seaside, so we moved out to the Mornington Peninsula. The flowers never grew the way they did here, though. You were nine years old when we left. Your mother said you didn’t stop crying for two weeks. And Giles—well, he’s been gone fifteen years, now. I lost my daughter, Elsie, far too soon as well. She married young and had already moved away to France by the time you and your mother came to stay—she passed away four years after Giles.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
She sighs heavily.
‘So, what brought you back?’
‘I knew I should have come back sooner. Sometimes we do what we think we should do, not what we really want to do. I had a thriving little flower shop on the coast—but I always preferred being mobile. My father built that cart when I was just a young girl.’ She smiles to herself. ‘Always fancied myself a little Eliza Doolittle. Selling flowers is what my mum did, and what hers did before, too. All the way back to before they migrated to Australia when they stocked their carts at Covent Garden and infused the grubby streets of London with their violet posies. They used to speak with the flowers back then. You could declare love with tulips, cure a broken heart with cranberry, or show appreciation with a bellflower.’ She points to an arrangement of dainty white bell-like flowers in a vase. ‘See these flowers here? Lily of the valley. These would be a way of showing a return to happiness.’ She tugs on a sprig of rosemary that’s tucked among the green foliage in the vase and inhales its fragrance. ‘And this represents remembrance. My great-grandmother would have told you that it would have helped bring back your memory.’
I nod slowly, accepting the sprig from her.
‘The way I like to work with the flowers, though—is to feel them. Feelings are more powerful than words and I’ve seen firsthand the way flowers can change people’s moods and even the way they see life.’
I take it all in, my hand gripping tightly to the photograph.
‘What brought you back here to Daylesford?’
‘I came back after your mother’s funeral. I’d been staying with a friend of mine in Apollo Bay when she passed, so I got your message three weeks late. By the time I came back, you’d put the place on the market. I’d been away so long I hardly recognised it anymore. Didn’t realise how much I’d missed it. So … I decided to move back. In those years I was away, I only saw your mother a handful of times. I missed her a lot. She came to visit once or twice … said you’d ended up with a fellow named Blake. As she always knew you would.’
I try not to fidget. ‘It’s not … we’re not … it’s … there’s nothing …’
‘I think what you mean to say is that you don’t remember him.’
‘I wish I did. But I don’t. So, I think it’s best that I …’ My thoughts immediately turn to Flynn. ‘Move on …’
‘I’ll take a guess that deep down, somewhere inside, you know what’s best. And if you’re meant to be together, life will find a way for you to be together. And if you’re not …’ She shrugs. ‘Then you’ll end up with someone else. But the worst thing you can do is go backwards. Because the past has a sneaky way of always holding onto your back collar. Never wants you to move forward, if you know what I mean?’
‘I think so.’
She pours herself a cup of tea, the cup wobbling as she brings it to her mouth.
We’re interrupted by a knock at the front door.
‘It’s just me, Tilly!’ calls a male voice.
A plump face with rosy cheeks appears through the gap in the door. ‘Just the usual delivery, shall I leave them out the back?’
‘Thank you, Ellis.’
He opens the door fully and steps inside. ‘Nice to see you got some company today, Tilly. Is this your granddaughter?’
‘No, Ellis, this is Gracie. She’s from Summerhill.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ he says, standing proud. Ellis, a short, round man, probably in his late fifties, with beady eyes and a kind smile, extends a rough palm and gives my hand a vigorous shake.
‘Summerhill. Now that was quite the farm. That’s where they used to do those Open Paddock Days, do you remember, Tilly?’
‘’Course I remember.’
‘They’d put them drink stands out, with the red-and-white umbrellas and the little ones would sit on them wooden crates charging two dollars for a glass of lemonade. The girls would sell those flower crowns, and the local jazz band would come up and we’d all sit on the bales of hay having a good old time. Francine and Will would park the vintage caravan in the paddock, where they’d sell scones and ginger beer. And at the end of the day everyone went home with an armful of peonies, happy as can be.’
