Freesia's Flowers

Freesia's Flowers (Winner of Short Stories Contests Bookclub, 2015)

"All that is necessary for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing." - Edmund Burke

It was hard for Eric to read the sign clearly. He had to squint a little. The sun hung low, blazing in the final days of an unusual Indian summer. He raised his right hand to his forehead to block the light and smiled. The sign was so much more than a few letters of the alphabet. It represented a lifetime of hard work, planning, ambition and life-savings.

'Freesia's Flowers' was a poor choice in some ways. It was like saying "flower's flowers." But the florist shop had been his wife's dream and he was happy to have made it happen for her. She was truly a flower, sweet and precious.

The sign was a deep lavender colour with pink, copper-plate writing. Freesia had chosen it, as she had chosen everything else about their lives, but he was content to ride that train. As Eric pondered the sign, he saw Freesia struggle with the shop door, carrying two cups of tea, her russet hair falling over her face. He went to help her.

Freesia smiled as she offered Eric the mug. He accepted it hesitantly. He thought it was too hot for tea, but business is thirsty work. Freesia nodded her head toward the newly installed sign.

"Just what I wanted," she said between blows at the cup.

Eric wrapped his free hand around her hips and pulled her close. "I'm glad you like it," he said and kissed her rosy cheek. "Not long now till we're open."

"Well, we're all ready to go," said Freesia, sipping her tea.

The shop was a small one. It nestled between a launderette and a funeral director's. As morbid as it sounded, Eric couldn't help but think this was a fortuitous location. Right next to a business associate. Not only that, but the row of shops backed on to the town's main cemetery. Flowers and funerals went together like lilies in a vase. Eric often felt guilty at the prospect of making a living from other people's grief. But these were austere times. They deserved a little success. Besides, we all have to go sometime. It's better to have someone who loves you enough to lay flowers on your grave than for it to lie unadorned for eternity. They'd re-mortgaged their house to start this venture. If it didn't work, they'd be living in a tent for a while.

Freesia interrupted Eric's daydream.

"Let's go and do the final touches," she said.

She gently tugged his arm and he followed her into the shop.

The little bell above the shop door chimed. Eric jumped a little. He wasn't used to the bell yet. Freesia had insisted on an old-fashioned butler's contraption.

Freesia relieved Eric of his half-cup of tea, and placed the cups on the cash desk. The musk from the flowers was like the perfume counter at Boots. He wrinkled his nose. The big opening was tomorrow. As the sun crept southward in the sky, he felt a wave of nerves. He wasn't sure he believed in this shop, although he could never tell Freesia that. But, flowers? When do you ever see a florist heaving with customers, except Mother's Day and Valentine's Day? Those two occasions surely couldn't be enough to sustain the business for a year.
It's times like this that he felt grateful for the inevitability of bereavement. Their only chance of survival was the graveyard behind the shop. Freesia, with her apt name, had always dreamed she would one day become a florist. Eric couldn't see the logic in that. Handel never became a handle! He was a musician.

"There's nothing to be done," he said. 'Let's go home and have an early night."
Freesia smiled and switched off the lights. She'd wanted a softer glow for the shop and the Ikea table lamps added a homely touch.
The bell chimed again as they left.

Six months passed quickly and Eric knew the outlook for the business was sour. Mother's Day and Valentine's Day had indeed been a success. But there hadn't been much left once the overheads had been covered. Freesia had no idea they were struggling. He kept up the pretence of prosperity she had invented. It was easier that way.