by Ali McNamara
‘That’s a great story,’ Amber says. ‘I never tire of hearing it.’
‘So you did know it! Why did you make me tell it if you knew Daisy’s story?’
‘So you could hear it again,’ she says, raising her auburn eyebrows.
‘What? Why?’
‘Because she’s like you, isn’t she – Daisy?’
‘How on earth is a genteel Victorian girl who goes from selling flowers on Covent Garden Market to owning a shop here in Cornwall anything like me?’
‘How do you know she was genteel? She could have been feisty and ballsy, just like you.’
I look at Amber as though she’s lost it.
‘Just because she was Victorian doesn’t mean she didn’t hide a passion for life underneath all her corsets and long skirts,’ Amber says, brushing doughnut sugar from the tiny towel she has wrapped around her body. ‘She must have had some guts to stand up to her family and not go into service like all her sisters did. Hmm?’
Oh, now I see where Amber is going with this…
‘You didn’t do what your family wanted you to, did you? You stayed away from the family business for years, and —’
‘Amber,’ I hold up my hand. ‘Let me stop you there. I appreciate the sentiment, and what you’re trying to do. But you’re forgetting one thing. Where have we been all day?’
Amber thinks.
‘Ah.’
‘Yes: Ah. I’m not like Daisy at all. I’ve folded. Given in to it all. I’m joining the family business by reopening Daisy’s original flower shop. I’m not a leader like she was. I’m a follower like the rest of them.’
I sigh heavily, the weight of it all enveloping me like a straitjacket.
‘No,’ Amber says, not standing for my self-pity. ‘You’re wrong. You, Poppy, are here for a reason. Just like your great-great-great-grandmother was, and all the other generations that have had that little flower shop since.’ She stops to think, twiddling her long hair around her fingers while she does. ‘I didn’t know your grandmother Rose, but I’ve met enough people since I’ve been in St Felix that did know her, and it’s obvious she made a huge difference to people’s lives.’ Amber unwinds her hair from around her finger and swivels on the sofa to face me, an eager look on her face. ‘You’ve been sent here to change people’s lives too, Poppy, I know you have. And do you know how I know?’
‘You read my petals?’ I ask darkly.
Luckily, Amber smiles. ‘No. The reason I know is because I think I’ve been sent here to help you.’
Thirteen
St John’s Wort – Superstition
‘So what’s in the rest of your pile?’ Amber asks calmly, while I’m still staring at her.
Is she for real? All that stuff about me making a difference to people’s lives and being here in St Felix for a reason?
The only reason I’m here is because I had nothing better to do.
OK, that’s a bit harsh. St Felix is a nice enough town, the people have been nothing but kind to me since I arrived, and I have to admit it’s been nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be, coming back here after all these years. And I’m quite looking forward to opening up the shop with Amber – except for the flower part, but I’d deal with that when it happened.
‘Er…’ I shake my head and look down at my lap. I’d only got as far as the hardback flower book. ‘I’m not sure.’ I hand Amber one of the little brown notebooks, and I open one of the others.
Inside mine each double page is carefully ruled into four columns. In the first column, written in beautiful ornate handwriting that’s faded in places and has the occasional ink blot where the author’s fountain pen has leaked, is a list of names; the second column lists ailments and conditions; the third flowers; and the fourth comments. The entries all date from the late 1800s.
It’s the strangest list I’ve ever come across; from small turns in people’s financial fortunes, to their love lives changing for the better, even their health improving. It would appear that it was all down to a single visit to The Daisy Chain, and the flowers they were given.
‘What’s in yours?’ I ask, wondering if Amber’s book contains anything similar.
‘This picture fell out,’ she says, passing me a tiny embroidered picture of a purple rose. ‘It looks quite old. There’s also a quarter handwritten on the back, which is odd.’
I examine the embroidered card; the stitches on the rose are tiny, but perfectly sewn; it’s very sweet, and as I turn it over, handwritten on the back is indeed a number one over a number four.
‘Are those letters woven into the petals too?’ Amber asks, looking over my shoulder at the picture. ‘Look there.’
I look at where she’s pointing, and it does appear there’s a V and an R stitched into the flower.
‘Maybe it was the initials of the person that sewed it,’ I suggest. ‘That was the kind of thing they did back then, wasn’t it? So what about the book?’ I ask, more interested in the book than a picture of a rose. ‘Anything interesting there?’
‘It’s the cutest thing,’ Amber says, holding up the book. ‘It’s like a dictionary of flowers, but it lists things that can be cured with their petals. I’ve never seen anything like this before and I know a lot about alternative healing.’ She looks at me. ‘What do you have? Do you wanna swap?’
We exchange books, and silently examine the pages.
