Collecting Thoughts

by Irene Davidson

  Chapter Three

  “If we keep bumping into one another like this I’m going to think you’re following me.”

  “You’re in my village so technically, you’re the one following me,” Sara countered, putting down the dessert spoon she had picked up in readiness for eating her gooseberry and elderflower fool.

  “Well, I’m not bothered if you’re not,” Greg smiled pleasantly. She looked good, he thought, having changed last night’s jeans and hoodie look for a prettily feminine dress in a pale floral print. There was a wrap lying over the chair back but in the warm evening air it was redundant. He particularly liked the way the dress played with the neckline, giving a tantalising peek at a little more flesh than the previous night’s outfit. She looked less like a schoolgirl escaping from study prep and more like a woman but as he was still somewhat uncertain about her age he did his best to keep his eyes from straying to the pale mounds of her breasts. It wasn’t easy.

  Sara raised a glass of cool juice to her lips as she thought of a suitable reply. Nothing was coming to her so she drained the drink as she ransacked her mind for a topic.

  “So this is your ‘gig’ then that you were talking about last night?” It was a bit lame, but it would have to do. When he’d said he had a ‘gig’ on Saturday night, she had not thought to ask where it was and had never imagined to see, or more correctly, hear him noisily piping the bride, - an old school friend of Sara’s- into the large airy tent where her wedding breakfast guests awaited. Once inside he’d thankfully put the strident bagpipes down and for the last hour had been playing softly in the background as guests ate and drank their way through a three-course meal.

  “Yeah, at least the breaks are a tad more consistent than pub gigs. I’ve got few minutes now while they get ready for speeches and cutting the cake.” He eyed her empty glass. “Can I get you another drink?” He remembered that he had seen her drinking orange the previous night, “Do you drink anything other than fruit juice?” There were bottles of wine on the table but he could see that the wine glass at her table setting was unused. Again, he hoped she was old enough to legally drink.

  Sara noted the tall glass of sparkling water in his hand.

  “Water,” she spoke shortly. She wasn’t sure what made her say the next words; it wasn’t something she generally shared with people who were practically strangers. “I’m a recovering alcoholic.” She watched with a certain curiosity to see how he would respond to the news.

  “How long?” he spoke matter-of-factly, as if she’d just told him some minor factoid about herself. It was at this point that the majority of people she’d ever shared this information with took an involuntary step backwards, as if her condition might be contagious.

  Sara didn’t even need to think to answer this one, “fourteen years, almost to the day.” She’d been five weeks pregnant with Matthew when she’d quit. Between the awful morning sickness and the dry horrors, it had not been a fun start to her pregnancy.

  “I’m not a big drinker myself these days. I drank more when I was young but I found it was messing with my music so I limit myself to one beer when I’m playing but most of the time I stick to water,” he brandished the glass. “Lost a few friends when I changed my habits –they thought it was very un-Australian of me.” While he was speaking, he was doing a fast re-evaluation of her age. He knew there were alcoholics as young as thirteen or even younger but fourteen years sober would surely put her in her mid-twenties at the very least. He breathed out a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been guilty of thinking somewhat carnal thoughts about a teen.

  She laughed. “Yeah, well, there’s no ‘one beer’ limit for me. It tends to be all or nothing so I stick with nothing.” She looked downwards; he’d sat in the empty chair next to her, vacated by a guest gone in search of the loos. “I like the tartan trousers. Why not a kilt though?”

  “Well, technically, I’m not a Scot and I’d feel a bit of a dweeb wearing a skirt, even when I’m playing the pipes. I figure this is close enough.”

  “Word to the wise, don’t ever let Hamish hear you say that,” she admonished, holding up a single finger and shaking it from side to side.

  “I’ll keep that under advisement then,” he replied glibly. “I like these flowers,” he indicated the spray of white roses and pale blue hydrangea in the centre of the table, “I’d swipe them to take for Liana tomorrow but you said last night she doesn’t like flowers.”

  “You will not take the flowers!” she was indignant. “I did them myself, and what’s more, I didn’t say that Liana dislikes flowers, just that she has no need of anyone to take any for her.”

  “But I thought all women needed flowers!” he pictured his mother, sister and previous girlfriends, “At least, all the ones I know do.”

  “Not that one, she’s more than capable of providing her own,” her tone was a little dry. Aware that she was saying more than she ought, Sara shut her mouth.

  “So are you both florists then?” It was more of a question than a statement.

  “No, not exactly. Well I am, among other things, but Liana’s more of an herbalist, I guess you’d say, though she’s more than that.” Just how much more was something that had, over the past two years been given out on a need-to-know basis; and he didn’t need to know. “She makes some remedies for my shop and does a bit of consulting work every now and then.”

  “Among other things? What else do you do?”

  So, he’d caught that. He was a quick study, she thought. She was relieved his questioning had moved away from Liana. Still, she could see that she’d have to watch what she said if she didn’t want to get caught out.

  “Ah well, I grow those topiary plants to hire or buy,” she indicated several large pots of neatly clipped plants situated at the doors to the tent and at intervals along the tent walls, all decorated with twinkling lights.

  “They’re great,” his glance was admiring, “time-consuming though and a long wait for a profit. Those babies can take years to mature.”

  “Yes, depending on the species,” it appeared he knew something about topiary.

  “So, anything else … You said ‘other things’, plural?”

  Yep, he didn’t miss much. “I run my own nursery and garden retail outlet.” And that’s all she was going to let on. If he made it to dinner tomorrow he’d probably find out about the rest of her ‘interests’, especially Matthew, without her having to add anything more.

  “Whoa, no wonder you never have time to get out and exercise, you’re running around like crazy already, doing all that!”

