The Beachside Flower Stall

by Karen Clarke

  ‘It’s usually about this time every year,’ Jane said, then made a horrible noise like a cat coughing up a fur ball. ‘Gotta go,’ she croaked, and there was the sound of the phone being clattered down, followed by silence.

  I hung up and glanced around, heart sinking. When I’d arrived the previous night, hot and tired from the drive, and from trying to squeeze my Golf into the allocated space at the back of the bakery, Jane had let me in – a small, bird-like woman, with a mass of frizzy brown hair – and shown me round, before pressing the spare key into my hand, and telling me to meet her at the stall at 7 a.m. sharp.

  I hadn’t really taken in how small the flat was – much smaller than I remembered. Spread over several rooms, with an open-plan living room and kitchen, it could have been spacious, but instead looked like it had been burgled, with drawers hanging open, clothes heaped about, and dirty dishes and mugs on all the surfaces.

  The room I’d slept in wasn’t much better. It had a workshop vibe, with boxes everywhere, and only a narrow bed and a clothes rail hung with hangers, to indicate it could double as a bedroom.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jane had said, with a wince. ‘I thought she might have tidied up for you.’

  In fact, apart from a whispered, ‘Thank you for coming, Carrie,’ when I poked my head around her bedroom door to say hello, I hadn’t seen Ruby. She’d still been sleeping when I crept out into the unfamiliar morning.

  Sighing, I crossed from the living room, through the narrow passageway, where a lurid painting of sunflowers hung over a cupboard with shoes spilling out, and into Ruby’s bedroom, where I stood in the gloom, watching the bulk underneath the duvet move in time with her snores.

  Despite the sizzling weather, the curtains were pulled across. The smell in the room reminded me of the hamster I’d had when I was eight. I was forever forgetting to clean his cage, leading Mum to ban us from having any more pets.

  ‘Aunt Ruby,’ I said in a stage whisper, feeling completely helpless. When there was no response, I approached the bed like a bomb-disposal expert and gently shook her shoulder.

  ‘AAAARRGGGGHHHH!’

  The strength and volume of Ruby’s scream sent me reeling. I stumbled on the edge of the rug and toppled against the dressing table, sending the items on top crashing to the floor.

  ‘Jesus,’ I said, my heart pounding. ‘It’s only me, Ruby.’

  She pushed her eye mask into her thatch of straw-coloured hair, and goggled as if she’d encountered an extra from The Walking Dead.

  ‘Carrie!’ she cried, taking a minute to adjust to the sight of me; enough time for me to see that her strappy top had twisted round, and one of her boobs had popped out. ‘You scared me half to death,’ she said, removing her earplugs and dropping them in a mug of half-drunk tea on the bedside cabinet. ‘Why were you creeping around?’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I said, as my pulse returned to normal, hurt by her slightly hostile tone. ‘I was checking you were OK.’

  ‘I was sleeping,’ she said, rubbing her eye with her fist in a childlike gesture. ‘Was I snoring?’

  ‘What? No,’ I fibbed, bending to pick up the knick-knacks scattered across the carpet, which looked like it hadn’t seen a vacuum cleaner for weeks.

  ‘Leave it!’ she ordered, when I reached for a wooden box with a mess of papers and photos spilling out.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ I said, but I switched my attention to a velvety red jewellery case instead. Luckily it had stayed shut, and I replaced it carefully on the dust-layered dressing table, next to a wood-framed photo of a younger Ruby, in a beaded dress, holding the arm of a heavyset man with twinkling eyes. Presumably Henry, the man she’d lived in Hong Kong with, who’d died and left her enough money to return to Dorset and set up her flower stall.

  I reached over to open the flimsy curtains, and a sliver of apricot sunlight slanted into the room. The bakery was opposite an old-fashioned picture-framing shop, and I noticed a couple in the window above, kissing like a Hollywood couple. His hands cupped her face, while their lips locked together, and I felt a flutter of envy. I’d never been kissed like that. The last man who’d tried had thrust his tongue into my mouth so hard, I accidentally gagged.

  Dragging my gaze away, I opened the window, and turned to see Ruby cowering from the brightness like a vampire, her forearm over her eyes.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ she said, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘It’s the sea.’ I inhaled for effect, drawing in a lungful of dust particles. ‘And fresh air,’ I spluttered, when I’d finished coughing.

