Violet
Borrowed Periwinkles
They all travel to the station with her, a jostling, whistling convoy, moving through the grey city like a procession that has mistaken the day of the carnival. She remembers the festivals that filled the streets in Argentina and she searches the air for the scent of tuberose and incense. But all she can smell is wet soot, cabbage and the sick sweetness of something that is rotting its last.
Each brother wants to hold something for her: her large case, her small cloth bag, the parcels of food her mother has packed. Her sister just wants to hold her hand. When they get to the station, she drops it as if she can no longer bear the weight of it.
At the platform, the carriage is loaded with her bags and she is loaded with advice and kisses. The boys do not kiss, but they bump up against each other and scuffle– a final display of half-hearted punches and kicks performed just for her. Her mother reaches in her pocket and pulls out her periwinkle broach, which she pins to her eldest daughter’s coat before patting her cheek.
Then the train door is slammed. She wonders if the sound will always remind her of this moment.
As the train shudders, she can feel the movement, the pull of the engine taking her away. She concentrates her thoughts on the texture of the seat under her hand, bristly like a soft brush. The wave of excitement that brought her to Waterloo is now spent, and as it ebbs, she hears the distant sounds of the station like the grating of pebbles being dragged underwater.
Now she sits and strokes the seat as the world passes her by. She knows her mother would tell her to keep her hands in her lap– ‘You don’t know what you’ll catch’– but it occurs to her she no longer has to do what her mother says. Or what she thinks she will say.
Through the sadness that descended like fog, breaks a thin gleam of watery sunshine. She is grown-up now– more than something of a señorita. She could put her boots on the wrong feet, wear her rose hat on a Tuesday, sit in the park on a damp bench and look at the flowers for as long as she cares to.
She imagines a young woman with auburn hair sitting on a bench, crossing her feet at the ankles so her boots are the right way round. She knows the young woman is lonely without the budging, shifting bodies on the seat beside her, but in her mind’s eye she lets her stretch out both arms along the back of the bench, claiming all the room, making the space her own.
In the railway carriage, the man travelling to Southampton to sell typewriter ribbons wonders what the beautiful girl opposite is smiling about.
Chapter 31
Emma
Begonias
Before Emma heads for Cambridge, she makes a detour to the garden centre. She finds Les among the begonias. Begonias are far and away Les’s favourite flower and Betty told Emma when she first started that, should she ever need him, the first place to look would be among the begonias.
‘You’ve got a good day for your trip,’ he comments, stretching his back and putting down the bucket he is carrying.
Emma likes this about Les, he always gives you his full attention. ‘Are you taking the A421 via Bletchley? That should be the quickest route. Though I’m not sure if the road works have finished outside Buckingham– in which case you might be better to scoot down and go through Aylesbury.’
Emma doesn’t admit that she leaves all this to her sat nav. ‘Which would you go for?’
‘Umm. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.’
‘A game of two halves,’ Emma responds, before realising this makes no sense whatsoever.
Les puzzles over this. In the end, he discards it, ‘How did you get on planting out the lupins I gave you?’ he enquires.
‘Good. I’ve put them against the cottage wall where they’ll get plenty of sun.’
Les nods his approval. ‘They were battered by that recent storm, so I didn’t think we could sell them, but they should recover and do well for you. After all, storms make for stronger roots.’
Emma smiles slightly. ‘And a plant is known by its roots.’ She can’t quite see if Les is smiling behind his beard but she thinks his eyes are starting to gleam. ‘And good things only need a start,’ he offers.
Before Emma can find a response, Les adds, ‘And don’t forget, Emma, to plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.’ He coughs and suddenly becomes absorbed in uprooting a weed that is growing by the side of the path.
‘Were you after Betty?’ he asks, standing upright once more.
‘Yes, I was hoping I might be able to persuade her to change her mind and come with me.’
‘Not here I’m afraid, she’s popped out for a few hours.’
‘Oh.’ Emma feels ridiculously disappointed. ‘Les…?’
‘Yerrss?’ He draws the word out slowly suspiciously and glances longingly at his begonias. Emma supposes they never give him trouble like this.
