C. Williams - Flowers for the Dead

‘Yes,’ I say hastily, mouth twitching before I shape it into a grin. ‘It is good to see you. Good to be back. Hello, Anvi.’

‘Ey up, Caroline,’ Anvi says. She always used my full name. Said it was a sign of respect. She is as slim as ever. It’s the first time that I’ve seen her wear a sari, though. It looks pretty, all orange and purple. She is much more collected than Kaitlin, who is still gripping the edge of the counter, looking a lot like she could use a drink. At least Kaitlin’s grinning, though. Anvi, on the other hand, is watching me with what can only be called hostile suspicion. ‘How have you been?’ she asks.

‘Good,’ I say, corner of my mouth twitching into another smile. ‘Very good. And you two?’

‘Great,’ Kaitlin says. ‘Just peachy.’ She has taken out her phone. ‘Sorry, luv, I just got to let Mum know, she won’t believe it when I tell her …’

See? Village gossip.

Anvi is still watching me. ‘Everything is fine. A lot has changed, of course. Not that you would know. But at least the shop is doing well.’

She is dropping the ‘g’s at the end of her words just like Kaitlin. I have missed the way people talk up here. No ‘g’s at the end, no ‘h’ in the front, that dialect that instantly feels like home. Suddenly self-conscious, I wonder if I sound like a Londoner to them. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

We fall silent. It turns awkward as we look at each other, looking for the traces the last nineteen years have left. Wondering if we look as tired, as old, as the person we see standing across from us. Wondering who these strangers are that use the voices, the tics, the gestures of people we once knew. Abruptly, I remember being sixteen and helping print T-shirts for hen dos. An exciting night out in Leeds, in Blackpool. Remember worrying about my braces. Remember how Kaitlin and Anvi were only a few years older than me, really, always fighting behind the curtain in the back of the shop, trying to make ends meet.

This isn’t exactly a boom town. When the weaving loom went out of fashion, everyone who had legs to walk on left the Dales, and that was in the eighteenth century. There’s only 18,000 of us left now. If there is any reason for people to have heard of us, it will be because of Emmerdale . Highly arguable if that’s an honour.

And I left too, didn’t I? Even though I loved it here. The memory comes back to me as unexpectedly, as painfully as the nightshade: the way it felt to live here and love it . Even this copy shop, these two wide-eyed young women, trusting that their community would have need for their business. I remember that Anvi wore trousers even though her father didn’t want her to and how Kaitlin could make amazing cinnamon rolls. I remember the wildflowers in the Dales and how they made me want to be a florist: the small blooms of pink bell heather and the beautiful golden globeflowers. I remember Mum showing them to me, all the way at the back of our garden, where Dad had cut the first line of trees.

She showed me the deadly nightshade too, the dried flowers in her bedroom and the fresh ones in the woods. ‘Kings and queens used them to assassinate their enemies,’ she told me, speaking conspiratorially, as if she was telling me a secret. ‘Ten berries can kill a grown man. And two are enough for a cat or a small dog.’ Their taste is sweet, so sweet you won’t be able to tell, really, if they’ve been mixed into a heavy red wine. I should know. ‘They are called Atropa belladonna ,’ she explained to me as she showed me the exact shape and colour of the plant, taught me to tell it apart from the bitter nightshade. ‘That’s from Atropos, one of the Three Fates, the Greek goddess who cuts the thread of everybody’s life. And belladonna means pretty lady; they were used for makeup once upon a time, that’s why. Only this pretty lady is here to kill you,’ she said, and pressed me close to her, both arms around my shoulders. ‘But don’t worry,’ she whispered into my curly hair. ‘Mummy and Daddy will protect you.’

The memory almost makes me choke. Dragging myself back to the present, I pull out the USB key I brought. I did not only spend last night packing: I also updated my CV. I have a little money saved up, but I’ll be needing a job soon. ‘I would like to print something, actually,’ I say, before the silence in the copy shop can turn even more awkward.

‘Aye,’ Kaitlin says, taking the little astronaut off me with her free hand. She is still gaping at me whenever she glances up from what is quickly turning into texting the entire village. ‘Seriously, I can’t believe it! How have you been? How is Oliver?’ Her fingers are sweaty. I flinch. Her eyes widen again. ‘Sorry! Have I put my foot in it? Here I am, just assuming … Last time I talked to your parents, they mentioned that you two … It’s just we don’t get any news of him any more since his parents moved away, I mean with their divorce and all that …’

I laugh it off. To have and to hold, till death do us part. ‘No, it’s fine. We live in Leyton now. I trained as a florist. Oliver went into nursing, he’s a health manager now, he … We have this lovely flat in London, no balcony, but still, I mean, can you imagine finding a flat in London at all – it’s insane.’

‘I bet,’ Kaitlin says as she walks to the computer. Still holding her phone, continuing to type with one hand. ‘Must be down south. Just wait till I’ve told Mum, she won’t believe it, she really won’t, it’s …’

‘So you have come back with him?’ Anvi asks. Her eyes are narrowed. She hasn’t let me out of her sight once.

‘Oh no,’ I say lightly. ‘No, not at all.’

‘Where’s Oliver, then?’ Kaitlin asks. ‘Hellfire, haven’t seen him in nineteen years either, have we?’

I knew they would ask. ‘At a conference,’ I say and can’t help but think of him. What he’s had for breakfast. If the pillows in the hotel are soft enough for him. The blinds dark enough. He will be so busy with his presentation. I wish I could have helped him more, supported him.

I know Oliver won’t realise what’s happened till he comes back. He will be texting me from the conference, trying to call, too, but he knows how I get sometimes, especially when he’s gone: not answering the phone, not texting back. He knows I bury myself sometimes. He’s learned not to push.

‘He is not with you, then?’ Anvi is watching me. Why is she watching me like that?

‘No,’ I say, the moment that Kaitlin makes a pleased sound. Actually, she almost squeals.

‘Oh, CVs? You want to apply for jobs here? It would be so good to have you back, luv! People don’t come back often, you know how it is. Not a lot of jobs. I mean, they do sometimes come back, but usually for Christmas or funerals …’ She peters out. Keeps glancing at her phone. It pings. And pings and pings. ‘See, they won’t believe me! Maybe we could take a photo, for proof.’

‘Yes, definitely looking for a bit of work,’ I say. Trying to sound as casual as I can, even though the words alone are scaring me. I haven’t worked in years, not since 2008, you know? Not a lot of demand for florists since then.

But my training still counts, doesn’t it? They need people, don’t they? That’s what they’ve been saying in the papers, at least, and on TV. Well, in the health sector mostly, not exactly in floristry. Because of Brexit. Anyway, I need to get these CVs sent out. Maybe a florist in Northallerton, or Leeds, or even further north. Maybe in Scotland.

But that’s not what I came here for. ‘So,’ I ask, trying to sound casual as I think of my list. ‘Who else is still around?’

‘Oh, quite some people,’ Kaitlin goes on, obviously in her element. ‘The two of us, of course, we never left, did we, Anvi? Even though we always said we would.’