Seventeen Thistle – Misanthropy
Seventeen
Thistle – Misanthropy
The shop is quiet through what little is left of the morning and through lunchtime. In the early afternoon we see a few tourists, but most people pass us by on their way down to the harbour carrying pasties, ice creams and cakes for impromptu picnics in the spring sunshine.
‘Don’t worry,’ Amber says as she begins to cash up the till at the end of our first day. ‘We’re new here, people aren’t used to buying fresh flowers on their high street yet, and remember there’s that – what did Harriet call it, a “jamboree”? – at the church today. That might be taking a few people away. It’ll pick up.’
‘Possibly,’ I say from my position by the door where I’ve been on and off for much of the day, gulping down fresh air as the waves of nausea return whenever I get a waft of the sweet scent of roses.
‘It will,’ Amber says positively. ‘I just know it. And I’m never wrong!’
I smile at her. Amber is the complete antithesis to me. She’s always so upbeat and optimistic. Whereas I tend to expect the worst in people, Amber invariably sees the best. She’s good for me to be around, and I feel lighter as a result of spending so much time with her.
‘What’s so interesting outside?’ Amber asks. ‘You’ve been standing by that door all afternoon.’
‘I was looking up at Trecarlan,’ I tell her. This wasn’t a lie; I had spent some of my time doing this.
‘That old castle on the hill?’ Amber asks. ‘I’ve seen that. Who lives there, do you know?’
‘I’m not sure about now, but when I was a child the castle was owned by Stan, an elderly eccentric who everyone thought was a bit mad.’
‘Really? How fabulous. I love eccentric old people. Who was this Stan? Was he like a duke or something grand like that?’
‘No.’ I smile, remembering. ‘Stan was the least grand person you could meet. He lived at Trecarlan on his own with no family. But there was a rumour he’d once eaten a dozen giant Cornish pasties in one sitting, and so he’d earned himself the nickname Mad Stan the Pasty Man.’
‘Wow, I love it!’ Amber claps her hands together enthusiastically. ‘Tell me more. I adore this Stan already.’
‘Everyone thought Stan was a bit doolally,’ I recall, as I’m taken back to a period in my life when I seem to have been happy all the time. ‘But I had many a lovely conversation with him, and we often played up at Trecarlan Castle in the summer months. Stan loved talking about Trecarlan’s history, and if you took him a pasty, he’d happily tell you tales about the castle – which isn’t really a castle,’ I explain, ‘it’s more like a big country house that looks a bit castle-esque from outside.’
‘How fantastic. I would love to have played in a castle when I was young. Did you pretend you were a princess?’ Amber asks, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
‘Yes,’ I grin, ‘I did sometimes.’
And Will would usually play the prince, or more often a knight brandishing a pretend sword he’d fashion from a twig.
Will and I had loved Stan, and spent many happy hours with him. Mad or not, we found him to be a lovely, kind man with a good heart.
‘Anyway,’ I say, shaking myself from my reverie, ‘that’s in the past. We need to get this shop shut up for the night. What can I do to help?’
I close the shop door and pull the bolt across. Then I move towards the desk.
‘You’re good. I’ve got this,’ Amber says as she counts out some notes from the till. ‘Why don’t you begin carrying the buckets of flowers back to the cold store?’
I’d have rather cashed up the till. But I still feel bad about abandoning Amber earlier, so I do as she asks, trying to hold the first bucket at arm’s length from my face without being too obvious about it.
‘So what do you think of the people in St Felix now we’ve been here a while?’ Amber calls as I’m just returning to the shop for my fourth bucket. I’m leaving the roses till last in the hope Amber might finish cashing up and help me.
‘Er…’ I’m surprised by her question. ‘They seem very nice. I’m not keen on that Caroline, though. She’s definitely got it in for me. Gives me the evils every time I see her – which thankfully isn’t too often. I’ve no idea why though. I’ve done nothing to her – except for the night in the pub, but that was ages ago.’
‘She’s like that with everyone,’ Amber says dismissively, busily writing figures in a book. ‘You should see her at the Women’s Guild meetings. She rules them with a rod of iron.’
Encouraged by Willow and Beryl, Amber had joined the Women’s Guild and had very much enjoyed the first meeting she’d attended.
‘I can imagine that,’ I say, thinking about Caroline as I carry a bucket of carnations out to the back and place them in the cold store with the others. ‘What does she actually do in St Felix though?’ I ask as I return. ‘I mean, apart from be a busybody. Does she have a job?’
Amber shrugs and begins sweeping the piles of coins into tiny plastic bags. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know what she does. She lives in that nice house as you drive out of town, the big red one.’
‘Caroline lives there? It’s massive! She and her husband must be loaded.’
‘I’ve only met Johnny the once. I think someone told me he was a banker. Seems like a cool guy though. Talking of which,’ Amber says glancing at me, ‘Jake is a really nice guy too. Don’t you think?’
