Twelve Acacia – Secret Love
Twelve
Acacia – Secret Love
‘I’m just going to hop in the bath, Poppy!’ Amber calls up the stairs. ‘Even without salt crystals, a bubble bath is gonna ease my aching muscles.’
Amber had tried everywhere in St Felix to get some sea salt crystals to add to her bath tonight, telling us all that the salt would draw out our impurities and aches a treat. She refused to believe she couldn’t buy sea salt in a town so close to the sea; she’d even tried Mickey’s chip shop. But the type of salt Mickey used to fill the cellars that stood on his shop counter wasn’t conducive to the sort of spiritual healing that Amber had in mind. So instead she’s having to make do with Radox and some lavender bath salts that I found in my grandmother’s bathroom cupboard.
I’d stepped into a lovely hot shower as soon as we came in from our long day of decorating – which amazingly was nearly finished. I couldn’t believe how much we’d managed to achieve in one day. I guess the saying many hands make light work really is true.
I flop down on the sofa in my PJs with a mug of hot chocolate and one of the doughnuts left over from the huge box that Ant and Dec had popped round to the shop in the afternoon when spirits and energy had been beginning to lag.
What a day it’s been. Not only the progress in the shop itself, but getting to know the St Felix townsfolk who came along to help with the renovations. Especially Jake’s family. His kids are a real credit to him; Bronte, like he’d said, seems a bit of a tearaway, but nothing compared to what I’d been like as a teenager. Charlie’s a quiet, unassuming, lovely young boy. But what they, and their aunt Lou, quite obviously have in common is their love for Jake.
I think about Jake as I finish off my doughnut and sip on my hot chocolate.
He’s a strange one. One minute he’ll say or do something that seems to imply he sees me as more than just a friend, and the next he’ll make it quite clear that that’s not on his agenda at all. Jake wouldn’t be the first male to confuse me; most relationships with the opposite sex end up leaving me bewildered, but usually I’m the one making things complicated.
Maybe I have been imagining signs because I hoped they were there. I mean, why would Jake be interested in me? He’s a nice guy; he probably wants to help me because he knew my grandmother. Perhaps there really are good guys out there who don’t want anything from you, only your friendship.
I’ve not had that many male friends in the past that were just friends, but then I’ve never had that many friends full stop.
It wasn’t always that way. At primary school I had loads of friends; there’d been parties, and play dates, and I was never the last to be picked for anything. Even when I went to secondary school all was fine to begin with. I was on the hockey team, and the netball team, and the school council too. I played the flute in the school orchestra, and appeared in countless school productions. I was quite the swat too – the teachers reckoned I’d get A or A* in every one of my GCSEs. I was the archetype of the perfect pupil.
But then one summer everything had changed…
I go to the French windows and pull back the doors. As I step out on to the balcony a gust of sea air is strong enough to billow my long, freshly showered hair up and around my face. It licks my cheeks, and I have to push it back to restrain it. But I don’t go indoors, I stand there willing the salty air to blow away my memories and remove them from my mind like Amber’s salt bath was going to purge the aches from her body.
‘I won’t go back there,’ I shout into the wind. It immediately whips the words from my mouth and tosses them high into the sky where no one can hear them. ‘I won’t think about how my life changed the day I lost you.’
Angrily, I storm back inside the room, slamming shut the French windows.
‘Everything OK up there?’ I hear Amber call from the bathroom downstairs.
‘Yes, everything’s fine. Just enjoy your bath!’ I call back. Lovely as Amber is, I need some space right now. A breather for a few minutes.
The cardboard box that Woody gave me earlier is sitting on the table next to the sofa. In an effort to steer my mind away from the painful memories that have suddenly resurfaced, I decide to investigate its contents.
As I had thought, the box is full of old financial records, individual customers’ accounts, and lists of flowers supplied for various events. I set the latter to one side in case they might be of use to Amber, and I’m about to give up on the box and get another doughnut, when I spot something lying right at the bottom. It’s a bundle of worn-looking books of varying sizes, bound together by a frayed and faded piece of white ribbon. I fish the bundle out, untie the ribbon, and take a look inside the first book.
It’s an antique hardback called The Language and Meaning of Flowers ; its dust jacket is so delicate and worn at the edges that I can barely open the cover without the jacket crumbling between my fingers.
It seems to be a glossary of flowers. There’s a very detailed drawing of each flower, plus a description and the growing habits. At the top of each page the name of the flower is given in both English and Latin, along with its symbolic meaning. Daisy, for example, symbolises innocence; Marigold – grief, Iris – message. I laugh at the meaning of Poppy: Fantastic Extravagance. As if!
I flick gently through the pages, reading each flower’s meaning and the occasions when it should be given, and then I notice a handwritten inscription at the beginning of the book:
To my darling Daisy,
One day I hope to make your dream come true, and these and many more flowers you shall sell in your own Little Flower Shop…
All my love and deepest admiration today and forever more,
Your William
February 1887
‘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.’