Florence asked, confused. She was used to Albert’s catastrophising, but this story was a little odd. ‘What did you say?’
‘Someone heard screams in the middle of the night.’
‘Where, here?’
‘No, in Kidderminster.’
Florence realised she had no idea what Albert was talking about. ‘Maybe you should start again. From the beginning.’
‘The artist told me that just before he came to the island he read about a local woman, a young lady somnambulist, dressed only in her night clothes. She was still asleep when she climbed out of an upstairs window and onto the roof of her family home.’
‘How do your customers come to share such stories with you.’ She was struggling not to giggle. ‘They only come in to buy tea.’
‘Maybe they can see that I need a little drama in my life.’ A customer entered the shop just then and Albert lowered his voice and added, ‘We’ve been friends since we were children, Florence; can you remember a time when we had something worth being excited about?’
‘Apart from going to the theatre, or such like?’ she asked, not wishing him to become maudlin, which he could, if she ever let him.
‘Yes, those outings are fun, but not like the story the artist told me.’
Florence was always fascinated by Albert’s latest intrigue. Her father wouldn’t entertain the newspapers being read in their home. His only connection to them was caused by necessity when he advertised his stationer’s, W. H. Rowe. Albert was her connection to the sensational stories printed in them. He loved discovering the latest dramas occurring on the island and she loved that he took time to share them with her. She wasn’t sure though if it was the stories themselves, or his dramatised account of them.
‘Was she all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thankfully,’ Albert continued. ‘The girl’s father and a police constable threw a rope up to her. They managed to rescue her before she fell headlong to her death.’
Florence focused her attention on her purse so that he couldn’t see her amusement at his dramatics. ‘That’s a relief. Poor thing, waking up in such a predicament.’ She wondered how much longer he was going to spend wrapping up her tea.
‘That’s what I thought.’ He patted the neat package. ‘There you go.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, paying him and taking her tea.
‘It’s such a relief that the weather has improved, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. Father has been fretting about the stock not being delivered on time, as the ferries were cancelled due to the summer storms last week.’
Albert nodded, happy to have another drama to focus on. ‘We’ve had the same problem here,’ he said, putting her money in the till and giving her change. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Thankfully we had a delivery brought in this morning. Now everyone is panicking that the weather will change again, so they’re all rushing to stock up on their favourite tea mixture before it does.’
‘That’s one of the downsides of living on an island, my father always says.’ Florence knew the problem well. Her own mother was always concerning herself with the boats’ arrivals at the harbour. ‘Hopefully it’ll stay nice and hot for a while now. It is supposed to be summer, after all.’
She went to say something else, but, as she glanced out the window, all thoughts of what it was disappeared as she noticed one particular lady marching up the pavement on the opposite side of the street, her lady’s maid at her side laden with various bags and boxes. Florence could not help feeling sorry for the young woman scuttling along slightly behind her mistress, who was, by the determined expression on her lined face, on her way to give some poor soul a scolding.
Florence groaned.
‘Whatever is the matter?’ Albert asked. ‘Are you unwell?’
She shook her head. ‘No, look.’ She pointed out of the window. ‘She’s paused. I think she’s about to cross over to this side.’
He stepped forward, peered out at the focus of her concern and shivered theatrically. ‘I hope she doesn’t come in here. She’s a monstrous woman. She always has something, or someone, to complain about.’
Florence doubted that Mrs Wolstenholm would be buying her own tea. She probably left that job to one of her servants. Her heart dipped as she realised that the route the woman was taking was to W.H. Rowe next door.
‘Oh, no. She’s going into Father’s shop. I’d better hurry back. Thanks, Albert,’ she shouted over her shoulder.
She ran out of the shop, following the lady’s maid in through the open shop door, the jangling of the brass alerting her father and sister Amy to their arrival. She closed the door quietly behind them, Mrs Wolstenholm oblivious to Florence coming in behind her. The lady tapped her silver-topped walking stick noisily on the wooden floorboards.
Dropping the packet of tea quickly behind the counter, Florence skirted around the woman and her servant, a smile she did not feel fixed firmly on her face.
‘Mrs Wolstenholm, how delightful to see you today.’
The woman waited for Florence to come directly in front of her before looking her slowly up and down as if she had never seen a specimen quite like her before. ‘I don’t take to modern women,’ she sniffed, glancing at Florence’s bustle. ‘All those ruffles and draping material, it’s too fanciful if you ask me. I believe unmarried women should wear plainer clothing.’
Florence had not asked her. She hid her irritation, determined not to give the woman satisfaction of knowing she had annoyed her. Florence liked wearing a larger bustle, despite the discomfort it brought to her. She loved fashion and was not going to be dictated to about her clothing by anyone else, especially not this rude woman.
‘Is there anything I can help you with today, Mrs Wolstenholm?’ Florence asked, ignoring the insults being thrown at her; she knew better than to annoy her father’s best, but rudest, customer or give her any cause to be angered further.
Mrs Wolstenholm waved her gloved hand as if swatting an annoying fly. ‘Where is your father? I wish to speak with him.’
‘Are you certain I will be unable to assist you?’ Florence asked, aware that she knew all there was to know about the workings of this shop.
Mrs Wolstenholm rested both hands on the top of her walking stick and glowered at Florence. ‘I will not be served by a girl. I have asked for your father; he always serves me.’
Frustrated by the woman’s rudeness, Florence forced a smile. ‘Would you like to take a seat while I fetch him for you?’ she asked, indicating the smart cushioned chair her father had brought into the shop for his less than sturdy customers.
‘I shall not be waiting long enough to take a seat,’ she barked. ‘Hurry now, girl. I do not have time to dawdle.’
Florence heard footsteps and turned her attention to the storeroom door, relieved to see her father’s arrival. He was wearing a similar forced smile to the one she felt sure she had on her face.