‘Yeah,’ I try to sound noncommittal as I lift the last bucket not to contain roses. ‘He seems it.’
‘Hot, too.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Come on, Poppy, even you must be able to see that.’
‘What do you mean “even me”?’ I ask, putting the bucket down.
‘Well, you hardly try with anyone, do you – let alone men.’
‘I do try,’ I protest. ‘I’m just not a people person.’
‘What are you then – an animal person?’ Amber enquires, grinning. ‘I hardly see you jumping to play with Miley when she’s around.’
‘I’m better on my own, that’s all. People end up hurting you when you let them get close.’
I expect Amber to say something to the contrary, but instead she nods. ‘That is sadly often the case. But you can’t let that stop you from trying to find people who won’t let you down.’
‘Are you suggesting Jake might be that person?’ I ask, opening my eyes wide.
‘He might be, he might not. But why don’t you let him in? He obviously likes you.’
‘What? When has he ever suggested that?’ I’m trying to act shocked, but inside I’m intrigued by Amber’s suggestion.
‘Like I said before: I know these things.’ Her eyes dart to the window behind me. ‘Ooh how about you pop down to the shop and get some milk while I finish up here?’
‘Didn’t you buy milk earlier?’ I say, frowning at her. ‘How much tea have we drunk?’
‘But we don’t have any in the refrigerator back at the cottage, and you know how partial I am to your English cuppas. Go to the shop for me, Poppy, will you, please ?’
‘OK,’ I sigh, thinking about the bucket of roses still waiting ominously for me. ‘Your wish is my command!’ I wink at her. ‘I’ll grab my bag then meet you at the cottage – you’re sure you’re OK locking up?’
‘Yes, of course. Now go, go!’ Amber flaps her hand at me.
I shake my head. ‘Anyone would think you wanted me out of here.’
Amber grins. ‘Nope, I just want you to go to the shop. And if you see anything else you fancy while you’re there, why don’t you pick that up too?’
At Amber’s request I walk across the street to the little supermarket, and head for their dairy section. I pick up a litre of semi-skimmed milk, and as I head past the biscuit aisle I stop to pick up a packet of chocolate HobNobs and a packet of Tunnock’s Teacakes, both of which Amber has become addicted to since she’s been here.
‘Moment on the lips, lifetime on the hips!’ I hear behind me, and I turn to see Jake carrying his own basket of food.
‘They’re for Amber,’ I tell him quickly.
‘I thought Oreos would be more her thing,’ Jake says, grinning as he lifts a packet from the shelf.
‘Nope, apparently our English cookies are the best. She’s completely hooked on tea and biscuits these days.’
‘And so she should be,’ he says, putting the packet down. ‘You can’t beat a good cuppa.’
I stare at him. That’s it, that’s why Amber was so desperate for me to come in here. She’d seen Jake passing by with a cotton shopping bag, apparently heading for the supermarket.
At the same time as I’m growling internally, I notice that the shop, which was almost empty when I entered, is suddenly filling with a bottle-green sea of children all clambering to buy sweets and fizzy drinks.
‘Cub and scout jamboree,’ Jake informs me as we watch them swarm all over the shop. ‘Clarence said he was expecting quite a few in the grounds of the church today. It must have just finished.’
I nod, and look desperately towards the exit. I need to get out of here and fast; the kids are everywhere, and already I can feel my temperature starting to rise.
But there’s no way I’m going anywhere: the aisles are crammed with green shirts and hats, and would remain that way until all sugar cravings had been extinguished.
I grab a packet of Kit-Kats from the shelf and begin fanning my face.
‘Are you OK, Poppy?’ Jake asks. ‘Is this crowd of kids too much for you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I insist in a tight voice. ‘Just fine.’ But I can feel my head beginning to swim, and a familiar feeling of nausea making an unwelcome return.
‘Right, let’s get you out of here,’ I hear Jake say, just as I feel my knees buckle.
‘Out of the way, kids!’ Jake instructs in a firm voice as he puts my arm around his strong shoulders and half guides, half lifts me out of the shop. ‘That’s it, move aside.’
Like a diver rising to the surface of a deep, dark sea, I register daylight, that had seemed so far away a few moments ago, rapidly getting closer as we weave our way through the children to the exit, then outside into the fresh air.
‘Here, take a seat,’ Jake instructs, sitting me down on the bench outside the shop. Amber and I have taken to calling it the ‘gossip’ bench, as it usually houses two or more of St Felix’s elderly residents discussing the events of the day in great detail. ‘Now, take some deep breaths.’
I do as he says, and as always, now that I’m safely removed from one of my ‘trigger factors’, I begin to feel better almost at once.
‘Sorry,’ I tell him, as Jake watches me with great concern. ‘I’m fine – really.’
‘I thought you were going to pass out on me back there,’ he says, nodding at the shop.
‘I probably would have if you hadn’t got me out. Sorry.’
