Two Camellia – My Destiny in Your Hands
Two
Camellia – My Destiny in Your Hands
‘Is anyone there?’
As I sit under the desk, comfortably wrapped in my memories, a voice breaking into my thoughts makes me jump up, banging my head.
‘F—iddle.’ I manage to say, as a male face looks questioningly at me over the top of the desk.
‘What are you doing down there?’ the concerned face, which is attached to a tall, broad body, asks.
‘Looking for something.’ I stand up, rubbing my head. ‘Why, what concern is it of yours?’
‘Should you be in here?’ he asks, his dark chocolate eyes looking me up and down suspiciously.
‘You think I’m a criminal? If I was, I wouldn’t be a very smart one: there’s nothing here to take.’
‘You’d also be a noisy one.’
I stare at him blankly.
‘I was walking down the street and heard the crash from outside,’ he explains. ‘That’s why I came in to investigate.’
I glance at where I’d knocked over the pot earlier. ‘ Oh … I see.’
‘So what are you doing then?’ He stands with his legs apart and his arms folded. The classic male defensive position . One of my early therapists was a body-language expert – she taught me a lot.
I sigh, and jingle a set of keys at him. ‘New owner, aren’t I?’
He looks surprised at this. ‘I thought Rose’s granddaughter was taking over the shop.’
‘How do you know that?’ I demand.
‘Her mother phoned and told me to expect her. I’m Jake Asher, I own the local flower nursery.’
‘Oh, you’re Jake!’
‘Yes…’ Jake says, looking puzzled. ‘And you are…?’ But he quickly holds up his hand before I can speak. ‘No, wait, you must be Rose’s granddaughter.’ He nods confidently. ‘Yes, that would explain it.’
‘Explain what?’
‘Nothing, just something your mum said on the phone about your temperament…’
He tails off as I narrow my eyes at him.
‘Perhaps we’d better start again, hmm?’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘Welcome to St Felix.’
I eye him suspiciously before taking his hand, which is surprisingly large. His fingers wrap themselves around my hand and shake it.
‘Thanks.’
Suddenly there’s a rustling from the top of one of the wooden cabinets, and in the shadows I can just make out something climbing down the shelves.
‘What the hell is that?’ I cry out, about to duck back down behind the desk.
‘It’s OK,’ Jake says, holding out his arm. ‘It’s just Miley.’
Something jumps from the shelves and lands on Jake’s shoulder.
‘Is that a monkey?’ I ask in astonishment, still not quite able to see properly in the unlit shop.
‘She is indeed.’ Jake moves towards the door and flicks on the shop lights. ‘A capuchin monkey, to be precise.’
‘But why?’ I ask, still staring at the tiny, furry creature.
She eyes me warily, while licking her left paw.
‘Why is she a capuchin? Because Mummy monkey and Daddy monkey got together and —’
‘Funny. No, I mean why have you got a monkey? Isn’t it cruel to keep them as pets?’
‘Normally I’d agree with you.’ Jake rubs the monkey under her chin, and she nuzzles into his hand. ‘But Miley is different. She was trained to be a helper monkey over in the States for people with disabilities, but she didn’t quite make the grade. She was a bit too rebellious for the charity’s liking. But she couldn’t be put back into the wild, or into a wildlife park, because she’s too humanised. So when friends of mine who live over in the US told me her story, I agreed to take her.’ Miley strokes Jake’s sandy-coloured hair, then to my horror she begins to preen him.
I pull a face.
‘It’s OK, she won’t find anything in my mop to eat!’ Jake jokes, pulling a nut from his pocket. He passes it to Miley and she greedily leaps up on to an empty dresser to begin removing the shell. ‘She’s just doing what comes naturally.’
I watch Miley suspiciously from behind the desk.
‘So you agreed to look after a monkey, just like that?’ I ask doubtfully. Monkeys were something you saw in a zoo or on television. I wasn’t used to someone keeping one as a pet.
‘Yep,’ Jake says tersely, to my surprise. ‘Just like that. Why, do you have a problem?’
‘Noo…’ I hold up my hands. ‘What you do with your monkey is no business of mine!’
Jake’s expression changes and his lips twitch.
Realising what I’ve said, my cheeks redden. I look at the monkey; she’s now finished her nut, and is eyeing me warily again.
‘Does she eat fruit?’ I ask hurriedly. ‘I have an apple in my bag.’
Jake nods. ‘Yep, Miley loves apples.’
I scrabble about in my leather rucksack and produce a slightly battered green apple. I hold it out.
‘Er…’ Jake begins to say.
