Short Story Sunday: Quills

Before Max opened his eyes, he spent a few moments lying under the covers, doing what he called "savouring". He'd never needed an alarm. All his life, his body knew when it was time to rise. His mother found this trait especially odd and even resented it a little, given that she longed to inflict on him the same jolting announcement her mother had dumped on her every morning: "Hurry up, you're late! It's nearly eight o'clock. Time for school." Max was always awake before she got there, and greeted her with a smile, which annoyed her no end.

It was still his habit to smile on waking, despite the fact that he was long past his school days. And this morning was no different. He could hear the house warming up in the winter sun, popping and creaking as it shook off last night's cold. There was a swoosh of wings past his window as the birds gathered for their morning meeting on the lake. He squinted at the clock on his nightstand and sat up with a start. He'd overslept by two hours. That never happened. Panic pooled in a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He slumped under the covers and let the thought he'd been resisting surface.

Her.


It started with the Mayflower perfume; it was a scent he'd know anywhere. As a child, his father had taken care to educate him about the finer things in life, and a visit to the perfumeries of Grasse had heightened his olfatory awareness. He'd been working on a new design, his prototype, when a gust opened the shop door. Experience taught him it was never a good idea to look up immediately when a customer entered. It was best to allow them to acclimatise to the store before offering a greeting. Max inhaled, slightly irritable that he'd have to stop working when he was so close to finishing, and smelled Mayflowers.

When he raised his gaze, she was standing at the counter, opposite him.


"Hello."

He swallowed. "Morning. May I help you?"

"I'm looking for a gift for my friend's daughter. She's just turned one."

The musicality of her voice lured him to his feet. "Yes, I'm sure we have something." He found himself joining her on the shop floor and guiding her to their newest range. "We have building blocks, puppets, a rattle and..." He peered onto a higher shelf. "Oh, yes, my personal favourite: our new collection of blue whales." Ordinarily he'd point this out with a gesture and let the customers find it themselves, but the Mayflower was so intoxicating, he felt like she was the Pied Piper of Perfume and it was futile to resist.

"Oh, that's lovely," she said. "I'll take the medium-sized whale."

He stared at her before realising that she meant for him to retrieve it. "Oh, ah. Right. Good choice. Shall I wrap it up?"

"If it's not too much trouble?" She followed him back to the counter and unclasped her bag with a gloved hand.

He busied himself with the paper and a length of florist's ribbon. He never wrapped anything himself. In the past he'd dumped the paper and sellotape on the counter and let the customer get on with it. Normally they muttered while they cut the paper and tied the bows, but he didn't pay any notice.

She was watching his hands, and if there was something she didn't like about his efforts, she kept it to herself.

"I don't think we've met," he said. "Are you passing through?"

"No, I moved here in August. I've started teaching at the school." She stretched out her hand. "My name's Stella, by the way."

He put down the scissors. "Max. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise. And you've done a good job with that." Stella nodded at the package. He'd managed to crumple the paper at one end and was in danger of tearing it in his efforts to stick the open end shut.

"Perhaps you'd like to tie the bow?"

"Love to," she said, taking the parcel from him. "You wouldn't happen to have a birthday card, would you? It'd save me a trip to the pharmacy."

He retrieved a card from the shoebox under the counter. It was emblazoned with "Birthday Boy!"

"Actually," she said, "this is for a girl. But my friend hates anything pink, so..." She looped the ends of the florist's ribbon into a neat bow.

"Ah." He presented her with a card that had a painted beach ball with the words "Happy Birthday" above it.

"Much better, thank you." She bit her lip. "Could I trouble you for a pen?"

In the time it took Max to walk to his workbench and back to the counter, he mentally berated himself for turning into a lapdog at the appearance of Mayflower. Pull yourself together!

Stella smiled. "You're a darling. Thank you." She scribbled some pleasantries on the card and offered the pen to him. When he took it, she held fast. "I've just had the best idea. I'll call the whale 'Max' in your honour!"

"That's really not necessary." He hoped his cheeks stayed pale.

"No, I insist. Max the Whale. I like it. And you've been so helpful. Really." She dug into her bag and retrieved a note. It was more than double the price of the whale and card together.

"I'll just get your change."

"No need. You've saved me hours of trouble."

He tilted his head in a slight nod. "Thank you."

