The Beachside Flower Stall

by Karen Clarke

  ‘No roses,’ he said, adding helpfully, ‘she likes pink.’

  ‘Pink, pink, pink,’ I murmured. I’d assumed that arranging a bouquet would be a doddle, after a YouTube tutorial, undertaken one wine-fuelled evening with my friend and lodger, Jasmine. We hadn’t even used flowers, but had improvised with cutlery, using newspaper for wrapping, finding ourselves hilarious.

  ‘Why me?’ I’d said, when Mum had phoned to tell me Dad’s sister was in ‘one of her funks’ and would I mind helping out on her flower stall by the sea in Dorset. ‘I’m an accountant, not a florist.’

  ‘An out-of-work accountant,’ she kindly reminded me. The car rental company I worked for had recently gone bust. ‘And you have worked there before.’

  ‘A few weekends for pocket money one summer doesn’t count. And anyway, I hardly know Aunt Ruby. I haven’t spoken to her once since leaving Dorset.’

  ‘She had a soft spot for you,’ Mum said, clearly desperate to get me to agree.

  ‘Why can’t you do it?’

  ‘Because Sarah might need me.’ Although that might have been true – my sister’s five-year-old twins would give Supernanny a run for her money – the real reason was that Mum didn’t get on with her sister-in-law, and Dad wasn’t much better.

  ‘Doesn’t Ruby have anyone else who could help?’

  But it turned out her part-time assistant, Jane, had called Dad as a ‘last resort’, because she’d booked a holiday she couldn’t cancel and there was no one else to ask.

  ‘Can’t she just shut the stall down?’

  ‘Of course not, it’s her livelihood. And it’ll only be for a few weeks, until she’s pulled herself together.’ Mum’s voice had turned rather acid. She was probably recalling the time she and Dad had paid Ruby a visit, just after she opened her stall. Apparently, it had been super-awkward, with Dad going into technical mode, asking how it fitted together, and Mum declaring it must be a faff, and Ruby giving her a pitying look as if, ‘Despite running an engineering business with your dad for thirty years, I know nothing!’

  Then Dad started advising Ruby about money, and she told him she’d managed without him all these years and to ‘do one’.

  ‘Anyway, we’re off to Kazakhstan next weekend,’ Mum had said, when I continued to protest. After Sarah had had the twins, our parents had sold their business in Dorset and moved up to Manchester to be closer to us all, and she and Dad had developed a thing for visiting far-flung countries.

  ‘Well, our water pipe burst,’ I’d parried. ‘Workmen are coming next week.’

  ‘It’s the summer holidays, so Jasmine will be there,’ Mum shot back.

  Jasmine was a science teacher, and in the enviable position of having six weeks off work. The cutlery arranging had been her bright idea.

  ‘Go,’ she’d urged, when I told her about the flower stall. ‘I’ll be here until the last week of the hols, and you could do with a break.’

  ‘I have to find a new job.’

  ‘You can do that when you get back. I know you’ve got savings.’ She gave me a sly look. ‘Anyway, wasn’t that bloke you were in love with from Dorset?’

  She’d got me tipsy one night and I’d spilled the whole Tom saga, telling her how Megan had called the next day, to say she’d spent the night with him, and that was when I’d decided to stay in Manchester and finish my accountancy course at the university there.

  ‘Didn’t you call him, or anything?’

  ‘Yes, but I kept getting his voicemail. He couldn’t face me, even on the phone,’ I’d wailed, over-dramatic on three and a half vodka-tonics, and I made her promise never to mention him again.

  But in the end, the thought of a summer break in Dorset was what had swung it. That, and a surreptitious Google search, which unexpectedly revealed that Tom now owned a veterinary practice in – of all places – Shipley, where Ruby had her flower stall.

  But now I was there, things were turning out to be anything but simple. Jane, who’d promised to run me through everything before going on holiday, had been taken ill after erecting the stall with the help of her strapping son, Calum, who’d driven her home in the van, while she muttered about a stomach bug.

  ‘Listen, I haven’t got all day.’ The man’s voice dragged me back to the moment, where I was dithering by a bucket of dusky-pink… I squinted at the wooden label… dahlias.

  ‘These look nice.’ I grabbed some, then plucked out a mass of green stuff speckled with white bits, water dripping on my feet.

