The Little Flower Shop by the Sea (28 page)

‘Of course, I quite understand in the circumstances. I don’t suppose you know which home it was, do you?’ I ask hopefully. Maybe I could phone them.

‘No, dear, sorry. Lou might know though. I think she visits him occasionally.’

That’s good of Lou to travel so far to visit Stan, I think; they must have been close.

‘Thanks, I’ll ask the next time I see her.’

‘You were always a good girl, Poppy,’ Babs says, looking up at me from her scooter. ‘Mischievous, but good at heart. I was sorry to hear about your brother – terrible business.’

‘Yes… well… you know.’ I look down at Basil, who’s having a rest on the floor beside us. ‘Looks like Basil wants to get going,’ I say, tugging on his lead to wake him up.

Basil yawns and grudgingly looks up at me.

‘It’s nice seeing you again, Babs. Now you’re up and about, you’ll have to call in and see us at the shop sometime.’

‘Oh yes, I’d like that. You must pop in and have a cup of tea with me, too.’ She nudges me. ‘And you look after that grandson of mine, you hear? He’s a good boy, that one. Don’t worry too much about that Stan, he was always a bit of a rascal, even when he was young. It was going to catch up with him one day.’

I wave to Babs as she heads off on her scooter, bobbing along the cobbled street.

‘Right, Basil,’ I say, making a U-turn in the street. ‘Looks like we’re off to see your old mate, Lou.’

‘Hi, Poppy, Hi, Basil,’ Lou says, opening the door to greet us. Lou is wearing painting overalls, has her hair tied up in a scarf and is holding a paintbrush.

‘Oh, have I caught you at a bad time?’ I ask as she stands back to let me in.

Lou’s hall, which was full of trinkets and pictures the last time I was here, is stripped bare, and half the walls are painted blue.

‘No, I could do with a break, and it’s always a joy to see Basil.’ She rests the brush on an open tin of emulsion and bends down to fuss him. ‘The puppies are in the kitchen, if you want to go and see them? Basil will be fine with them now.’

We head into Lou’s kitchen to find a riot of activity, as five puppies bound around, chewing on brushes, rolling in blankets, and generally getting up to mischief.

I let Basil off his lead, and he goes over to investigate.

‘Tea?’ Lou asks, filling the kettle.

‘No, I can’t stay long. I have to get back to the shop. Amber’s got a lot on at the moment.’

‘It’s all going well then?’ Lou asks.

‘Yes, it’s definitely picking up.’

‘Good, I’m glad to hear it,’ Lou says, putting the kettle on to boil and turning to face me. ‘I had a feeling things would improve. Now, what can I do for you? I’m sensing this isn’t simply a social call.’

‘Do you know where Stan is?’ I ask without any preamble.

‘Yes, of course I do. Why, would you like to visit him?’

I nod.

Lou goes to a drawer and pulls out a white business card. ‘Here,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘Camberley House, it’s a lovely residential home up in Bude.’

‘Bude! But I thought Stan was a long way away – Babs said “Up North”.’

Lou smiles. ‘Well, it is North Cornwall.’

‘If I’d known he was so close, I’d have gone before,’ I say, staring at the card.

‘Would you, though?’ Lou asks gently. ‘Maybe you’ve waited until it’s the
right
time to go, for you and for him?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Poppy, you’ve had a lot to deal with since you arrived here in St Felix, and I’m not just talking about the shop and dear old Basil. Perhaps you weren’t ready to see Stan before.’

I look across the kitchen at her.

‘But now, Poppy,’ she says deliberately. ‘Now I know you are.’

I’m back in the Range Rover again, heading out of St Felix for the first time in ages.

I drive along the narrow twisty roads, thinking all the time about Stan, Will, and what I’m going to do today.

When I arrive in Bude, the satnav helpfully directs me through the busy streets teeming with holidaymakers, until on the other side of the town we drive down a quiet residential road, and I’m instructed I’ve ‘reached my destination’.

