‘What?’ she asks, defensively.
Clem smiles at her. ‘Well, honey, let’s face it. I bet you scare the hell out of Betty!’ She starts to really laugh this time.
Emma is incredulous. ‘What?’
Clem just keeps on grinning at her. ‘You have to look at it from her point of view. You’re a scientist, a doctor, Betty tells me. You speak, what is it– four languages?’
Emma nods, embarrassed.
‘And she told me you picked up the floristry work like you’d been born to it. Hell, youareimpressive.’ Clem is still smiling at her.
‘I don’t feel impressive,’ Emma admits, looking back at her. ‘Most of the time I can’t seem to…’
Is this what Les had meant? That Clementine was the sort of person who you ended up confiding in? Emma might not be able to finish her sentence, but she is surprised she has said this much.
White peonies come to her mind: fresh from market, petals stuck so tight, like round pebbles on the end of the stem. But they opened, didn’t they? Eventually.
‘Betty told me about your husband…’
‘Will.’ Emma looks up. She wants Clem to know his name.
‘I know Betty is happy to help you if she can. And between you and me, I think what Betty needs just now is to have someone to keep an eye on. You know, since her mum died. She loved her but, boy, was she a handful. I think she led Betty a right dance towards the end. Now with her gone, I don’t think she likes to admit it, but she’s at a bit of a loss…’
‘My mother’s difficult, too,’ Emma says. ‘I don’t think she’s a very nice woman, and I worry a lot that I’m like her.’
Emma cannot believe she has spoken the words, finally voiced the fear. She has never told anyone this before, not even Will, but she has always worried that her struggle to fit in is somehow rooted in selfishness. And there is no one more selfish than her mother. Like mother, like daughter?
‘Then don’t be like her,’ Clem says briskly, pouring them both more Prosecco. Emma blinks. Can it really be that easy? Is it simply a matter of choice?
She shakes her head. ‘Do all your friends come to you for advice?’
Clem just sits back, closes her eyes and smiles up at the sun, not saying anything. Emma decides to follow suit.
Maybe this is why Betty didn’t come; maybe she hoped her friend Clementine would talk to Emma, realised that sometimes it is easier to open up to a stranger.
With eyes closed, Emma listens to the buzz of conversation from the shop and the ring of a doorbell nearby. From the distance comes the sound of a voice talking loudly above the traffic.
She isn’t sure if she’s been asleep, if she’s been dreaming, but she suddenly knows there is something else she wants to ask Clem.
‘What I suppose I’m trying to find out … what part of this is about,’ she says, picking up her wine glass and waving it expansively in the air, ‘is why flowers?Whydo flowers matter?’
Clem’s laugh is a snort this time. ‘You don’t ask for much, do you, honey?’ She hugs her arms about her and looks sideways at Emma. ‘I can tell you this, flowers are everywhere. Not just for weddings and funerals but for christenings, birthdays, new homes, thank yous– for just about everything. I’ve been into people’s homes, gardens, offices– where they eat, party and pray– and in all these places, flowers are welcomed like friends.’ Clem leans over and clinks her glass with Emma’s. ‘And another thing– most flowers are sent from women to women. Not for the grand occasion or as a big showy gesture.’ She grins. ‘That’s what some men think we want. Ha! They’re fools.’ She continues, reflectively, ‘Flowers are about women reaching out when their friends are celebrating or when they’re sad or sick or grieving. Flowers say, “I will always love you, my friend”.’
Emma finds she cannot speak.
When she can control her voice, she checks if Clem sends her flowers to addresses outside of Cambridge. Then she orders a hand-tied bouquet to be delivered to a curly-haired woman who lives in a small bungalow behind a garden centre in Oxford.
Chapter 34
Violet
Forget-me-nots
The Big Barbadian who is the Smoking Room steward crosses the rising deck as if he is taking a summer walk. The rougher the seas, the broader his smile. She wonders, as he leans his body weight into his large feet, whether he is pushing the ship into the waves.
He is the kindest person she has met on board, and he passes her hints and advice like a man feeding a kitten he has grown fond of. He makes up for her cabinmate who looks like a woman who would put kittens into a sack and drown them.
When she first found her cabin, she thought two women were already living there and that she had made a mistake. Then she realised her companion had simply spread her possessions onto every surface like a child refusing to share. Not that she can imagine her cabinmate ever having been a little girl. Rather, she thinks she was born angular and irritable and old.
