‘I haven’t got time for this!’ her mother states, suddenly rising. ‘And don’t think for a moment that I will want you at the chateau for my birthday. Quite frankly,’ she says, sweeping a look over Emma, ‘you wouldn’t fit in.’
Emma almost reminds her mother that it will, in fact, be her sixty-eighth birthday, and that this is very close to seventy, but she finds she has lost all urge to score points over this woman. She sits staring after her as the angry clack of her heels disappears into the distance.
Then she turns and smiles radiantly at Betty.
‘I’m a gardener,’ she says. And the word comes to her in Spanish too:jardinera.
It feels as though a scientific equation she has been struggling with has finally balanced. A new connection– therightconnection– has been made. If they were a family of poor gardeners, of course they wouldn’t have had photos. So that was it. She isn’t related to Violet Jessop, but– Emma smiles at the thought– sheisdescended from a long line of gardeners. Family following family.
Is it enough? Not to be a descendent of a stewardess on theTitanicbut one in a long line of gardeners?
Yes, Emma decides; it undoubtedly is.
Betty lets a long breath out and starts to laugh. ‘So much for not talking to your mother.’
‘Would you like to go to Seville?’ Emma asks.
As Betty hesitates, Emma knows this last journey is one she will be making on her own. It is time for Betty to go home to Les.
Chapter 77
Emma
Lotus Flowers
The Seville sunshine glows with a warmth and intensity that reminds Emma of rich food. She remembers Roberto and thinks how good it would be to drink chilled Manzanilla and eat tapas with him here.
After booking into her hotel, she sets out for theReales Alcázares. There have been gardens in the palace grounds since it was built by Moorish, Muslim kings in the eleventh century. She has no clear idea of what she will do there, but she has a longing to be on her own and think about her father in a beautiful Spanish garden.
She steps from the coolness of the sumptuous palace into the shaded calm of the formal gardens. There are green, tranquil pools set in courtyards tiled with intricate patterns of emerald, ochre and indigo. The water is flecked with fallen petals of pink and purple, with an occasional liquid tangerine flash of a fish. Sunken gardens are planted with symmetrical lines of trees, and purple sky flower and powder blue plumbago cascade over terracotta walls.
As she walks on, sandy paths lead her further from the backdrop of the magnificent palace into gardens bordered by hedges interspersed with scarlet roses and wilder, looser greenery she can’t identify. Above her, the tallest palm trees Emma has ever seen reach up into an azure-blue sky.
After an hour of walking, Emma pauses by a bank of deep orange canna lilies. The opulent flowers are now beginning to fade, the petals turning from burnt orange to a deep brown that is almost maroon. For a moment it depresses her that deathis reaching into this garden, too, and then she sees above the flowers the canopy of green formed by a line of orange trees. The oranges are there, hidden in the leaves; in this season, they are solid green spheres, but come the winter they will ripen to a glorious orange. So life goes on. As one thing fades, another blooms.
Then it comes to her, a thread of sweetness mixing with the verdant greenness.
Jasmine.
She follows the scent to a small courtyard banked on all sides by walls of greenery– clusters of delicate white flowers scattered among the dark leaves. She finds a bench tucked away by a low wall, looking out onto a shallow, circular pool with a fountain. Around it, on the tiled floor, stand large pale terracotta pots planted with rosemary– rosemary for remembrance.
The still, warm air is heavy with the mingled scent of herbs and Jasmine. Emma breathes in the fragrance and, very quietly– which feels appropriate for the humble man she loved so much– she says goodbye to her father.
People drift past her– families laughing, some arguing, an elderly couple strolling hand in hand. That is how she had envisaged herself and Will growing old together– still wanting to touch and hold each other.
The courtyard clears again, the only person left is a gardener working his way up one of the flowerbeds. He is working in the shade and she cannot see his face.
When he comes closer, moving through the bed, weeding and raking, with a practised rhythm, she sees he is much older than she initially thought– a man nearing fifty. He looks up and seeing her watching him, smiles.
‘It’s a hot day for work,’ she starts, but is caught by a half-laugh before she has finished the words.
He looks enquiringly at her.
‘I’m sorry– it’s just that I was congratulating myself on speaking in Spanish and then realised I was being typically English and talking about the weather.’
He straightens up. ‘It is an international trait, especially among gardeners.’
She smiles. ‘Have you worked here long?’
