Betty has taught Emma how to condition flowers and make up arrangements and bouquets. She would like to use herbs and grasses from the plant section, too, but Betty is a traditionalist and likes her bouquets big and formal, filled with long-lasting, vibrant chrysanthemums and carnations. Emma is too grateful for the job to suggest anything different and has learnt how to make big bows out of shiny ribbon, just the way Betty likes.
The area where Emma feels she is making a difference is in the funeral work, and she has been pleased to find that the local funeral director is now recommending them. This has not gone unnoticed by Betty and Les and, although they raise their eyebrows at some of her tributes, they leave her to it. Emma sometimes wonders if they know about Will– theirs is an unusual surname, and Will’s death was covered by the local paper. When she sees Betty and Les exchanging concerned looks behind her back, she is almost sure they do.
Today, she is working on a large wreath for a funeral, to be made entirely of vegetables.
Betty pauses as she passes, glancing at it over the top of her glasses. ‘A few sprigs of crysanth or gyp would look lovely with that. Surely the poor woman wants a few flowers?’
Emma remembers the grey woman who arrived in the Flower Cabin after a round of calls to the undertaker, vicar, printer and caterer. She knew the exhausted woman would have accepted anything she suggested, but she wanted the flowers to be something her husband would have liked– a tribute that would remind her of the man she loved in life, not in death.
‘I did ask her, but she said he wasn’t much of a one for flowers, although he loved his vegetable garden.’ Emma wires a plump pea pod into her base next to some baby carrots. She looks up; she can tell that Betty is not convinced. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asks, anxiously.
‘No, love. To each their own.’
This is one of Les’s sayings. Betty peppers her conversation with them, and Emma has caught herself starting to use them. Les is a large, quiet man who never rushes into speech. Emma imagines him searching his mind for the right saying or proverb to suit his purpose. Sometimes Emma tries to match him, cliché for cliché. She always loses.
Les: ‘Looks like we’re in for a bit of rain.’
Emma, looking up at the sky: ‘Umm, yes, I think this is the calm before the storm.’
Les: ‘Well, the gardens can certainly do with it.’
Emma: ‘You know what they say– no rain, no flowers.’
Les: ‘Yes, every cloud has a silver lining.’
Emma: ‘Er…’
Les (now gently smiling as if in quiet victory): ‘Well, I’d better see to the cosmos– they won’t re-pot themselves.’
Betty’s conversation is either ‘on’ or ‘off’. If she is in the mood for talking, which she often is, her chatter flows on like water over pebbles, even if no one is in earshot. Emma finds it soothing, rather like having the radio on in the background.
Emma wonders what their home life is like: Les, big and bearded, filling the space in their compact bungalow at the back of the garden centre; Betty, small and busy, dodging around him. Emma is reminded of a YouTube clip she once saw of a large dog, apparently living in harmony with a small tortoiseshell cat. They shared the same bed, and the St Bernard let the cat walk all over him– literally. He looked happy enough, but Emma noticed that the dog never took his eyes off the cat for a moment. Still, she thinks, it must work: Betty mentioned recently that they are about to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary. That was when, with a jolt, Emma had remembered it would have been her and Will’s tenth anniversary this month.
Betty continues to study the vegetable wreath, a small crease between her brows. She smooths her bumblebee jumper down across her small, rounded stomach and crosses her arms. Betty is very fond of wildlife jumpers, especially those displaying woodland creatures. She likes to keep with the seasons and, despite it being a cool, grey day, this is July– the time for bumblebees and butterflies.
Just as Emma thinks Betty is about to say something more, the door to the Flower Cabin slams open and a large man in his forties, wearing a high-viz jacket, bundles his way in, carrying three large boxes on his shoulder.
‘Ah, Tamas, come in,’ Betty says, guiding the man towards a space by a row of empty buckets. She turns to Emma. ‘You’ve not met Tamas before, have you, Emma?’
The man deposits the boxes with practised ease into the small space.
‘Tamas is our flower man,’ Betty continues. ‘He brings our orders from the local market and from our Dutch wholesaler. I’ve changed his delivery days so you’ll be in when the new flowers come. It’ll help having the two of us to unpack them.’
The flower man turns his large frame towards her, holding out his hand. ‘Ah, Emma, I have heard a lot about you.’ He speaks with a thickish accent– Emma, the linguist, thinks it might be Dutch.
As he grasps her hand and shakes it furiously, he looks down at her, which makes a change, though she wishes he would let go of her hand.
‘Ha! Betty said you were a tall girl. And just look at you.’
‘Yes, and look at you,’ Emma fires back, surprised into an instant response.
Tamas grins. ‘Your legs, look at that– you have no ankles!’
Emma is finding it hard to order her thoughts. She knows she has terrible ankles– her mother was fond of reminding her that she didn’t get her legs– but it seems very rude for this stranger to say so.
In the end, all she can think to say is, ‘And you have no hair.’
At least this stops Tamas from grasping her hand. He runs two large hands over his enormous, bald head. ‘This is true. I am bald as a duck.’ He turns to Betty. ‘Is that right, Betty? Bald as a duck?’