Tilly blinks slowly, a satisfied smile forming on her face, as she no doubt is recalling the pictures of these scenes in her mind. She nods at me. ‘This is Lainey’s daughter, Ellis. She’s all grown up now.’
‘There’s a resemblance there, isn’t there, Tilly? Just like her mum. Now, I thought Summerhill was for sale?’ he muses, looking up at the ceiling. He scratches the bald patch on his head.
‘It was, yes,’ I reply.
‘Yeah, well, a hundred thousand dollars overpriced is what I heard. Hope you don’t mind me saying so,’ he says.
Tilly interjects by explaining that Ellis saves her a trip to the Melbourne wholesale flower markets by delivering her order twice a week. ‘I can’t seem to grow enough in the greenhouse. Not at my age, anyway.’
I smile at Ellis. ‘It’s fine,’ I reply, not taking offence. It seems Ellis lacks a filter, but I can’t help finding him amusing.
‘So, is it still on the market?’ he asks.
‘Well, not exactly. But it might have to be soon. The bank’s been chasing the repayments and I’m not working at the moment, so …’
Tilly narrows her gaze. ‘Now, those seeds I gave you. What are we going to do about them?’ she says sharply.
Ellis playfully raises his eyebrows, clearly used to Tilly’s brashness. I glance at the photos and back to Tilly, feeling my chest expand. ‘Well, maybe you could show me where to plant them? When was the last time you came to Summerhill?’
The following morning, I wait for Flynn beside the field gate and start stretching. We haven’t seen each other since Scarlett arrived unannounced, but yesterday I came home from Tilly’s to find a note wedged under the door asking me to meet him for a jog this morning. Leaning forward, I touch the grass with my fingertips, releasing a slow breath. I straighten up, and without consciously intending it to, my body moves itself into a pose it seems to recognise.
And then, my body folds and stretches as it begins a series of sun salutations and it’s clear to me my body knows exactly what it’s doing. My fingertips don’t seem to mind as they brush the cold blades of grass that glimmer under the still-dark morning.
I’m folded over, feeling the intense stretch, surrendering my body into the pose, observing the way everything has slowed down, when my mind wanders to Blake’s last letter, the one I found in my mailbox yesterday afternoon after I’d returned from Tilly’s.
Dear Gracie,
Yes, I believe in destiny, but sometimes even destiny needs a helping hand.
I’m glad you’re spending time in the garden. Keep doing what you’re doing, and some day, hopefully soon, I’ll be able to show you what it’s like to fall in love.
Love,
Blake
I’m still pondering this, when Flynn arrives.
‘Hey,’ he says.
I peek through my legs and see he’s standing behind me.
‘Nice view from here.’ He bends down and twists his head, flashing me a smile. Straightening up, I turn around to face him, my cheeks probably a flushed shade of rose.
‘You don’t hold back, do you?’ I say. Flynn pins me with his gaze and a sensation surges through me; something pleasant, uncontrollable, dizzying.
It takes a moment for me to catch my breath, and even longer for the floating feeling to subside. It’s like I’m seeing Flynn for the first time. His eyes, his tousled hair, the way he twists his lips into a shape that almost resembles a smile, but not quite, in anticipation of my reaction. Suddenly, a flash of deja vu jolts through me. Did Blake ever talk to me like this? I’m almost sure he must have. I stare down at my feet, forcing myself to break our gaze.
‘I missed you,’ he says.
I scrunch my eyes closed, unable to look at him. This isn’t Blake, and I shouldn’t be experiencing the kind of hammering in my chest that I am right now. I shouldn’t be this glad to see Flynn when Blake is somewhere back in the city trying to piece together his own life, waiting for the day I might re-enter it.
Finally, I open my eyes, trying to ignore the wave of guilt.
‘Flynn … I … we can’t be …’
‘I think we already are,’ he says softly. Sensing my discomfort, he quickly changes the subject. ‘So, did you have a good weekend with Scarlett?’
