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“I’m so glad you’re happy, Grandad. Now, I hope we do good business and make money, otherwise I’d have to go back to Manchester.”
He looks up sharply. “Never do that. Even if we starve. Nothin’ is worth being treated bad. Money comes and goes, people, family, they come and go, even health. But your good name, you must never lose. You must never let anyone take away your good name.”
The thing that still scares me is public speaking. I’ve memorised my presentation and rehearsed it in front of the mirror in the bathroom. And yet, I can’t remember such an attack of nerves. After Manchester where I was ignored, I’ve longed to be taken seriously, but now I just want to hide. What if anyone asks me a question I can’t answer? What if I forget or get my facts muddled? Even worse, what if I have too many facts and bore everyone to sleep.
“You’ll be fine, stop the twitchin’, girl.” Grandad lays a hand on my arm when I hand him his tea and spill some of it into the saucer. “Yer like a long-tailed cat in a room full o’ rockin’ chairs. Now go and open the door and let’s be ‘avin’ them.”
Within minutes, people start drifting in, walking around to look at the hexagons Hal made for me, each now has a jar of a different honey with a beautiful picture of the relevant herbs or flowers which Gabriel gave me. By the time we’re ready for the first demo, there are twenty people and more arriving. Grandad sits on his chair beside me as I unscrew the lid on the next jar and spoon out a little into each of the tasting cups for people to try.
Pierre is here to help for a couple of hours. She and Gabriel are going to France tonight for a few weeks’ holiday before La Canette gets busy. She tells me late March is when the weather turns gorgeous, and the visitors start coming to the island. My shop will be well in its stride by then.
“Thistle honey.” I pass the cups so everyone can taste. I’ve already outlined some of the main health benefits to honey and can now focus on flavour. “You probably hate Canada thistle because it creeps into your garden and is almost impossible to get rid of, but it produces a sophisticated sweet nectar that goes into this honey…”
I’m only half way through my prepared presentation listing all the different varieties when people begin to look a bit bored. Too many facts. I look helplessly to Grandad, should I stop?
“This one.” He nods to the eucalyptus honey samples in the tasting cups. “Is good for night-time cough.” Instantly, people look more interested, and they all try it. “And it’s good for them wi’ heart trouble.”
I can’t believe this. Ten minutes ago, I outlined the same benefits, yet people pay him a lot more attention, they ask questions and take his advice. They even like the taste much better because many have selected several jars to buy.
It dawns on me that Grandad is an authority, here. He might speak with rough voice and a rougher dialect, but people respect him and trust his knowledge. In fact, many of the older customers seem more interested in him than anything else.
“Good to see you up and about, Hedge.” “How you feeling, Hedge?” “You’ve done a royal job with the new place, Hedge.”
Even when he tries to give me credit for the shop, they respond with, “Your granddaughter is a chip off the old block and no mistake.”
So, I leave him chatting to a few old men and go round the shelves and deal with customers wanting to buy.
“So, citrus honey is best for sweetening tea,” one woman asks, searching around the shelves.
I lead her to the picture on the wall of orange blossoms, and she bends down to pick a jar tied with an orange ribbon from the full basket underneath.
“And what can I use the bee pollen for?”
I show her and she buys two bags. Pierre, behind the till, catches my eye and grins as she slips a couple of jars into the beautiful damask bags we made last night.
I’m so happy, can it really be possible this space was two carpeted ugly rooms on Friday morning?
My eyes keep going to the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of Hal. He said he’ll do his best to come, but so far there’s no sign of him.
“I like all the pictures, where did you get them?” A woman draws my attention back.
“They are photographs from the wonderfully talented Gabriel…” I can’t remember his surname.
But the woman doesn’t care, she is more interested in shopping. “Beautiful. Who knew thistles and weeds could look so romantic.”
A spark of an idea glimmers in my head as I move on to the next customer. We could sell postcards of Gabriel’s photos with a couple of lines’ description on the back, maybe an interesting new fact. It won’t make much profit, because I want to pay Gabriel a fair price, but it will attract interest. Some of the holiday traffic on the way to the beach might stop to buy postcards and when they send them to friends… Imagine the added exposure. And people in England might order online. Which reminds me: website, social media, …
The list of jobs keeps growing.
My eyes go to the window, a man is walking from the direction of Low Catch. My heart kicks up for an instant, but no, it’s not Hal.
“What about the shopping bags, they are so gorgeous, where did you get these from?” It’s the same woman.
“They were donated by La Canette Silks, you know, the Casemates.”
“The case-what?” she asks. Clearly, she’s new to the island.
“The building is the old Casemates,” Pierre says smoothly from the other side of the shop. “So, we sometimes just call it that.”
