Flora's Lot

by Katie Fforde

  *

  Flora dried her hands on the roller towel in the dingy lavatory. Horrid soap, bad light and cheap loo paper, all things she would have changed if she'd been allowed.

  But although she was very disappointed at the thought that all her plans for country living had been thwarted, ten thousand pounds would sort out her remaining credit-card bills, put a deposit down, and pay quite a few weeks' rent on a new flat. Or she could pay off the tenant in her parents' flat.

  She should have felt excited about these new options, but somehow, as she emerged from the converted corridor that was now the Ladies', she felt flat and deflated. Her skills might not have been directly relevant to an auction house, but she did have them.

  An elderly man in a brown warehouse coat stopped her before she'd turned into the main passage. 'Excuse me, are you Miss Stanza?'

  ‘Yes.' He was silver-haired and well spoken and yet the shirt and tie, visible beneath the long coat, looked rather worn.

  ‘I'm Geoffrey Whiteread. I knew your great-uncle, years ago. I'm the head porter.’

  Flora struggled for a moment. 'The man who holds things up at the sales?’

  The man smiled. 'Well, yes, but there is a bit more to it than that.' He looked about him, strangely furtive. 'Things are a bit difficult. I wanted to speak to you.’

  Never one to refuse to share a trouble, Flora smiled, even if it did all seem a bit Gothic. 'Speak away.' The man looked kindly and a little troubled.

  Just then they heard the office door open and both jumped. The Gothicness was obviously getting to them.

  ‘This will improve the air circulation, at least,' they heard Charles say.

  The old man frowned. 'We obviously can't talk here,’

  he whispered. 'But perhaps we could arrange to meet later? It's very important you don't let that Annabelle woman get her hands on this business.'

  ‘Why not?' Flora whispered back.

  He made a gesture to indicate he couldn't go into it just then. 'Because she's a . . .' He paused, clearly on the verge of saying something very rude about Annabelle and then changed his mind. 'We can't talk here,' he repeated.

  With the door open, Imelda's next protest was clearly audible. 'I'd better go back.' Flora nodded. 'Isn't there anything you can tell me now?’

  The man shook his head. 'Not now. Just don't let her take control of the business. She's a holy terror.’

  Scared lest her words be heard, Flora nodded again and set off slowly towards the door. She had obviously strayed into some sort of mystery novel, and she, Flora, would have to rescue this poor old man from the exploitative fiancée.

  ‘She's a complete airhead,' she heard the exploitative fiancée say. 'But I expect she'll take the money. A fashion victim like her will jump at it.’

  Fashion victim? Flora exchanged outraged glances with Geoffrey, who was listening with equal horror. She liked clothes, but fashion victim? Huh! A chuckle, presumably from Charles, greeted this. 'Yes, she's obviously a natural blonde.’

  Flora narrowed her eyes. 'Not as natural as all that,' she mouthed to Geoffrey.

  ‘I never dreamt she'd want to stay,' said Annabelle. Flora was confused. She knew she'd sent an email stating firmly she was going to take some time to learn what was what. She thought she'd been perfectly clear about it.

  ‘I must say I would have thought even someone like her would have mentioned it. It's rude, not to mention inconvenient.'

  ‘Actually' - it was Annabelle speaking - 'I think she may have said something about it in an email. I just assumed she'd take one look and run back to London.’

  There was a small silence while Flora held her breath, terrified in case she made a noise and they discovered she was eavesdropping. 'Oh.' This was Charles. 'We'll just have to hope you're right.'

  ‘No need to go on about it, Charles,' said his fiancée.

  Even Flora, who wasn't exactly warming to Charles, thought this was a little unfair. He'd only said 'oh'.

  ‘We'll have to try and convince her that staying is a bad idea and hope she takes the hint,' he said.

  And before Annabelle could say anything more about her, Flora pulled back her shoulders and marched back into the room. Up until the 'natural blonde' comment she'd been in two minds, but that did it. No way was she going to let herself be chased back to London with a cheque for ten thousand pounds! Even without that sweet old man's Ancient Mariner-type mutterings, she was going to give this a go.