‘It was great, actually. I, uh, noticed you were gone again for the weekend.’
Flynn blows into his hands and rubs his palms together. ‘Yeah. I had to go back to the city again.’
I wait for him to elaborate, which he doesn’t. ‘Are you thinking of moving back there?’ I ask, almost holding my breath.
‘Nope. Not for now.’
A relief I am unwilling to explore floods through me. ‘About Scarlett … sorry if she made you feel uncomfortable the other day. It’s just that she knows Blake, and with you staying the night she didn’t know what to make of it …’ My words trail off. I don’t even know what to make of it.
‘No problem,’ he says, in a kind of dismissal. He looks down at my shoes. ‘Your shoelaces are undone.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply, before starting to jog anyway. I don’t want Flynn to make a big deal about this and I definitely don’t want him to know how much effort it takes me to tie my own shoelaces.
Flynn reaches for the sleeve of my top, forcing me to a stop. He looks down at my laces again, and then back at me, casting me a knowing look, a soft look, a you-can-be-honest-with-me look. I crouch down and attempt to discreetly tuck the laces back into my shoes without making a fuss. When I look up, Flynn almost looks sad. The last thing I want is for him to feel sorry for me.
‘They’ll just come undone again,’ he says.
I shrug. ‘Should be fine. Let’s go.’
We continue running, the cool air burning my cheeks, and once we slow down again, Flynn’s eyes dart back to my feet. My laces are now scraping the ground. Flynn stops jogging. ‘Your laces, Gracie.’
I place my hands on my hips, drawing in a few deep breaths. ‘It’s fine,’ I say, trying to shrug him off as I look into the distance to sweeping views of the woodlands. The sun is rising, a bright globe casting light onto the expansive paddocks.
I crouch down again and take the laces in my hands. If I can just remember how to do this correctly once more. I make the first loop, which comes undone. I let go and start over. Conscious of how long it’s taking me, I glance up shyly. I bite the inside of my lip. ‘Since the accident …’ I clear my throat. ‘Never mind,’ I say. I hate that something so simple, something that should be so easy, isn’t.
‘You don’t have to explain,’ he says softly. He crouches down in front of me, his hands meeting mine as he moves them away. There’s a softness in his expression as he loops the ties over each other, before he looks at me, with eyes that tell me he understands. He secures the laces with a double knot so they won’t come undone. Then he shifts his weight, and instead of reaching for my other shoelace, he reaches for one of my hands. Without saying a word, he places my hand on one of the laces before placing his hand on mine. And then, he manoeuvres my hand through the motions, until this shoe is tied too.
‘Thanks,’ I whisper.
‘No problem.’ He pulls away his gaze and stands up, before extending a hand to help me do the same. I stand, still feeling self-conscious. ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ he says, his voice low. I look into his eyes, and take in the way they are looking back at me with something more than kindness. Something I think I want to reciprocate. ‘None of this is your fault.’
Flynn is still holding my hand. He gives it a squeeze. One small squeeze, and it’s enough to resuscitate something inside of me. As I gaze back into his eyes, I’m struck with an overwhelming urge to let myself be folded into the comfort of his arms. All I want right now is for Flynn to hold me and tell me that everything will be okay, that today and tomorrow and the next day will turn out fine. I swallow the lump that’s rapidly forming in my throat as all the things I’ve been holding onto crash against me. Frustration, confusion, shame, and of course, all the things I shouldn’t be feeling for anyone except the man I can’t remember.
‘Don’t cry,’ says Flynn, shaking his head. His brow creases, as if something in him hurts too. He pulls me closer to him, and reaches a hand behind my head, guiding me to lean against the firmness of his chest, where I close my eyes and inhale the scent of freshly laundered clothes, and ironically try to forget. Because all I can think about is Blake then Flynn, and Blake then Flynn, and Blake then Flynn.
