The Secrets of Flowers, page 21
‘Was she very disappointed?’
‘You could say that.’ Betty sounds uncharacteristically sarcastic.
She waits, feeling Betty might want to say more.
‘I think Disappointed Woman just about sums up my mum. I think her job, her neighbours, her house and her husband all disappointed her. Although she was pleased my sister married well – she perked up a bit then.’
Betty stares out of the window, and Emma can tell she is miles away.
‘And you and your mum?’
‘Well, what do you think, love? Look at me.’
Emma looks at the small, neat, rounded woman in front of her, with her curly hair, old-fashioned glasses and sequined, butterfly sweatshirt, and she thinks she is a beautiful sight to behold.
‘I would say that if she could raise a woman like you, she had done something right with her life and should be very proud.’
Betty blinks several times and Emma thinks her friend might cry. She thinks she might, too.
Betty smiles slowly. ‘Well, towards the end, she did soften a bit, and that was a blessing.’
‘Did you … make your peace with her before she died?’
Betty chuckles. ‘I don’t know if I’d go that far, love.’ She looks thoughtful. ‘But it was okay. Yes, it was better. What about you and your mum?’
Where should she start? It occurs to her that Betty and she have more in common than just a love of flowers and fathers who were accountants. She had once read about an experiment in which people from all sorts of backgrounds gathered in a room without speaking. They were asked to go up to people they instinctively felt comfortable with. It turned out that twins gravitated towards twins, only children to only children and so on. She wonders if she would have found Betty in that room.
She draws in a deep breath. ‘My mum was extraordinarily beautiful when she was young. I’ve seen photos of her, and she really was incredible. She’s not bad now at sixty-seven.’ Emma thinks of Mathias. ‘Men still notice her, and she’s used to people doing things for her because of her looks.’ She wonders how much her dad minded that. Had he gone to the garden because of her mother’s stream of ‘friends’, or had the ‘friends’ come because he was in the garden?
Emma sighs. ‘She’s very elegant, loves beautiful things…’
‘And?’
‘And she’s not a kind woman.’
Emma remembers Granny Maria saying that the most important thing to look for in the person you married was kindness. The adolescent, romantic Emma thought this disappointingly mundane, but for the first time, she wonders if her grandmother had been thinking about her mother. The importance of kindness strikes her now, more than ever. After all, it is helping lift her, little by little, from the depths of her despair. Tamas going to such lengths to find the Bealings; that helpful, smiling girl in the library; Mrs Pepperpot giving up her time to meet them; Clem sharing her wisdom and wine; Roberto taking care of her in Cambridge; Alistair with his knowledge and the research he is doing for her; all these kind, kind people. And that is before she even considers Betty and Les.
She looks at Betty, who is screwing up her nose as she sips tentatively at her Champagne – she must be the kindest person she has ever met.
‘What? Why are you smiling at me like that?’ Betty puts down her glass. ‘Tell me more about your mum. You said there were things you needed to say to her?’
Emma immediately stops smiling. ‘I try to fight it, Betty, but however much I tell myself I’m forty and recite my CV in my head, when I see my mum it’s like I am five years old again and I feel like I did when she used to scream at me.’
Betty tuts. ‘Well, that’s no way to treat a child.’
‘It wasn’t all that often. I wasn’t abused, nothing like that.’ How can she describe it? ‘It was the lack of kindness rather than unkindness,’ she says, although she wonders if that is really true. Wasn’t her childhood littered with small acts of unkindness? Didn’t the effect of these build like the layers of ice packed around a snowball?
‘But you got on well with your dad, I remember you saying?’
Emma is happy to be diverted. ‘Yes, he was a sweet man, very gentle, and he would always try his best to protect me. We spent a lot of time in the garden together. But he wasn’t there all the time.’
‘Do you know what you want to say to your mum?’
Emma just shakes her head. Instead, she asks her own, simpler question, ‘Shall we have another glass of Champagne?’
