Bushel & A Peck

Noel would often stop at the Charming Street Farmer’s Market to smell the roses, attractively arranged in a decorative cart parked along-side the store window in the cobblestone hall.  Almost every time, Mr. Wincey would wave to him from inside the floral shop standing behind an antique cash register, brushing from his eyes the same wisp of hair haphazardly straying from his salt-and-pepper comb-over, always smiling.  He was a curious fellow, Mr. Wincey.  A short, round man with a cheerful face and a pleasant English accent.

On this particular day, a chilly February morning in the height of the Valentine’s Day spell, Noel was greeted by the amiable shopkeeper replenishing the flowers.  Noel smiled timidly, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his grey woolen coat and spoke,

“Nice flowers.” 

Mr. Wincey’s face broke out in a jolly beam, sticking a sprig of baby’s breath into a bountiful bouquet,

“Aren’t they just marvelous!?  It’s sweetheart season after all.  Fancy a bit of a bloom for yours?” 

Noel shook his head self-consciously, “Nah.” 

Mr. Wincey studied the young man quizzically for a moment and continued to busy himself with the task at hand, “One day you will.”

Noel couldn’t resist the urge to lean forward, touch the tip of his nose to a silky petal and inhale. “Excuse me, Sir … “ Noel began to as a question but the jovial man interrupted. 

“Please, call me Alfred.  Alfred Wincey.”  He wiped his hands quickly on his apron and offered one. 

Noel reciprocated the gesture, “Noel.  Nice to meet you, Sir.” 

Mr. Wincey tittered, “Now, what were you about to ask me, my boy?”

Noel eyed the cart overflowing with vibrant flowers and roses of every color and felt his cheeks begin to resemble Mr. Wincey’s wares.  “Well, if I did have a special someone, how do I know what flower to choose?” 

His query was akin to beautiful melodic music to Mr. Wincey’s ears, “O Noel, the language of flowers is complex.  There is simply a choice for every occasion, the sweetness of new love, heartache of lost affection, birth, death, everything!  Symbolism my dear boy is a powerful thing and of course open to personal interpretation but the semantics of flowers is sacred.” 

Noel took in a sharp breath, “Sounds complicated.”  

Mr. Wincey regarded the blossoms, “Allow me to explain.  You see, honeysuckles are a fine bloom used to define devotion, daffodils denote new beginnings, dahlias deem dignity, lilacs whisper the first emotions of love and daises praise innocence but roses truly make the heart sing.” 

Noel did his best to take mental notes during Mr. Wincey’s floral monologue.  “And you should know.  How did you come to know so much about flowers?” 

Mr. Wincey sighed and leaned a meaty hip against the side of the cart, “Two words dear boy, Peggy Potts.  She was the most beautiful lass this side of Heaven.  In this story, I have to tell you that at the start I was quite the prickly protagonist.  I came upon her, such a stunning creature, at the theatre and then I became a full-fledged leading man.  She turned me unabashedly romantic.“  Mr. Wincey’s voice trailed off at the memory.  “O Peggy Pots was a girl of profound wisdom and elegant flare.  Bright and curious, I loved her with all my heart.  Roses became a frequent means of communication.  Her Dad didn’t approve of our stepping out together seeing as our pedigrees didn’t quite match up.  At first, I’d pick flowers from people’s gardens and leave them at her window or in the basket of her bicycle.  I went on to carnations because they have a long life-span for a flower and I wanted her to always remember my heart beat for her.”

Noel was entranced by the florist’s tale.  He pulled a single long stemmed rose from the cart and twirled it between his fingers careful not to catch himself on the thorns, “Her old man didn’t want you to be together so you snuck her flowers?” 

Mr. Wincey nodded, “You are correct.  She started to leave thank you notes in reply that evolved into invitations for clandestine picnics and strolls along the lakeside.  We had so many splendid moments together.  Our secret love was mired in symbolism because of the flowers.  Became our tradition, our routine, inspiring love; between us was a language full of color exciting hues and dreamy undertones.” 

Noel pressed him for more, “And?” 

Mr. Wincey, charmed by the boys interest carried on, “O! Well then, let me see, what next … during the last days of our courtship I would leave her one single rose on her window sill, always having to reach up on my tippy toes to secure it.  As you can see, I’m not a tall man.  Some days they were white, for the purity and secrecy of our love.  Other days I’d leave yellow to convey my delight and joy for her.  Other days pink, to revel in all of her loveliness but most times I left her red; the most iconic of all flowers, the most expressive of love and romance and passion.  She was my passion.”

Noel placed the flower back into its vase and inquired, “Where is she now?” 

A flicker of sadness moved across Mr. Wincey’s otherwise friendly eyes, “Long gone from me, dear boy.  Long gone.” 

Noel felt a pang of regret for having asked, “You mean … “  

Mr. Wincey rushed to correct him, “Goodness no.  Her family packed up and moved house to Paris and mine left shortly after for Canada.  Call it a case of bad timing I suppose and we were so young.  The last time I saw her we danced cheek to cheek right there in the street.  No music, I just sang softly into her ear, our favorite song.”  Mr. Wincey began to sing quietly getting lost again in the memory, “I love you, a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck  ...”

Noel took a moment to imagine them.  He could tell Mr. Wincey, while small and aged now was handsome in his youth.  He conceived Peggy Potts to be a startling brunette with warm eyes and soft lips, resting her rosy cheek against a young Alfred’s shoulder as they danced while he hummed tenderly into her ear.  “You never saw her again?” 

