Page 19 of My Kind of Happy

Chapter Six

I pulled up outside a pretty white cottage with a thatched roof and a plethora of tubs brimming with tulips lining the garden path. The wisteria winding its way up the walls wasn’t in bloom yet, but even without it, the cottage had a fairy-tale feel to it and I felt my shoulders relax.

I read the wooden sign fixed to the wall aloud. ‘Wisteria Cottage Flower School; I’ve made it.’

It was late March and spring was in full swing. Two weeks had passed since I’d resigned from Zed Market Trends and several major things had happened in that time. Not least the fact that I’d followed my heart and decided to immerse myself in the world of flowers for a whole week, starting today.

Ethel had been all for it. In fact, she’d insisted on paying for the course for me as her way of thanking me for taking in Scamp permanently. ‘There are no pockets in a shroud,’ she’d said, foisting a cheque written in her wobbly writing into my hand. ‘And I can’t think of a better person to invest in.’

My dear old friend had made a big decision of her own: after a month at The Beeches, she’d come to the conclusion that being waited on hand and foot was far preferable to living alone in Pineapple Road and had taken up a permanent residency there. Independence lost its allure, she’d confided with dignified defeat, when all your friends were dead and you lived in fear of falling downstairs and lying in agony undiscovered for hours. And so although Scamp would always remain her dog in his canine heart, he’d be sharing a bed with me for the rest of his doggy days, a fact which made both her and me shed a tear.

‘But you are definitely happy here?’ I’d questioned as we’d ventured out into the gardens over the weekend with Scamp in front of us sniffing the path diligently.

‘Of course! All to do with mindset,’ she’d said stoically. She’d shunned the wheelchair one of the carers had brought out to reception for her and was clinging on to her walking frame for dear life.

‘I’ve told myself that it’s an adventure and I shall enjoy it just as much as the adventures which have gone before. Now let’s head back inside, I promised to help Arthur with the crossword this afternoon and then there’s an old Ronald Reagan film I want to watch and rumour has it that the kitchen has been making custard tarts for tea …’

Satisfied that my old friend hadn’t had so much to occupy her for years, I approved of her decision and hoped that Scamp didn’t mind being stuck with me. I cooked him some liver for his dinner just to cement my place in his affections.

Other big news was that Laura had moved in with Hamish. It was impossible not to be swept along by their happiness. Scamp and I were their first dinner guests and I came away feeling that both of them might just have found ‘the one’.

And then there was my news. I’d stuck to my guns and wouldn’t reconsider my decision to leave Zed Market Trends. And thanks to an empathetic Bernie and some remaining annual leave, I had officially left the company last Friday. My time was now my own.

I was giving myself a year’s sabbatical from my career. I didn’t quite know how I was going to fill it yet, but the sheer act of doing something radical and giving my life a shake-up had already given me a glimpse of the old Fearne. The Fearne who knew how to be happy. The Fearne who’d also inadvertently called a flower school looking for a beginner’s workshop and had found herself handing over her credit card details for a five-day professional floristry course …

A course which was about to start any moment. There were several cars already filling the driveway and I wondered if I was the last one to arrive.

The cottage door opened and a woman wearing a long grey apron waved energetically to me.

‘I’m Fiona and you must be Fearne,’ she said, bustling over to shake my hand as I got out of the car. ‘Come along, everyone’s here and chomping at the bit to get cracking.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, following her to the front door. ‘Before we join the others, can I just reiterate that I have no plans to be a professional florist, this is just a hobby. So I might not be as good as the others.’

Fiona’s eyes sparkled. ‘All my students enjoy themselves, they just happen to learn a great deal at the same time. And you never know, you might surprise yourself.’

I smiled. This was going to be fun, and since normally at this time on a Monday morning I’d be catching up with my research contacts in south east Asia, I had already surprised myself.

Following my tutor, I took my first step into Wisteria Cottage. The scent of fresh flowers drew me in. I was doing it, I thought, I’d stepped away from my ordinary life to do something which would make me happy. I was completely out of my comfort zone; Freddie would be proud.

Fiona led me along a hallway into a bright and airy studio dominated by a long wooden table. At one end, wide glass doors looked out into the pretty cottage garden and at the other was a workbench covered with tall buckets full of flowers. Bending over the flowers, mugs in hands, were the other three students.

‘Karen, Claire, Harriet,’ announced Fiona, gesturing to each of the women in turn. ‘Meet Fearne. Now, there’s a lot of theory to get through this morning, so Fearne, help yourself to coffee, take a seat, everyone and we’ll begin.’

Two hours later my head was spinning with everything I’d learned and so far, we hadn’t even touched a single petal. I’d learned about the giant flower markets in Holland and how to order from them, I’d heard about gerberas from Kenya, carnations from Columbia and roses from Ecuador, I’d discovered how to ‘condition’ flowers to keep them at their peak. And we’d discussed the difference between supermarket flowers and their superior counterparts at the high street florist.

Everyone else looked similarly overwhelmed. Karen and Claire, two sisters from Cheshire with grown up children of their own, were pooling their resources to open up a florist’s shop in the village where they lived now.

Harriet, who looked about my age, had made copious notes in the pad we’d each been given. She’d done flowers for a few weddings as a hobby, she admitted but was planning on turning it into a full-time career.

Fiona disappeared into the kitchen to prepare something for lunch, leaving us a container each and instructions to select flowers for our first arrangement: a table decoration using flower foam. Harriet and I headed straight for the buckets of roses, while the sisters were still finishing their notes.

‘Some flowers die if you don’t keep them cool enough, some die if you don’t keep them warm enough. Not in a draught, not in direct sunlight,’ said Karen with a groan. ‘At this rate the only place in our shop suitable for storing flowers will be the loo.’

‘You and your weak bladder can keep them company then,’ said Claire, scratching her head with her pen. ‘But you make a good point. It seems the biggest challenge in floristry is preventing premature death of the flowers.’

I smiled to myself as a long-forgotten memory popped into my head.

‘It’s a race against time,’ Granny used to say, hunched over the steering wheel as we’d bombed along country lanes in her flower van, the chiffon-pink sky heralding the dawn of another perfect day. ‘From the moment we set up the flower stall, these blooms are starting to decline. It’s my job to flog them before they keel over. Or else it’s butter sandwiches for supper.’