Chapter 31

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.

‘Have you met Clementine?'

‘Oh, yes.' He sounds relieved, like this is a question he can easily answer.

‘What's she like?'

Les is now looking like an anxious St Bernard. Eventually he says, ‘Nice woman.'

Emma gets the impression Les is not used to discussing others. He surprises her by adding, ‘Betsy sets great store by her.'

‘In what way?'

‘Well,' he says slowly, ‘Betty says Clem's just one of those people who—'

They are interrupted by a harassed-looking man with a toddler in tow, needing advice about sheds.

Les brightens, clearly back on safe ground. He nods a farewell to Emma and launches into a discussion of overlapping apexes and scalloped profiles.

As Emma walks away wondering, one of those people who what ?, she reflects that ‘shed speak' is as foreign a language to her as discussing people appears to be to Les.

It is only as she is driving away that she remembers the other reason she went to the garden centre. She has been meaning to ask Les if he's ever done any research into his family tree. With his interest in history, it seems possible, and he might have some advice.

Her own research is stalling. Not only is the search for The Florist taking precedence, but she is unearthing nothing of interest in her family tree. The more she digs, the more it feels like trying to find a connection with The Nurse is just a distraction. She senses something is slipping from her, without having any idea of what it is.

As she drives, she lowers the sun visor and rummages, one-handed, in her bag for her sunglasses. She is starting to get what she now thinks of as one of her headaches. These are often accompanied by a wave of exhaustion that leaves her listless and lightheaded. Mostly she puts this down to grief– except when the headaches arrive in the middle of the night; then she starts to worry she is developing the degenerative condition sheused to research. This irrational fear always dissipates with the dawn.