Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Emma

Marigolds

Emma settles herself on the edge of the bed in the guest room. Beside her is the chest of drawers where she keeps old photographs and letters. Most of her photos are on her phone or her laptop, but she has a feeling there is a large brown envelope in here somewhere with photos of her dad's family. She cannot rid herself of the sense of connection she felt with The Nurse. It's like a memory she can't quite retrieve– something once seen in the context of her own family, flickering at the corner of her eye.

When she finds the remembered envelope, the contents are sparse and disappointing: old, black and white holiday shots from a different era (but certainly not as long ago as 1912). She is toying with the idea of looking up how to research her family tree when she spots a stack of letters lying in the drawer beside a pile of albums.

Ever since she conjured up Will in the kitchen, she has felt the need to get closer to him, even if this brings misery that she fears she will not be able to bear. Her mind drifts back to December, kneeling in the garden among the snowdrops, seven months on from Will's death. She had hoped that was the mark of something new, the beginning of some sort of recovery. But instead, came pain that left her winded and shaking.

She extracts the bundle of Will's letters. She knows he found it hard to tell her he loved her, but he whispered his fears and dreams to her in their bed. Hidden in the dark, his breath against her hair and neck, he shared who he was with her. And she loved him for it.

He also wrote to her. Emma had always enjoyed writing letters, encouraged by Granny Maria who was a great correspondent. In the early days of their relationship, Emma had left notes for Will in his overnight bag or tucked away where she knew he would find them– a childhood habit, one that she had hoped to pass on to their children. Will had collected her notes, keeping them in a neat pile in his sock drawer. And then one day, to her surprise, he started writing long letters back. The words he could not always say seemed to flow from his pen, and she treasured those early letters, tucking them away with the many letters her grandmother had sent her.

She opens a letter at random. The familiarity of Will's handwriting catches her on a new barb of pain. The pages are still creased from where they had been left folded for her, eight years ago.

Oxford. Thursday. 5 a.m.

Ems,

I'm writing this as you sleep. I've decided to leave early and drive to the airport– better than waiting for a train back when I land. The meeting in Dusseldorf may go on, but I should be home by 6 p.m. tomorrow. Pub? Or we could take some wine down to the river?

I didn't disturb you when I got in last night– it was too late. The firm's away-day of ‘Strategic Energising' was as bad as I thought it would be. Questions, scenarios, role-play and then more questions. I wanted to stand up and say, ‘Ask me any question and the answer is always going to be the same: "a Dr of Genetics with red hair".' That amazing hair– I'm looking at it now.

After a day of it (what has ‘Strategic Energising' got to do with the law anyway?), we had an entire evening playing ‘Team Togetherness' games. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse. It was Barry's idea. God love him. I know you feel sorry for him and think he's lonely, but you try spending an evening with him. We spent a long time breaking off into pairs and finding three positive words to describe each other. Fenella started (Loud, Lazy it was like it was closed down. I never want you to feel like that again. So, yes, Beautiful. But it's not just your face, Ems, it's you– inside and out. Don't think I don't know you've been trying to set up Barry with Nicky from the estate agents.

Stay Brave, Bossy & Beautiful.

Will x

Emma puts the letter back and closes the drawer. She knows she can't read any more. She fears what is left of her will unravel.

Downstairs in the kitchen, her body is trembling as she makes herself a coffee. There was once a time when she lived a life that she had thought was reserved for others. She and Will had a social life, went to the pub, met up with friends. With Will by her side, she found courage.

She pauses, stirring her coffee. He must be the only person in the world who ever thought her bossy. With everyone else, she rarely found the voice to say what she wanted.

Her mind skips to Barry– clumsy, earnest, eager to please, Barry. She and Will were just buying their first house together, having outgrown the tiny flat they shared after their marriage. Emma had tried to set up Barry with their estate agent. Poor Barry. Had she recognised herself in him? Had she wanted to share some of her newfound happiness? She wonders whatever happened to Barry and Nicky. They had certainly dated for a few months, but then Barry changed jobs. Had they married? Had a family? Lived happily ever after?

She clenches her hands, hard, refocusing her thoughts. She cannot let herself go where her mind is taking her.

She looks down at her taught knuckles and wonders what The Florist's hands had been like. When the ship lurched, had those hands closed hard on a wooden rail, as she looked down into the churning blackness? She has read that the sea was smooth that night, but being a poor sailor herself, Emma knows there is always movement: a sickening, swaying roll, followed by a deceptively gentle tilt as, deep below the surface, the sea thrust its fingers into the ship's wound.

Emma places her hands flat on the solid kitchen tabletop. Maybe The Florist had hidden in her cabin? Was she holding tight to the metal post of a bunk bed, breathing in the smell of new paint, sweat and salt, as the floor shifted beneath her feet?

She looks out the window towards her neighbours' house. The path to their front door is lined with rows of marigolds. A few days ago, Les told her about a programme he had seen on National Geographic, how he'd learnt that in South America, during the festival marking the Day of the Dead, paths of marigold petals were scattered through the streets to guide the dead back to their loved ones.

Emma studies the line of marigolds, with their lollipop-orange petals. Most days she knows she would lay a path of petals hundreds of miles long to bring Will home. But there are moments when her unruly imagination sends a sudden blast of wind, when the path shifts beneath her feet and marigold petals are scattered over the Oxfordshire countryside.

In her mind's eye, she sees a landscape painted with thousands of orange teardrops, and she wonders if she really wants Will to find her.