‘Nothing to apologise for. We all have our demons.’
I wonder what he means.
‘I’ll be fine, really,’ I say, attempting to stand up, but I wobble slightly.
Jake catches hold of my arm. ‘Steady! Let me walk you back to Daisy Chain.’
‘No!’ I almost cry, thinking of the sweet flower scent that would only make things worse. ‘I mean, no, I’d rather take a walk – get some sea air, you know?’
‘Sure,’ Jake says, and with his arm linked firmly around mine we begin to walk down towards the harbour.
‘You know when you nearly fainted earlier,’ Jake asks after we’ve walked all the way along to the end of the harbour and the small lighthouse that proudly stands ready to guide the fishing boats into St Felix, ‘that was your problem with crowds again – yes?’
I nod.
Now that I’ve recovered, I’m mortified at my little episode, and how Jake had to rescue me from a bunch of school children.
In one day I’d come up against both my phobias – I hated calling them that – and Jake had witnessed it. Having a problem with crowds meant I invariably became centre of attention when I had one of my panic attacks and I found it excruciatingly embarrassing. My issues with fresh flowers I always kept well hidden. People had a certain amount of sympathy for you if they understood your phobia. The more common varieties, like agoraphobia and claustrophobia, were well known and people got why someone might be terrified. Fear of spiders, birds or certain animals – yes, that was understood too. But someone who has an irrational fear of flowers? That was just weird.
One of my therapists had informed me that the correct term for my anxiety was anthophobia – fear of flowers. But knowing it has an official name doesn’t make me feel any better or able to share my concerns with anyone. I know why I don’t like flowers, and no amount of therapy or counselling is going to change that.
We lean against the railings at the end of the harbour and look out at the sea. It’s high tide, and the waves are crashing against the harbour wall, sending spray up and over the rails. It feels fresh and revitalising against my skin. The glorious sunshine has given way to grey clouds that are being blown across the sky by a gusty wind.
‘Are you claustrophobic as well?’ Jake asks. ‘Did being in that small shop bother you when it got busy?’
‘No, it wasn’t that. Look, do you mind if we don’t talk about this, please? I’m feeling much better.’
‘Sure, if that’s what you want.’ Jake turns so we’re both facing out to sea, both leaning up against the green railings, both getting splashed with the salty spray.
‘It’s just you said you’d had therapy before and I wondered —’
‘Did I not just say I didn’t want to talk about this?’ I snap, and immediately feel bad. Jake has been very kind, he doesn’t deserve this. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t like talking about my problems, that’s all.’
‘Sure, I understand.’ Jake nods, but doesn’t look at me.
A silence falls between us, broken only by the sounds of the sea, brazenly continuing to batter the wall below.
‘There’s no shame in having had therapy,’ Jake says, obviously deciding to ignore my request. ‘I had therapy when Felicity… left.’
I notice he says left and not died .
Knowing how therapy works, I wonder if this deliberate choice of words is the result of one of those sessions.
‘I know, Charlie told me earlier.’ I immediately regret saying that. What if Charlie didn’t want his dad to find out he’d shared that information.
Jake looks surprised. ‘Did he?’
‘Yes. He said you all had. But he thought Miley had probably done you more good than any therapy session. Where is she, by the way?’
‘With Bronte. Miley and supermarkets don’t go well together.’ Jake thinks for a moment. ‘Charlie is probably right though, about Miley. Of course I had the kids, and they were a great help; we all supported each other. But Miley gave me something new to think about, something that didn’t remind me of Felicity.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘That little monkey needed a lot of work in those early days – she kept us busy.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘It gave me a focus, and boy did I need something to focus on. I think I’d have gone off the rails if it wasn’t for her.’
‘She’s one cool customer, that’s for sure.’
‘She is that.’ Jake looks down into the waves and appears to be thinking about something so I don’t interrupt. ‘Look, Poppy,’ he says, suddenly turning to me, ‘I’m aware you don’t know me that well…’
Jake’s face is earnest and I wonder what he’s about to say.
‘I don’t expect you to talk about what’s happened in your past, that’s your business. But if you ever need —’
‘What do you know of my past?’ I ask sharply. We’ve been leaning on the harbour railings quite convivially, but now I stand bolt upright, my mind racing. ‘Has someone been talking? Has your aunt, that Lou woman, been saying things about me? Has she?’
Jake looks completely bewildered. ‘I don’t know what you —’
‘I bet she has,’ I continue, not giving him a chance to finish. ‘It’s none of her or your or anyone else’s business. What happened, happened years ago, and no one was there except me. No one knows exactly what happened but me. Understand?’
Jake, still looking confused, nods.
‘Right, where does your aunt live?’ I demand.
‘Bluebell Cottage, up on Jacob Street, but I really don’t see —’
But his words come too late; I’m already storming along the harbour towards Jacob Street and Bluebell Cottage.
No one gossips about my family.
No one.