Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Emma

Brass Flowers

As Emma emerges from Clem's flower shop, she thinks she will never tire of visiting Cambridge. She loves the arched gateways that lead into the colleges and the secret worlds within, and the soaring, cathedral-like buildings that appear around each corner.

She walks along, thinking about Betty and Les, and about what an amazing woman Clem turned out to be. She is now confident that there was a florist of some sort on board the Titanic – maybe not The Florist , but someone who had a gift with flowers. She still does not have the least idea how she is going to find this person but she is sure something will come to her.

She smiles at strangers, knowing this is not what her mother would do, and she touches the top of her head to feel where the sun has warmed it. What was it Clem said? Don't be like her . Simple as that.

She runs her fingers through her hair making it bigger, wilder.

On the corner of the street, she stops to stare at the dipping rays lighting the buildings around her. She gazes at the golden stone, the herringbone brickwork and the intricate patterns created by the shadows. Looking down, she sees with surprise that the streets are paved with flowers. Beneath her foot is a small brass, flower head set into a paving stone. A bit further ahead is another and then another.

She follows the flower path, stepping carefully from one paving stone to the next, toes touching the flowers but never the lines on the street. In all her years in Cambridge, she has never noticed these flowers before.

When she comes across the scarlet door of a tapas bar, Emma realises how hungry she is. She opens the door and is met with a wall of conversation and laughter, and catches two waiters exchanging remarks in Spanish. She has the pleasant sensation that this bar is everything she hoped it would be. One of the waiters shows her to a tall stool in front of a broad slab of mottled wood that stretches across the full length of the bar. It reminds her of a natural history programme about the Baobab tree that Will once insisted they watch together.

When the waiter returns, she looks up confidently, knowing her Spanish is good. And, as her father had once -commented,her accent improves in proportion to the amount she has drunk. She orders several plates of tapas and, in memory of him, a chilled red wine. At the last minute, she decides to order just one glass rather than the full carafe. She also adds a large bottle of sparkling water to her order and congratulates herself on how sensible she is being.

The waiter brings her bread and cutlery and Emma asks him if he knows why there are flowers on the pavement outside. The young man shakes his head. ‘I'll get my dad– this is his bar. He always knows stuff like that.'

The short, balding man he beckons over looks to be in his sixties; he wears his white apron long, coming down almost to the ground. It strikes Emma that it might look comical on anyone else but this small, rotund, neat man wears the mark of his trade with confidence and authority.

His son says something to him in Spanish, and when he looks confused, Emma adds her explanation, also in Spanish. The older man beams at her and compliments her on her accent.

‘The flowers are an art project for the city; each of the brass heads represents a flower found in the architecture of the colleges surrounding us.' He raises his hand and sweeps it in an arc around him, like a conductor motioning his thanks to his orchestra. ‘The flower path runs for a mile through the city. I believe each flower has a meaning, a significance, for the college it represents.'

‘A path of flowers,' Emma murmurs, to no one in particular. ‘I was so right to come to Cambridge.'

‘Indeed you were, se?ora,' the owner agrees, smiling at her. He tells her that his name is Roberto and introduces his son as Antonio. Roberto presses Emma to call him if she needs anything during the evening. ‘I will personally look after you,' he promises.

Emma turns her attention to her food and then to the people around her. At the other end of what she thinks of as her Baobab tree sit a young couple. The boy reaches out and tucks a stray curl behind his girlfriend's ear. It sparks an echoing memory in Emma, and she drinks more deeply from her plum-coloured wine.

Roberto is as good as his word and keeps a careful eye on her, appearing from the kitchen every now and then with an extra plate of something special he thinks she might like to try, talking to her in a stream of eager Spanish.

‘I think that's you… Excuse me, Emma, I think that's you.'

Antonio is nodding at her phone, which is facedown on the Baobab tree alongside her notebook. She grabs it, and in her haste answers without looking. She scrambles from her stool to find a quieter spot at the back of the bar.

‘Hi! Hi! Give me a moment. I'll go somewhere where I can hear you.'

As she passes Roberto, he calls her back and holds the fire-exit open so that she can step into the alleyway running along the side of the building.

‘Hi! Sorry about that.' Emma is suddenly conscious she is bellowing into the phone.

‘Emma?' Her mother's voice is thin and tinny in her ear. ‘Why are you shouting? And why haven't you got back to me?'

This is not what she needs, especially on top of the wine. ‘Did you call earlier? I'm sorry, I didn't know.' She hates that she is already trying to placate her mother.

‘No, I emailed you. I'm sure I did. Mathias certainly seemed to think it had gone.'

She leans her head against the brickwork of the alley wall. A headache is lurking behind her eyes. ‘What did the email say?'

‘It gave you all the details you need for my birthday. You have to book it now.'

‘Book what?'

‘Your flight, and you need to pay for your accommodation.' Her mother is talking to her like she is a simpleton.

She tries to gather her thoughts. ‘Didn't you say somebody or other was hosting it?'

‘ Mathias – his name is Mathias. And you cannot expect him to pay for everything. The upkeep on the chateau is enormous.'

‘How much are we talking about?'

‘Your share is just for the weekend, so it will only be seven hundred euros.'

‘You're kidding?!' The words are out before she can stop them. And for once, she doesn't want to put them back.

‘I don't know what you're making such a fuss about. This is a prestigious private chateau, not some B&B.'

She can hear that her mother is still trying to keep a lid on her temper, trying to persuade her.

