The Secrets of Flowers, page 26
Most of her thoughts are of Will. Something has shifted, she can tell that. There is less pain. Occasionally, she tries to recapture the former agony as a way to reach him, but it is somehow elusive. All she finds is an aching emptiness rather than the searing pain of old, and she knows she has to say goodbye.
She first realised it with Philippe by his swimming pool – breathing in the scent of sandalwood. She wonders if, from now on, she will always associate the smell of sandalwood with the smell of chlorine.
The weekend arrives and with it comes a visit from Philippe and from the hotel manager, who wants to see how she is doing. There is no sign of her mother, just a delivery of a vast bouquet of Madonna lilies with a note wishing her daughter a speedy recovery and assuring her she will be back in the week to see her.
Emma asks Betty to give the lilies to one of the nurses and returns to emailing Guy on her tablet. She is still waiting on a new phone, but Betty has brought her bag into the hospital with clothes and other things she might need.
By Monday, there is talk of her being allowed to ‘go home’ to the hotel – and by Tuesday, Betty has arranged for them to have adjoining rooms on the ground floor, despite Emma insisting she is perfectly capable of walking up the stairs.
Les helps her organise this ‘homecoming’, before returning to Oxford and the garden centre. They are to follow three days later.
Les bids Emma a warm farewell, adding, ‘And as for the future … well … you may not know what you want, but you know how to get it.’
This makes an odd sort of sense to Emma, although it is certainly not one of Les’s usual sayings. She smiles, asking, ‘Where’s that from, Les?’
He rubs his beard, ‘The Sex Pistols.’
Breakfast has finished and Emma has secured herself a table by the window in the hotel’s dining room. The hotel is much the same – busy with summer visitors – but for Emma it has the feeling of a seaside hotel at the end of the season. The red and white geraniums in the window box beside her are looking parched and leggy.
She is wearing a simple dressing rather than a bandage, and with a scarf around her head, she is able to hide where her head has been shaved and make it look like she has swept her hair up to one side. She still feels fragile and a bit sore, but there is no doubt that the blood transfusion and iron pills have made a big difference. She has not had a headache for days and she is no longer swamped by the lethargic light-headedness she had grown so used to. Despite the fragility, she feels like a new woman.
She has even managed a trip to her mother’s apartment to collect the suitcase of family photos and documents her mother kept there. That was not a pleasant trip. The stark elegance of the echoing apartment was a reminder of her childhood – not that there was anything in the décor or ornaments that Emma could remember. It seemed as though, since her father’s death, her mother had whitewashed her family out of her life.
Still, she did find the documents and photo albums and although she hasn’t felt ready to delve into these yet, they are safely stored under her hotel bed.
For now, Emma’s laptop is open on a table by the window, and she has just had an email from Alistair. Since their Zoom call he has emailed her more information about Violet’s later life: how she had married briefly but it hadn’t worked out; how she had never had children; how, when she retired after a life at sea, she moved to Suffolk to be near her sister, happily tending her garden until she died.
She is partway through typing a reply to Alistair when Betty joins her, carrying a pot of coffee.
‘Everything good with you?’ Emma asks, already knowing the answer. Les and Betty have decided to come back to Paris in the autumn to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary.
‘More than good, love,’ Betty says, sitting down. ‘Do you remember I said Les had some ideas for the garden centre? Well, he told me on the phone last night that the deal he’s been working on is ready to go through. And, if I agree, we’ll be selling a small parcel of our land.’
‘Really?’ Emma tries to sound positive, but she knows it comes out as worried.
Betty smiles, reassuringly. ‘He says you gave him the idea when you talked about what you could do with a small plot – you remember, to give people some inspiration? Well, it gave him the notion that maybe we didn’t need quite so much land and could manage with a bit less. It will give us money to do the renovations and it will mean we won’t be worrying. Plus we can visit New Zealand each year – we thought January would be a good time to go.’
‘Who are you selling the land to?’
‘Well, that’s the great part, love. The council is keen to provide more allotments in the area, and so they’re offering a very good price. In the long run it saves them money if they can add to an existing site rather than start new allotments from scratch.’
‘Perfect,’ Emma says, thinking of the gardeners she has watched from the bench at the back of the garden centre.
‘Les has been talking to the bloke at the council, and we may be able to run a market in the summer to sell surplus produce from the allotments. Les already knows a few of the gardeners and they’re very taken with his idea. That should bring a few more people in, along with the new café.’
‘That all sounds brilliant.’
‘Now, what about you. Are you okay, love?’
‘Yes, I am,’ says Emma, and she means it. ‘I think I understand and accept a lot more than I did. You know, Betty, when I was in hospital, I thought a lot about my life and my childhood, and it struck me that you can’t hold other people responsible for how you feel.’
‘You mean your mum?’ Betty asks.
‘Yes, but it’s more than that.’ Emma pauses. ‘I think Will made such a difference to me that I thought all my happiness was wrapped up in him. In some ways, being with him made me more confident, more outgoing, but a huge part of me just sat back and relied on him to make our life happy.’
‘Do you think he resented that?’
