I smiled to myself as a long-forgotten memory popped into my head.
‘It’s a race against time,’ Granny used to say, hunched over the steering wheel as we’d bombed along country lanes in her flower van, the chiffon-pink sky heralding the dawn of another perfect day. ‘From the moment we set up the flower stall, these blooms are starting to decline. It’s my job to flog them before they keel over. Or else it’s butter sandwiches for supper.’
‘And did she say don’t use bleach to clean the buckets or do?’ said Karen, peering over her sister’s shoulder. ‘My poor menopausal brain has forgotten already.’
‘Do,’ I said. ‘Unless the bucket is for roses. Then don’t. Roses hate bleach.’
‘Arrgh,’ said Claire, flinging her pen down. ‘We’re doomed.’
‘It’s only our first morning,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it’ll all make more sense by the end of the week.’
‘It’ll have to,’ said Karen, getting to her feet. ‘Come on Claire, leave the details. We can always google it if we need to know anything. Let’s get onto the nice bit.’
‘I don’t know about nice,’ said Claire, popping a huge sprig of eucalyptus followed by a fistful of sweet williams in her container. ‘I’m all fingers and thumbs when it comes to anything creative.’
Becoming a florist seemed an odd choice in that case, I thought.
‘When do you think you’ll open the shop?’ Harriet asked. She chose three beautiful lilac roses and placed them reverently into her container.
‘Six weeks,’ the women answered in unison. ‘We’ve already signed the lease.’
There was a moment of stunned silence broken by Fiona’s footsteps tapping along the tiled corridor.
‘Now,’ our tutor said brightly. ‘How are you getting on? Does anyone need anything special?’
‘A miracle?’ said Karen hopefully and we all laughed.
The rest of the week flew by and soon it was Friday. Not only did I make three new friends, I made every sort of flower arrangement a modern florist would ever need, from handtied bouquets to bridesmaids’ posies, corsages to headbands and, as a team, we even decorated a moongate which was a huge metal hoop used at weddings. The moongate would be used at the wedding show that Fiona was exhibiting at the following weekend, but we had been able to take the rest of our handiwork home with us. There were beautiful arrangements in every room of my little house now and I could scarcely keep the smile from my face as I walked from room to room. I loved every second of the week; the freedom, the instant beauty of our creations, the satisfaction of seeing my ideas coming to life and the sense of peace which came over me while I was concentrating on my work. And socialising felt good and as the week progressed, I could feel a bit of the old Fearne coming back.
I had no plans for the following week, but it would have to be pretty spectacular to beat the first week of my sabbatical. Maybe I should add something new to my happy list, or maybe I’d book a trip to Holland and visit the world’s biggest flower market myself? Who knew; the world was my oyster.
As the last day was coming to an end, Fiona brought tea and cakes into the studio to have while we were finishing off our contemporary designs. Harriet’s was the best. She was the undisputed star pupil of the week. She’d created an asymmetric structure of twisted willow, stargazer lilies and glossy dark green leaves. Any bride who picked Harriet to do her wedding flowers was in for a treat. Claire had decided that she was going to let Karen do the lion’s share of the flower arranging after discovering her clumsy fingers would cost them a fortune in snapped stems and bruised blooms.
I’d gone for a white theme, calla lilies and hydrangea with a delicate arc of steel grass giving it an architectural feel. I was finishing it off with a sheaf of grass tied around the vase in a bow.
‘That is stunning,’ said Fiona, stepping around my arrangement and checking it out from every aspect. ‘Your best yet. You had a natural gift for floristry when you began on Monday, but now your talents are shining through. Well done.’
The other women gave me a round of applause.
‘I think it’s a bit lumpy and I should have trimmed the lilies more, but thank you.’ I felt my cheeks colour with everyone’s attention on me. But for once I didn’t feel the need to hide away or escape from view, or brace myself for a well-meaning comment which would lead on to how well I was doing following Freddie’s death.
‘Your shoulders were wedged up by your ears when you arrived on Monday,’ Claire pointed out. ‘And now you are glowing and relaxed.’
‘You’re lit up from within, Fearne.’ Harriet looked up from her creation and tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘I think flowers are sunshine for the soul.’
‘I think you’re right,’ I replied softly.
Maybe, I realised with a surge of hope, maybe this really was the start of a new phase in my life. Could it really be that simple? The kindness reflected back at me warmed my heart and I was going to miss the three of them. Happy tears welled up in my eyes and I turned away to blink them back.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Claire, gesticulating at her sister. ‘Write that down, Karen. We can have that on a blackboard outside the shop.’
We all laughed and I sent a silent thanks to Claire for changing the subject.
Over the course, we’d opened up to each other a little more each day and yesterday I’d told them about losing my brother and the letter I’d found over a decade after he’d written it. I’d been worried that it would open the floodgates for everyone else’s personal bereavement stories, something which I’d struggled to cope with since losing Freddie. But to my delight the thing everyone wanted to talk about was my happy list and what they would put on theirs.
It was almost time to leave. We’d taken hundreds of photographs of our flower creations in Fiona’s studio and even outside in her pretty cottage garden and now, reluctant to leave, we were swapping numbers and Facebook names.
‘I’m so glad you managed to persuade me to attend the week-long course instead of one afternoon workshop,’ I said, taking my apron off for the final time. ‘It’s been a wonderful experience.’
‘Glad to hear it. It’s called upselling,’ said Fiona with a naughty giggle. ‘The secret weapon in a florist’s arsenal. Never push a customer to spend more than they can afford. Just give them some options, make it easy for them to increase their budget if they want to.’
‘Good idea,’ said Karen with a sly smile. ‘But there are a lot of elderly people who live in our village. And ours will be the only shop for miles. We’ve got to stock a bit of everything: milk, bread, stamps—’
‘And wine,’ Claire put in. ‘All the essentials.’
‘So our shop will be more than a florist,’ Karen continued. ‘It’ll be the hub of the community, we hope.’
‘What about you, Harriet?’ Fiona asked, as we filed outside to our cars. ‘What’s next for you?’
‘My sister is getting married here,’ she replied, getting her phone out to show us a photo of the venue. ‘So I’ve offered to do her flowers to give me some more experience. And then, I hope to do as many weddings as possible. My wedding day was the best day of my life and I want to help other brides have the day of their dreams just like I did. The cake, the dress, the flowers are the holy trinity of things people remember most about a wedding. I want to create flowers that no one will forget.’