‘Oh yes, let’s, love.’
After Emma has ordered, Betty asks, ‘What did your mum think of Will?’
‘Well, he was a good-looking corporate lawyer from an okay family, so she approved.’
‘And she liked him?’
‘I have no idea. I don’t know if she ever really knew him.’ Emma pictures her mother on their wedding day, beautiful in a white silk suit and enormous hat. No woman could have held a candle to her – certainly not the bride. Emma had expected such a display and didn’t really mind – but then she had Will. He was all she thought about, that and knowing her dad would walk with her down the aisle. She wonders now if her father had already known he had cancer. He died less than a year later.
Betty is slowly turning her glass in her hand, ‘Is it getting any easier, love?’ She pauses. ‘Will?’
Emma feels her defences rise, bracing herself for the pain. The wave washes over her, but this time does not knock her off her feet. All she can think to say is, ‘Yes.’
Betty waits, but Emma cannot find any more words.
‘Do you think you have forgiven him, love?’
‘No.’
What else is there to say but the truth?
Emma books them into their hotel in Montmartre and from there takes Betty up the steep steps to Sacré Coeur. She wants her to be able to get her bearings and to see the expanse of Paris laid out below her. The sun has turned the underside of the clouds pink and the rooftops orange. Betty points excitedly to the Eiffel Tower in the distance, her curls gleaming tortoiseshell in the late afternoon light.
Over supper in a restaurant near their hotel, they discuss Emma’s suggestions for the garden centre.
‘I think you’ve gee’d Les up no end,’ Betty says, as she nibbles away at the French bread. ‘I heard him singing this morning while watering the plants. He hasn’t done that in I don’t know how long.’
‘Does he think it would be easy to renovate the café?’
‘Oh, that doesn’t faze him at all, love. He’s even talking of extending it to give it a veranda looking out over the downs and of growing a wisteria along it. He’s always had a soft spot for wisteria. And just before I left, he said he had a few ideas of his own and would tell me about them when I got home.’
Emma feels a stab of longing to be back in the garden centre in the early morning, to hear Les singing to his begonias. Perhaps after a few days in Paris, it will be time to go home, to continue rebuilding her life, bedding in a new kind of normal.
As they walk back to the hotel, Emma checks her phone for the umpteenth time. There is still no news from Alistair.
Chapter 59
Violet
Primroses
Fat, burgundy snowflakes are falling from the sky. She stands at the porthole, craning her neck to peer upwards. A loud cheer goes up from the deck above and a few more flowers fall. Clove carnations are being tossed into the water where they float and spin in the waves. They bob for a final encore and are then sucked under by the churning water. A stray handkerchief joins them, floating through the air then crumpling like a broken kite. They are leaving Southampton, and the passengers are marking the occasion in the traditional way.
Normally a ship like the Titanic would be accompanied by a flotilla of boats, tooting, piping and blasting their good wishes in a language all of their own. The coal strike has put pay to that and the water is strangely silent – but this only makes the cheers seem louder than normal, more distinct.
She wonders if The Purser Priest, who has also transferred to the Titanic, knew the men might throw their buttonholes into the air when the massive ship pulled away from the dockside. She feels sure he must have done. He is not a man who leaves things to chance; he is a man who understands that small details matter. She imagines he ensured that buttonholes were delivered to staterooms early in the day, rather than in the evening as was normal, just so they could be thrown.
It seems a shame that the flowers have been consigned to a watery grave so soon. She would like to rescue one carnation and keep it in her cabin, but she would never be able to reach out far enough to catch one as it falls.
She is pleased to be sailing once more with The Purser, who is becoming her friend. There have been snatched conversations spread over many evenings, many journeys – a few minutes here, a few minutes there – in which she has talked of her sister, he of his wife.
