Like spreading vines taking over, Miss Klepper, Miss Gen and Miss Scuttlebutt's silhouettes loomed large outside the shop's frosted windows. And as fast as their mouths could spread gossip and rumor, the three were inside.

'Rebecca, it's been awhile.' Wearing a blue dress and a bill box hat, Miss Klepper was madly looking around, as if on the scent of a morsel of juicy news. 'Anything new?'

Even if she had anything to tell, Rebecca wouldn't. 'Afraid not.'

'Really?' Miss Gen strutted jauntily over to the counter with a presence of self-worth, something Rebecca could admire even though its root was rotten. 'I'm sure we saw Mr Fowler's assistant, Brian, coming out not long ago.' She looked at Rebecca, clearly waiting for a response.

With a face as nosy as she was, Miss Scuttlebutt came over and joined in with the goading.

Rebecca did not like pressing eyes on her and panic washed over her, her chest filling with knots. She so hated what was happening to her. Why was she always like this? Scrapping up the little nerve she had, she replied, 'Brian came in here to buy some flowers for the funeral parlor.'

The faces of the women sunk, falling into their collapsing optimism.

'So, how may I help you three?'

'Oh, yes, may we see your daises, peonies and buttercups,' replied Miss Klepper.

Eyes pressed on Rebecca again but they were less drowning this time. It was a question they were clawing for and she obliged. 'May I ask what they're for?'

And as Rebecca brought down trays from the shelf behind her and placed them on the counter, Miss Gen answered, 'We are crocheting blankets for charity and we want your flowers to brighten them up.'

'That's wonderful. Here you go.' Rebecca waved her hand over the trays of daisies, peonies and buttercups before here, all glistening like sugary sweets, waiting to be taken and devoured. All together they looked like a meadow on a summers day, drawing in the adventurous and the dreamer.

The wagging of chins soon enveloped and the women began to delicately inspect and scrutinize Rebecca's cultivation.

Rebecca was quick to find a chore, not wanting to see a face of disappointment.

'Rebecca, you know Hazel Armstrong, don't you?' asked Miss Scuttlebutt.

Rebecca kept her head down as she moved the broom knowingly slow over the cracked tiled floor. 'I do. We used to go to school together.'

'I thought so. You didn't here it from me, but there's a rumor going around that Mr Armstrong is having an affair.'

As if they were genuine flowers greeting the morning dew, Rebecca's ears opened. She didn't want them to. And she urged them, prayed for them to wither, but they did not. She hated listening to gossip, it stemming from the desire that she would never want to be talked about, but its power was too intoxicating to ignore. How pathetic of you, Rebecca thought to herself. How utterly pathetic.

'An affair with a woman he met at the race track,' said Miss Klepper. 'Poor Hazel. But at least it's nowhere near what Mr Thatcher did to his wife. Rebecca, you know Mr Thatcher too, right?'

Rebecca nodded.

'Well there are whispers that Mr Thatcher lost his job down at the docks, got drunk and went back home to beat his wife . . .'

Rebecca couldn't wait to close the door behind these three.