Eleven Lilac – First Emotions of Love
Eleven
Lilac – First Emotions of Love
Jake and I walk along the harbour towards Mickey’s chip shop, with Miley back on Jake’s shoulder. Even though Charlie had said the forecast was dismal, the clouds are now lifting, and it’s turning into a beautiful day in St Felix.
‘Do you want to sit a bit and wait, or walk on?’ Jake asks after we’ve found no sign of life at Mickey’s. Even though it’s Sunday, Mickey had offered to come in early to fry up some chips for the decorating volunteers – another act of kindness which completely took me by surprise.
‘Sit, I think,’ I reply, shielding my eyes from the bright sun. ‘I could do with a rest after this morning.’
We find a bench and sit down by the harbour wall, both of us looking out at the sea and the boats swaying rhythmically up and down on the waves now the tide is in.
‘Your children are very good, coming out to help us today,’ I say to Jake after we’ve been sitting for a minute or so admiring the view.
‘Yes, they’re good kids, they always have been. Especially Charlie. Bronte can be a bit of a tearaway at times.’
I smile.
‘What?’ Jake asks.
‘She called me an ageing Goth when Amber and I were giving away the flower garlands outside the shop the other week.’
Miley, appearing to understand what I say, chooses this moment to screech with laughter, while Jake pulls a face. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say, eyeing Miley until I realise she’s screeching along with a seagull sitting on the harbour wall. ‘Bronte’s young; she sees everyone as old, I guess. Although usually it’s the other way around for me.’
‘People think you’re younger than you are?’ Jake asks. ‘I certainly did when I met you.’
I nod. ‘Yeah, I’ve kinda got used to it over the years. Never felt the need to grow up gracefully.’
‘Why?’ Jake enquires. ‘Are you the Peter Pan of floristry?’
‘Hardly. I dunno, I just feel more comfortable not taking life too seriously.’ I look down at my boots. ‘If wearing Docs makes me seem younger, then so be it. Amber tells me I wear too much black though,’ I concede.
‘Really?’ Jake teases. ‘I would never have guessed.’
‘I’m not today though, am I?’ I protest, gesturing at my painting overalls.
‘Yes, I have to give you that – a pair of white dungarees is quite the rainbow of colour,’ Jake says, grinning. ‘So how does it feel to liberate yourself from your cloths of mourning?’
I wince at his joke. ‘I’m not that bad, am I?’ I reply, shaking it off. Jake has no idea how close to the truth he is.
‘You’ve been here in St Felix how long – a couple of weeks?’
‘About that.’
‘And the only colour I’ve ever seen you wear, apart from black, is your burgundy boots.’
He noticed?
‘I like black, so what? Is it a crime to wear black clothing in this town?’
I expect Jake to come back with one of his usual witty retorts. I’ve been enjoying our banter, sitting out here in the dazzling Cornish sunshine. The town looks like a vibrant, colourful oil painting today – vivid shades and bold brushstrokes masking any dullness that a plain white canvas underneath might betray.
‘No, of course not,’ he says awkwardly, fiddling with his sleeve and attempting to roll it up his arm. ‘It’s just… well, you don’t drown out the perfection of a pale, delicate lily by surrounding it with something heavy, you let its beauty shine through for everyone to see.’
I’m pretty sure my skin isn’t pale and delicate right this moment; it’s most likely red and ruddy, as I feel my cheeks flush hot at Jake’s words. What does he mean? He can’t be referring to me, can he, with his flower analogy? No, surely not. It must be the way these flower types talk – using flowers instead of normal words.
Except none of my family ever talk like this – so why does Jake?
Jake’s cheeks, I notice, are doing something very similar to mine. They’re pink and he looks flushed as he proceeds to roll the same sleeve back down his tanned arm.
‘I appreciate the advice,’ I tell him awkwardly, uncertain how to deal with this side of Jake. ‘But I think I’ll just stick with black for now. I’ve kind of got used to it over the years. It suits me.’
‘Fair enough,’ Jake says, shrugging amiably. He crosses one long leg over the other, so his large tan Timberland boot rests on his knee, and he visibly relaxes as he leans back against the bench and looks out to sea. ‘If you want to look like an ageing Goth,’ he says, the merest hint of a smile spreading over his lips, ‘then that’s up to you.’
Phew, I breathe a sigh of relief. Jake’s back to normal. I can handle his banter, but compliments, they’re a different matter.
