The Little Flower Shop by the Sea (13 page)

‘What’s wrong?’ Amber asks appearing in the doorway still towelling her hair dry. ‘I was sensing negative vibes coming from up here a few minutes ago, so I got out of my bath.’ She looks at me, still staring at the book in shock. ‘What’s that? What do you have?’

‘This book belonged to my great-great-great-grandmother,’ I tell her holding the book up. ‘Look, here at the front, it’s inscribed “To my darling Daisy from your William”. Those are the names of my great-great-great-grandparents. That Daisy is
the
Daisy, the Daisy who owned the original Daisy Chain shop.’

‘You mean the lady that started your family’s empire?’

I wouldn’t exactly call it an empire
…
 

‘Yes, that one,’ I agree, for the sake of argument. ‘Do you know the story then?’

‘Some,’ Amber says, grabbing a doughnut from the box and settling down next to me on the sofa, her damp hair cascading over her shoulders. ‘Tell me again though, I love a good story.’

I’d had this story told to me so many times over the years, I’d long since stopped listening when it was being recounted. But this is the first time
I’ve
ever been asked to tell it to anyone. I look at Amber’s expectant face, and suddenly it feels very important I get this right.

‘Daisy was a flower seller on Covent Garden Market in the late nineteenth century,’ I tell her, closing the book up and placing my hand on the front cover. ‘She came from a big family, and a very poor background, so she was delighted when she managed to get a job selling flowers.’

Amber smiles, already enjoying the story.

‘Apparently her sisters had all gone into service, and that was what was expected of Daisy. But she decided differently, and took the job on the market. It didn’t pay that well, but she loved it.’

Amber nods approvingly.

‘In 1886, she met my great-great-great-grandfather William. William’s family owned a large company that grew and distributed flowers all over England. They met when he was delivering flowers to the market one day – the romanticised version of this story tells it as love at first sight, but I don’t buy that.’

Amber pulls a disapproving face, and waits for me to continue.

‘Anyway, at
some stage
they decided they wanted to get married, but William’s family didn’t approve of Daisy’s background and thought he was marrying beneath him. Again, there’s talk here of planned elopements and the like, but it depends who you talk to in my family and how romantic they want it to sound. I don’t think the guy would have given up all his inheritance for love, not back then… All right, all right,’ I say, as Amber folds her arms across her chest. ‘I’ll stick to telling the story. OK, so in a weird twist of fate, William’s father died unexpectedly and, as the only son, William inherited the family business. The first thing he did was to ask for Daisy’s hand in marriage, and she immediately accepted. They moved to Cornwall, opened Daisy’s longed-for flower shop, and the rest, as my family always say at this point, is history.’

‘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.’

‘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 with 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.’

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.