"It's I who should be thanking you." She leant over the counter and kissed his cheek. "Goodbye, then."

He didn't remember her leaving the shop, only the click as the door returned to its frame.

Her.

Max threw back the covers. There would be no "savouring" this morning. From his window he could see the congress on the lake. He could have been imagining it, but he was sure there were more birds than usual. He hurried across the landing to the answer the telephone.

"Max! Oh, thank goodness. When I didn't see you moving about in the shop at your usual time, I thought something terrible had happened."

"It's all right, Mrs P. I decided to have a slower start today, that's all."

"Well, I am glad to hear that. I'll tell the Constable you're all right and there's no need to pop round. But I am also calling because your delivery arrived. It's a rather large box and you know I don't have much storage space here at the post office..."

"I'll collect it before lunchtime, I promise. Thank you so much, Mrs P. Chat later. All right, buh-bye."

He paused after replacing the receiver in its cradle. His whole routine was off kilter. He might even have to forego breakfast in favour of brunch. Damn.

By the time he'd showered, changed, made his bed and snacked on toast, lunchtime was nearing and he knew he'd have to visit the post office or risk the wrath of Mrs P. The street outside the shop was quieter than normal, but then he rememembered that it was the first day of school.

He decided to take the longer route to the post office, which meant walking along the back of the building, so that he could see the playground. Perhaps she'd be there. Perhaps not. He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and strode as though he had some great purpose. The only purpose he could think of was to focus on the ground in front of him.

A ball bounced across his path, startling him. In seconds, a clump of children gathered at the fence, begging him to throw it back over. He obliged, and they scampered off. Max was about to continue walking when he smelled Mayflower.

"Hello, again," she said. "You're quite the hero for rescuing their ball."

Max smiled. "I doubt that."

"I meant the teachers' hero. We'd never hear the end of it if they didn't have that ball to play with. She leant her arm on the railing. "At the very least it lets me drink my tea in peace."

He nodded. "Glad to help." He started walking again.

"They loved the whale, by the way. And they loved his name too."

"I'm glad," he said, nodding again before heading for the post office. He could hear her say "Bye" behind him, but he didn't dare to stop again.

"Ah, at last. I knew you wouldn't let me down." Mrs P raised the wooden flap of the counter and beckoned him to the store. "What on earth have you ordered this time? And all the way from Berlin too."

"Just some parts for my new prototype." He hoisted up the box, grateful that it was lighter than it looked.

"Ooh yes, the top secret project." Mrs P chuckled. "I'll bet that's what kept you this morning."

Max nodded.

"All right then, don't tell me. But I'm sure you'd be interested to know that the new teacher at the school... The name's Stella, I think. Anyway, she was in here yesterday, asking about you. Unfortunately, I was out but my husband and the Constable said she seemed interested in knowing if you were married. And if she..."

"Could you put my letters under my chin please, Mrs P?"

"Of course, dear." She shoved a handful of envelopes into his neck and, satisfied that they were secure, held the door for him. "You take care now, Max," she waved.

Once he'd set down the box on the kitchen table and dropped most of the letters on the floor, Max decided it was time for some coffee. He busied himself with grinding the beans and filling the kettle while trying not to think about what had transpired during the past twenty minutes. As he reached for his favourite mug, a letter fell out of his jacket. It must have been wedged in there. The cream envelope had a rich, silky feel to it. There was no return address but his own name had been penned in the most beautiful calligraphy. He held the letter to his nose and inhaled the same scent that had haunted him since yesterday.

Her.

There wasn't a stamp on the envelope, just his name. He leaned it against the fruit bowl while he made the coffee. It took him longer than normal. He began doing something and then forgot why he was doing it, only to find his gaze drawn back to the table where the letter was waiting for him. He retrieved his letter opener from his study, trying to ignore the awareness that his shop had been closed all day, and tugged at the glued paper until it broke open.

The pages inside were secured with wax and the scent of Mayflower was stronger than before. He lifted the red seal and found a charcoal portrait of his face on the first page followed by a short verse on the second. The black ink of the calligraphy glistened.

The rose is red
The violet blue
Carnation's sweet
And so are you.

Max ran his hands through his hair, suddenly wishing he could go back to this morning and start the day again. He was still wearing his jacket indoors - madness! - but he knew the damp patches at his armpits weren't only from being to warm.
 
And he had no idea what to do about it.