Occasionally they have shared their plans for their gardens. The Purser’s garden runs down to the canal at the back of his house and includes a rose garden, of which he is very proud. Her garden exists only in her imagination. They both know this, but it does not stop him asking how her dahlias have done this year, anxious to know whether the colours were as glorious as last. And it does not stop her replying.
She considers for a moment going up on deck. She has never been on deck for the start of a voyage and she would like to see the people lining the rail of the ship, waving to strangers and loved ones alike. But her place is below, unpacking and unfolding.
She thinks of that day many years ago, when her job was to pack and fold, when she helped fit her family’s life into a number of small suitcases and baskets. Now she is pulling what seems to be a never-ending stream of silk and satin dresses from a large trunk. She feels like a conjuror as she shakes out the yards of material. She imagines a dove flying out from one of the case’s many compartments, like she once saw with her sister in a theatre off Leicester Square.
As she lifts out an evening gown, a pretty blonde maid appears in the cabin, carrying a large vanity case made of dark green leather. Shaking out the dress, she can smell the fragrance of a lingering perfume emerging from the folds of silk. There is also the acrid smell of stale sweat and she wonders how well this maid knows her job. The young maid thanks her for her help and says she will take charge of the dresses. The maid is nervous and flushed. Perhaps it is her first post.
In the next cabin, she must tidy up the scattered possessions that have been thrown onto the bed, chairs and desk. She watched these passengers arrive, a couple of newly-weds who moved cautiously around each other, not yet used to the other’s rhythm. Trapped together in the cabin they both faltered, movements quick and nervous. When he suggested they go up on deck to watch the ship depart, they both threw their possessions down in relief and headed swiftly for the open space. On deck they can stroll arm in arm as they did when they were courting.
She picks up a hat decorated with a scattering of lemon primroses. She would like to try it on – and privately thinks it would suit her better than the pale bride, who she feels should be decked out in warmer, blushing pinks. But her mother has always had very strict views on the subject of envy, and she is sure she would have something to say about coveting thy neighbour’s hat. So instead, as she clears and tidies the space around her, she thinks of her own new hat, decorated with sweet peas. It is the prettiest hat she has ever owned. The only thing that would make it the perfect hat is if the sweet peas were real and she could breathe in their fragrance as she walked.
As the ship begins to move, she glances again at the primrose hat and allows herself one thought, which she does not think her mother would begrudge her: her sweet pea hat would not suit the new bride either.
Chapter 60
Emma
Jasmine
After ensuring Betty is safely aboard a sightseeing bus, Emma takes a train to the suburb where Philippe Hanchard lives. She turns down a leafy avenue leading away from the station. Despite the heat that is visibly rising from the tarmac in the road, the air is less oppressive here than in the city. She hopes the change in atmosphere will help with the headache taking up residence just behind her eyes. She pushes hair off her clammy forehead and steps deeper into the shade.
She finds the house halfway up the street, behind a set of large green, wooden gates. She can see very little from the road, only treetops and part of a roof. Philippe Hanchard buzzes her in through a small door set into the wall. A cobbled path leads away from the door, under an arch of purple bougainvillea, and along the side of a single-storey stone building.
As she turns the corner, she realises this is the back of a summerhouse. At the front, a series of double doors open on to a rectangular swimming pool. White, wooden loungers are arranged around it, and on a round table is a pile of navy and white striped towels. The pool shimmers turquoise in the sunshine and in the corner she can see lemon hibiscus heads turning lazy circles in the water.
Reluctantly, she leaves the pool and follows the path past lawns edged with rosemary, and terraces planted with golden rudbeckia and scarlet verbena. She can hear a sprinkler going somewhere in the distance. She approaches the house through an avenue of ceramic urns planted with marguerites. It is a low, rambling building: part Baroque and part curved modern extensions of smoke-coloured wood and glass. In front of the main door, up a short flight of stone steps, stands Philippe Hanchard, his long arms open.
‘Welcome,’ he says.
Emma follows Philippe across a pale, flagstone hallway into the kitchen.
