Wildflowers
Authors: Debbie Howells/Susie Martyn
W
ildflowers
Earth laughs in flowers.
Henry David Thoreau
1
It began with a
bossy friend. And a small word. Two letters. Rhymes with Joe…
But no matter what’s in my head, what comes out is always ‘yes’. And in the case of the well-meaning, about-to-be-married friend whose florist let her down at the last minute,
I tried, really hard – but it happened again.
Honey has a lot to answer for, but as I soon discovered, there’s something seductive about flowers. Not just the luscious scents and vibrant colours, but it’s the symbolism. The hidden sentiment, the love, passion and beseeching, artistically arranged and gift wrapped in crunchy brown paper.
The ultimate gesture of romance – and so much more, as I discovered later.
I’d always loved flowers.
But. Put simply, being a wedding florist was an accident. It just happened – but then that’s the story of my life.
‘It can’t be that hard,’ Honey begged me. Actually
begged
rather than ordered, which wasn’t Honey-like at all, but she’d morphed into this hideous bridezilla by then. It’s to be expected, I’ve learned since – only some are worse than others and Honey never does things by halves.
‘
Fucking woman’s let me down. You’re creative aren’t you? And it’s just plonking a bunch of flowers in a vase…
Please Frankie, pleeease… I’ll pay you
...’
Mentioning a sum that would keep my bank manager off my back a little longer.
‘
Otherwise it’ll be the most miserable wedding ever
…’
Not for nothing is Honey a successful lawyer, though put on the spot, I always forget this. She had me cornered and she knew it. I thought about it – but not for long. Only the hardest-hearted person could bear their best friend’s big day to be anything less than perfect and if I’m honest, a tiny, insecure part of me liked the idea that just for once, I could do something she couldn’t. Before I knew it I’d muttered those immortal words.
‘
I suppose
…’ at which point she’d whooped triumphantly and flung her arms round me, leaving me spluttering in a cloud of Chanel.
If only I’d stopped to think, even fleetingly, that this was a wedding.
Worse, it was Honey’s wedding, and no matter how hard I wanted to trivialise it, I wouldn’t be able to, because make no mistake.
It mattered
.
Try taking your worst nightmare and multiplying it a hundredfold, because as I’ve learned
since, with weddings, there are no second chances. No saying
it’s okay, we’ll sort it out tomorrow.
Everything has to be perfect on the day…
This wedding brought out the very worst in my friend, because as well as manipulative, she’s a control freak. Finding the right flowers in precisely the right colours and degree of openness kept me awake at night. Imagine – sleepless nights over bunches of flowers. It’s about as insane as the bride who measures the diameter of roses and believe me, Honey did that, just as she insisted they match the bridesmaids’ dresses which were a washed out grubby shade of lilac.
Antique
, I was told, sternly, as I stared in horror at the fabric swatch she’d waved under my nose. Did flowers that colour even exist?
Whatever
, I thought. And it wasn’t just plonking things in vases, either. Oh, no… There were fifteen of them, to be all identically just so and
exactly like the picture she gave me, with sticky out bits and twiddly things – this was Honey, after all. Not to mention the small matter of the church.
So followed my baptism of fire into the obstreperous ways of church flower ladies.
Do not be fooled by their saintly ways as I was – because they lie. And whatever time you arrive, know this: the church will be locked, she won’t answer her phone and you’d be better off talking to the gravestones. If she does finally turn up to let you in, whatever wonders you create, it can never be as good as what she did for the vicar’s daughter’s wedding twenty years ago, as she’ll tell you in mind-numbing detail. Not that I was up to creating wonders at that stage, I just had my buckets of flowers and another of Honey’s lists.
‘
Just pretty it up a bit, Frankie, I’ll leave it to you…only can you make sure you do the windowsills and a big thingy by the altar and pew ends and confetti cones with real rose petals and…’
Pew ends, schmew ends. I didn’t know how to make them back then, so I tied bunches of flowers on with long trails of ribbon instead. It was pretty - but if I’d known then what I know now, I’d have sneaked lavender in there for constancy, and exquisite stars of stephanotis for a long and happy marriage. And hazel twigs of course, because no wedding’s complete without them.
But then, none of this mattered, because hazel twigs or not, it was a romantic, magical day as all weddings should be, with Honey dazzlingly adorned in Caroline Castigliano, her beloved Johnny on her arm and a scattering of tiny bridesmaids following behind. And as I eavesdropped shamelessly on the many admiring comments, I couldn’t help but feel a small, secret glow of pride that a tiny part of this was all mine...
As it turns out, Honey loved what I’d done, so much, that when my latest job collapsed in tatters around me, fresh back from Honey-moon, she came to see me.
‘You can’t seriously have thought you’d spend the rest of your days being a waitress? I mean,
really
…’
Tanned and glowing after a fortnight in the Caribbean, bridezilla had gone and my old friend the ball-busting lawyer was back.
Of course, I’d seriously thought no such thing. ‘I just needed money and took the first job that came along.’
She stared disbelievingly at me. ‘Frankie. We’ve known each other for years, haven’t we? In all that time, the longest you’ve stuck at any one thing is about what, eight months?’
‘More like six,’ I told her miserably, feeling a pit of despair opening up in front of me. At times, she really could be brutal.
‘It’s time for a change, don’t you think? Take something seriously, for once.’
Easy for her to say. I sighed. I knew what she was doing. Honey’s philosophy with everyone, friends included, is to break them down to build them up – sympathy doesn’t come into it. Naturally, I didn’t argue.
‘I get by. And it’s not like I don’t try,’ I objected, trying to justify myself. ‘Really I do. It’s just, well, you have to agree,
I am quite unlucky...’