Camberley House is a large modern bungalow situated on an extensive plot amongst immaculately mown lawns and perfect flower beds. I park my car on the gravel drive and climb out. As I do an elderly man smiles at me as he hobbles past with the assistance of a wooden stick.

‘Reception is that way,’ he calls, pointing in the direction of the front door with his stick. ‘You look a bit lost, dearie.’

‘Ah, thank you,’ I say, looking towards a frosted glass door. ‘Yes, it’s my first time here.’

‘Well, I’m sure whoever you’ve come to visit will be glad to see you,’ he says, nodding. ‘We usually are.’

He gives me a quick salute and hobbles on his way, so I head towards reception.

Just inside the door I find a cosy hallway with a polished wooden table acting as a reception desk.

‘Good afternoon,’ says a smartly dressed lady sitting behind the table. ‘Welcome to Camberley House. How can I help you?’

‘I’d like to see Stan, please, if I may?’

‘Stan?’ she questions. ‘Do you have a surname?’

‘Er…’ I hadn’t thought about this. I only knew him as Mad Stan the Pasty Man. ‘I don’t actually know his surname.’

‘Hmm…’ The woman looks quizzically at me. ‘We can’t let just anyone in here, you know, there are rules, and our residents’ care and safety is foremost here at Camberley.’

‘Oh yes, I completely understand. It’s just I used to know Stan a long time ago, when he lived down in St Felix. Do you know Trecarlan Castle at all?’ I ask hopefully.

The woman looks blankly at me.

‘A woman called Lou comes to visit him quite a lot?’

She carries on looking stonily back at me from her desk.

‘Do you have a Stan here that likes to eat pasties?’ I try as a last resort.

The woman’s face lights up. ‘Oh, you mean Stanley,’ she says, smiling now. ‘Of course, Stanley can never get enough pasties, even though his teeth don’t really like them these days. Who should I say is calling for him?’

‘Poppy,’ I tell her quickly before she changes her mind. ‘But he might not remember me. Like I said, I haven’t seen him since I was fifteen.’

She rings a bell, and another, younger woman, this time in a green uniform, appears.

‘Melanie, can you please tell Stanley that Poppy is here to see him.’

Melanie nods. ‘Certainly.’ And she disappears back where she came from.

‘She won’t be a moment, please take a seat.’ The receptionist gestures to a brocade chaise longue behind me.

I sit down awkwardly on the seat, and look around while the receptionist returns to her computer screen.

This is all very efficient, and not at all what I was expecting. After what Babs had told me about Stan losing all his money, I’d wondered if I might find him living in some ramshackle old folks’ home, with paint peeling off the walls and incompetent staff.

Camberley House, from what I’ve seen so far, seems very well run, although I knew from reading and hearing stories about residential homes that what you saw on the surface wasn’t always the real story.

‘Stanley will see you,’ Melanie says, reappearing. ‘Please come this way.’

I follow Melanie through a long corridor full of closed doors, and I can’t help wondering what’s behind them.

‘Just offices,’ she says, guessing what I’m thinking. ‘Nothing sinister, I can assure you.’

‘Sorry,’ I apologise. ‘You hear so many awful stories about places like this.’

‘Yes, I know. It’s despicable what goes on in some care homes. The trouble is, we all get tarred with the same brush when those stories come out, when the truth is there are so many homes out there giving wonderful care to the elderly and infirm. You just don’t hear about the good ones.’ She pauses at a glass door and pushes it open. ‘Here we are: our day room.’

I follow Melanie into the room, and instead of a room full of elderly folk sitting around in high-backed chairs with blankets over their legs, I am surprised to find a hub of activity.

There are a number of white- and grey-haired octogenarians playing pool and table tennis, a group of residents playing Scrabble, and a couple of folk on computers at the side of the room surfing the Internet.

‘Now,’ she says looking around, ‘where’s Stanley got to? He was by the pool table a few minutes ago. Ah, I spy him, he’s over by the window, waiting for you.’

We walk through the sea of movement to two armchairs by a window, and then I see him.

‘Poppy, my girl!’ Stan struggles to stand up from the chair, so Melanie helps him. ‘I can’t believe it’s you after all this time.’ He hugs me and I feel the fragility of his body against mine.

