My Kind of Happy - Part Three: A new feel-good, funny serial from the Sunday Times bestseller

by Cathy Bramley

  I was using it to make a customer database by going through old order books and trying to determine a pattern in people’s ordering. I hadn’t got very far; reading the messages to go on the gift cards which accompanied each bouquet had become my guilty pleasure, it was like reading the best bits of a Mills and Boon novel.

  ‘The last one wasn’t,’ he grunted, bending down to inspect a bucket of stargazer lilies. ‘That’s why she didn’t order from Sunshine Flowers. Our system is state of the art.’

  ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea,’ I said, ‘or coffee?’

  I was desperate for one myself. The café next door did wonderful coffee and Nina and I had got into the habit of buying cappuccinos every morning at eleven. But in the meantime, a cup of instant would do.

  ‘No time.’ Victor straightened up and looked at his watch. Scamp padded back to his bed and lay down with a ‘flump’ noise. ‘Folk will be moaning about the lorry blocking the road shortly. Bloody commuters. So. Down to business. You wanted to start ordering flowers from us?’

  ‘That was the idea, yes,’ I said, ‘I’ll be working on my own for the next few weeks, so anything which can make life easier for me is a win.’

  ‘Easy life.’ He shook his head in despair and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘You’re in the wrong business if you want an easy life, my girl.’

  ‘I know,’ I said tetchily, wondering whether I should cut my losses, ask him to leave and look for another supplier. I’d called Sunshine Flowers because it had reminded me of the thing Harriet on the floristry course had said about flowers being sunshine for the soul. Also, I’d gone back through some of Nina’s old business records and found a business card for them. But Victor was about as sunny as a wet weekend in Blackpool.

  ‘Unsociable hours, high risk, low margins,’ he warned. ‘And of course, your stock is deteriorating from the second you order it. It’s a race against time to flog it before it dies.’

  ‘You remind me of my Granny; she used to say the same,’ I said. Although she seemed to enjoy the challenge. ‘The rewards are high though. As is job satisfaction. Working with such beauty is such a privilege, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I can tell you’re new to the game,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Beautiful it might be, but this is a business dictated to by whims and weather and—’

  ‘Whinging?’ I said, tongue in cheek.

  ‘Exchange rates,’ he ploughed on without seeming to notice my jibe. ‘One daft move by the government and the value of roses can drop twenty per cent by the time I’ve moved them from one side of the Channel to the other. Bloody politicians.’

  ‘Is Sunshine your real name?’ I said blackly. I couldn’t remember meeting such a killjoy. Ever.

  ‘Oh yes.’ He nodded earnestly. ‘Sunshine by name, Sunshine by—’

  A sarcastic laugh escaped me and I coughed to cover it up. ‘Sorry.’

  He glanced at me and scratched his chin. ‘No. I’m sorry, love. Business is tough at the moment and I’ve had a few customers go bust owing me money recently. They open up, heavy on enthusiasm and light on experience. And six months later you turn up to empty premises and a ‘To Let’ board outside. And with Europe the way it is …’ He winced. ‘Sorry. Again.’

  ‘You must love it,’ I pointed out. ‘Or you’d do something else.’

  ‘This is a family business, I’m the third generation. There’s no question of me doing anything else. My grandparents started wholesaling flowers with one small van seventy years ago. They’d drive from Wales to Covent Garden and back again in time for the shops to open. Completely different game now. I don’t know what my granddad would make of the giant flower markets in Holland. All computerised. Flowers arriving and leaving from all four corners of the globe. Big digital screens, people all over the world sending in their bids over the internet. Crazy.’

  ‘Snap!’ I grinned. ‘I’m also third generation. And my granny would be gobsmacked. She never even trusted mobile phones. Plus, guess what, she lived in Wales in a village called Llanidaeron. Had a stall on the market.’

  ‘Good grief! I know it!’ Victor laughed in disbelief. ‘Not Carrie and Evan? God rest their souls.’

  I stared at him in surprise. ‘That’s them. My mother’s parents. Although I never met Granddad.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Victor punched the air. ‘I knew you had floristry in your blood.’