But as I topped up her glass of Pinot Grigio, even I knew how lame that sounded.
‘Thank you. Well, go on a course. Get a qualification. But get off your arse and do something, or you’ll be squatting in this flat of yours forever.’
That last bit needled me, because I love living here. Dexter’s Green is one of those picture-postcard villages, consisting of a handful of pretty old cottages which are home to an assortment of equally colourful residents, with the ubiquitous village pub and the most lethal cider for miles, and Demelza’s, handy for emergency supplies of chocolate and not much else.
My flat’s tucked away above the post office, with a personality all of its own. The ceilings are crooked and part of the floor creaks ominously, and if it rains overnight the roof leaks, but the views are to die for. And it’s cheap.
Suddenly she leaps up, looking delighted with herself. ‘Frankie! I’ve got it! Flowers! You did mine, didn’t you? Go back to college and learn to be a proper florist. I’ll write you a testimonial if you need one.’
As if my future could be decided as simply as that.
But Honey likes to channel her bossiness at worthy causes
and as true friends always do, she had my best interests at heart. Over the years I’ve resisted her attempts to interfere, but this time, I had to concede she had a point. I’d worked in coffee shops and care homes and garden centres, which meant I scraped by, but only just. Part of me craved more. Why shouldn’t I have a flashy car and expensive clothes, instead of simply admiring those everyone else had? With my own neat little house, the mortgage paid each month on the button instead of muddling along struggling to pay my rent.
The long and short
of it was, she got me thinking, because somewhere along the way, I’d missed that elusive
something
that all my friends had figured out. There was a future out there, I was sure of it, no less, no more than anyone else’s. And I’d wasted enough time, taking the path of least resistance, just waiting for life to
happen
.
It was then that a glimmer of an idea took seed
, just as fate stepped in to help. It was a gloriously sunny morning few days later, when I was walking around All Hallows, a town about five miles away. I was window shopping, that being the only kind of shopping I could afford and I’d found a little boutique that had my mouth watering.
I knew I had no money. I knew even one more transaction would send my credit card into meltdown. Even so, I couldn’t resist. There was no harm in looking.
As it happens, there was, in the form of a gorgeous, sexy dress that actually
made
me buy it. It was the kind of dress that I knew the instant I slipped it on, would change my life. The bank, however, felt differently.
I remember walking out of there,
red-faced and empty-handed, feeling shame, but also a spark of anger. At the disaster that was my life. At myself, that even now, I couldn’t afford a dress I wanted.
It was only a dress and in the grand scheme of things, unimportant but coming when it did, I was hit with one of those life-changing revelations, the kind that suddenly illuminate the truth with startling clarity. I’d got myself into this mess. If I wanted things to change, it was up to me.
When I look back, I often wonder. If my credit card had been just slightly less overloaded. If I’d bought that dress, whether anything would have changed and I’d have carried on exactly as before.
As it was, I blinked away an angry tear
as I turned up a cobbled side street, before right at the end, I saw it. The most humble of florists, called Daisy Chain.
If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have
probably carried on walking. You see, there are florists and there are
florists
…about as many worlds apart as MacDonald’s and The Dorchester. However, this was then and without a second thought, I went in.
Okay – so it wasn’t the Dorchester, but it was a proper old-fashioned florist shop and actually, it was sweet in there, with lots of traditional flowers like carnations and chrysanthemums and frothy white clouds of gypsophila. Of course, there were tasteless add-ons and plastic tat in abundance, but then a short, rotund figure popped up amongst the buckets, her salt and pepper hair stuck out at shoulder length. It was my first glimpse of Mrs Orange.
‘Can I help you, pet?’
‘I don’t know. I-I’m looking for a job. You see, I want to learn to be a florist…’ My earlier confidence seeming to wither up and die as her beady eyes scrutinised me.
‘Work experience, duck?’ she said, raising an eyebrow, which I took to be encouraging. At least it wasn’t a straight ‘no’.
‘Um well sort of,’ I said. ‘But I do need paying.’
Which was a bit cheeky, considering.
She made a strange sound –
ttch, ttch
– with one eye squinting at me and then I noticed the hands poking out of her shirt sleeves. They were shrivelled looking and dry. Old hands. It didn’t put me off.
‘You can have a trial, my lovely. One week. I ain’t payin you for it, mind. But if you turn out to be useful, we’ll see. Monday morning. Eight o’clock sharp.’
I was in no position to argue – anyway, as I saw it, this was my chance! I danced out of her shop and made for the library, where I picked up as many books as I could carry, on flowers for the home, from round the world, tedious text books and gloriously photographed picture books - getting some funny looks from the librarians as I piled them onto the desk.
‘I’m training!’ I had to tell someone, before I burst with excitement.
‘My new career! I’m going to be a florist!’ Completely missing the nervous looks they exchanged as I staggered out carrying them all. And as soon as I was home, I started reading.
As I flicked through page after colourful page, immersing myself in this glorious new world, I completely lost track of time. Forget floristry, this was art – only the trouble was, the more I read the more I realised. There were one or two little things I needed to learn along the way.
So, the very next day found me sitting at my kitchen table with a bunch of Tesco’s cheapest and a text book. Cursing and swearing and stabbing my fingers, I learned to wire flower heads and invisibly thread leaves so they hold their shape, wondering if I’d ever be brave enough to demonstrate this to the mighty Mrs Orange.
But whether I sensed I’d found my calling or just in sheer desperation at yet again embarking on something completely new, this time I was fuelled with determination. In that rite of passage that belongs to all fledgling florists, I scrubbed endless numbers of buckets and swept thousands of petals off the floor. Mrs Orange watched me like a hawk and pulled me up on almost everything, but she must have seen a shred of something in me. At the end of the week, I waited with bated breath.