‘Oh, doesn’t she like Golden Delicious?’
Jake smiles. ‘She’s picky about food, but not that picky. It’s a little too big for her to handle.’
‘Oh! Oh right, of course.’ I hurriedly look around me for something to cut the apple with. ‘Wait right there,’ I say, heading out to the back room where my grandmother used to arrange her flowers into the exquisite and often exotic bouquets that would bring a huge smile to the lucky recipient’s face.
It’s as if I’ve stepped back in time: the room has hardly changed. If anything, it’s tidier – probably thanks to the local Women’s Guild or whoever’s been looking after the shop.
On a shelf I find a pot with an assortment of florist’s tools, and the very thing I’m looking for – a knife. My grandmother kept it for slicing the ends of flowers off at a sharp angle, so they could take up their water faster. It’s funny what you remember, I think, picking up the knife and a wooden board and heading back into the shop.
‘You don’t need to go to all this trouble,’ Jake says. ‘She’s had a nut, she’ll be happy for a while.’
‘It’s fine, really. I’ve offered her the apple now, so it wouldn’t be fair to go back on a promise. I never do that.’
Jake watches me while I chop the apple into small pieces. ‘There, what should I do now?’
‘Just hold it out to her. If she wants it, she’ll come to you. But I warn you, Miley doesn’t usually like strange— oh…’
Miley is already sitting on the desk in front of me taking a slice of apple in her tiny paws.
‘… but she obviously likes you ,’ Jake finishes.
We watch in silence for a few moments as Miley nibbles delicately on her apple.
‘Why did my mother call you?’ I blurt out at the same time Jake asks, ‘So what are you going to do with the shop?’
‘Ladies first,’ Jake says. ‘She called me because I supply the shop with flowers, and she wanted to let me know you’d be in charge from now on. I don’t know if you realised, but some ladies from the town have been looking after the place since your grandmother went into hospital. They do their best, but their ideas on flowers aren’t quite what St Felix is used to.’
A flower is a flower, isn’t it? I think of Woody . Why did the people here seem to think otherwise?
‘It’s good of them to do it though.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Jake agrees. ‘Your grandmother was well loved around here. A few people went up to London for her funeral.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘So you need to answer my question now,’ he prompts. ‘By the way, don’t let Miley have all that apple, will you. She gets terrible gas and bloating if she eats too much.’
I stifle a giggle. ‘The answer is I don’t know what I’m going to do with the place.’ I look around the shop again. ‘Flowers and me… well,’ I gesture down at my clothes – today a pair of skinny black jeans, my favourite burgundy Doc Marten boots, and a baggy long black sweater – ‘we don’t really go together all that well.’
‘I didn’t think so,’ Jake says matter-of-factly. ‘I could tell when I first saw you that you weren’t the floral type.’
I should feel pleased at hearing that. But for some reason I’m insulted by his assumption.
‘You’d probably be best selling the shop then,’ he continues. ‘Take the cash and jet off to a hot climate to sun yourself. You look like you could do with a bit.’
‘Cash or sun?’ I demand, folding my arms.
Jake pulls a wry face. ‘Ah… I’m in trouble there, whatever I say… I meant sun: you look a bit pale.’
‘This is my natural colour!’ I protest. ‘Just because I don’t plaster myself in fake tan like some Barbie doll!’
Miley flinches at my raised voice.
‘Sorry, fella,’ I say in a gentle voice. ‘I mean girl… lady… oh, how do you address a female monkey?’ I ask Jake.
‘Just use her name, that usually works.’
‘Sorry, Miley,’ I say quietly. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
Like two plump raisins buried in a furry head, her tiny eyes look up knowingly at me, as if she’s reading my mind. Then solemnly she holds out her paw.
‘She wants to make friends,’ Jake instructs. ‘Hold out your hand.’
So I do.
But instead of Miley shaking my hand as I expect her to, she carefully places the pips of the apple into my palm. Then she darts off back to Jake’s shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ Jake says, ‘she can be a tad erratic sometimes, to put it mildly.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say, looking at the pips. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve carried someone else’s trash, and I doubt it’ll be the last. It’s usually all people trust me with.’
Jake looks quizzically at me, but I don’t enlighten him.
‘Drink?’ he asks. ‘There’s a pub down the road. You look like you could do with one – sorry,’ he hurriedly apologises. ‘I’m making assumptions again.’
I study him for a moment. He looks harmless enough, and it seems unlikely that a guy who goes around with a monkey on his shoulder will turn out to be a serial killer.
I nod. ‘ That, Jake Asher, is the first sensible thing you’ve said since you walked into this shop.’