Welcome to My World. Miranda Dickinson
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on other people’s experiences? Would she feel a fraud by comparison?
It was still playing on her mind when she arrived at her aunt’s shop on Thursday lunchtime. Eadern Blooms had served as Stone Yardley’s florist for thirty-five years and, with the exception of a new sign over the door and an A-board for the street (which Harri had persuaded Auntie Rosemary to invest in the year before), the shop hadn’t changed. The sunny yellow tiles and white-painted walls were simple but perfect for making the flowers stand out – they were, after all, the stars of the show, as far as Rosemary was concerned. As she entered the shop, Harri said hello to Mrs Gilbert from the cake shop, who was leaving with a paper-wrapped bunch of deep purple lisianthus.
‘Hello, Harriet, how’s the world today?’ Mrs Gilbert smiled.
‘Quiet, as far as Stone Yardley’s concerned,’ Harri replied, holding the door open for her. ‘Having a good week?’
‘Manic! Dora’s introduced her new Irish Coffee Cheesecake this week and we’ve been run off our feet. Sugarbuds hasn’t been this busy since Christmas.’
Auntie Rosemary was in the workroom at the back of the shop when Harri approached the counter, so Harri tapped the hotel-style brass bell to summon her aunt’s attention. It was something she had done since she was little, relishing the thrill of ringing the bell when her parents had brought her into the shop. She called out, just like her dad had done, ‘Shop!’
Rosemary’s flustered face appeared in the hatchway, which opened to the workroom. ‘Hello, you. Let me just wrap this bouquet and I’ll be right with you.’
Harri absent-mindedly turned the rotating unit on the counter that held a selection of cards for inserting into floral arrangements. Most of them looked as old as the shop: faded painted pink and yellow roses, watercolour storks carrying blanketed babies, white arum lilies bending their heads in sympathy and linked horseshoes surrounded by fluttering confetti. Harri wondered if anyone actually chose to use one of these cards, or if they, like the brass bell and sunshine-yellow vinyl floor tiles, were simply irreplaceable elements of the shop’s heart.
Five minutes later, Auntie Rosemary bustled in, strands of silver-grey hair flying loose in all directions from the messy bun at the back of her head, and a roll of twine around her right hand like a post-modern bangle. ‘I’m here, I’m here,’ she exclaimed, placing her cool hands on Harri’s cheeks and kissing her forehead, ‘and so are you! So, the kettle’s on and I’ve got some sandwiches from Lavender’s – tell me all your news.’
They pulled up wooden chairs behind the counter and ate their crusty sandwiches from Stone Yardley’s bakery as Harri shared recent events with her aunt.
When she mentioned her concerns about dinner with Alex, Auntie Rosemary frowned and took a large gulp of tea.
‘I don’t think you need worry, Harriet, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to talk about.’
‘But he’s actually done the travelling thing. I’ve just read about it. I think I’m just worried that he’ll laugh at me.’
‘Don’t be so silly, sweetheart. From my scant experience of men, I can tell you that one thing they like is to be listened to. And if the person listening to them knows less about a subject than they do, then all the better. I would hazard a guess that Alex is no different. You’re a fantastic listener and you’ll be interested in all of his travel stories – what more could he want in a dinner guest?’
‘You’re probably right. I’m sorry, Auntie Ro. You know me, always thinking three steps ahead.’
Rosemary smiled and brushed crumbs off her fluffy grey cardigan. ‘In that respect you’re the spitting image of your mother. She was a born organiser – and so are you. Worrying ahead comes with the territory, I suppose.’
‘So you think I’ll be fine?’
Her aunt stood up and ruffled Harri’s hair. ‘I think you’ll have a fantastic time.’
In the end, it was Stella who – in classic Stella Smith fashion – allayed her fears by summing up the situation in one sentence.
‘He seems like a nice bloke, there’s free food and you get to overdose on travel stories. It’s a no-brainer: stop thinking too much and just go.’
So the next week Harri arrived at Wātea for dinner. Alex was just finishing for the day and looked shattered. She waited while he turned off lights and checked everything was ready for the morning.
‘Busy day?’ she asked, as he joined her by the counter.
Alex rubbed his forehead. ‘Yeah. It’s been crazy since we opened. I was worried people would stay away because we’re not like the old place.’
Harri laughed. ‘Did you ever visit the old place?’ Alex shook his head. ‘Then you don’t know what you’re missing! I mean, look around here: the place is far too welcoming. You should be putting the fear of God into anyone who dares set foot on the premises! And those sofas? Too comfy by far! What are you trying to do, make people want to stay here?’
‘Blimey, was it that bad?’
‘Yes, it was. Trust me, this place is just what Stone Yardley needs.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
They exchanged shy smiles.
Alex pushed his hands into his pockets self-consciously. ‘So – if you’d like to follow me, I’ll sort out some food.’
Up in his flat above the coffee lounge, Alex made Singapore Noodles while Harri walked around, gazing at the photos that covered the walls. After they’d eaten, she sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling a steaming mug of jasmine tea and trying to contain her excitement like a kid at Christmas, as Alex produced box after box of treasures. Postcards, fabrics, sculptures, seashells and countless photo albums emerged and were spread out over the floor, while Alex recalled his travels and Harri listened, wide-eyed, her mind brimming over with images almost too wonderful to bear.
‘This shell came from Philip Island, in Australia – you should see the penguins there, Harri. It’s just mad to be surrounded by them on a beach! . . . An old priest in Belarus gave me this icon – he said it would keep me safe on my journey. Then he prayed over the coach we were travelling in, except he had to use a prayer for blessing a horse and cart because it was the only one for a mode of transport in the prayer book.’
Harri picked up a picture of Alex standing next to a Maori man, easily half a foot taller and almost twice as wide, with an enormous white smile that dwarfed even Alex’s grin. The smiley Maori had his arm slung around Alex’s shoulders and they looked like they’d just heard the most hilarious joke.
‘Who’s this?’ she asked, turning the photo towards him.
‘Oh, wow, that’s Tem – he’s a great guy I met on South Island in New Zealand. He ran the local bar and he gave me a job for three weeks when my funds were running low. He taught me some Maori – that’s where Wātea comes from. It means “to be open” or “free”. He said I was a free spirit and I had to stay like that, wherever I went. I learned a lot from him.’
Harri looked at the collection of mementoes laid out before her and shook her head. ‘Al, this stuff is amazing. How come you don’t have it all out on display?’
Alex shrugged. ‘Because, honestly, nobody wanted to look at them – until I met you again, that is.’
‘That’s crazy. This stuff is . . .’ she struggled for a moment as all the superlatives that came to mind seemed suddenly inadequate. ‘I think this is wonderful, Alex. You have no idea how lucky you are to have all these memories.’
Alex smiled, his dark brown eyes catching the light from the group of tealight candles on the coffee table. ‘I think we’re going to be great friends, you and me,’ he said. ‘Soul mate travellers, that’s what we are.’