‘It's not like you're short of money.'

That old chestnut. Emma has never told her mother the amount of life assurance she received when Will died, and her mother never tires of trying to find out.

‘It would be good for you to meet some new people.'

Emma is surprised her mother's new friends even know she has a daughter.

‘People will think it is most odd if you're not here for my big party.'

Not as odd as my mother not coming to my husband's funeral.

‘Look, Emma, I haven't got time for this– for goodness' sake, it will be wonderful. You'd think I was asking you to go to the dentist.'

You didn't even come to Will's funeral.

The repetition of this thought keeps her strangely calm. Normally, as her mother's voice becomes more persistent, she caves in, knowing what can come next. A habit ingrained over years, over decades, one she cannot seem to break.

But now she thinks of the cloying, heady scent of Madonna lilies and she says, ‘I'm not coming, Mum.'

The phone goes quiet, and thoughts flash through Emma's mind as she concentrates on the pinpoint of unnatural silence in her ear. How has she finally found it possible to defy her mother? Was it the time spent with Clem, the woman who told her she did not have to be like her? Is it the drink talking? Maybe it was speaking Spanish again and thinking of her father?

Precise words pierce the silence. ‘You are coming. Don't be so bloody selfish.'

‘I'm not coming.'

‘Oh, you're coming,' her mother repeats. ‘I have told everyone you will look after the children.'

God! What is this woman like?

‘You'll have to find someone else.'

Emma hears a sharp intake of breath. She's not sure if it is from her mother, or herself– instinctively preparing for what comes next.

‘Oh, I know what this is.' Her mother's voice is slow and precise. She takes her time to deliver the blows. ‘Not having children and being on your own has brought out the worst of you, Emma. You've always been selfish– never able to fit in with others. You just have to be different.'

Emma tries to think of Clem's advice earlier, of sitting in the courtyard garden in the sun. She tries to keep hold of her belief in herself.

But her mother hasn't finished. ‘Maybe if you'd had a family you would be less self-obsessed, might think about others more… You never put Will first … it was always about you… I'm surprised he…'

As her mother talks, her words worm their way deep inside Emma, into a place that will never hold a baby, safe and secure. They burrow into the core of her where she keeps her secrets, hidden so deep that no one else will ever know.

When she can bear it no longer, she hangs up and turns her phone off.

To ease her head and stop the shaking, she concentrates on her breathing. Short breath in, long breath out. As a scientist, she knows this tricks the brain into releasing calming chemicals that fight adrenalin. In through her nose: one, two. Out through her mouth: one, two, three, four. Quietly, slowly– no one must notice.

The last time she used this, she was kneeling in the freezing mud with snowdrops clutched in her clenched fist: she had rocked and breathed.

Emma looks down at the Baobab tree as it swims in front of her. She has no idea how she got back to the bar. Her breathing is ragged. When she holds her hands out in front of her to see if they are shaking, she cannot tell through her tears.

She places her palms flat on the wood, as if, in some way, this will save her from falling further. It doesn't. Emma feels the tears running down her face and the snot dribbling from her nose, and she finds that all she can do is remember to breathe.

Her sobs when they come rack her chest and tear at her body. She cries for the husband she has lost and the baby she can never have, and despite everything, despite all she knows, she cries for what Will has missed out on, and she weeps in misery and fear because she knows she is lost.

Emma can hear voices but doesn't understand what they are saying. She is vaguely aware of someone touching her back and holding her arm. All she can do is cry. She watches her tears splash the Baobab tree and this makes her cry even more. It strikes her that she never cries like this and for the briefest of moments she thinks about trying to pull herself together, but the relief of her anguish is too great.

She sinks into it with a feeling of letting go after a very long journey.

When Emma finally returns to some sense of herself, she is sitting at a small Formica table in an alcove off the kitchen, hidden from the main body of the room. She vaguely remembers Roberto guiding her here, his hand on her elbow, his arm about her waist, talking to her quietly in Spanish. She recalls thinking he would make a good ballroom dancer, guiding you firmly and safely around a room.

She looks up to see him looking at her anxiously.

‘I'm sorry,' she manages to say, automatically using the language her father taught her.

‘Don't be so English. Do not apologise,' Roberto replies, also in Spanish.

Emma is touched and surprised by Roberto's obvious anger. She tries to smile, but all she wants to do is sleep or cry. She cannot imagine she will ever want to do anything else again.

Roberto pushes a cup of inky, black coffee towards her. He loads her coffee with sugar and hands her a small paper serviette for her face. Emma wonders if this is where Roberto has his morning coffee and plans his menus.

He passes her a small, sweet, almond biscuit. ‘You should eat this.'

Emma stares down at the butter-coloured biscuit in her hand and at the grains of sugar gathering on her fingertips.

‘Why didn't he love me, like I loved him?'

Roberto shakes his head and half stretches out his hand.

‘Why wasn't I enough?'

Roberto says nothing. As Emma knows all too well, there is nothing he can say.

She smiles sadly. ‘I try and hold on to the good in him, and there was lots of good, so much that I loved.' She looks up. ‘But it's not enough.'

She drinks her coffee and eats her biscuit as Roberto gently fusses. Can he call someone? Where is she staying? When Emma says she just wants to be alone, he hangs his long, white apron over his chair and escorts her in silence back to her hotel.

On the front step, he kisses both her cheeks like her father would have done, and Emma thinks her heart has finally broken.