used to dip them in her tea. As I suppose you’re meant to. So now you know about the biscuit preferences of most of my family.”
“I didn’t know you had a family,” Nick said. “Though of course you’ve got a family. And what are your preferences in the biscuit line?”
“Me?” Katherine said. “Oh—anything. I just get what the children like, usually.”
“The other thing I meant to say—I don’t mind if you don’t want to work on Saturdays.”
“Saturdays?” Katherine said.
“Your family,” Nick said. “I’ll manage.”
“Oh,” Katherine said. She hadn’t considered that; the arrangementshad been vague. She didn’t want to reject what, for Nick, was evidently some thought-out kindness, and things could change later. “That’s very good of you. You’ll manage all right?”
“I’ll manage,” Nick said again. “Now. Let’s have that coffee and no biscuits—I remembered the milk, the biscuits didn’t occur to me—and we’ll go through the tasks of the week. It’s the same every week.”
Twice a week, on Tuesday morning—“but I went on Monday this week”—and on Friday morning, before the Saturday rush, Nick went in the little van to the flower market. He’d be back before opening time, and together they’d strip the flowers’ foliage, plunge them into the buckets. “I’ll just get what tempts me,” Nick said. “I suppose in a bit we’ll find out what sells and what doesn’t.” That was the fresh stock, which he was dealing with. Apart from the flowers, there were leaves and other greenery, used in making up bouquets. There was, too, a range of dried flowers and grasses so the shop, even at the end of a busy day, wouldn’t look denuded. Some of that, too, could go into a fresh bouquet, like the shining coins of honesty, and some more exotic things: there were crabbed and arthritic fingers of willow twigs, and, against the wall, a fan of peacock feathers. “People come in sometimes, and they just buy honesty and peacock feathers,” Nick said. “The trouble is they last for ever, so we won’t see them for another year, and we won’t get rich on that.”
There was, too, a range of vases for sale. “You’d be surprised,” Nick said, “—at the number of people—I’ve already discovered this and I’ve only been here a week—who come in and buy a bunch of flowers, they’re the ones who’ve got something to apologize for, to their wives usually, I suppose, and then they remember they haven’t got a vase. You can charge what you like for those.” Katherine looked at the strange collection: some big square greenish glass ones, a Chinese-looking one with dragons, and half a dozen in brownish pottery, a few Victorian ones with blurred transfers of fruit and vegetables.
“Well,” Nick said, “I had a flurry of custom on Monday, just after you came in—it must have been you, bringing me luck—and a little bit on Tuesday, but then it died down a bit. I had a good day on Friday, though, and actually, Saturday too. We were closer to running out of stock than I’d expected. Curiosity, I expect—we’ll see what it looks like in a month.”
“And the vases?” Katherine said, picking at a stuck-on rose on a goblin fantasy of fruit and flowers, bulging like goitres.
“Don’t you like them?” Nick said. “I was in York a week or two back,and I saw a florist’s, just closing down. I went in and I bought the stock. It must have been there years. He was glad to get rid of it. I thought it was a good omen.”
“A good omen?” Katherine said. “Yes, I suppose you could see it like that.”
Nick looked at her solemnly, his boyishly blue eyes, his untidy blond hair; she wondered if he knew what he was doing. All at once, he was laughing. “I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “If they wouldn’t buy them in York, they’re not going to buy them in Sheffield.”
“I didn’t mean that, exactly,” Katherine said, blushing. She shouldn’t kick
“I didn’t know you had a family,” Nick said. “Though of course you’ve got a family. And what are your preferences in the biscuit line?”
“Me?” Katherine said. “Oh—anything. I just get what the children like, usually.”
“The other thing I meant to say—I don’t mind if you don’t want to work on Saturdays.”
“Saturdays?” Katherine said.
“Your family,” Nick said. “I’ll manage.”
“Oh,” Katherine said. She hadn’t considered that; the arrangementshad been vague. She didn’t want to reject what, for Nick, was evidently some thought-out kindness, and things could change later. “That’s very good of you. You’ll manage all right?”
“I’ll manage,” Nick said again. “Now. Let’s have that coffee and no biscuits—I remembered the milk, the biscuits didn’t occur to me—and we’ll go through the tasks of the week. It’s the same every week.”
Twice a week, on Tuesday morning—“but I went on Monday this week”—and on Friday morning, before the Saturday rush, Nick went in the little van to the flower market. He’d be back before opening time, and together they’d strip the flowers’ foliage, plunge them into the buckets. “I’ll just get what tempts me,” Nick said. “I suppose in a bit we’ll find out what sells and what doesn’t.” That was the fresh stock, which he was dealing with. Apart from the flowers, there were leaves and other greenery, used in making up bouquets. There was, too, a range of dried flowers and grasses so the shop, even at the end of a busy day, wouldn’t look denuded. Some of that, too, could go into a fresh bouquet, like the shining coins of honesty, and some more exotic things: there were crabbed and arthritic fingers of willow twigs, and, against the wall, a fan of peacock feathers. “People come in sometimes, and they just buy honesty and peacock feathers,” Nick said. “The trouble is they last for ever, so we won’t see them for another year, and we won’t get rich on that.”
There was, too, a range of vases for sale. “You’d be surprised,” Nick said, “—at the number of people—I’ve already discovered this and I’ve only been here a week—who come in and buy a bunch of flowers, they’re the ones who’ve got something to apologize for, to their wives usually, I suppose, and then they remember they haven’t got a vase. You can charge what you like for those.” Katherine looked at the strange collection: some big square greenish glass ones, a Chinese-looking one with dragons, and half a dozen in brownish pottery, a few Victorian ones with blurred transfers of fruit and vegetables.
“Well,” Nick said, “I had a flurry of custom on Monday, just after you came in—it must have been you, bringing me luck—and a little bit on Tuesday, but then it died down a bit. I had a good day on Friday, though, and actually, Saturday too. We were closer to running out of stock than I’d expected. Curiosity, I expect—we’ll see what it looks like in a month.”
“And the vases?” Katherine said, picking at a stuck-on rose on a goblin fantasy of fruit and flowers, bulging like goitres.
“Don’t you like them?” Nick said. “I was in York a week or two back,and I saw a florist’s, just closing down. I went in and I bought the stock. It must have been there years. He was glad to get rid of it. I thought it was a good omen.”
“A good omen?” Katherine said. “Yes, I suppose you could see it like that.”
Nick looked at her solemnly, his boyishly blue eyes, his untidy blond hair; she wondered if he knew what he was doing. All at once, he was laughing. “I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “If they wouldn’t buy them in York, they’re not going to buy them in Sheffield.”
“I didn’t mean that, exactly,” Katherine said, blushing. She shouldn’t kick
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