  ‘Oh, that.’ She crashed back on her pillows, her fingers laced over her chest.

  Moving closer I studied her face, remembering how she’d possessed an otherworldly glamour when she was younger, from a photo I’d seen of her standing next to Dad in their back garden. Seven years older, he’d looked more like her father than her brother, in his sensible tank-top and slacks combo, his auburn hair neatly parted. Ruby had had a white-blonde crop and her lips had been painted red. Harlot-red, their mother had called it, according to Dad. Their parents had been strict and very religious. The worst kind of religious, I heard Mum say once to her mother on the phone. ‘The sort that doesn’t tolerate anyone different. I’m amazed Ken turned out to be normal, but I can’t say I’m surprised his sister left home the minute she turned sixteen.’

  Even bare-faced, with her dark roots showing, Ruby looked younger than her fifty-six years. It just was a shame her blue eyes were dull, as if they needed a polish. She appeared nothing like the cheery woman I remembered from my weekends on the stall; a woman who’d had the ability to make people smile, and walk away with a bunch of flowers they hadn’t intended to buy.

  ‘Why are you looking at me?’ Ruby’s gaze shifted downwards, and for a surreal moment I thought she was talking to her breast as she nudged it back into her top.

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ I said impulsively, perching on the side of the bed. ‘Maybe I can help.’

  ‘You’re already helping, love.’ She focused her eyes on me with obvious difficulty. ‘Your mum said you’re between jobs, that’s why you offered to come.’

  Offered? Typical of Mum. ‘I am.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ruby said.

  ‘It’s OK.’ My fingers plucked at the duvet cover. It wasn’t so much that I missed Cars 4 U, where the atmosphere had been reminiscent of The Office rather than Suits, but I’d enjoyed the structure the job had given my days. I was also proud of having worked my way up, from junior assistant to accounts manager, through sheer determination and hard work. It had been hard to adjust to not being there. By week two of my unemployment, Jasmine claimed the house could pass an army inspection – apart from her room, which looked like she was permanently clearing out her wardrobe.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find something else soon,’ I said to Ruby. ‘In the meantime, it’s lovely to see you.’ I squeezed her hand, surprised to find it was true. ‘It’s been ages.’

  ‘Too long,’ she said unexpectedly, returning the pressure of my fingers. ‘I always enjoyed visiting when you were toddlers, but…’ she paused. ‘I wasn’t too good around young children.’

  I was surprised to see her eyelashes were damp. ‘Oh, Ruby, that’s not true,’ I said, reaching to pass her a tissue. In my few memories of her flying visits to Dorchester she was always smiling, her face alight with life. I couldn’t reconcile that image with the woman slumped in bed, blinking back tears.

  ‘I didn’t realise things were so bad,’ I said, patting her upper arm, which was patched with freckles. ‘I don’t think Mum and Dad do either.’

  Ruby made a sound, between a laugh and a sob. ‘I always liked your mother,’ she said, still blinking. ‘She’s good for Kenneth, always seemed so sure of herself. Still is, I suppose.’ She swallowed. ‘That’s what comes of having a loving family behind her.’

  I felt a twinge of guilt as I thought of Grandma and Grandpa Perkins, who’d been like a story-book couple, and had spoilt Sarah an
d me rotten whenever we’d stayed at their cosy farmhouse in Bridport. Dad’s parents, much older, had died when I was six and my memories of them were vague. I remembered Granny Dashwood berating Mum for not re-using her tea-bags, which she considered a ‘terrible waste’ and that Grandfather – as we were urged to call him – was an older, meaner-looking version of Dad, with hair sprouting from his ears.

  ‘Your parents even moved to be near you and your sister, when they’d lived in Dorset all their lives,’ Ruby said. ‘That’s true devotion.’

  I couldn’t argue with that, though sometimes wished they’d discussed it first, instead of springing it on me and Sarah once they’d sold the house.

  ‘It was partly because my grandparents had passed away, and I think Mum felt there was nothing left for her here.’

  ‘They’ve always supported you, though, and in turn you’ll support your own children, because that’s how it works.’

