Who Sent The Flowers?

It suited Virginia to practise this small deception on her parents . . .

THINGS are getting positively dire at home,” Virginia said to her friend, Betty, across the white expanse of tablecloth in “their” corner of the Plane Tree restaurant on Bridge Street. “Not only does Mums refer openly to my single state, but Pops is adding his four penn’orth, too. As for my sister – well!”

Virginia rolled her slanted green eyes in despair.

“Juliet is quite unbearable, parading her twins (absolute darlings though they are) in front of me as if she’s the only female on earth ever to have given birth, and trilling on about her Reggie until I could scream!”

“How utterly abominable,” Betty replied, her dimpled face under the cloche hat puckered in sympathy.

For once, the girls’ half day off had fallen on the same day and they were enjoying a lavish afternoon tea together. On the podium festooned with palms in large pots, an orchestra played softly and all around was the discreet murmur of voices and chink of best bone china.

Perfume from the ladies and pomatum from the gentlemen mingled with the more homely aromas of toasted muffins, and wafts of other culinary delights from the kitchen each time the door opened to admit a white-aproned waitress bearing a laden tray.

“It’s becoming more than I can stand.” Virginia stirred her tea furiously. “Is it my fault that Mr Right has passed me by?”

“Ginny, I’m sure that’s not true. Why should it be?”

“Haven’t the teeny-weeniest idea, Bets, but there it is.”

Virginia sighed.

She dressed well; her job on the ladieswear floor of Browns of Chester saw to that. She was popular with her colleagues – most of whom, like Betty, sported a diamond on the nuptial finger.

So where was she going wrong? At twenty-five, there had been but one steady boyfriend, Roland Sykes. His passion being motor cars, he had expected her to push his adored Jowett whenever it broke down.

After being caught in a drenching thunderstorm which ruined her new costume and made the peacock’s feather in her hat look like a reject from a bedraggled moorhen, Virginia had brought the romance (such as it was) to a close.

She turned her attention to the tempting array on the cake-stand – in times of trauma a girl needed comfort. Selecting an eclair smothered in chocolate and oozing cream, she bit into it with relish.

“Mmm, delicious! You must try one, Bets.”

“After I’ve finished my custard slice. At this rate I’ll never get into my wedding gown. How you manage to eat absolutely anything and still keep so trim defeats me.”

“Stress, darling. I’m not like you. I have to suffer prods about my unattached status, remember.”

“But you appear happy to be –”

“On the shelf?” Virginia supplied sweetly, delicately licking cream from her fingertips.

“Let’s say footloose and fancy free. Ginny, why not try a little pretence to stop the aggravation?”

Virginia looked at her friend.

“Go on.”

“Well, make out that you’re seeing someone.

“Drop the odd hint, take extra special care with your appearance when you go out. Like on Friday when we visit the theatre. Your folks won’t know it’s me you’re with if you don’t tell them.”

“They’d probably guess, bless them. But thanks for the tip, Bets. I’ll think on it.” Virginia gestured towards the fast-emptying cake platter. “Do have that eclair. It’s simply crying out to be sampled. And I’ll take that dear little iced fondant. Can’t leave it all by itself, can we?”

Over the next few days Virginia gave the matter of an imaginary suitor some thought, but nothing came to mind.

One evening, heading home in the August sunshine, she took a short cut down St Werburgh Street and saw that a shop had changed hands and was now a spanking new florists. Gleaming green paintwork replaced the old nondescript brown.

There was a sign above the door.

Callaway Flowers.

That was when the

idea struck. Flowers! She’d send herself some flowers with no sender name attached. Her folks would assume there was romance in the air and peace would follow.

On entering the shop Virginia was enveloped in the cool scents and glowing colours of myriad blooms.

Alerted by the shop doorbell, the proprietor emerged from a workroom at the rear. He was not tall, but he had a lean, friendly face topped by waving dark hair. He gave her a smile.

“Good evening. Can I help? Victor Callaway at your service.”

“Good evening.” Virginia was taken aback. She had expected someone less, well, young. And female. Yes, definitely female.

She realised she was staring.

“Forgive me,” she said hastily. “I was surprised to find you still open. All the other shops close at six.”

“Ah, well, we’re a new business, so any passing trade is welcome.”

He indicated what was clearly a bridal bouquet in his hand.

“Also working late. Comes of living over the premises – you’re never off duty. Not that I’m complaining.” “Um, quite.” Virginia, transfixed by the lovely arrangement of orange blossom and white rosebuds, was at a loss for words. Could she never get away from the theme of matrimony?

“I still have the bridesmaids’ posies to do yet. Four in all.”

“Then I won’t keep you. I merely called to ask you to deliver some flowers.”

“My pleasure. The boy does the deliveries each afternoon.”

Victor Callaway placed the bouquet down on the counter top and reached for order book and pencil. “Name?”

“Miss Virginia Groves. No sender’s name.”

“Ah.” He nodded conspiratorially. “What sort of flowers had you in mind? Roses?”