‘This is utter madness,’ I say, at the same time as Amber says, ‘This is so cool!’
‘How can it be cool?’ I ask. ‘It’s all nonsense! As if people’s lives could be changed just by coming into a flower shop. Even you can’t believe that, surely?’
Amber thinks about this.
‘See, there’s three schools of thought when it comes to alternative healing,’ she says, pulling her feet up on to the sofa and resting her chin on top of her knees. I notice she’s wearing pretty silver rings on some of her toes. ‘First, you’ve got the people who believe everything, whether it’s Reiki, homeopathic medicines, acupuncture – you name it. If the doc says it doesn’t work, they will argue to the death that it does.’
‘Go on.’
‘Second, you’ve got the type who pooh-pooh everything, and won’t give any of it a chance.’ She puts on a Deep South accent: ‘If ah cain’t see it or touch it, honey, then how can it be doing me good, let alone, heaven-to-Betsy, actually working!’
I’m pretty sure I fall into that category.
‘So what’s the third?’ I ask quickly before Amber has time to make that judgement.
‘And the third… see, they’re the most interesting.’ She drops her knees and leans back against the multicoloured sofa cushions. ‘These folk don’t diss alternative healing. No, they’re way too sensible for that. They know it works, but the question is how?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The placebo effect,’ she says, pointing her index finger at me. ‘They don’t want to believe in all this weird stuff they can’t understand, but they can’t deny the evidence, especially when they find some of it actually works on them. That’s when they bring in the old placebo excuse.’
‘The placebo effect isn’t an excuse,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a well-documented scientific reaction.’
‘So you’re taught to believe by those that can’t explain how the human body can supposedly heal itself,’ Amber says knowingly. ‘There’s all sorts of energies going on in and around us that are brought into play by our own bodies when necessary for healing and pain relief, and that effect can be intensified by specialist practitioners when our bodies need some assistance.’
I don’t want to get into an argument with Amber about the placebo effect. Especially as I think I might be able to see where she’s going with this.
It was actually quite worrying to me how easily I was able to understand Amber and her wacky thought processes.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Amber, but are you saying that the Daisy Chain is a placebo?’
Amber grins wit
h delight that I’ve got it.
‘I am! Kind of…’
‘Kind of?’ Here we go.
‘Placebo, in that when people that come to the shop needing help – they believe the Daisy Chain is there to provide that help. Placebo, in that when the people leave they take something away with them that makes them feel like they’re going to get better – specific flowers.’
I nod. I’ve got it so far.
‘Placebo, in that it seems by the look of these notebooks –’ she holds the bundle up ‘– and I’m pretty sure wherever they came from there will be more like them – these people do get better as a result of visiting the shop and their lives improve and change for the good.’
‘I guess…’
‘They do, Poppy,’ she insists. ‘Look at the evidence.’ Amber taps the covers of the notebooks. ‘But not a placebo, if you’re suggesting that the change is only in their minds, and that the shop and what happens to them there is of no consequence.’
‘So what are you suggesting then?’ I ask, knowing what she’s going to say before I even open my mouth.
Amber’s bright green eyes light up.
‘I’m suggesting that with the knowledge these books contain, my legendary skills with flowers, and one magical little flower shop by the sea, we have got ourselves a wonderful opportunity, not only to help anyone that needs us, but also to put your grandmother’s shop back where it belongs: in the hearts of the visitors and people of St Felix.’
Fourteen
Passionflower – Faith
The big day has arrived at last – the grand opening of Daisy Chain.
It’s taken us just under a month to get the shop ready to open. After everyone had turned out to help us decorate – which I thought would have been the hardest part of getting the shop ready to trade again – it turned out to be an uphill struggle, on a gradient steeper than any of the hills you could climb around St Felix, to persuade suppliers to provide us with the flower knick-knacks and trinkets we wanted to sell as part of the Daisy Chain experience.
In the end I’d gone to see Belle in her studio at the end of Harbour Street to see if she could suggest anyone.
‘Keep it local,’ Belle advises me as she sits at her desk painting a piece of pottery in the colours of the sea. ‘The few tourists we get here want to buy things made by local people. They don’t want something that’s been made in some awful sweatshop in India.’
I’m about to protest, indignant at the suggestion I’d sell goods that had been made in that way, when I realise she’s only trying to help. Belle’s colourful studio-cum-shop is filled with her own creations; she of all people knows what sells.
So I bite my lip. ‘Yes, of course, that’s what I was hoping to do. But it’s so difficult to find people that want to supply you. Most of them want money up front, and we’ve used most of our budget on doing the shop up.’
‘When do you open?’ Belle asks, putting down her paintbrush and wiping her hands on a cloth.