‘Not exactly. I think, most of the time, we were genuinely happy. And when we hit tough stuff, we went through it together.’
‘Not being able to have a baby?’
Emma nods. ‘I just think, looking back, maybe the balance wasn’t always quite right. Maybe I depended on him too much.’
‘And your mum?’ Betty asks again.
‘I think my mother’s the other side of the coin. You can’t let someone who has treated you badly define you.’ It strikes her that there is something liberating about saying this out loud. ‘You can’t hold them responsible for how you feel.’
‘No one can make you feel inferior without your permission,’ Betty says thoughtfully.
Emma darts a glance at her. ‘That’s very wise, Betty.’
Betty laughs. ‘Oh, I’ve borrowed that one, love – I had quite a bit of time while you were out cold in the hospital. It was difficult to find books in English. I think that quote comes from a book I found about famous women. I can’t remember who said it – I think, maybe, it was Eleanor Roosevelt.’ She adds, in a resigned voice, ‘I must admit when I read it, I thought of my sister. I know she looks down on me, but maybe I shouldn’t let it get to me so much.’
‘And she’s been helping in the garden centre while you’ve been away – that’s got to be a good thing,’ Emma suggests.
Betty snorts. ‘Well, it will be interesting to see how many plants are left when she’s through. I know she’s planning on redoing her garden, and I bet she’s been loading up her 4x4 each night.’ Betty pauses, then changes the subject. ‘And Will? Have you been able to forgive him yet, love?’
Emma sighs. ‘I can’t, Betty – I just can’t. And you have no idea how much I want to.’
When Betty heads out to do some shopping (‘I suppose I ought to bring my sister something back from Paris’), Emma decides to tackle the suitcase that has been sitting under her hotel bed.
Her first thought on reviewing it properly is that there is disappointingly little to see: a photo album and a small bundle of documents. The album is of her father’s family – subjects staring out at her in their Sunday best. As she turns the pages, the shots become less formal and she follows her father from when he was a little boy up until he was a student in the late sixties. Emma recognises Granny Maria’s handwriting in the white lettering annotating the black pages. She looks for older relatives in the photos, and thanks to Granny Maria’s careful notation she is able to identify many of them. The names all tally with her trawl through the Spanish ancestry sites – now she can put faces to some of the names.
She looks at the people in the photos and thinks of the list of professions she has uncovered, everything from dentists to dressmakers. But nobody has a link to shipping or service onboard ship.
Next, she tackles the documents, laying them out on the bed so that they form a patchwork quilt of births and marriages. She sits back against the headboard. She is definitely filling in some gaps, but she seems to be moving further away from the answer she has been secretly hoping for. As far as she can see, there is no conceivable connection between herself and a woman called Violet Jessop.
As Emma looks down at the documents and photographs spread out before her, she notices something new. It is lopsided – all the information she has leads her in one direction. Granny Maria’s family is covered in considerable detail, but there are big gaps on her husband Pedro’s side of the family.
In fact, as Emma sorts through the images and certificates, there is very little evidence that her grandfather’s family existed at all. There is one photo of Grandpa Pedro (a man who died when Emma was a little girl) but there is no clear path she can trace back from there.
She calls her mother to ask if there are any other family albums in the flat, but it goes to voicemail.
Chapter 76
Emma
Jardinera
The next day, Emma is sitting in the small hotel library when Betty walks in.
‘Come and join me,’ Emma says. ‘Mum’s coming to see me before she heads back to the South of France.’
Emma did eventually manage to get hold of her mother on the phone, and she was adamant that there was no other information on her husband’s family. All she would say was that her husband’s father came from a distinguished family of wine growers.
So that was it – a dead end. Still, she can’t help feeling there’s something her mother isn’t telling her.
Betty breaks in on her thoughts. ‘Don’t you want to see her on your own?’
‘Not really. In fact, definitely not,’ Emma says, pulling out a chair. ‘I used to think I had something I needed to say to her. A conversation that would – oh, not make things good between us – but resolve some things, particularly to do with Dad.’
‘But now?’ Betty prompts.
‘There is no conversation.’
‘No conversation that would make it right, you mean?’
‘No, it’s simpler than that. My mother and I have no conversation. We don’t connect in any way I can think of. You might think we’d share a love of my father, but thinking about it, I’m not sure she even liked him.’ She pauses. ‘What did you think of her when you met her?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I actually met her,’ Betty says, evasively.
Emma looks at her in surprise. ‘But you must have seen her when she came to the hospital?’
‘Oh, I don’t know… I mean, it was very brief…’
‘But surely you spoke to her?’
‘I’m not sure she really knew who I was or how I fitted in… I think, to start with, she thought I was a hospital cleaner.’
Emma looks horrified.
But Betty starts to laugh. ‘I think your mum would get on well with my sister.’
Before Emma can answer, the staccato tap of her mother’s heels announces her arrival. She pauses in the doorway – an elegant woman of indeterminate age: sleek, ash bob, precision cut; oval face with the perfect coral mouth; alabaster ankles in nude heels; a charcoal linen skirt with no hint of a crease; an immaculate cream silk shirt. She pulls large sunglasses down to look around the room, pauses a few seconds longer, confident that the room will now be looking back at her.
