Thirteen St John’s Wort – Superstition
Thirteen
St John’s Wort – Superstition
‘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.’