  ‘Well,' she said, having made sure both Charles and Annabelle were looking at her. 'I've had a little think, and at the moment, I don't feel I want to take up your generous offer, Annabelle.'

  ‘What? Why not?' said Charles, indignant and surprised.

  ‘Because I really want to find out about my family business, to work here, to learn about furniture and things.' She was aware that the 'and things' rather detracted from her grand statement, but she hadn't had long to prepare and hoped they wouldn't notice.

  ‘My dear Flora,' said Charles, unwittingly using a phrase calculated to turn his cousin into a bra-burning shrew, 'you know nothing about the business. You have absolutely nothing to offer us. There's no room for you. There would be nothing for you to do.'

  ‘Is that so?' Flora replied tartly. 'Then why are you advertising for a "general assistant" in the local paper?'

  ‘When did you see the local paper?' demanded Charles, as if her buying it had been somehow illegal.

  ‘Before I arrived. I was looking for bed and breakfast accommodation.' She was actually looking for somewhere she might rent, for when the kittens were born.

  ‘The local paper is not the best place to look for that,' said Annabelle. 'And I'm afraid there's absolutely none available at the moment.'

  ‘What do you mean? There must be. This is a very pretty little town. Someone must do bed and breakfast.'

  ‘Lots of people do,' said Charles. 'But there's the music festival on at the moment. The town is seething with violinists.'

  ‘Oh. I wonder what the collective noun for those is,' said Flora. A sound emerged from Imelda's box. 'Perhaps that about covers it.’

  A tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes told Flora that Charles found this quite funny but was not going to allow himself to laugh. Well, at least he had a sense of humour, even if he didn't ever use it.

  ‘I had thought of renting, eventually.' In spite of her brave resolutions she was aware that her voice betrayed her misgivings.

  Charles sighed impatiently, as if dealing with a toddler he wanted to smack but had to placate. 'We seem to have got off on the wrong foot somehow. We're not trying to stop you being part of the business, it just never occurred to us you'd want to.’

  This was sufficiently annoying to give Flora another shot of courage. 'No?' Her brown eyes were limpid with disbelief as they met his cold, blue ones. 'But I sent an email. I thought I was quite clear about my intentions. Or didn't you get it?’

  Annabelle cleared her throat. 'It, er, it only half downloaded, so we didn't, quite. But I'm sure you can understand that Charles doesn't want you coming in here and messing about with things you don't understand,' she went on more briskly. 'Of course you will want to talk things over with your father, but I'm sure he'll advise you to be sensible and accept my offer.'

  ‘Possibly,' said Flora. 'But I should point out that although he does advise me, I am old enough to make my own decisions.' Aware she was in a position of power, Flora's tones became low and gentle. Let them rant and rave if they felt like it.

  ‘It will take a couple of days to get the legal stuff sorted,' said Charles. 'Perhaps if you had a few days' holiday down here, you might realise that a small market town really isn't the place for a metropolitan girl like you.'

  ‘But where's she going to stay?' demanded Annabelle. 'I can't have her - she's got a cat!'

  ‘And because I've got a cat, who might have kittens at any minute, I can't just go back to London. I might cause an accident. Imagine the News! "Ambulance called to hel
p deliver kittens after pile-up on the M4. The RSPCA investigate".'

  ‘Let's not get too worked up about this,' said Charles, not finding Flora's melodrama remotely amusing.

  ‘No, let's not,' agreed Flora, disappointed that he couldn't crack a smile, even to be polite.

  ‘Flora can stay in the holiday cottage,' he went on.

  ‘Don't be ridiculous!' Annabelle dismissed this immediately. 'It's not fit for habitation. Otherwise we would have let it.'

  ‘It's perfectly fit for habitation,' Charles contradicted. 'It's just not quite up to the standard required by the agency.'

  ‘It's in the middle of nowhere!' protested Annabelle. Charles didn't see this as a problem, in fact it was probably an advantage. 'Flora has a car.'

  ‘Yes, I have.' Flora smiled, not wanting this lovers' tiff to continue in her presence. 'The holiday cottage sounds wonderful.'

  ‘Honestly, you won't want to stay there,' said Annabelle. 'It's right out in the country, near some woods. You'll be terrified of the owls.'