Flynn tilts my head up, and slowly and purposefully draws me into a world where only the two of us exist. ‘I really want to kiss you,’ he whispers, moving his hand behind my neck, tugging me closer to him. The breath knocks out of me, but I don’t pull back. Wreathed in the morning mist that’s slowly lifting with the rising of the sun, Flynn presses his lips against mine, holding me tighter, then tighter still. My arms wind around him and any thoughts about Blake fall away like petals dropping from a flower. Flynn’s lips brush over mine unhurriedly, as if time has the capacity to stand still, and I find myself surrendering completely. His mouth on mine sends a tingle up my spine and steals my breath. I’m completely lost in this slip of time, returning the kiss, wishing it would never end. Breaking away gently, he looks deeply into my eyes and smiles, pausing briefly before planting his lips on mine again. My heart starts hammering furiously in my chest. Flynn rests his forehead against mine and strokes my face. Everything feels special, right, beautiful. Only it can’t feel like this. Shouldn’t feel like this. My eyes meet his, and as I suddenly realise that my feelings about him have become totally transparent, I pry myself away from him, heart pounding, head spinning, knees wobbling. It feels like a life-defining, everything-is-shifting, I’m-not-in-control-of-this kind of moment.
I cup my mouth with my hands, tears pricking my eyes.
‘Gracie,’ he says.
I raise a hand in a gesture that tells him I need a few moments to compose myself, while the reality of what’s occurred sinks in. I wipe my eyes with the cuffs of my sleeves.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Gracie, but—’
‘I’m complicated, Flynn. This is complicated. It’s not a game. Blake doesn’t feel real to me, but that doesn’t mean I should be moving on like this without him knowing.’ I pierce him with my eyes and try to steady my voice. ‘So, I think we really need to make sure we both understand that we should just be friends.’
He throws me a look that tells me he’s not convinced. ‘You’re more than that to me.’
I rub my temples. ‘You don’t understand. I’m stuck in a situation I don’t want to be in and I don’t entirely know how to resolve. Especially if you’re in the middle of it.’
Flynn cringes and then looks at me with an expression so unguarded I can almost feel his pain when he tells me, ‘Since we’re being so honest here, I should let you know that I’m okay with complicated.’
The real question here is, am I?
‘So, what am I supposed to do?! Stop writing to him altogether?
What if he shows up here? What if I wake up tomorrow and remember him?’
‘I don’t know what happens then,’ he says through a clenched jaw. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. Because if I’m honest, the thought of that scares me more than you can imagine.’
‘Told you it was complicated.’
He nods. ‘Yeah,’ he murmurs, looking up at the sky, avoiding eye contact. ‘You did.’
I raise a hand and touch his cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows and then he zips up his hoodie, shrugging me away. ‘We should finish this jog.’
I rub the moisture away from my eyes and look out to the river, past the willow, its branches flowing over. It looks like it’s crying too. ‘What direction are we heading in?’ I say, feeling the weight of the entire situation on my shoulders.
‘I’ll follow your lead,’ he says.
SEVENTEEN
Tilly arrives at Summerhill early on the following Monday morning. She ambles up the driveway, taking languid steps, as if her body is letting her down with each one. She pauses, sitting on the stone wall to rest. It’s a sunny morning, one I’m taking advantage of by sitting on the bench in the front garden. I close the book I’m reading about soil conditioning and the best way to grow flowers with sturdy stems suitable for the cut-flower trade, and go out to meet her.
‘Tilly!’ I call, waving. She raises an arm and waves back at me.
‘I’m so glad you made it,’ I say, scooping my arm through hers, helping her up. ‘I have so much to show you. Should we have some tea first?’
‘Thought you didn’t drink tea,’ she replies, her body stiff until we take a few steps forward, her movements relaxing with each one. She shrugs me away when we reach the gate, which I hold open for her. She gazes intently at the cottage and frowns with disapproval.
‘Yes, there’s a bit of work to be done,’ I admit.
‘Go fetch me a pair of gloves,’ she says curtly, waving a hand in the air. ‘And a pair of snips and some rubbing alcohol.’