Mr. Wincey ceased singing and hung his head and smiled warmly, “Not a day goes by when my thoughts don’t rest on her pretty face, Noel.  The last thing I said to her, I uttered as she was boarding the train to Paris.  I told her that even with an ocean between us I would always love her with my whole heart for my whole life.” 

Noel cleared his throat, “That’s really sad, man.” 

Mr. Wincey corrected his sad posture and piped up, “Indeed it is but my dear boy, true love offers great surprises.  My affection for Peggy Potts delivered me to a new world with new dreams.  Flowers.  I reckon if I hadn’t encountered her and talked to her with roses as often as I did I may have ended up a bookbinder like my father.  Instead, I am surrounded by beauty each day and participate in bringing joy and comfort to others.  It also gives me the chance to think fondly of blessings.  So tell me about your sweetheart.”

Noel stiffened and jabbed his hands nervously back into the pockets of his coat shrugging his shoulders, “Nothing to tell really, she doesn’t even know I’m alive. “ 

Mr. Wincey’s kind eyes twinkled, “Perhaps something from my cart?  It would make for such a lovely introduction.  Go on, decide on something.  My treat.”  

Noel’s eyes widened with trepidation, face crimson at the offer, “She wouldn’t like me.” 

Mr. Wincey sucked his teeth and exclaimed, “Confidence, dear boy!  When it comes to the fairer sex, the one thing more powerful than the language of flowers is confidence.  You are a dashing young man, handsome, caring eyes.  Golly, you’ve been standing in this hallway listening to an old fool ramble on about ancient history.  It’s a new day, the possibilities are endless! And dear Noel, it is far worse to never try and wonder forever about what might have been than it is to wrangle up the courage to act and fail.   Always try.  Happiness is born out of audaciousness.  Trust me.  Now, what shall I wrap up for you?  I won’t take no for an answer.”  Mr. Wincey grinned. 

Noel took a deep breath and eyed the exquisite array of blooms filling the cart.  What would be most appropriate for Ruby?  He encounters the effervescent vision of her every morning manning the reception area of the neighboring office in his work building.  Through the glass dividing the wait area from the hall, she smiles to him and nods whenever he passes by.  First eye contact induced a warm sensation that spread from the pit of his stomach to the stems of his heart.  She was beautiful and he discovered her name only because someone called ahead to her one afternoon to hold the elevator. 

Mr. Wincey nudged the daydreaming boy, “So?” 

Noel snapped out of his daze, “You know better than me, what do you think?” 

The florist regarded the cart and then Noel, “That depends on what you wish to say.” 

Noel paused on the thought and said, “Hello?”

 

Mr. Wincey broke out with a boisterous giggle, “You got me there, dear boy.” 

Mr. Wincey suggested a tasteful bouquet of pale pink gerbera daisies but Noel moved to veto his suggestion, “Do they tell her I have confidence?”  

Noel’s new friend gathered up the flowers sheathed in clear cellophane with a bright fuchsia ribbon tied in a bow that resembled a heart and placed them in his arm, “Dear boy, gerbera daisies are the fifth most popular flower in the world and are known to brighten just about anyone’s day but they’ll say what you want them to say by the way you deliver them.”  

Noel felt dizzy, “This flower thing is overwhelming.”  

Mr. Wincey nodded, “Indeed but might I remind you so are affairs of the heart and don’t forget what I said when I told you that true love offers great surprises.  I know these beautiful daisies will say exactly what you mean them to say when you see the look on her face when she receives them.   And might I also add, I look forward to hearing how it goes!  Please do come by and share with me your story. I have a feeling it’s going to be a happy one.”  Mr. Wincey winked at Noel and patted him on the arm, “Now go be brave, dear boy.  And remember, confidence.”

From his coat pocket, Noel offered a crumpled wad of cash to Mr. Wincey, “At least let me pay for them.” 

Mr. Wincey refused, hiding his hands behind his back, “It’s my pleasure to do this for you, dear boy.  And I expect you’ll be back for roses soon enough.” 

Noel thanked him for his kindness and turned to leave and called back, “Mr. Wincey?” 

He looked to the eager boy carrying the flowers that reminded him so much of himself so many years ago running off with a fist full of wild flowers to Peggy’s window sill for the first time, “Yes, dear boy?” 

Noel looked at the flowers safely nestled in the crook of his arm and then to the florist.  “I bet she thinks of you just as often.”

**

So pleased to share my current piece of short fiction.  I am hoping to also post the other, 'Seated Women', over the weekend.  

I wrote Bushel from the photograph displayed above.  It served as a writing prompt.  I didn't mean for it to but that's what evolved from encountering the image.  I really love Mr. Wincey and hope you will too.  I also love that it came about just before Valentine's Day.  I'm not a big fan of the 'holiday' but there is always room for stories that promote love and happy feelings.  So, this is for those of you who are closet romantics and those who choose to shout it all from the rooftops. As with 'Whistle' I am certain more edits and additions will come but for now, in my excitement of having finished something else, I wanted to share.  

I also have a flash of something new to hit the page.  There's already a working title and a character who hasn't quite introduced himself but I am certain he will.

Another Friday, another week complete. 

Wherever your weekend takes you, enjoy.  I am spending the evening tonight with my sister 'n' law.  I see fancy drinks and lots of intelligent conversation in my near future. Yay!

In propinquity,

Nic