She is tempted to say more but decides to leave it at that.
‘Well, Emma, you’ve given us a lot of food for thought.’ Les glances at Betty, who smiles encouragingly. ‘And you would be happy to help us with this?’
‘Of course– I’d love to. For example, I could set up an Instagram account for us and run it.’
Both Les and Betty are nodding now.
‘Well, you leave it with us to mull over,’ Les says. ‘I need to get on now and see to the begonias– they won’t be liking this downpour. Give us some time to think it through.’
Emma nods, but she can already tell that they like her ideas. Maybe it’s not just about asking for the help you need; sometimes it’s also about being prepared to offer specific help. She was worried about interfering, but this doesn’t feel like that.
The moment Les steps out into the rain, Tamas comes running full pelt into the Flower Cabin, flower boxes held over his head. Tamas puts the boxes down and then stamps and shakes like a very large dog. Emma notices that both she and Betty are looking at him expectantly.
‘This is the weather the ducks like, I think,’ he booms, taking the towel Betty is offering him. He rubs it vigorously over his bald head.
He emerges from under the towel and, seeing them both still looking at him, laughs. ‘I see you look at me. You women, you always want to know. But I am not going to say anything.’ But he continues to smile.
‘You had a nice time with Berta though, love?’ Betty asks a little anxiously.
‘I think that my Greta would say to her dad that he is not always such an old fool as he appears.’ He laughs again. ‘She used to say this about her dad, he is notalwaysa fool– often, but not always.’ With that, he hands the delivery note to Betty with a nod. Then he turns abruptly and takes Emma’s hand in his and with slow formality bends from the waist and kisses it. ‘This is for you, for reminding me that words should sometimes be written down.’
She is left astonished but smiling, hand still held out. He turns and, forgetting to pick up the empty flower boxes, throws open the door and runs back out into the storm.
Emma and Betty watch as he splashes down the path, leaping over flowerpots and making tidal waves in the puddles as he lands.
Betty gives a deep sigh. ‘Well, love, that looks very promising, I do have to say– a lot better than I had been expecting.’ She chuckles. ‘And not one mention of you looking like his cow.’ She pauses as she opens up the first flower box. ‘Now, what about you, love? What’s next for you?’
It’s not a question Emma can answer.
She is still thinking about it as she draws up outside her cottage later. Alistair said he would be in touch soon, but she really has no idea how long that will be. A few days? A week? A month? And then what?
She can’t help feeling she should go and see her mother. Not for the party– God forbid– but she has all the old family photos and documents, stretching way back. She wants to get her hands on these.
But it is not just the photos. Emma hasn’t spoken to her mother since her breakdown in Cambridge, but she increasingly feels that she needs to talk to her properly– not on the phone but face-to-face. She knows she doesn’t want to, but sometime soon, she thinks she will have to.
A trip to Paris?
Paris is where Philippe, the retired perfumier, lives, so she could kill two birds with one stone (as Les would say).
Another thought brings a genuine smile to her face: maybe Betty would like to come with her?
Chapter 57
Violet
Golden Tulips
Her friend, the bar steward, is unloading the glasses in preparation for their maiden voyage. He has asked her to tell him what she thinks of their new ship, theTitanic. He is waiting for her to answer.
How can she say that it makes her feel drunk, like the time he made her take a second brandy against the cold? Then she had tried to get into her cabin but the handle seemed to have been moved to the wrong side of the door and she was left foolishly rubbing her hands all over the metal painted surface to find it.
It is the same all over theTitanic. It is a ship so like theOlympicthat it is almost a familiar old friend. She knows its virtues and its idiosyncrasies– but things have been moved, details changed. She expects to find a certain something around a corner only to discover it has vanished. And then she bangs her knee against a table that shouldn’t be there.
Her friend is still waiting patiently, rubbing the crystal glasses with a white cloth so new it looks like stiff card in his hands.
She remembers a trick she has learnt from her brothers, boys so full of questions they rarely have time to answer what is asked of them.
‘I would be interested to hear what you think of her?’ she says.