  I hid a smile: a minute ago he’d said he could tell I was new to the business.

  ‘Fancy that!’ he said in wonder. ‘Well that changes everything. I will have that cup of tea.’

  Twenty minutes later Victor and I had almost finished our drinks and discussed the needs of the shop. I’d explained the foray I was making into corporate business and he’d promised to make sure I got the pick of the blooms when I ordered. He’d shown me how to log on to his website, set me up with an account and my own log-in details.

  ‘You’ve got until two a.m. to place an order for the following day. And once an order is placed there’s no going back. And no credit either.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Not that I don’t trust Carrie’s granddaughter but …’

  ‘I understand.’ I assured him. ‘I don’t expect special treatment.’

  His eyes crinkled as he chuckled. ‘Good, because you won’t get it. Nice cuppa that.’

  He drained his mug and set it down on the counter with an appreciative sigh. ‘Right. Better be off or my delphiniums will be drooping.’

  He got to the door and turned around. ‘I will look after you though, love. Any problems, just ask. I’ve been in this game long enough to know the solution to most of them.’ ‘Thanks, Victor,’ I said with a rush of warmth towards the gruff little man.

  ‘Oi!’ shouted a voice from outside. ‘You going to move this lorry sometime today, or what?’

  ‘Sorry mate!’ Victor replied with a wave of his hand, muttering under his breath, ‘bloody car drivers.’

  I laughed. ‘Is there anyone you do like?’

  Scamp stood up to see what was going on and his tail thumped against Victor’s leg.

  ‘Dogs.’ He winked on his way out. ‘And florists with dogs.’

  ‘That went surprisingly well.’ I crouched down and gave Scamp a cuddle. ‘Let’s hope the next one goes our way too.’

  At two o’clock I left Scamp in the back of the shop where it was cool, with a bowl of water and one of Biddy’s special marrowbones, locked the doors and set off for my meeting with Wendy to discuss funeral flowers.

  A. J. Mallet Funeral Directors was at the end of a run of shops on the outskirts of Chesterfield. It wasn’t the most attractive place: an unprepossessing flat-roofed seventies building on the outside, and inside, an excess of pine wooden panelling, with brown and yellow dogtoothed patterned carpet. The receptionist straightened up and greeted me with a warm smile as I entered.

  ‘Wendy is expecting you,’ she whispered reverently once I’d signed the visitor’s book. ‘Go straight through to her office.’

  I followed her directions down a corridor to an open door, through which I saw Wendy, dressed in black, sitting at a desk. The office was a large airy room with polished wooden floorboards, white walls and tasteful modern artwork. The décor was a sharp contrast to the reception area. A small sofa and a couple of slouchy armchairs were set around a low coffee table at the opposite end to her desk. She slipped the reading glasses she was wearing onto the top of her head and stood to greet me. We settled into the armchairs.

  ‘I do appreciate you inviting me to come over,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘Especially after abandoning you at our new business event. I’m so sorry about that.’

  She waved away my apology and unbuttoned her jacket. ‘As I said, our florist is experienced, but she’s very conservative. She’s never point blank refused to do something, but she has very fixed views on what she deems to be sacrilegious ceremonies and we’re getting more and more unusual requests all the time.’

  I chewed my lip. ‘I must be honest, I’m not
experienced at all. But I’m willing to learn.’

  ‘I appreciate your honesty,’ said Wendy with a soft laugh. ‘I can talk you through what our requirements are. Can I get you a drink?’

  I asked for some water. No sooner had she poured us a glass each than an elderly golden retriever pattered casually into the room, tail wagging rhythmically and tongue hanging out.

  ‘You bring your dog to work like me,’ I said, stroking the soft fur on the animal’s head.

  Wendy nodded. ‘This is Florence, after Florence Nightingale because she’s always been such a brilliant nurse. There’s a cat called Charlie around somewhere as well. Animals reduce anxiety and we get a lot of that in here. Both of them seem to have a sixth sense, knowing when they’re needed. People tend to arrive here in a state of bewilderment without a clue what they want for their loved ones.’