Virginia considered. Hopeful young lovers gave their sweethearts roses, didn’t they? A less obvious choice might be safer.

“No, I think not. A cottage arrangement, maybe.”

“Sweet William, delphiniums and mignonette.” The blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “And maybe iris?

“Lovely,” Virginia said, opening her handbag for her purse.

“I shall need the address.”

“Oh, of course. Twelve, Larch Crescent, Hoole.”

She paid the sum requested, bid the florist farewell and left the shop.

She was surprised to find that her knees felt rather weak, which she put down to the ruse she was undertaking.

Squaring her shoulders, Virginia stepped smartly homewards.

“Look what came when you were at work,” her mother said the next day, the moment Virginia came through the door. “A beautiful bouquet of flowers!”

Virginia, shedding her outdoor things and hanging them on the hall stand, tried to appear nonchalant. “Very nice.”

“But, darling, I wonder who sent them?” her mother went on with undisguised curiosity.

She indicated a feathery frond of fern set amongst the blooms.

“Fern stands for fascination, if I remember rightly.”

Virginia tutted. “Mums, really. It’s just something leafy to set off the rest.”

Her mother pursed her lips in a manner that clearly said she knew better. Someone, a nice young man, maybe, found her daughter fascinating and that was a positive step forwards to her.

Virginia smiled to herself. So far, so good. Wait until she told Betty what she was up to.

“Flowers!” Betty clasped her hands together in glee. “Oh, what a lark. what did your folks make of it?”

“Mums’s imagination rioted. Pops was more circumspect. It was ‘Now, Harriet dear, let’s not jump to conclusions.’ I could hear them from the kitchen when I was doing the washing up.

“Wait until there’s another delivery next week. That really should really do the trick.”

“Don’t forget to titivate when we go to the theatre on Friday. Nothing much. A dab of scent behind the ears should suffice.”

“But I don’t have any scent.”

“You can use mine.” Betty delved into her handbag and produced a small bottle of Parma Violet. “Arnold gave it me for my birthday.

“Oh, take it, do. Arnold can always buy me another. He spoils me quite atrociously.”

Betty sighed, dreams of future married bliss in her brown eyes, and Virginia’s heart twisted savagely. The prospect of seeing less of her friend after the September wedding (for which she was bridesmaid) had struck home.

She knew from past experience that once a girl was wed her friends took second place.

“I’m so looking forward to seeing ‘Lilac Time’, aren’t you?” Betty said into the silence.

“Very much. I shall wear my pink dress with the drop waist and shorter hemline – very daring!”

“You’ll turn all the male heads,” Betty said, giggling.

Friday evening came. Dressed in her best, perfume wafting, Virginia had not missed the quiet smile her mother wore as she breezed out.

She was congratulating herself on her bid for peace when a familiar figure came loping towards her.

“Miss Groves, good evening.” Victor Callaway raised his hat. “How charming you look. Going somewhere special?”

“Just the Royalty. They’re doing ‘Lilac Time’ this week.”

“Ah, Schubert. So very mellifluous, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, yes,” Virginia said.

They chatted some more, then Victor took his leave. Virginia waited for a brewery cart and pair to rumble past, then a motor car belching fumes, and crossed the road to the theatre where Betty was waiting.

“Who was that you were chatting to?”

“The florist. Apparently he’s a Schubert fan.”

“He’s too, too attractive for words,” Betty said. “You think so?”

“Do you mean to say you hadn’t noticed? Ginny, I sometimes despair of you!”

At that moment the doors of the theatre opened and Virginia glance up.

“Got your ticket? Come on. Let’s find our seats.”

The show was every bit as engaging as expected, but for some reason Virginia’s mind wandered. Fancy bumping into the florist, of all people.

Trust Betty to notice his charms. But her friend was right. Victor Callaway had an attraction all his own and a steadiness that appealed.

She gave a mental shrug and focused her attention on the romance blossoming on stage, and the heartsore lamentations of the admirer who had loved and lost.

The next week, a delivery of evening gowns meant that Virginia worked late, displaying them to best effect, and she was rushed and breathless when she called in at Callaway Flowers to place her order.

“Miss Groves. Was the show enjoyable?”

“It was,” Virginia replied. “The singing was sublime. I was thinking of getting the music.”

“You play the piano?”

Virginia tried to appear surprised about the lovely bouquet

“Not very expertly, I’m afraid. But I do like playing.”

He gave her an engaging smile.

“Can I get you something?” he enquired.

“More flowers, please. To be delivered like last time.”

“Have you any preference?” He indicated the display. “The pink acacia, perhaps. Some columbine for contrast, hawthorn for a country feel?”

“Lovely.”

“Is this to be a regular delivery? I only ask because I’m offering a special discount for regulars.”

“Oh, splendid. In that case, yes, please.”

He named his price and once they had settled up Virginia left the premises, well pleased.

“Acacia this time,” her mother said. “That’s for elegance. Virginia, aren’t you going to tell me where these gorgeous flowers are from?”

“The florist on Werburgh Street, according to the card,” Virginia replied evasively.