‘Saturday first of May.’
‘That’s just over a week away!’ she exclaims.
I pull a face. ‘Yes, I know, but I have been trying. Amber is doing all the real flower stuff, she’s been really good liaising with Jake about supplying us the way he used to my grandmother.’ I notice her eyelashes flicker when I mention Jake’s name.
‘Jake’s involved in your shop?’ she asks innocently.
‘He’s supplying us with flowers – yes.’
Belle nods. ‘I see…’ She stands up and wanders over to the shop window. She’s so willowy and graceful as she stands there silhouetted against the sunlight streaming in through the glass. In her tight white vest, long blue skirt and bejewelled sandals, she makes me feel very dark and heavy standing in a corner of her shop in my usual attire of black on black. I have mixed it up a little today, I’m wearing dungarees – black, obviously – with bottle-green DM boots and a black-and-grey-striped long-sleeved top.
‘I think I might be able to help you,’ she offers, like a queen offering her subject a pardon.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. How about I ask my students at evening class if they can produce some flower-related items for you to sell in the shop? Before you say no,’ she adds, seeing me about to say just that, ‘I’m only talking about my top class. They’re very good, and it would be such an honour for them to have work for sale in a real shop.’
‘It’s very kind of you to offer, Belle,’ I begin. I’m not sure a local evening class is quite what we’re looking for. ‘But —’
‘And I’ll do you some pieces myself,’ she continues, looking around her. ‘I usually work with the sea as inspiration, but flowers… hmm. Yes, I could go with that. It would be a challenge, especially with the timescale involved. That’s sorted then. Problem solved!’
I have no choice but to smile politely, thank her, and promise to pop along in a few days to see how she’s getting along.
I walk back to the flower shop and Amber feeling as if I’ve just been ambushed. I’d thought these artistic, spiritual types were supposed to be relaxed, easygoing people, but both Belle and Amber have turned out to have more drive, tenacity and determination than I have black leggings.
As Amber and I put a few last-minute finishing touches to the shop ahead of our grand opening at 10 a.m., I’m surprised at how nervous I feel.
I’m not sure if it’s the thought of the shop opening to real people that’s freaking me out, or the fact that the whitewashed cabinets lining the sea-blue walls are now filled to the brim with brightly coloured fresh flowers and the assortment of flower-inspired knick-knacks – some of which are stunning, but some of which are somewhat… unconventional, to put it politely – provided by Belle and her students.
‘What’s wrong?’ Amber asks as she expertly winds floristry wire around some delicate pinks and gypsophila, turning them into the little posies we’re to give away to our first customers. ‘You’re very jumpy this morning. Are you nervous about the shop? Let me give you my amethyst pendant to wear, that will help calm you.’ She puts the flowers down and begins to reach around her neck.
‘No, really!’ I protest, waving my hand at her. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’ I manage a nervous smile. ‘But thanks for the offer, Amber.’
While Amber rests the amethyst back on her chest, my eyes dart anxiously towards the flowers for about the hundredth time. Did we have to get so many types of roses in for today? There were pink ones, yellow, deep blood-red…
I swallow hard.
Amber notices.
‘What is it with you and flowers?’ she asks as she pops yet another posy into a small trough of water to join the others. ‘You’ve been on edge since Jake brought them in this morning.’
‘Nothing. There’s just a lot of them, that’s all. I didn’t realise there’d be quite so many.’
Amber laughs. ‘This is a florist’s, Poppy, what did you expect?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘No,’ Amber says, leaving the desk to come over to me. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed. What’s wrong, tell me.’
‘Morning, ladies!’ Harriet cheerily bangs on the shop window. ‘How are we feeling? All ready for the off?’
Amber goes to the door and unlocks it, and Harriet, wearing a floral dress and green wellingtons, is suddenly upon us. ‘Well, it’s all looking marvellous,’ she says, surveying the premises. ‘You’ve done a splendid job. I’m sure today will go swimmingly for you. I can’t stop – far too much to do, as always. We’ve a huge cub and scout jamboree at the church hall later today. Will you be able to pop along for a few minutes in between customers to support us? We’ve lots of stalls along with all the fun!’
‘We’ll have to see how it goes, Harriet,’ I reply cautiously. ‘If we’re busy, there’ll need to be more than one of us serving in the shop.’
‘Of course, of course. I understand!’ She salutes. ‘Right, that’s me off. T
oodle pip and good luck!’
As Harriet leaves, Woody arrives. They exchange pleasantries outside, and then Woody appears in the doorway.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he says, removing his hat and tucking it under his arm. ‘How are we today?’
‘Good thanks, Woody,’ I reply, as Amber returns to her flowers. ‘How are you, busy as always?’