  ‘You think?'

  ‘I don't want you ringing Charles at all hours of the night because you're frightened of the dark,' Annabelle explained.

  ‘Of course not,' agreed Flora pleasantly. 'Just as well I'm not frightened of it. And owls don't bother me, either.' 'Sorry!' said Annabelle. 'It's just that most people from London seem quite incapable of coping with country sounds: mating foxes, owls, cat fights, stuff like that.'

  ‘When you've heard lions roar and elephants trumpet and there's only a thin bit of canvas between you and them, you don't worry about anything that can't eat you,' said Flora, believing this statement to be true, even if she had no experience of anything like that herself.

  ‘Oh. Right,' said Annabelle, wrong-footed. 'I suppose not.'

  ‘Does the holiday cottage have sheets? Saucepans, a corkscrew?' Flora enquired tentatively, not wanting to cause more annoyance than necessary.

  ‘I'll pop home and fetch some things. I've got plenty of bed linen,' said Annabelle. She unhitched a serviceable leather bag from a chair and extracted a large bunch of keys. 'All right if I take the Landy, sweetie?'

  ‘Of course,' said Sweetie.

  When she was alone with her cousin, Flora said, 'I think I should warn you, I do want to work here. I'll apply for the job as a general assistant, if you want.'

  ‘I really don't think you'd like it.'

  ‘You can't possibly know me well enough to say what I'd like and what I wouldn't! We've only just met.’

  ‘I know but . .

  ‘But what?'

  ‘Did you used to go out with someone called Justin Mateland?’

  Flora became wary. 'Yes. Do you know him?’

  ‘We were at school together.'

  ‘Oh, right.'

  ‘Yes.' Charles's hard blue eyes drilled into Flora long enough to inform her that he considered she had behaved very badly to Justin. He didn't say it out loud, so Flora could defend herself, he just let her know that that was his opinion of the matter.

  ‘Now we've discussed our mutual acquaintance perhaps we could go back to the matter in hand?' she said sharply.

  ‘Which was?'

  ‘The job? I was about to apply for it. If you could just give me a form I could fill it in.’

  Charles sighed deeply. 'Oh, it's all right, you don't have to do that.'

  ‘But if you've got other candidates to see . . .'

  ‘No. There are no other candidates. We've been advertising for the post for weeks, and no one remotely suitable has applied.'

  ‘Why not?' This was a bit worrying. Had Charles got a reputation locally for being mean-minded with no sense of humour and a horrible employer? It seemed perfectly possible.

  ‘Because no one with anything about them wants to work here.'

  ‘But why not?' She wasn't expecting him necessarily to admit to the reason, but she might get some clue. 'The wages, dear cousin, are crap.’

  Flora bit her lip. Not good news, but not as bad as it could have been. 'I see.’

  When he was quite sure that Flora was sufficiently subdued by the prospect of working for practically nothing, in a firm who didn't want her, while living in a remote cottage in the woods, Charles said, 'I must ring the solicitor. Will you be all right here for a few moments? There are a few magazines . . .'

  ‘I'll be fine. You go and do your thing.' She smiled again, from habit, but he didn't notice.

  Chapter Two

  While Flora was flicking through ancient copies of Antiques Trade Gazette and stroking Imelda's head through the box, wondering if she should just cave in and accept the ten grand, there was a knock on the door and someone's head appeared. It was the sweet old man. Geoffrey someone.

  ‘Are you alone?’

  Flora put down what felt like homework with relief. 'Yes. Charles is getting in touch with solicitors and Annabelle's gone to get things for the holiday cottage, where I'm going to stay.' Sensing a sympathetic ear, Flora took the opportunity to get her grievances off her chest. 'Do you know, she had the nerve to make out she didn't know I wanted to stay! I sent her an email making it quite clear. And apparently every b. and b. in the town is full of musicians for a festival.'

  ‘That's right. Bishopsbridge has quite a reputation for music. Our choir opened the festival last week.’

  Flora smiled admiringly while Geoffrey Whiteread came into the room. 'So you're not running off back to London then?'