  All this talk of children was making me nervous. Although I adored my niece and nephew, I hadn’t yet located my biological clock, and was starting to wonder whether I even had one. ‘I’ve always found work a good distraction,’ I said, hoping to invigorate her, remembering how I’d immersed myself in my job at Cars 4 U, keen to shake off the Carrie who’d fled her home with a broken heart. ‘Maybe you should get back to it.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Carrie.’ There was a mild rebuke in Ruby’s voice, and I immediately felt ashamed. Of course it wasn’t, or she wouldn’t be swaddled in her duvet with a tear-stained face, prepared to let a niece she hadn’t seen for years loose on her flower stall.

  ‘Do you enjoy your job, usually I mean?’ I said, changing tactic, slightly fearful of her response. I wasn’t experienced at dealing with difficult feelings – even my own.

  ‘I love my stall, but it was always a means to an end,’ Ruby said, scouring her eyes with the tissue. ‘I worked in a florists’ a long time ago and learned a lot there.’ I vaguely remembered her telling me that once, but I’d been too busy wondering how soon I could get to the beach and go for a paddle. ‘I’m not much good at anything else, not like your father. He was the brainy one.’

  I wished she’d stop comparing herself. ‘You’ve been running a business for years, so you must be clever,’ I said.

  ‘I enjoy the creative side more, the flower arranging.’ She showed a spark of animation for the first time. ‘Although my father would have preferred me to become a nun.’

  Not sure how to respond to that, I said, ‘Sarah’s started making candles, since leaving banking when she had the twins. She’s not very good at it though.’ I was thinking of the set she’d presented me with at Christmas, which had given off so much smoke, and smelt so strongly of paraffin, I’d had to report back that they were a health hazard.

  ‘How was your first day?’ Ruby made an obvious effort to look interested.

  I decided to be honest. ‘I didn’t really know what I was doing and had to give someone a refund.’

  ‘WHAT?’ She erupted from the duvet like a deep-sea diver, almost tipping me over. ‘Where was Jane?’

  ‘She had a tummy bug,’ I said, alarmed. ‘But it’s fine, her son helped out. She’ll be back tomorrow, and it’ll be fine, I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ I was repeating myself, and pressing the air with my hands like a politician.

  ‘But your mum told Jane that when you knew you were coming, you did a refresher course in flower arranging.’

  What? ‘That’s… right,’ I said carefully. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned the YouTube tutorial to Mum. ‘I was just a bit thrown by Jane going off, and it being my first day.’ Switching topic, I said, ‘Doris Day said she’d pop by.’

  Confusion crossed Ruby’s face.

  ‘Do you know her?’ I said, tentatively.

  Her expression cleared. ‘Yes,’ she said, deflating like a pricked balloon. ‘She’s got her nose into everything, that woman. You didn’t tell her anything, did you?’

  ‘Only that you were on holiday. Shouldn’t I have?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ Ruby was burrowing back beneath the bedding, as if our exchange had drained her. ‘None of it matters, really.’

  ‘I’ll do better tomorrow,’ I promised rashly. ‘Now, would you like something to eat?’

  Her eyes appeared over the covers. ‘Maybe an omelette with cheese,’ she said limply. ‘And there should be some ham in the fridge.’

  ‘OK.’ I felt cheered. Things couldn’t be too bad if she felt like eating, could they? ‘Should I tidy up a bit in here?’ I cast my gaze around the room, catching sight of a jumble of clothes through the half-open doors of her wardrobe.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said, bashing her pillows into shape underneath her head. ‘I don’t mind a bit of mess.’

  One of Mum’s favourite sayings – ‘a messy house reflects a messy mind’ – sprang up as I stepped around the detritus on the floor. If the chaos was a reflection of the inside of Ruby’s head, it was worse than any of us knew.

  At the door, I stooped to pick up a photo, and one of the letters that had landed there when I knocked the box off the dressing table. Not wanting to disturb Ruby again, I slipped them into my pocket as I left, and closed the door behind me.

  * * *

  In the living room, I switched on the television for company, then rummaged in the kitchen for a clean pan and omelette ingredients. But by the time I’d made it and taken it through to the bedroom, Ruby was snoring again and I didn’t have the heart to wake her.

