Page 8 of The Pieces of Us

It’s no mean feat getting the three of us round the small kitchen table for breakfast the following weekend. But Ruby and Minnie are hungry, and both eat their eggs without complaining about the rubbery bits.

‘I’m going to work today,’ I tell Minnie. ‘So is Ruby. But Lena will be here with you.’

She slurps her tea. ‘Do you work at the flower shop as well?’ she asks Ruby.

‘No, Gran. I work in Costa on Saturdays.’

‘Ooh, fancy. I used to work in Woolworths.’

We don’t have time to sit and chat, but I always drop everything to enjoy Minnie’s lucid moments.

The course of her illness can change in a heartbeat and any conversation we have where she’s just Minnie and not Minnie-with-Alzheimer’s could be the last. So I stay where I am, drinking the rest of my tepid tea, and listen to her reminisce about Woolworths.

It amazes me that she can remember the minutiae of a Tuesday shift twenty-five years ago – the area manager dropped into the shop unexpectedly and Minnie and Ada were dancing to ‘Eternal Flame’ at the Record Bar in their navy-blue piped polyester tabards and navy and white striped blouses – but she can’t remember brushing her teeth half an hour ago.

‘I need to get going,’ Ruby says apologetically the first time Minnie breaks her monologue to drink her tea.

Love you , I mouth before she leaves the room. I’m not sure she notices. I turn back to Minnie, hoping for more stories. But I can see from the look on her face that the moment has gone. I feel the disappointment deep in my gut but plaster a wide smile on my face. ‘Right. Fancy some TV?’

‘I want to play Candy Crush ,’ she says. ‘I’m going to play it all day.’

I don’t argue with her, nor am I concerned about her screen time; she’ll be lucky if she manages half an hour of Candy Crush action before she’s asleep.

I settle her on the sofa and within seconds she’s absorbed.

‘I’m just going to get ready for work,’ I say to the side of her face and get nothing back.

My first customer of the day is an eighty-year-old woman walking with a stick – glossy black with a beautifully curved leopard-print handle.

She buys lilies for her younger (seventy-seven-year-old) sister and tells me that they’re going to the theatre together that evening.

Before that, she’s getting a manicure. I watch her move slowly but steadily around the shop with the help of her leopard-print handle.

It’s joyous to hear the excitement in her voice, to feel her sense of adventure.

At the same time our interaction serves as a biting reminder of all the parts of my mother that have already died far too soon.

Pete understands. He’s my boss, but he’s also my friend – a friend who uses humour and gentle teasing to help me summon the energy for the cheerful, easy-going demeanour people expect on the other side of the counter when they’re buying flowers.

More importantly it also helps me deal with whatever is going on at home.

‘You need to get your roots done.’ He looks at my head, his eyes lingering long enough to make his point.

‘I’ll add it to my list of stuff I don’t have the money or time for.’ I focus on the order book, making a note of the delivery slots we still have available for the week. When I look up, Pete’s face appears from behind an armful of red roses. ‘How did the phone propose to his girlfriend?’

I stare at him.

‘He gave her a ring.’ He grins.

I pull a face. ‘I hate the build-up to Valentine’s Day. It’s a crock of shit. Nothing but a commercially manufactured holiday.’

‘Exactly.’ Pete’s grin gets wider. ‘Let’s take their money.’

I laugh finally. ‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘What?’ He looks at me with an expression of mock affront. ‘I’m a true romantic. And not just on Valentine’s Day. I’m making Jase his favourite meal tonight, then we’ll follow a trail of rose petals to the sofa and watch The Voice .’

‘Is Jase getting spaghetti hoops on toast?’ I open the box that was delivered this morning and start unpacking stuffed teddy bears clutching felt flowers, arranging them in neat rows on the shelf.

‘His other favourite: pasta with hot dogs.’

‘I’m jealous,’ I tell him, and I’m only half joking.

We work in comfortable silence; I think about the likelihood of having someone in my life to heat up tinned food for me.

Minnie used to be a competent cook who refused to buy anything processed.

It’s hard to believe that now. She’s nervous about using the toaster and we have enough jars of Dolmio, brought from her pantry, to see us through an apocalypse.

I applied for this job not long after Ruby started school, a single mum with a sporadic CV who didn’t know her chrysanthemums from her dahlias but was determined to earn a wage even if it did have to be topped up by tax credits.

Pete quickly drew us both under his wing and made more allowances for me than I’d known any other employer to do.