Brandishing the music to “Lilac Time” which she had bought on the way home, she went through to the front room to try it out on the piano.

The next week it was blue salvias and the week after that, a mixed posy spiked with fragrant sprigs of vervain.

“It must be that nice Ernie Briggs sending them,” her mother said.

Virginia had gone out once or twice with Ernie. She liked him as a friend, but that was all.

Then there was a young salesman who visited the store and singled her out for coffee during the morning break. He didn’t exactly set the pulse racing, either.

Her mother shook her head helplessly, aware she was no closer to finding out who was sending the flowers.

Next to arrive was a colourful array of petunias, followed by an unusual selection of scarlet and golden witch hazel. After this, as Virginia had hoped, her mother gave up and the subject of flowers and pending romance did not crop up again.

“Bliss,” Virginia said to Betty. She was spending the evening at her friend’s, putting the finishing touches to the bridal gown Betty had made herself.

Betty’s mind was full of the approaching wedding and her reply was distracted.

“Mmm, it must be. Did I tell you we’re getting the flowers from Callaway’s? What a nice man he is. Nothing too much trouble, and his prices are very competitive.”

“That reminds me. I must call in at the shop and tell Victor I shan’t need any more flowers.

“I shall miss popping in. He was telling me he’d joined the local choir. I was tempted to go along for an audition.”

“Why don’t you?”

“No time. What with the dance club, the chess society, history group, I rarely have a night in as it is.” Virginia had been stitching the hem and snapped off the thread.

“Now, turn round slowly so I can check the length. Yes, that’s better. Can’t have you tripping up on your way to the altar. Bets, you’re going to look a million dollars on the day.”

Betty did. The wedding went off splendidly, and after the happy couple had departed for their honeymoon, Virginia was able to draw breath.

She had lost count of how many times she had been bridesmaid for friends and this, she thought as she hung up the pretty dress in the spare bedroom with all the others, promised to be the last.

All her friends married! Well, such was life.

As Virginia had surmised, now Betty had a home of her own and a husband to look after, she saw less of her friend, and as the autumn days grew shorter, Virginia began to feel somewhat bereft. It did not help when the dreaded subject cropped up again.

“No flowers for weeks,” her mother said sadly. “Virginia, dear, do I take it that the romance has come to nothing?”

“Mums, you have my word on it, there was no romance,” Virginia replied in tones that brooked no argument and the matter was left to rest.

Then, one rainy day in November, the streets awash and pedestrians scurrying homewards with umbrellas aloft, Virginia entered her home to find a striking arrangement of flowers on the hall table.

“Look what’s come,” her mother called from the kitchen, a throb in her voice. “Who sent them, I wonder.”

The flowers were beautiful; an unusual assortment of tawny chrysanthemums and colourful hothouse-grown clarkia.

Virginia stared at them in surprise, her mind reeling. Who had sent them?

Not Ernie Briggs. All Ernie thought of was football. Nor could it be the rep from work.

Or could it? This time, Virginia could say in all honesty that she had no idea.

It was dance club that night and after a hasty meal she flew upstairs to exchange her work clothes for something more frivolous, placing her dancing shoes in a bag to put on when she arrived at the refectory rooms where the event was held.

The first person she saw on entering the building was Victor Callaway.

“Victor, hello. This is a surprise. Are you fond of dancing?”

He mocked a comically pained look.

“I’m no Victor Silvester, but yes, I do like to dance and when I heard about the club I thought, why not? It was your friend, Betty, who mentioned it and said how much you liked it. Chess, too.”

He made another funny face.

“Never did get on with chess.”

Betty! Was her friend match-making? Virginia tried to be cross, but looking into Victor’s face, she realised how much she had missed their chats at the florist’s shop.

The five-piece band was tuning up and they’d had to raise their voices to be heard. Then Victor said something that took her breath away.

“Did you like the flowers?”

“You sent them?” “Guilty as charged. If you only knew how I had to search for clarkia this time of year.” He paused emphatically. “Know what it stands for?”

“I – no.”

“Miss Groves, it’s high time you were enlightened into the meaning of flowers.”

He took her arm and drew her into an alcove, away from the general hubbub.

“First week, iris. For message. Am I right? I had added a frond of fern for intrigue, for intrigued I certainly was. Then came pink acacia for . . .”

“Elegance?” Virginia cut in, blushing.

“Correct. Week three, salvias for thinking of you. Do you get my drift?”

“I think so,” Virginia said faintly.

“Week four, vervain. That’s for enchantment. Week five, petunias. Never despair. Well, you were so distant but I lived in hope. Week six was spell-binding witch hazel. By this time I was well and truly spellbound.”

“And today’s message? The clarkia?”

The deep blue eyes warmed.

“It stands for ‘will you dance with me?’ Dearest Virginia, will you?”

“There’s nothing I’d like more,” Virginia said breathlessly.

The band had struck up with a waltz, and as she was twirled round in Victor’s arms Virginia had the extraordinary feeling that this was the start of something momentous.

Or had it begun on that August day, when she had called in for the flowers? n