Part Nine – Elena Clayton’s Floral Studio

The plot thickens as we go inside the flower shop on Stookey Hill!

Part Nine – Elena Clayton’s Floral Studio

It was a shame for Elena. She had wanted to rent a property on the High Street, just between Debenhams and M&S. She felt that the location reflected a number of things: her desire for life’s mid-price finer things, a clientele who enjoyed the same and a locale she could be proud of…even boast a little about.

But she couldn’t afford the rent. It was just too steep and while she had done her best to barter with the landlord, he wouldn’t budge. She felt a little better when Debenhams closed down because that building became a shuttered drug den. At least that’s what it looked like.

Still. She would have preferred a slightly more central location. One that might not have Pamela Albright in every day without fail for a start.

“Morning, Pamela,” Elena sighed. It was a daily sigh thanks to the aforementioned daily presence of Stookey Hill’s most notorious gossip.

“Lena!” this was another irritation. She never pronounced the ‘E’. Elena had long given up trying to get her to say it properly. Pamela was nothing if not determined to do everything any way she pleased.

“What can I do for you today?” Again, a daily habit because the answer was nothing. In the three years Elena had been in her florist studio on Stookey Hill, Pamela had bought absolutely not a single thing.

“Ah, just browsing, just browsing!” You guessed it – the same response, day in and day out.

Pamela flitted about, pinging the heads of flowers forward to smell them. Very few of them had a scent, but she still breathed in as though each offered a heady perfume. Then she breathed out as if satisfied to have smelled nature’s beauty itself.

She had moved on from the bus stop when Glenn stopped for her. He was the mean one. At least, in Pamela’s opinion. He was irate that she never got on it. But the one time he had seen her and kept going, she had complained to the council and he had received a sharp telling off from his boss, Duncan.

“It’s not your place to decide if she’s getting on or not,” Duncan tried to reason with him, “it’s just your job to stop!”

But the next time she was there, and he stopped, she waved him on. He cursed her under his breath and did as Duncan had told him, closing the doors and moving on. The problem was, he didn’t always curse her under his breath. Sometimes it was very audible.

“What was that?” Pamela strained to hear as the bus let out a squeal.

And that was when Glenn learned it was all about timing. So now, he shouted at her every day just as air-suspension system started to raise the bus from the kerb. So, she never heard him. And thanks to the advent of ear buds, neither did any of the passengers. At least, none of them said.

“Do you know Glenn who drives the 47?” Pamela asked, kicking the head of a daisy under the cabinet. She hadn’t meant to pull it off. But the bright petals left a trail and try as she might, she couldn’t get them all out of sight. Some of them stuck to her shoe.

“No, I don’t think so,” Elena kept her conversation with Pamela light and indifferent.

“I think you need to clear up over here,” Pamela opted for deniability, “there are some bits on the floor, they’ve stuck to my shoe!” she did her best to sound indignant, throw Elena off the scent.

Elena just nodded. She knew fine well what had happened. It wasn’t the first time Pamela had played havoc with her stock. The worst time was when she fell, head first, into the row of metal buckets she had arranged outside one summer. She’d had the idea from the Chelsea Flower Show and had bought them from Amazon. They had small chalkboards on bamboo sticks in them, advertising the flower and the price. It was by far, the prettiest thing on Stookey Hill.

Until Pamela. In trying to rub off a number ‘1’ with her licked finger, Pamela lost her footing. She thought that £11.99 was far too much, even if the stems were in threes and tied with raffia. She was going to get rid of a ‘1’ and then demand consumer rights to be sold the flowers as advertised. Because she actually quite liked them.

However, the plan was short-lived because the tassels on her jacket got caught on a piece of bamboo in the bucket next to the one she was so shamelessly trying to steal from. She pulled it back, thus becoming engaged in a tussle with the stick, the mini-chalkboard and what looked like chrysanthemums. Just as she noted it was a ridiculous price for such a commonplace flower, the bamboo got the better of her and there she was. Face down amid the clatter of tin and wood as the buckets tipped. One of them started rolling, descending all the way down the hill until it came to rest in the gutter opposite the bakery.

“I thought someone might have stopped it,” Pamela observed as Elena fought tears. The chrysanthemums were scattered like birdseed down the pavement. Mrs Dorado, who had narrowly escaped being smacked in the ankles by the rolling escapee, picked three of the stray flowers up and took them home. She didn’t even offer to pay for them.

So, yes. Elena was always on guard for the possibility that she may find her beloved flower arrangements on the floor with an indignant Pamela somewhere in the midst. She had also threatened to sue, you know. Said it hurt her left arm when she banged it on a rogue tin bucket.

Pamela managed to shake the daisy petals off her shoe, and continued her sojourn around the shop.

“I think Bobby Shaw is sick,” bored of said sojourn, Pamela decided to go and speak instead. Although this was always her motive.

“Oh dear, really?” Elena didn’t like to hear that. He was a sweet old man and she hated the thought of him becoming ill. He lived alone upstairs in that flat of his and he had so little custom, she feared he could just drop dead and it would be days before anyone noticed.

“I think he has…” Pamela looked about, conspiratorially, “…something catching. A super-spreader!” she liked that word. She remembered it from covid days. It was suitably alarming and likely to provoke a response of fear and panic.

Elena paused. She tried to pry the delicate layers of tissue from under Pamela’s hefty elbows, which were now leaning on the counter.

“What’s the matter with him?” Elena wasn’t alarmed. She had also learned this the hard way. Pamela was inflammatory at best, and it was unlikely that there was half a grain of truth in anything she said.

Pamela shrugged. She needed a minute to think. In her haste to share the news of Bobby Shaw’s sudden decline, she hadn’t given due consideration to what it might actually be.

Elena, having retrieved all but one corner of her tissue paper, turned to put it somewhere safe until Pamela had moved on. She’d maybe need to check on Bobby Shaw at lunchtime. It would mean closing the shop though…she looked about. It would barely matter. So few people came into the shop. She did a good bit of business online, and – seasonally – for weddings. She had zoned Pamela out, so never caught the rest of what she was saying.

The door opened and two young women came in. They looked smartly dressed. High heels, skirt suits. Elena stood up straight. New clients!

“Hello!” she said, rushing to speak to them. Pamela was still listing what seemed to be a good number of symptoms Bobby Shaw had.

The two women nodded in greeting.

“What can I do for you? Anything in particular?”

Pamela, taking umbrage, decided to leave.

“Watch you choose well!” she said to the two women as she passed, “the heads come off the flowers awfully easily!”

Elena glared at her as she left, but quickly turned back to the two women, who were suddenly deep in conversation.

“Ciara, you tell her, you explain it,” one of them said, wandering off to look at the various displays Elena had about the shop.

“Of course, now then,” the woman, evidently Ciara, looked at her evenly, “I am going to need to place several orders. Your discretion will be appreciated.”

“Absolutely!” Elena nearly clapped. She hadn’t had several orders in the last week, let alone in one day! “Is it a special occasion?”

Ciara smiled knowingly.

“Well, it is for someone. I’m going to need flowers for five funerals!”