‘I don’t want any favours,’ I told him at the start, before I grudgingly accepted that I would need numerous favours from this sweet, creative, quirky man.

The best thing about Pete is that he makes me feel like he couldn’t cope without me, when the truth is he’d fill my position in days, if not hours.

But I’d struggle to find another boss who let me work during school hours when Ruby was young, who gave me more shifts when she became more self-sufficient, and who’s always been patient and supportive, particularly during the last few years as I’ve navigated parenting a teenager with the ever-increasing responsibility of caring for Minnie.

Pete also gives me a bouquet of tulips every month, just because they’re my favourite.

I look at him now and see the concern on his handsome face – ‘You look like Brad Pitt’s queer older brother, with less hair,’ I told him once, in all seriousness – and feel grateful that he’s my friend.

‘Cat, do you need some time off?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘You could take some holiday time. I can drag Jase out of retirement for a week or two. He taught me everything I know, after all.’

‘To be honest, time off is the last thing I want.’ I tell him. ‘This place is all I have that’s just for me.’

He turns his head away. ‘Och, you’ll make an old man cry. Go and stick the kettle on.’

I smile. ‘OK. But first … how do you save money on Valentine’s Day?’

A smile spreads across his face. ‘I don’t know, Cat. How do you save money on Valentine’s Day?’

‘You stay single.’ I wink at him.

When I hand Pete his coffee, he exchanges it for a bucket of flowers. ‘Work your magic with these, please. Around the forty quid mark.’

He flicks on the radio and tranquil sounds fill the room.

I start trimming the sharp thorns off the roses, then move on to the other stems, using shears to remove the leaves.

Pete settles himself at his desk on the far side of the room, working through paperwork, attending to customers whenever the bell alerts him to their arrival.

Roses aren’t my favourite flower, but I like a challenge.

They need to be the focal point, of course, but I add fluffy pincushions in lavender, pink and white.

Then accent greenery in the form of dusty miller, heather and baby’s breath.

I stretch out my arms to inspect my arrangement from a distance.

‘There’s something missing,’ Pete says before I can.

‘Shhh,’ I tell him, grabbing white spray chrysanthemums.

‘Bingo,’ he says.

I grin at him.

‘You’ve got an eye for this, you know. You always have done.’

‘Oh, stop.’

‘You should take a course. You might qualify for help with the cost. Maybe even get the whole thing funded.’

‘Where the hell would I find the time to do that?’

He shrugs. ‘You just need to find it from somewhere. Lean on other people more. You don’t have to do everything yourself.’

‘So you keep telling me.’ I turn my attention back to my bouquet, fussing over it a little before binding the stems together with floral wire.

Pete’s not one to finish making his point before he’s ready. ‘Cat, what were you thinking about when you were making that?’

I stare at him. ‘What do you mean? Nothing. Well, the flowers, obviously. I can’t get enough of these pincushions.’

‘Exactly. This isn’t just a job for you, Cat. It’s a way for you to escape everything. If you can have ten minutes without thinking about your teenage daughter, your mum, your bills, your sad single existence …’

I raise my eyebrows in mock outrage but let him continue.

‘I believe it’s what we call mindfulness,’ he says. ‘Slowing down, being present in the moment, not letting our busy brains stress us out.’

‘I tried meditation with Lisa once, at the Buddhist Centre. We were awful at it. She kept making me laugh. Thought we were going to get kicked out.’

‘Mindful flower arranging,’ he says firmly. ‘It’s going to be the next big thing, I tell you.’

The doorbell chimes, and Pete springs into action, giving me a final listen to me look on his way out. But I don’t get much respite. He’s back with my daughter by his side.

‘Hey, Rubes. I’m just finishing up here,’ I say.

‘Cool,’ she says. ‘Ooh, did you make that?’

‘All your mum’s work,’ Pete says, beaming like a proud father.

‘That’s dead nice, Mum,’ Ruby says, and it feels like I’ve won the lottery.

‘Pete thinks I should take a floristry course,’ I tell Ruby on the way home.

‘Cool,’ she says, not taking her eyes off her phone.

It’s not quite rush hour, but roadworks and temporary traffic lights turn our journey home into a frustrating stop-and-start ordeal. I turn on the radio, leaving her to scroll.

When the opening bars of Kaiser Chiefs’ ‘Ruby’ blast into the car, I boost the volume. ‘Hey. They’re singing about you.’