Then she moves across to their table.
Emma notices that her mother’s face has a new, tighter look and a peerless sheen, and she fleetingly wonders if Mathias is a surgeon.
‘Ah, there you are, Emma.’ She frowns at her daughter, although her face does not move. ‘I must say you’re looking better than in that horrible hospital – although why you decided to come to Paris in August I’ll never understand.’ She air-kisses Emma and sits down. She ignores Betty. ‘Now, I can’t be too long as I have a taxi booked and I still have some shopping to do.’
‘How long are you going to be away?’ Emma asks.
Her mother looks sideways at her, distracted. ‘Really, Emma, cerise pink, with that hair. If you can’t get it right, at least keep it simp—’
‘Cheerful?’ Emma interrupts.
Her mother looks confused. ‘No, I was going to say—’
But again Emma interrupts. ‘So, you’re getting the train South this afternoon?’
‘What? Well, yes.’ Then, still frowning at Emma’s cerise sundress, her mother embarks on a long description of who she will be staying with, where they might go next and who will be there if they do. The names are all new to Emma, but she is barely listening.
As her mother talks and the waiter brings their coffees, she crosses her legs, the soft folds of her new dress settling around her. She can just see the tips of her new lime-green pumps peeping at her from under the table edge.
‘Did you like Will?’ Emma asks suddenly. The question has come to her from nowhere, and she sees Betty look up from her coffee in surprise.
‘I beg your pardon?’ her mother says, startled.
Emma waits.
‘Well, yes of course I did. I thought he was very good for you. It’s not every man… Yes, you were lucky to have him.’
Emma steps over the insult (in her new colourful shoes). ‘It’s just you never talk about him or ask about him.’
Her mother looks confused. ‘Well … it’s hardly appropriate… I mean, he’s dead.’
There is a long silence. Emma thinks of all the things she has wanted to say over the past months: You didn’t even come to his funeral; Of course I need to talk about him; What sort of mother are you?
The silence stretches on. Emma can see Betty sitting back as far as she can in her chair.
She draws a breath and hears herself ask a different question. ‘What about Dad – did you like Dad?’
‘Where is all this coming from, Emma? It is hardly the time or place.’
‘But did you like him?’ she persists.
Emma’s mother glances at Betty and then looks quickly away. ‘That was between me and your father. We were married for over thirty years.’
‘But he was a lovely man, and you never seemed to like him. I don’t understand that.’ It is almost as if she is talking to herself. She is vaguely surprised that, for once, she is saying the words in her head out loud.
‘That’s private – it has nothing to do with you.’
‘I do get that,’ Emma says thoughtfully, ‘but when I look back, I can’t work out why you two stayed together.’
‘Well, it’s what you did in our family.’
‘And I can’t understand,’ Emma continues, in the same thoughtful tone, ‘why you ever got together in the first place.’
There is a ‘crack’ as Emma’s mother puts her espresso cup down hard on the marble tabletop, and Emma knows she has succeeded in making her mother angry. She waits for the familiar feeling of dread to flood her, but nothing happens. She still feels remarkably calm.
She glances at Betty, who is watching her with a look of intense concentration on her face.
Her mother draws in a sharp breath, and as she starts to speak, Emma realises that her mother wants to hurt her. She is surprised she hasn’t realised and recognised this before. ‘You think you knew your father – well, you didn’t. Oh yes, he was good-looking all right – the strong, silent type, I thought.’ She gives a brittle laugh. ‘But underneath it all he was a common little man.’ Emma’s mother is like an angry wasp – two sharp bits of colour stand out on her cheeks. ‘I made him what he was – he had a good head for figures, but he had no idea how to get on. I didn’t have the choices you had, so I made the best of what I did have and I made the best of him.’
‘I knew,’ was all Emma says.
‘Knew what?’ her mother asks angrily.
‘That you didn’t like him,’ she replies.
Her mother shoots her a look of dislike, disappointment and something else.
And then Emma sees it. How could she not have recognised it before? Her mother is jealous of her.
And with that blinding insight, she sees what makes her mother so very angry – furious in fact. Her mother cannot understand how Emma’s success – and she was successful in her way: in her academic studies, her languages, her career and in her marriage – how all that could have come to someone so lacking in the attributes her mother prizes: looks, figure, poise and social standing.
Emma laughs, and her mother just stares at her.
‘What the hell is so funny?’ she hisses.
‘I was just thinking you got the daughter you deserved.’
But maybe, she thinks sadly, I didn’t get the mother I deserved.
Her mother’s voice cuts in. She hasn’t finished. ‘You think your father was so bloody marvellous. His parents sent him to a good school to help him try and fit in, but his father was just an ignorant peasant. There you go with your family tree, digging into the past. But you won’t like what you find there, I can tell you. I said his father came from a family of wine growers, but I lied. They weren’t even farmers. Your father came from a long line of jobbing gardeners. That’s why I hated him working in the garden so much. But he just wouldn’t let it go – he had to be grubbing around in the mud. It’s a shame you didn’t take after my side of the family more.’
