Page 114 of Pansies

“Erm,” said Alfie.

“I can’t be doing with anything lovey-dovey. Red roses and whatnot. And I don’t want dead-bugger flowers either.”

“Dead-bugger flowers?”

“Ye knaa, the flimsy white nonsense people give you when you’re sick. Like they’re already planning the funeral. Nobody’s burying Maureen on my watch.”2

“Right. No roses. No dead-bugger flowers. Gottit.”

She gazed at him expectantly. And with so much hope it was bollock-freezing.

“So, summin cheery, mebbe?” he suggested, desperately. “I bet she’s tough as nails, your Maureen?”

“Aye.” That got him the faintest hint of a smile. Brightened her tired eyes. “That she is.”

Alfie scanned the flowers for a moment or two before his practical side intervened. “Oh. Erm. How much d’ye wanna spend?”

“Twenty quid mebbe?”

“Sounds good.” This was the moment of truth. He took a deep breath. Pointed at what was one of the few flowers he knew, apart from the ones his mam liked, roses because everyone did, and the ornamental cabbage thing Fen had given him. “So, wharraboot sunflowers? They’re bold and happy like?”

“That’s a really wonderful idea.” Fen, at last, stepped into the shop, laptop under his arm, smiling.

Alfie was incredibly glad to see him. And at the same time he wanted to shake him.Don’t you ever abandon me in the flower shop again!

“Sunflowers don’t need much to set them off. Just some nice greens.” Fen gathered up a mass of them from the bucket, his hands full of gold. “Something like this?”

The woman nodded. “Aye, that’d do nicely.”

Fen made his way back to the counter. Started performing his usual miracles with scissors and paper and bits of ribbon. Which liberated Alfie to scoop up the laptop and flee into the workroom.

There was actually a desk lurking in the corner, half-buried behind buckets and under papers. He got settled and began the painstaking task of untangling nearly two years of neglectful accounting.

And it was only when Fen touched him gently on the shoulder that Alfie realised that his neck was cricked and his eyes were gritty and that a lot of time had passed.

“Brought you something.” Fen put a paper bag down beside him, a neatly wrapped circle of greaseproof paper inside. “I hope you still like these.”

Alfie tore at the wrapping, inhaling blissfully the scent of floury bread and sweaty cheddar. “Fuck yeah. My favourite.”

“When you used to come in with your mum, you were always on at her to let you get a stottie.”3

Alfie mumbled something with his mouth full.

“I made you some tea as well. But I don’t know how you like it.”

“Milk, no sugar.”

“Really? A homegrown northern boy like you doesn’t take sugar?”

“Don’t want to get podgy.”

Fen smiled at him. “You’d look good. As long as you were happy.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe when I’m old and I’ve got no chance of ever getting laid again.”

“I’d still want to sleep with you. You won’t ever not be gorgeous to me, Alfie Bell. Whatever age or size you are.”

Alfie was still blushing into his rapidly disappearing stottie when Fen came back with a mug of tea. Proper tea, made with what was obviously a tea bag. Not the leafy stuff they liked down south. “Have you eaten?”

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