‘I think you’ll find I’m not a Goth, ageing or otherwise,’ I reply, able to look at him properly again. ‘Being a Goth is about more than wearing dark clothes. I don’t wear heavy make-up, or listen to that sort of music. I don’t do colour, that’s all. It’s just not my thing.’ I lean back against the bench and fold my arms, happy that we’ve returned to behaving naturally with each other.
‘What about your attitude, though?’ Jake asks sombrely, still looking ahead, apparently intrigued by the exploits of a very large seagull ripping up the remains of an unsuspecting tourist’s ice-cream cone.
Miley also watches, probably wondering if she can get in on the action.
‘What do you mean, my attitude?’ I snap, a little too fast.
Jake holds out his hand in a ‘there you go’ gesture. ‘We had a similar conversation in the Mermaid the first evening I met you, if I remember rightly. You called yourself an awkward bitch.’
‘I may have said that,’ I reply, remembering. ‘I’m just not a people person, that’s all.’
Jake turns and looks at me in part amusement, part confusion. ‘How can you even say that with a straight face?’
I look at him, not understanding.
‘Do I really have to explain?’ Jake asks.
I nod.
‘Right, examples… OK, here’s one: Since you’ve been here, you’ve welcomed our American friend Amber into your home. And from what I can tell, she seems to love living with you.’
I smile at the mention of Amber; she’s been like a breath of fresh air in my life since she arrived at the cottage. I’m almost jealous of her sunny disposition and unfailingly positive nature.
‘She didn’t have that much choice who she lived with,’ I try, but Jake is having none of it.
He shakes his head. ‘Uh-uh. Don’t even go there with that self-deprecating attitude of yours. I have seen you actually talk to people since you’ve been here. And not only that, you seem to have a knack for it. You were even chatting to my son earlier, and it takes some effort to get more than two words out of him these days.’
‘Charlie’s a nice lad,’ I tell him. ‘He reminds me of someone I used to know.’
Jake waits for me to explain, but I don’t.
‘Well, maybe there’s a few exceptions,’ I admit. ‘But believe me, Jake, I’m better left on my own most of the time. People, in general ,’ I add when he opens his mouth, ‘annoy me. I rarely annoy myself.’
‘Rarely?’ Jake enquires, and I notice a slight twitch at the corner of his lips.
‘Only when I try and wear colour!’ I announce, and to my relief this time he smiles.
Then I notice the chip shop.
‘Oh, there’s a light on in Mickey’s,’ I say with delight. ‘Look’s like it’s lunchtime for everyone!’
We carry as many portions of fish and chips back to the shop as we can manage, and I’m relieved and happy to feel relaxed in Jake’s company once more.
However much I protested, I knew he was right: I had interacted with people more in the two weeks I’d been here than I would in two months in London. And more significantly, I’d enjoyed it.
Back at Daisy Chain our paper parcels of lunch are well received, and after everyone has eaten their chips sitting on the floor, in the doorway, or propped up outside in the sunshine against the wall of the shop, we resume work.
‘Poppy!’ Late in the afternoon, Woody, who looks very different wearing casual clothes, calls me over. ‘We found these earlier when we were changing those rotten floorboards out back. They must have been your grandmother’s.’
He hands me a cardboard box containing some old journals and notebooks.
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a quick look inside. ‘I’ll take them back to the cottage and keep them safe. They’re probably the shop’s old accounts books.’
Odd that they were hidden under the floor though.
‘How do you think it’s coming along?’ Woody asks. ‘As you’d hoped?’
Jake and Charlie have just finished applying a coat of the bright blue colour to a second wall, and Amber and Bronte are admiring their handiwork, having stained the first of the dressers. It looks like new with its translucent white coating.
‘Yes,’ I say, looking proudly around me at the transformation taking place. ‘I think it’s going to look even better than I’d hoped.’
‘Great,’ Woody says. ‘I think I might have to get this same team in when the station wants a new lick of paint.’
There are shouts of derision at Woody’s suggestion, and a chorus of voices telling him this is strictly a one-off, a special case.
And as I look around me at the St Felix massive, as Bronte had named them earlier, all pitching in and helping me get my grandmother Rose’s shop back in business, that’s exactly how I feel: special.
I really shouldn’t tar all people with the same brush, I think, wincing at my awful pun as I lift the brush that’s in my hand so I can continue painting the window frame in front of me. The people of St Felix have been nothing but lovely and helpful since I arrived.
Being back in St Felix would never feel the way it had when I used to come here with Will, I knew that.
But with the help of my new friends, it was already beginning to feel just that bit special again.