Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Nine

"Happy birthday!"

We'd all let out the same cheer the moment Rafferty had entered the large warehouse that housed the market, party poppers and the whizz of multicoloured blowers sounding out, some of us clapping and cheering.

Rafferty's smile was wide and electric as always, and his long thick dreadlocks flipped over as he bent himself in half, covering his face with his hands at the surprise of all of the market vendors awaiting him this morning.

It was Rafferty's 50th birthday and we'd all spent the week sneaking around trying to arrange something for him.

If Lucy was the markets shoulder to cry on, and Gavin the warm food that warmed our bellies, Harry the beat that encouraged everyone (maybe except from me) to break out into song and dance, then Raff was the Markets Joy.

He welcomed everyone, each day, with a megawatt smile and encouraging remark that made it difficult to start your shift in a bad mood. He also kept a pocket full of the boiled sweets he sold in case anyone needed cheering up, apparently something sweet being the cure for any ailment according to Rafferty.

He always had ludicrous stories to tell - many from back in the day when he'd been a saxophonist in a  travelling funk band; something at which Harry had hung to every word of.

And so when we'd found out that he'd be working his Vintage Sweet stall as usual on the day that he celebrated half a century in the world, we knew we had to do something special for him, even if it was only a small gesture.

Lucy and Martha had worked together to hang up streamers and balloons from the rafters, Harry had put together an extensive playlist of funk music to play throughout the day, even managing to source out one of Rafferty's old bands albums somehow and adding it to the mix, and I'd agreed to bake him a special Spiced Rum and Ginger cake after having weaselling it out of him that it was his favourite.

"You are all just too much," he beamed, thumbing away the wetness that had sneaked out of the corner of his eye.

"You deserve it, old man!" Lucy smiled, being the first to pull him into a warm hug.

He worked his way around all of us, kisses on cheeks and pats on backs before he met me, bending down and encircling me in a kind embrace.

"Is that Rum and Ginger," he pointed to the cake I'd left on the top of his stall, decorated simply with a white icing and some orange segments.

"Maybe," I giggle and suddenly he's asking for plates and a knife, apparently cake being everyone's choice for breakfast this morning.

Everyone mills around chatting, having all turned up extra early to set up leaving enough time to celebrate among ourselves before the doors opened to the public.

"You've outdone yourself with this one," Lucy says, humming in enjoyment as she slips another large piece of cake into her mouth.

I roll my eyes and brush her off, not feeling at all comfortable with taking compliments.

It was such an oxymoron sometimes; I absolutely craved the validation of others at all times. Wanted to be told that I looked nice, that I was funny, that I was worthy to be around. Because truthfully I couldn't find any of those beliefs within myself, never had. But when I did garner the compliments I so desperately wanted to hear, I rejected them almost immediately, like they scalded to have to listen to them.

"Don't be modest," Lucy tutted at me. "This is really great."

"Mm, it is," I hear a voice from the side of me, muffled through their own mouthful of cake. "Can you make me one?"