  I felt a lump in my throat. It was the anniversary of Freddie’s death next month; a whole year would have passed. But the memory of sitting in a room similar to this one, forced to choose between mahogany and pine when all I really wanted to do was scream that this must all be a giant wind-up was as fresh and raw as if it had happened yesterday.

  ‘Charlie will curl up into a ball on someone’s lap and within minutes, the client is calmer and able to make some decisions.’

  Florence lowered her chin onto my knee and gazed up at me with heart-melting chocolate brown eyes.

  ‘And Florence does that,’ said Wendy with a smile.

  I swallowed. ‘They’re magic, aren’t they, animals? Scamp came into my life just when I needed him. He gave me something to get out of bed for, someone to smile for every morning. And gradually I found I didn’t have to fake my smile any more.’

  ‘You’ve lost someone recently?’ said Wendy.

  I nodded. ‘My brother. We were very close. We even bought a house together. Life lost its meaning for a while.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’ Wendy nudged the box of tissues on the table in front of us towards me.

  ‘He had a motorbike accident.’ I took a deep breath but managed to stave off the tears. ‘Yet he was the safest rider I knew. His friends even called him Steady Freddie.’

  Wendy groaned. ‘And I made a stupid comment about a floral tribute in the shape of a bike. I’m so sorry, no wonder you made a swift exit.’

  ‘It’s fine. Really,’ I assured her. ‘In a way I’m glad it happened. It made me realise that getting over a bereavement isn’t a linear process, it’s a journey that can circle back and forwards at any time. And I don’t want to not talk about Freddie. He was a big ray of sunshine in my life and it isn’t right to shut out that light. He deserves better than that.’

  Wendy nodded. ‘He sounds like my type of guy. I always go for bikers.’

  I laughed softly. ‘I used to. But not any more. It’s four wheels or nothing now.’

  There was a gentle knock at the door; the receptionist appeared, chewing her lip. ‘Sorry to intrude but Mr Benton-Ridley is here early. He’s brought his sister with him.’

  Wendy checked her watch and frowned. ‘Right. Offer them a drink and I’ll be out shortly.’

  The receptionist nodded and left.

  ‘You’re busy. I’ll leave you to it,’ I said, levering Florence’s head from my knee so I could stand up.

  ‘Wait a sec,’ said Wendy, going to her desk and picking up a leaflet. ‘This is what we give to our clients who want a traditional funeral. Can you do something similar for more modern arrangements? I’d like to give people some idea of the alternative to the norm.’

  I flicked through it quickly. ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘And just a thought, but would you like to sit in on this meeting? I’ve spoken to Mr Benton-Ridley on the phone already. His wife’s death was expected. That doesn’t lessen the grief, obviously, but I got the impression that he wouldn’t be a weeper. It might help you to see the sort of details which go into organising a funeral.’

  I felt a flutter of unease at being in the presence of someone else’s grief, but I spread my hands. ‘If the client doesn’t mind, then yes please, that’d be useful.’

  Wendy excused herself to double check that everyone would be happy with that. She returned almost immediately with a man in his late fifties with fatigue etched into his face and a small woman who shared the same hazel eyes and auburn hair. Both of them carrying drinks.

  ‘Our florist, Fearne Lovage,’ said Wendy, making the introductions and showing her clients to the sofa. ‘And this is Mr Benton-Ridley and his sister …?’

  ‘Annette,’ supplied the woman. She paused to blow on her drink and then sipped it. Florence stood up politely to sniff the new arrivals. ‘Gorgeous dog. We’re dog lovers aren’t we, Nigel? Brought up with dogs. I’ve got three shih-tzus myself. Val, his wife never wanted one though, did she?’

  ‘No, she was allergic,’ said Mr Benton-Ridley quietly. His cup wobbled in its saucer as he sat down and he set it carefully on the coffee table. ‘Please call me Nigel.’

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ I said as we shook hands.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘My wife had Alzheimers. I began losing her four years ago. It has been a long and painful goodbye.’

  My heart went out to him. He looked shattered and bewildered.

