Ah, so I’m the free childcare.
‘You’resogood with children.’ Her mother pauses, and Emma relaxes infinitesimally.
‘I always said you and Will should have had a family.’
She is winded, as though her mother has driven her fist into her guts. A compliment to make her drop her guard, and then the full-force punch.
She never confided in her mother about not being able to have children. Now she wonders if she knew anyway.
‘We would have liked that, too.’
‘You’ll have to speak up Emma– it’s no good muttering at me. It’s important to get this sorted. You really need to make more of an effort.’
‘I’m writing a book, Mum.’ She is sweating now, wanting to get some words out about herself, her own life– something to ease the ache that has started in her abdomen and is now spreading to her heart.
‘Really? Have you got a publisher?’ Her mother does incredulous well.
‘It’s about flowers.’
‘Then you’ll love the chateau, Mathias has more than a hundred gardeners.’
‘You said.’
And I don’t give a toss. Nobody needs that many gardeners.
‘You’ll need an agent. It took Carrie over six years to get hers, and then she only got a deal for one book. I read it and really, I’m not surprised. She only has herself to blame. I’ve always thoughtIshould write a book…’
As her mother talks about the many books she could have written and how successful they would have been, Emma tries to remind herself of all she has done. But her qualifications, languages, friendships and loves are nothing– just dust in theair. She tells herself that at forty she should be beyond the reach of her mother’s spite. She doesn’t even live in the same country. But logic and reason have no place here. All she is left with is the bare thought: if your mother cannot love you or even like you, what hope have you got. She would like to phrase this thought as a question, plant even the smallest seed of doubt, but she cannot find it. Nor can she find the tools to root out the thought.
Will was the one person who could uproot the words planted by her mother, and she has to live the rest of her life without him.
Emma is sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space, when she realises someone is knocking on the back door. A large figure stands there, rain dripping from his hood.
Les.
Emma jumps up, managing to summon a smile.
Shaking water onto the mat like a great St Bernard, drops of rain still clinging to his beard, he hands her a soggy, spindly plant. ‘I was passing. Bearded Iris. Doesn’t look much now but it will be good for next year. Flower is a right beauty.’ He then adds, frowning, ‘Doesn’t live long, mind.’ As if realising what he has said, he coughs loudly twice, before saying, ‘Well, time will tell.’
‘Thank you, Les.’ Emma replies, warmly. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, no. Deliveries to do. Time waits for no man.’ He looks at his feet but doesn’t move. ‘Emma, we just wondered, it doesn’t matter but… why didn’t you mention you were, well, a doctor and a scientist? Betty and I … well, Betty wanted me to ask.’
Emma can’t help feeling that Les wishes his wife hadn’t allotted him this task.
‘Oh, Les, I’m sorry. I thought you might think I was overqualified, but not with the right stuff. I just wanted a change, I suppose.’
‘You can never have too many strings to your bow,’ Les responds, looking brighter.
‘And I guess,’ Emma continues, ‘I thought focusing on the languages might make you think I would remember the plant names.’
‘Now that is interesting.’ Les nods. ‘Always struggle with the Latin names myself.’
‘Les,’ Emma says, tentatively. She thinks she might not have such a good opportunity to say what she wants to him. ‘I’m sorry if I seem rude sometimes—’
‘No, no, not at all,’ Les interrupts.
Emma pushes on. ‘Sometimes I think something in my head and it comes out wrong when I say it.’