  With hindsight, it probably hadn’t been a good idea to wear my work clothes. I looked like I was going for an interview at a bank, as Jane had pointed out, eyeing my elephant-grey trousers before her face had turned a similar shade of grey.

  ‘You could put some fuchsias in too, for contrast,’ said a voice.

  With a start, I saw a lady standing in front of me, with neatly bobbed hair in a shade my mum would call ash-blonde. She looked about seventy, but well preserved, in a figure-flattering dress and sensible sandals, and was pointing to one of the buckets.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, diving for a handful.

  ‘Doris Day,’ she said, rather confusingly. ‘Where’s Ruby?’

  ‘She’s, um, having a little break.’ An image of my aunt’s ashen face flashed into my head. I’d been shocked by how unhappy she’d looked, peering at me from the cocoon of her duvet, when I’d arrived the night before. ‘I’m Carrie, her niece.’ I waited.

  ‘I just told you,’ she said, a crease between her eyebrows. ‘Doris Day.’

  ‘Oh! Right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And Jane?’

  ‘Ill,’ I said.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Doris Day looked concerned. ‘She’s my neighbour. We live on Maple Hill, on the other side of the parade,’ she elaborated.

  ‘Can we move this along?’ The man tucked his phone away and pushed back his floppy fringe. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  I glanced at the sea – a twinkling ribbon of silver in the August sunshine – and wished I was in it.

  ‘Use the brown paper.’ Doris moved closer to oversee proceedings, shifting her wicker basket from the crook of one elbow to the other. ‘I’ve seen how it’s done, my dear. I’ve been coming by for years.’

  Aware of the man’s scrutiny, I moved to the workbench, which was covered with a daisy-patterned oilskin cloth, and scrunched a wad of brown paper around the flower stems, careful not to crush them.

  ‘Now use Sellotape.’ Doris indicated one of several plastic trays.

  ‘Ribbon?’ I asked. Doris, not the customer.

  She turned to him. ‘Ribbon?’

  He shrugged and scratched his chin. ‘S’pose.’

  ‘In there.’ She flicked her gaze to a different tray, filled with colourful spools.

  I located some scissors and snipped off a length of pink ribbon, and tied it around the paper with fingers that felt fatter than usual.

  ‘Use the blade to make it go curly.’

  ‘I was going to.’ I wasn’t, but I did my best, and managed not to slice my finger off.

  Doris gave the result an appraising look. ‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘It’s a bit pink,’ said the man.

  Make your mind up. I remembered something I’d skim-read in one of Jasmine’s interior magazines. ‘Block colours are in at the moment.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really?’ said Doris, less sarcastically than the man.

  ‘Really.’ I could feel my hair sliding out of its clip, and knew my face was as pink and shiny as the flower petals, but not as attractive. ‘I’m sure she’ll love it.’

  ‘Of course she will,’ agreed Doris, in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Looking resigned, the man dug around in his pocket. ‘How much?’

  Doris gestured at the price list pegged to one of the poles supporting the green-and-cream canopy overhead. ‘Twelve pounds.’

  ‘Five,’ I corrected. Charging more for my amateurish attempt would have fe
lt like daylight robbery.

  Evidently impressed, the man handed over a note, which I fumbled into the money-belt Jane had insisted I wear, pretending not to hear Doris’s sharp intake of breath.

  The man strode away without a goodbye, and one of the flowers slid out of the wrapping and landed on the pavement.

  Luckily, neither he nor Doris noticed.

  ‘You should have charged him double, rude little bugger,’ she said tartly. ‘Tell Ruby I’ll pop in some time.’

  Before I could respond, she was walking away, basket swinging, one hand fluttering a wave.

  A little shaky, I reached for my bag and pulled out my phone.

  Jasmine had texted:

  Remember to relax and breathe. USE YOUR APP!!

  She was a fan of relaxation apps, and had insisted I download one, but this was hardly the time for whale music. Instead, I called Ruby’s number. She picked up on the eleventh ring.

  ‘Carrie? Is everything OK?’

  She sounded so fearful I didn’t dare tell her that Jane had gone home.

  ‘All good!’ I said. ‘Just checking in. It’s so lovely down here!’