  Annette squeezed his arm. ‘You were a saint to that woman, Nigel. An absolute saint. No one could have done more.’ She gave me a sideways glance and lowered her voice. ‘Not that she deserved it.’

  Nigel flushed. ‘She wasn’t herself at the end.’

  Annette harrumphed. ‘True. I almost liked her by then.’

  Wendy cleared her throat. ‘Shall we discuss what you had in mind for your wife’s funeral? I believe you’ve already got a date arranged with your local church?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ Nigel looked relieved. He produced a small notebook from the inside of his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve made a list of questions. Val didn’t have much in the way of family, or close friends.’

  Annette folded her arms. ‘No surprises there.’

  ‘So it’ll be a select gathering, but nonetheless it needs to be done properly, as she’d have wanted it. A top quality coffin, funeral car, flowers, pall bearers …’ I listened carefully as Wendy expertly guided Nigel through the very last job that he could do for his wife to make it an event which she’d approve of. She was discreet and respectful while at the same time managing his sister’s obvious dislike for the deceased.

  ‘We can do flowers from both of us, can’t we,’ said Annette, draining the last dregs from her cup. ‘No point in wasting money on two wreaths.’

  A weary smile passed across Nigel’s face. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  She turned to me. ‘Lilies. A big spray of lilies for the top of the coffin.’

  ‘Something like this?’ I passed her the leaflet from the other florist, not sure whether Wendy would want her original florist to handle the order.

  Nigel shook his head. ‘Lilies made her sneeze.’

  ‘Not any more they won’t,’ Annette muttered. ‘What did your wife like?’ I asked.

  He gazed into the middle distance. ‘Her garden shed. And vegetables. She didn’t like flowers, said they were a waste of space. Over the years the lawn has got smaller and the veg patch bigger.’

  I didn’t think I’d ever met anyone who didn’t like flowers. Wendy gave me a look which implied that nothing surprised her.

  A sudden image popped into my head of something I’d seen on a website for the wedding of a couple who owned a greengrocery store. I took my phone out of my bag and searched online until I found it.

  ‘How about this?’ I showed Nigel and Annette the quirky arrangement.

  It was similar in shape to the coffin sprays they were looking at but that was the only traditional thing about it. Bunches of radishes sat like rubies amid broccoli crowns, glossy aubergines shone between bunches of bright orange carrots with feathery tops, and sunshine yellow courgette flowers pee
ked through a lacy veil of delicate pea shoots. Not a flower in sight but nevertheless brimming with colour and interest.

  ‘Fruit and veg?’ Annette spluttered. ‘I’ve seen it all now.’

  Then a smile spread across Nigel’s face and he began to nod. ‘Perfect. Val would love it. Could you make us one like that please?’

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ I replied.

  ‘What will everyone think?’ Annette said, red-faced.

  ‘I’ve spent years worrying about what everyone else will think. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been wasting my time.’ Nigel gave his sister a defiant look. ‘Life’s too short to worry about what others think.’

  Annette evidently couldn’t think of a response to that, so I used the opportunity to say my goodbyes. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as I headed back to Barnaby. It was only week one without Nina, and I’d already got my first corporate event and first funeral order under my belt.

  Business was beginning to boom.

  Chapter Three

  ‘You’re not helping, you know,’ I said sternly, tripping over Scamp’s rubber bone for the umpteenth time. I gave it a kick out of the way.

  It was the day after my trip to the funeral directors and I was in the shop early again, which seemed to be my new normal, and despite his advanced age, Scamp was having his daily mad half hour. This mostly entailed him dropping one of his toys at my feet and staring at it, nose close to the ground, bottom in the air and paws ready to pounce. Then as soon as I tried to pick it up to throw for him, he’d steal it back and charge around the shop growling triumphantly. Most of the time this was fine, but when I was trying to manoeuvre the cumbersome metal plant racks through the shop, not so much. I was lucky really, at least I could leave the door to the shop open safe in the knowledge he wouldn’t dash out and across the road. Biddy had no end of problems with Churchill popping over to the green to flirt with his favourite bitches.

  And right now the door was open as I attempted to get the front merchandise attractively ready for the early coffee trade which the Lemon Tree Café attracted.