‘I’m rather presuming you would like a coffee?’ he says, over his shoulder, as he approaches an electric-blue coffee machine.
‘Yes please.’
‘Good, I’ll make these and then we can go into my study.’
They both speak in French, and Emma feels that the language suits such an elegant setting. She watches Philippe as he works. He is a tall, thin man with short grey hair cropped close to his head. In another era he could be a beautifully ageing Hollywood star – either that, or an elegant monk. She imagines he must be nearing seventy. He is extremely well dressed, but from his hands it looks like he does his own gardening. They emerge from his crisp white cuffs, brown from the sun, his knuckles like knotted wood.
‘Your garden is beautiful,’ Emma comments.
Philippe sighs contentedly. ‘Now I’m retired, I spend most of my time there. My wife prefers to make our home a beautiful space, but for me it is always the garden.’ He loads a tray with their coffees and a plate of honey-coloured macaroons and directs her to his study.
The study glows the colour of rosewood – the floor, the bookshelves and the desk are pale gold warmed with a hint of red. Three tall windows are shielded by muslin blinds, softening the bright August light that floods the room.
A door to the side of the desk appears to lead into a small, modern laboratory. She catches the glint of glass test tubes and bottles within. There is also an open wooden box on Philippe’s desk containing four neat rows of glass phials. He explains that the day-to-day running of the business is undertaken in the South of France and in central Paris, but that he still likes to keep his hand – or rather, his nose – in.
Philippe gestures to two chairs by a low table. He sits down and hands her a coffee, before leaning back and crossing one long leg elegantly over the other.
‘Thank you so much for meeting me,’ Emma says.
‘It’s my pleasure. It sounds like an intriguing project,’ Philippe comments. ‘Tell me, have you found your florist on the Titanic yet?’
She puts her coffee cup down and tells Philippe about their investigation and what she has concluded, although out of shyness she stops short of mentioning her feeling of connection with Violet. Her thoughts flit to Alistair, and she glances down at her phone, before continuing. ‘I was fascinated by what you wrote about the phials of perfumes from the Titanic.’ She looks around the room, smiling. ‘I’m surprised you don’t have flowers in here.’ She knows Philippe is a world expert on floral fragrances.
‘I keep flowers away from this room – indeed, anything that might interfere with my ability to smell the fragrances I’m studying. I shouldn’t really be drinking coffee, but…’ He shrugs. It is the type of shrug Parisians are famous for, but which you hardly ever see.
She draws a deep breath, unsure what to ask next, half fearing the debilitating shyness of old will resurface.
But she needn’t have worried, Philippe dives into the subject that has been his lifelong passion. ‘I think from the moment we started making perfumes, flowers were vital because they were the most obvious source of natural fragrance. In ancient times, it was through fragrance people spoke to the gods. And sometimes,’ Philippe smiles, ‘when I smell an exquisite floral fragrance, I believe the gods are speaking to me.’
Emma feels herself relax. ‘So you think flowers are part of sending messages?’
‘Yes – even if it is simply the message you want to convey about yourself by the perfume you wear.’
‘Do you have a favourite floral fragrance?’ she asks.
Philippe gets up and walks over to a large cupboard. He pulls open the doors to reveal rows of shallow drawers. As he slides one towards him, Emma can see they are divided into sections, each one containing a perfume bottle. He selects one.
Then Philippe talks at length about his own journey through fragrance, what inspired him and how he built his business. Their conversation delves into the chemistry of perfume making, and this, and his gentle charm, puts Emma completely at her ease. It is some time later that she remembers why she came here in the first place. She puts down the perfume bottle she is holding.
‘How did you find out about the perfume phials on the Titanic?’ she asks.
‘A journalist came to me – he had heard about them being brought to the surface.’
‘What were they doing aboard in the first place?’
‘A German perfume maker, Adolph Saalfeld, was travelling to New York in the hope of making his name in the American market. The phials belonged to him.’