  I ate it myself, after clearing a space on the table under the living-room window, then looked through the teetering pile of paperwork and wished I hadn’t.

  There were several bills that hadn’t been paid, and according to her latest bank statement, Ruby was overdrawn and practically broke. Whatever money she’d had was gone. I did some quick calculations. In order to cover Jane’s salary, her rent, the cost of buying flowers from… I checked the last delivery note… All Seasons Nursery, she needed to be taking double what was coming in now. More, if she wanted to make a profit.

  After shuffling the papers back together, so Ruby couldn’t tell I’d been snooping, I wondered whether I should discuss her finances with her, but after fetching my iPad and googling ‘depression’, I decided it wasn’t a good idea. The reality might push her over the edge.

  Sighing, I found a florist on YouTube, and watched her wrapping flowers in a way a toddler could have managed. I eyed a bunch of lilies in a vase, and considered practising, but decided against it. They were past their best anyway, shedding petals all over the table.

  A wave of loneliness engulfed me. Normally, at this time, Jasmine and I would be catching up over dinner – usually a stir-fry, or a ready-meal if we couldn’t be bothered to cook – and if Jasmine didn’t have homework to mark, or a party to go to, and she hadn’t set me up on a blind date, we’d go to the pub, or she’d show me some yoga moves to help my tension, which usually ended with us collapsed and laughing on the floor.

  I thought about phoning Mum, then remembered the five hour time difference meant she and Dad would be asleep, and there was no point calling Sarah as she’d be wrestling the twins into bed.

  On impulse, I looked up the number of Tom’s veterinary practice, and as if in a trance, I pressed the numbers into my phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  I froze. It was nearly eight thirty. I hadn’t expected anyone to answer, least of all Tom. There was no mistaking his voice; the warm pitch of it was imprinted on my heart.

  ‘Hello?’ he repeated, sounding a little wary. ‘Mrs Finch? Don’t worry, Tabitha’s fine, she’s sleeping off the anaesthetic.’

  My vocal cords felt squeezed, and for a second I considered hanging up.

  ‘Hi, Tom,’ I squeaked at last. ‘It’s me! Carrie. Carrie Dashwood.’

  Shock pulsed down the line. ‘Carrie?’

  A nervous giggle escaped. ‘I know! It’s been so long.’

  ‘I thought you were Tabitha’s owner.
’ He sounded dazed.

  ‘Tabitha?’

  ‘A cat, she brought her in earlier. She’s had an operation, and I was keeping an eye on her. The cat, I mean.’

  I felt as if my bones were melting. ‘How are you?’ I said, my voice still an octave too high.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said quickly. ‘Carrie, I can’t believe it’s you.’

  ‘It is me, and I’ve got my driving licence to prove it!’

  Silence swelled, and memories came hurtling back; Dad driving me away from Hudson Grange, while I tried to hide my tears; leaving for Manchester the following morning, not knowing I wouldn’t be back.

  Megan’s call later that day, to tell me she’d spent the night with Tom. ‘I know you two were friends, but it’s not as if he ever liked you that way.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  I started. ‘I looked you up,’ I confessed, my ears burning. ‘I’m in Shipley for a couple of weeks—’

  ‘You’re here?’ His voice sharpened. ‘Not Dorchester?’

  ‘My parents don’t live there any more,’ I said, bringing my voice down a notch. ‘My aunt has a flower stall here, and I’m helping out for a bit. She’s not well.’ My heart was racing, and my breathing was shallow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, reflexively.

  I tried to picture him again, but could only see his shadowy outline in the doorway that night with Megan, and realised that what I wanted, more than anything, was to pull him back into the light.

  ‘I thought while I was here it might be nice to meet up,’ I managed, twining a length of hair around my fingers until it pulled tight. ‘I’d really like to explain a few things about the night of your twenty-first, and why I left so suddenly—’

  ‘Megan told me.’

  I stiffened. ‘Told you what?’

  ‘She said you’d been planning to move to Manchester, to be with your sister, and that you’d only stayed because you wanted to come to my twenty-first and see inside the house.’ He hesitated. ‘I wish you’d told me you were thinking of leaving.’