  “That’s only the half of it,” she couldn’t help but say. “Right now’s the silly season and I’m flat out. We’re open six days a week and doing online orders as well.” It seemed to her that the ‘silly season’ was getting longer every year, and whilst it was wonderful that business was booming, soon there would be no ‘off’ time for her at all. She was not sure how she would cope.

  “Sounds like you need more help.”

  “Good help is hard to find round here. I have Liana occasionally, Matthew at weekends and a couple of part-timers but we’re not exactly the big city when it comes to finding qualified personnel.”

  There was that ‘Matthew’ again …Hmmm, Greg hoped he was merely an employee, but then why would he be invited to dinner if he wasn’t something more? “You know, the nursery business is big around Perth. My parents ran one up near Wanneroo.” At Sara’s bemused expression, “that’s northern Perth; used to be all farms, market gardens and nurseries before the city expanded so fast it started to take it over. We grew mostly Australian natives and some exotics, but the principles are the same. You grow ‘em, water them, feed them and repot them as necessary.” He looked at Sara speculatively, “I’m not all that busy at the moment. I could give you a bit of a hand for a few weeks if you’d like.

  Whatever he was going to say, that was the last thing Sara had expected to hear.

  She opened and closed her mouth several tim
es before any sound came out. “Wow. Gosh. Um, can I think about it?”

  “Yeah, mull it over and tell me tomorrow at dinner. I don’t have any big gigs coming up –a few local summer festivals here and there but if you want me to give a hand, I could maybe keep the wagon here and borrow a car to drive to them so I could stick around for a month or so.”

  Sara found herself playing with her napkin, thinking furiously. She desperately needed help and finding someone so unexpectedly with hands-on nursery experience was a huge bonus. Her mind went into overdrive and she was already planning how it might work. He could move the horse and wagon next to the nursery, or, even better, move into the flat above the shop and live on-site. She needed time to think this through more clearly. To cover her confusion she said, “How much longer are you here tonight? Are you playing for the dance?” The wedding dance was following directly on the heels of the dinner.

  “Nah, they’ve got a band coming in for that. I get to go home soon and see my horse. She misses me when I’m gone.” He made to get up. “Well, I suppose I’d better go now before your date comes back from the loo or wherever he’s disappeared to.”

  He’d had plenty of opportunity to watch the pair while he played and had been trying with little success to work out the relationship. They had seemed close enough, chatting freely and laughing often, but there had been no hand-holding, kissing or general canoodling and he was curious to know the relationship status. Perhaps it was the mysterious Matthew?

  Sara shook her head in denial. “Not my date, just Graham, a friend filling in for the event,” she countered.

  “Great,” he didn’t elaborate, “Until tomorrow then. I look forward to being picked up and taken to dinner.” His smile was pure mischief.

  “Hmpf. I could still give you directions and make you walk if you’re not careful.”

  “I might get lost in the woods and then you’d feel bad.” He’d gleaned from the conversation the night before that Hamish and Liana lived relatively nearby.

  “Ha, not that bad,” she considered him for a brief moment, thinking about him living alone on the edge of the forest, “but I wouldn’t be wandering about in the woods on your own if I were you. Certainly not after dark.”

  “What could hurt me in there? Killer Teddy Bears? Big bad wolf?”

  “Not quite, but there are a few surprises for the unwary and uninitiated.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly Red Riding Hood and I’ve had some experience with things that bite. Perhaps you could ‘initiate’ me sometime?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” she wouldn’t commit to anything.

  “Oh well, maybe you’ll change your mind once you get to know me better.”

  She ignored that, looking over his shoulder. “Graham’s coming back. Bye. Say hi to Cara from me and give her a pat. She’s such a sweetie.”

  “She is that. I’ll be sure to pass on your love and slip her an extra carrot from you as well,” he smiled, getting to his feet. “See you when you come to collect me for our date tomorrow.”

  “Not a date. Mate.” Sara shook her head, picked up her spoon and went back to eating her dessert.

  Greg just smiled to himself as he walked away.

  French-English Translations:

  Est-ce que je peux vous aider? May I help you?

  Peut- être, vous allez besoin de la glace, plus tard, pour le bleu. You may need ice, later, for the bruise.

  Votre petite fille. Quel âge a-t-elle? Your daughter how old is she?

  J’ai un nouveau chatton. I have a new kitten.

  Il a les puces. Beaucoup des puces. He has fleas. Lots of fleas

  Je crois que vous avez comprené très bien que Madame a dit ‘les puces’, pas ‘la pousse’. Elle a besoin de l’insecticide, pas la nourriture. I think you understood quite well that madam said fleas, not growth. She needs insecticide, not food.

  (Please note -any errors in the French are entirely my own -apologies to any native French-speakers.)

  In Flanders Fields

  by John McCrae, May 1915

  In Flanders fields the poppies blow

  Between the crosses, row on row,

  That mark our place; and in the sky

  The larks, still bravely singing, fly

  Scarce heard amid the guns below.

  We are the Dead. Short days ago

  We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

  Loved and were loved, and now we lie

  In Flanders fields.

  Take up our quarrel with the foe:

  To you from failing hands we throw

  The torch; be yours to hold it high.

  If ye break faith with us who die

  We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

  In Flanders fields.

  Recipes

  Can be found at:

  Croque Monsieur, https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/croque-monsieur-recipe.html

  Scallops a l’orange, at, https://frenchfood.about.com/od/maindishes/r/Scallops-LOrange-Recipe.htm

  Chicken Normandy, https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/emeril-lagasse/chicken-normandy-recipe.html

  Honey and Lavender Madeleines, https://www.goodfood.com.au/good-food/cook/recipe/lavender-and-honey-madeleines-20131101-2wnuf.html