  That much was true. The stall overlooked the beach, from a cobbled square between a parade of shops and Main Street, where Ruby lived above the bakery. There was a standpipe close by, perfect for watering the flowers, and the stall itself was eye-catching, surrounded by buckets of flowers, and trays of plants stacked on wooden pallets. A wooden wheelbarrow planted with wildflowers doubled as a sign, with Ruby’s Blooms painted in white on the side. It weighed a ton, so was a permanent fixture, according to Jane, and normally the van stayed too. It was kept in her garage overnight because there was no lock-up at Ruby’s.

  As if on cue, it drew up at its spot behind the stall, and Calum stepped out, grinning broadly. ‘Alright?’ he said, as I quickly trilled a goodbye to Ruby and hung up. ‘Mum said I should hang about. She can’t get off the bog.’

  Charming. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ I said, eyeing his oil-splattered overalls. Jane had mentioned he was doing a marine engineering apprenticeship down by the harbour.

  ‘I’ve told them I won’t be in today, it’s cool,’ he said. ‘I’ll get us a coffee from Cooper’s, yeah?’ He thumbed the café on the corner, and I nodded gratefully.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I doubted he’d be much help, and wasn’t keen on the idea of him keeping an eye on me. I was used to working under my own steam. I wondered whether to send him to get some shopping for Ruby when he came back.

  Shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare, I found myself scanning the sunlit square, hoping for a glimpse of Tom. Mum had informed me, about six months after I left, that he and Megan must have broken up. She knew someone who knew someone who worked at Hudson Grange, and although Megan apparently worked for Mr Hudson now, Tom had moved to Scotland. Alone.

  ‘You can come home,’ she’d said. I’d had to tell her the real reason for moving to Manchester, because she’d been so upset that both her daughters had ‘deserted’ the family home and rarely visited. ‘If you’re worried about bumping into that little… that so-called friend of yours, I doubt she’d have the nerve to get in touch.’

  ‘It’s fine, Mum,’ I’d said, though my heart had tripped over. ‘I’ve a job here and friends. I’m happy.’

  A voice crashed into my thoughts. ‘Could I have a hand-tied posy, please?’

  I turned to see a twinkly-eyed woman, dressed for the office in a light-coloured skirt suit, a laptop bag on her shoulder, and felt a pang for my old office at Cars 4 U. ‘Posy?’

  ‘Hand-tied,’ she repeated, with a helpful smile. ‘It’s for a colleague’s birthday. Nothing too formal.’

  ‘A hand-tied posy.’ I really should stop repeating things, in the hope they’d make more sense. As I stared at the different flowers, hoping a selection might jump out, a shadow fell across the cobbled ground.

  ‘Garden ones are best.’ It was Calum, filling the space with his broad frame. He put down the coffees and crouched by the buckets, his dark blond hair falling forward. ‘Daisies and cornflowers, lavender for contrast – and ’cos it smells nice – and a couple of hydrangeas.’ He handed me several stems of each. ‘I sometimes helped out in the holidays when I was a kid,’ he said in his broad Dorset accent, by way of an explanation. ‘Strip the leaves off, or they’ll be too bulky.’ I stared at the bunch in my hand. ‘Wrap a bit of florist’s tape round, it’s in the tray, and some string over the top.’

  ‘String?’

  ‘It’s fancy string, ’specially for flowers, it looks…’ he waggled his fingers, searching for the right word. ‘Natural, like.’

  ‘Right.’ I sloped across to the workbench and did as instructed, cheeks buzzing with colour. Maybe Jane should have put Doris and Calum in charge. Both seemed to know what they were doing.

  ‘Don’t try and arrange them too much, see? They’s meant to look like you ’aven’t really tried.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, shoving my hair back with my wrist.

  It took a few goes to get the stems to stay together, and I could feel Calum itching to take over. At one point, even the customer leaned over and said, ‘Would you like me to put my finger on that, while you tie the knot?’

  ‘I’m OK, thanks.’ My voice was more shrill than usual.

  The result looked a little battered, and the customer studied it for a nerve-shredding moment, before saying on a sigh, ‘It’ll have to do, I suppose.’

  She brightened when I told her there was no charge, but as she left, Calum hissed air through his teeth.

  ‘Not cool, mate,’ he said. ‘Things aren’t exactly cooking as it is.’

  ‘You mean, financially?’

