to a private school miles away. You caught the school bus if you lived in the sticks and you rode your bike if you were cool.
Scott grins at me. ‘I rode my chopper. You?’
‘Blue Raleigh,’ I beam back, knowing he understands the transport code. ‘I went to a state school about five minutes up the road from where I lived and received just the sort of education you would expect if you only travel five minutes to get it.’
‘Were you a good girl?’ He can’t resist a cheeky grin.
‘According to my school reports I was the very worst sort of pupil. All the teachers believed that I was bright and just not giving my studies my all. Could try harder was as good as tattooed across my forehead.’
Scott nods. ‘I had that same experience. Every new school year began in exactly the same way. Teachers were initially enthusiastic and smiley with me. They were hopeful, perhaps even determined, to be the one that would make a difference, to unlock and unleash all that I’d kept carefully hidden from other staff members. But, towards the end of the academic year, I was invariably greeted with frustrated sighs and weary shrugs from those previously keen members of staff.’
‘A result of one too many missed assignments or rushed pieces of coursework, completed during registration on the day it was due to be handed in?’ I offer helpfully. It’s clear we had the same experience.
‘I just didn’t want to be there,’ says Scott simply. ‘We only did music for one hour a week and then only until we were about fourteen. I didn’t go to the sort of school where prodigies were discovered and tutored. We didn’t have a music department as such. Certainly not an orchestra. Prodigies were more like clipped round the ear and told to sit down, shut up.’ He’s laughing but I sense bitterness. Maybe not for himself. He’s made good. He’s made excellent. But how many more kids are overlooked just because they don’t or can’t flourish under similar regimes?
‘They had me all wrong at my school too,’ I acknowledge. ‘I was not a bright pupil unwilling to try, I was pretty average and doing all I could to keep my head above water. I’d somehow managed to create the impression that I was hiding some sort of light under a bushel because I was generally smiley and polite and most teenagers simply aren’t. Plus I had a curious but extended general knowledge about flowers.’
‘Flowers?’
‘They’re my thing. I’m a florist. A passionate interest in anything, especially something a little unusual, tends to create an illusion of deeper intelligence. Often wrongly. Really people should have seen me for what I was – a flower geek.’
‘Tell me about being a florist.’ Scott sits on the edge of the purple suede chaise longue and he looks riveted. His interest is very flattering.
‘Well, like I said, I’m the fourth one down out of five kids, so my parents were pretty worn out with the whole parenting thing by the time they got to me and they happily agreed to let me leave school at sixteen so as I could go to the local technical college to study floristry. It’s a two-year course –’
‘No, no, not all the getting qualification stuff. Tell me why flowers?’ insists Scott.
So I tell him that being in the garden with my gran, picking flowers, was the nearest I’ve ever felt to perfect peace. I explain how flowers mystify, exhilarate and thrill me. I explain that I believe the scent of flowers somehow flows through my veins, as much my lifeline as blood. I use that exact expression and I’m not embarrassed or ashamed. This man is a creative genius. If anyone is ever going to get it – get me – then he will.
‘What’s your favourite flower?’ he asks.
‘Pink peonies,’ I say without hesitation. ‘Flowers heal. They are important. They are so much more than a cheerful, colourful pressie. Flowers are there when we are born and all the way through until we die. They offer comfort and assurance. Plus they articulate stuff most people just can’t manage. People need flowers to say sorry, and thank you, and cheer up, and I love you, and all the difficult things we inadequate humans can’t bring ourselves to say.’
‘In that way flowers are just like songs,’ says Scott, proving he understands completely.
‘Just like songs,’ I beam at him.
21. Scott
I’ve been to rehab twice. It’s no picnic. Do not believe it