‘Stan, it’s good to see you,’ I say as I stand back to get a better look at him.

The Stan I remember was tall and broad with a loud voice and bellowing laugh. This Stan seems to have shrunk in stature; I’m taller than he is, and his voice these days is croaky and weak.

‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ Melanie says. ‘Just call me when you’ve had enough of this one’s tall tales.’

‘Melly, my girl,’ Stan says, easing himself down into the chair, ‘you know every word that leaves my lips is the truth.’

‘Aye, and I’m Kate Middleton,’ she says, smiling. ‘I’ll just go and polish my crown.’

Stan smiles after her as she weaves her way back through the room, speaking to the residents as she goes. ‘She’s a good lass is that one. Sit down, child, and let’s catch up.’

Stan tells me all about his life at the home. All the activities they get up to, outings they have, and friends he has made over his years at Camberley. He has to pause to remember sometimes, his mind not recalling as fast as he’d like it to. But I listen patiently, giving him time to reminisce.

‘So now I’ve told you all about me, what about you?’ Stan asks. ‘What have you been doing all this time – and more importantly, how are you getting on in that flower shop? I half thought you might bring me a posy, like the old days.’

‘No, no flowers, but I did bring you this,’ I say, reaching down into my handbag. I produce a paper bag and pass it to Stan.

‘Ah, this is just like the old days,’ he says, sniffing inside the bag. ‘Fresh this morning?’

I nod. ‘From the Blue Canary bakery.’

Stan looks puzzled.

‘Oh, it used to be Mr Bumbles, but it has new owners now. They’re very good though,’ I assure him.

‘I’ll save it for my tea then.’ He smiles, putting the bag down on the table next to him. ‘The pasties they give you here aren’t much cop – supermarket rubbish. That will go down a treat, thank you. So tell me all about Daisy Chain. Lou said you were back in St Felix. Such a shame about your grandmother though – fine, fine woman she was.’

‘Yes, she was,’ I agree, thinking about her.

‘But now the shop has fresh blood – a new chance to shine, and it will shine brightly with you at the helm, I’m sure.’

I shrug. ‘Perhaps. We’re doing all right.’

‘Only all right? Are you using the
books
?’

‘You know about those?’

‘Of course I do. That shop has been special since the original Daisy took it on in Victorian times. She used the Victorian language of flowers to produce her own form of the magic, but the whole shop is charmed. Shall I tell you a story?’ he asks, his eyes lighting up.

‘Sure,’ I say, remembering how Stan used to love telling us tales as children. Much as I want to get on to how he ended up moving away from Trecarlan, I guess it can wait for a few minutes.

‘Well, the old story goes that the ground the shop was built on was once blessed by the Cornish sorceress, Zethar. Zethar was being tried for witchcraft, but she escaped her persecutors, fled, and found herself in St Felix. The townsfolk took pity on her plight, and hid and looked after her until her persecutors had ridden through the town. In return for their kindness, Zethar cast a spell over the building she had been hidden in and the ground beneath it, saying that whoever inhabited any building built on the land in the future would be protected from harm. Then she cast a final spell over the whole town, saying that anyone who came here would always be safe, and find happiness and contentment within its boundaries whatever their plight might be, and that’s how St Felix got its name. Because Felix means —’

‘Happy!’ I finish for him. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten, but I did know that. But really, Stan,’ I say gently, ‘I’m not eight years old now. Do you expect me to believe that fairy tale you just told me?’

‘Whether you choose to believe it is up to you, but it’s the truth,’ Stan says, leaning back in his chair.

I know I should leave it. Stan is an elderly man, what harm would it do for him to believe his stories were true? But I just can’t, fairy tales, myths and legends didn’t sit any easier with me than Amber’s holistic and spiritual ways, or the notion that certain types of flowers could heal people – even though I’d heard first-hand accounts of it happening.

‘How do you know it’s the truth?’ I ask. ‘That story is centuries old; someone could have made it up when they were a bit bored one day.’