  ‘Not immediately, no.' Flora sighed. She was hot and tired and a bit despondent, and wasn't quite sure how long she'd be able to cope with being so unwanted.

  ‘Good. You hang in there. This place needs someone to shake it up.'

  ‘What makes you think I'm the one? I know nothing about the business.' All her early confidence had been dissipated by Charles's frigid attitude and the reality of her situation.

  ‘You're young. And you're family. Not like that Annabelle.'

  ‘When she marries Charles she'll be family.’

  Geoffrey shuddered. 'Just because they've known each other for ever doesn't mean those two should marry! She doesn't even like the auctioneering business!'

  ‘Then why marry into it? Buy into it?' she added, remembering the ten-thousand-pound offer.

  ‘She likes control and if she marries Charles, she'll have control.' He perched on the edge of the table. 'She's already got some disastrous ideas for cost-cutting.'

  ‘What do they involve?' asked Flora.

  ‘Sacking me, number one,' said Geoffrey. 'She's right, I am old, but I've got more knowledge and experience of this business in my little finger than she'll have in a lifetime. She says we don't need a full-time porter, that we can depend on self-employed staff. But all their sorting has to be checked. Charles doesn't have time to do it.’

  Flora sighed. 'The thing is, I know nothing about antiques and collectables, or whatever they're called. I can make them let me stay, but I could just make everything worse.'

  ‘Or you could be the breath of fresh air this place needs.’

  Flora shook her head. 'You make me sound like an advertisement for a room fragrance, and I only know what I've picked up from afternoon telly programmes. A few editions of the Antiques Roadshow and that one where they have to buy things at an antiques fair and then sell them at auction. That isn't going to be enough.'

  ‘I'll teach you,' said Geoffrey. 'I've forgotten more than you'll ever need to know. I was a dealer for years, before I came back here.’

  Flora smiled at him. 'That's a wonderful offer, but it isn't only that. There's the whole living-in-the-country thing. Would I be able to cope with that? Charles and Annabelle obviously think I'm a waste of space already, and will fall apart if not exposed to a shoe shop and a wine bar at least twice a week. And that's before I've even made any awful blunders.' She regarded him seriously. 'I do like shoes, but I did want to give this thing a go.'

  ‘If you really mean that, I might be able to help you fit into the way of life, too.' He smil
ed, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a friendly way. 'I can't point you to a wine bar within thirty miles, but there are other ways of keeping yourself amused.' He paused. 'Ever done any singing?'

  ‘Apart from in the shower, you mean? I always sing in the shower. And I liked it at school. I was always asked to do the descants for the carols, and I sang a solo at the school concert once.' She frowned. 'It was a long time ago, though. Why do you ask? Are you offering to take me to a karaoke night?’

  He chuckled. 'Not exactly. I was going to ask you if you'd like to join my choir.’

  Flora almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea. 'What, the one that opened the festival?’

  He nodded. 'It's a good way to get to know people, and although we've got high standards, we're a tolerant bunch. We need some higher voices. You'd be welcome.'

  ‘But I couldn't possibly! I haven't sung for years and my sight-reading was never very good.' She couldn't imagine what her friends in London would say if she announced she'd joined a choir.

  ‘Your sight-reading will really improve when you get back to doing it, and we'll all help you along.’

  Flora considered. Geoffrey was the first person to make her feel remotely approved of since she'd arrived and she was touched. 'Are you sure? They won't think I'm an awful townie, and resent me?’

  He chuckled. 'A pretty girl like you would cheer us all up. Not that we're all old, I don't want to imply that, but there's been no one young, single and female in the choir for years. You are single, aren't you?'

  ‘Currently. A bit of a first for me, actually.’

  He laughed again; he seemed to find her very amusing, but in a fond way, not because he found her ridiculous, unlike Charles and Annabelle.

  ‘Then come along with me tonight, and see how you like it.’

  It was tempting, particularly when the alternative was staying at home alone in a holiday cottage. And guessing at Charles and Annabelle's standards of what a holiday cottage required, she probably wouldn't even have a television to distract her from Imelda's yelling. Thinking of Imelda, she said, 'There's my cat. She might have kittens at any moment.'