  He shrugged and picked up his coffee. ‘From what I’ve heard, like.’ His ears were blushing, as though he regretted speaking.

  ‘How old are you, Calum?’

  ‘Eighteen.’ He eyed me suspiciously. ‘And a half.’

  I remembered myself at that age, and, once again, Tom sprang into my head. It was as if a catch had been sprung, and after years of mostly not thinking about him, now I couldn’t stop. ‘Well, I appreciate your help, Calum, but I have a lot of financial experience, and I’ll do what I think’s best right now.’

  ‘Whatever,’ he said, drinking his coffee in one go.

  He didn’t seem inclined to speak much after that, but took his role as ‘watcher’ very seriously, his grey-green eyes scanning my every move.

  ‘You seem a bit tense, like,’ he said eventually, picking up on the rigid set of my shoulders after I’d struggled to wrangle two potted plants into a plastic bag for a customer, without spilling soil everywhere. ‘You probably shouldn’t have any more coffee.’

  At lunchtime, he nipped across to the café and came back with two glasses of ice-cold orange juice and a couple of bananas ‘for energy and magnesium’.

  Later still, when I pricked my thumb on a rose thorn, and dripped blood all over the wrapping, he redid the bouquet for me, before fetching a plaster from a first-aid box in the van.

  ‘Thanks, Calum,’ I mumbled, readjusting my opinion. He was a lot more mature than most eighteen-and-a-half-year-olds I’d met.

  By five o’clock I was boiling hot, starving, and tetchy with exhaustion, but at least there hadn’t been any more catastrophes.

  As Calum deftly dismantled the stall, I noticed my first customer of the day, hurrying across the square.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ he said, red in the face, a suit jacket flung over his shoulder.

  ‘Er, you’re welcome?’

  ‘She’s dumped me,’ he blasted, passing a palm over his sweating face. ‘She said she’s allergic to flowers, and that if I cared about her I’d have known.’

  ‘Not really my fault—’

  ‘And even if she wasn’t allergic, she said it was the most pathetic bouquet of flowers she’d ever set eyes on.’

  ‘Ah.’

  His eyes bulged in the manner of someone being t
hrottled. ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  I was aware people were craning their necks, perhaps hoping to see a fight, and that Calum was trying not to laugh.

  Squashing the urge to ask for the girlfriend’s number, so I could tell her she’d had a lucky escape, I said, ‘I suppose you want your fiver back.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘I’m sorry I left you in the lurch, Carrie. I meant to come back, but… well, let’s just say, it wasn’t pretty.’

  I was back at Ruby’s, and on the other end of the phone Jane’s voice was small and weak. ‘Dennis and Calum went down with it last week, but I thought I’d escaped,’ she added. I presumed that Dennis was her husband.

  ‘Don’t worry, I was fine,’ I said. ‘Calum was really helpful.’

  ‘Did you have any calls?’

  ‘There’s a phone?’

  ‘I left it on the workbench.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I’d popped it in my bag, thinking it was Jane’s and she’d left it by mistake. ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ She sounded deflated.

  ‘Well, if it rang I didn’t hear it,’ I said, keeping my voice down in case Ruby could overhear. Though, unless she’d rolled out of bed and pressed a glass to the wall, it seemed unlikely. When I’d checked on her she was asleep again, wearing a velvet eye mask and foam plugs in her ears.

  ‘It’s a pity.’ Jane gave a heavy sigh that I suspected was about more than her upset stomach. ‘Business is a bit slow at the moment.’

  ‘I suppose Aunt Ruby being… ill doesn’t help,’ I said, stumbling over the word. ‘Has she been like it for long?’

  ‘It tends to come out of the blue,’ Jane said indiscreetly. ‘She’ll seem fine then wham!’ I jumped. ‘One morning, she can’t get out of bed.’

  ‘And you don’t know why?’

  ‘I suppose it’s that depression.’ Jane said it with the baffled air of someone who’d never felt miserable in her life – stomach bug notwithstanding. ‘It seems to fit, but she won’t see a doctor or take anything for it. She says it’ll pass, and it does.’

  ‘How often does it happen?’ I wished my parents had been more forthcoming about Ruby’s condition, if that’s what it was. Mum had made it sound as if Ruby was a bit pissed off, and Dad clearly hadn’t a clue.