Twenty
E mma arrived at the hotel ten minutes before the appointed time, but Liz Flynn, complete with white hat, was already waiting. Emma had expected someone dowdy, maybe mousy and old-fashioned, someone who you could imagine being afraid of venturing into Parisian streets on her own. But what she found was a tall, smiley woman in jeans and blue cotton jumper under a light waterproof jacket, the white hat—a nifty cotton bucket hat—pulled over grey-blonde chin-length hair. With her blue eyes sparkling behind round wire-framed glasses, she reminded Emma at once of Susie, her favourite of Paddy’s sisters, and that impression was compounded by Liz’s cheerful manner as she shook hands with Emma and admitted that she really hadn’t expected to do much with her last day in Paris. ‘But that Mark A can really twist your arm,’ she added, and it took Emma an instant to realise, with a twist of amusement, that by ‘Mark A’ she meant Marc-Antoine. She grinned, saying that she hadn’t exactly expected to do this either. ‘But add my grandmother to the arm-twisting, and what chance did we have?’
‘None at all, clearly,’ said Liz, ‘but since the double arm-twisting worked and we’re both here, tell me, Emma, is this something you really want to do?’
Emma hadn’t been sure, till that instant, but now she was. ‘Absolutely. Actually, I can’t think of a better way to spend a sunny day in Paris.’
‘Me neither,’ said Liz, a flicker of relief washing over her face. Emma realised the other woman had in fact been looking forward to it, but wasn’t sure if she was imposing on Emma, and she liked her even better for that. Marc-Antoine had been right, then. That would have annoyed her even a few hours ago. Not now. Now, she was just—well, ready to admit she might have been wrong about him.
Reaching into her backpack, she pulled out the stiff A3 cardboard wallet that held the map Mattie had drawn for them. ‘My grandmother is Parisian born and bred and being married to my garden-mad grandfather means she’s familiar with pretty much every garden of note in Paris.’ Taking the map carefully out of the wallet, she showed it to Liz. ‘So she took it upon herself to draw this map for us, creating the route we’ll take today.’
‘Oh wow. May I?’ breathed Liz, reaching for it. ‘So beautiful. Oh, will you look at it!’ And she traced a finger around the curve of the map, with the river flowing through it, and all the gardens Mattie had recommended, each marked by its name, and a charming sketch: a little dog, a dancing statue, a rosebush with a star hanging among the flowers, a waterfall, and more … She had put in a hint of colour on each sketch, and drawn the features of the map—the streets, the bridges, the islands, the river—in flowing black ink, with the route they might take in blue.
‘Yes, it’s pretty special, isn’t it?’ Emma herself had been stunned not only by the loveliness of her grandmother’s map, but also the speed with which she’d created it, and the way in which she’d seemed to have those places in her head. ‘My grandmother worked as a commercial artist for a long time,’ she went on.
‘And she drew this just for our trip today?’ Liz asked, shaking her head wonderingly. ‘She didn’t want to come with us as well?’
‘No,’ Emma said. ‘Mattie—my grandmother—she’s in her early eighties, and though she’s pretty active most of the time, she’s got a couple of health issues that mean a whole day out like this would tire her out too much. And yes, it was a spur of the moment thing—she said she’d thought of making a list for us but that a map would be much more useful.’
‘I’ll say. And isn’t this so much nicer than relying on Google Maps! Not that you can actually rely on the bloody thing,’ Liz said. Emma hid a smile, remembering what Marc-Antoine had said. But Liz was right, this was much, much nicer.
‘So, if you’re ready, shall we start?’ she said. ‘And would you like to be our navigator?’
Liz’s eyes lit up. ‘Wouldn’t I just! Okay, so our first stop from here looks pretty close, it’s er—Hotel de Sully—I’m probably mangling that, but you know what I mean, right? It’s got a sketch of a little door with what looks like an old-school moneybag on it.’
Emma smiled. ‘That’s right. The moneybag is because this garden is in the grounds of an old mansion that used to belong to the Duke de Sully, who had once been the finance minister of one of France’s greatest kings, Henri the Fourth, back in the early seventeenth century. He was quite a character, by all accounts, like his boss.’ While Mattie had been making the map, Emma had looked up every garden that would be on it, finding interesting details about each one, and noting them down on her phone. ‘And here’s the door.’
She led the way to a corner of the square and a discreetly positioned door. ‘Mattie chose the gardens on this map for two main reasons,’ she said. ‘The first is that they’ve all got stories. And the second is that they are mostly hidden or secret gardens.’
‘Secret garden? Like in the book?’ Liz asked.
Emma smiled. ‘Exactly! So here is our first secret garden, whose existence you don’t suspect until’—and she opened the door—‘suddenly, there it is.’
‘Ooh,’ said Liz as they stepped into a small quiet garden that was so much like an extension of the garden at the centre of the Place des Vosges that it was disorienting, like stepping into a mirror world, especially as the beautiful mansion in whose grounds it was in was from the same era as those that lined the Place. They strolled around in the timeless peace, feet crunching on gravelled paths bordered with formal green squares of trimmed box, with a splendid evergreen holm oak tree in the corner.
And then they were off again, meandering along the picturesque streets of the Marais till they reached the next stop, in the Rue des Rosiers. This garden, tucked away behind buildings, was marked on the map by the rosebush with the star. ‘This area was home to many immigrant Jews from Eastern Europe before World War Two,’ Emma explained, ‘and the garden we’re going to see is named after a teacher called Joseph Migneret who taught in a primary school in the Marais. Many of his students were Jewish, and during the Nazi occupation of Paris, Joseph dedicated himself to saving as many of his students and former students and their families as he could, sheltering some in his home, and supplying forged papers to others so they could escape to Spain.’
As she spoke, they reached the grilled entrance that led into the hidden garden. Away from the bustle of the Rue des Rosiers, it was a calm mix of park, community garden and rose haven, about as different from the Sully garden as it was possible to be. ‘I like this one better than the first one,’ said Liz, and Emma agreed: though the restrained elegance of the other garden was admirable, this one was more beguiling, intimate, and filled with birdsong. And it was moving, as well, to reflect that this lovely tranquil space had been chosen to commemorate the bravery and compassion of a man who had risked his life more than once to try and save other people, at a time of such horror and cruelty. They spent quite a bit of time there, Liz walking around the different sections taking photos and pointing out flowers and other plants she had in her garden in County Wexford, Ireland. This led to a discussion of what Emma herself was doing in her grandfather’s garden, and Liz seemed genuinely interested. ‘You know, I love my garden dearly, and it’s in wonderful shape—but I can definitely see the appeal of something you can coax back to life! So tell me, what are your plans?’
Talking about Emma’s plans for the garden took up much of the longish walk to the next stop, the Jardin des Arts Albert Schweitzer, newly created from the previously separate gardens of three local squares, to form a green haven that was supposed to be the largest garden opened in Paris for decades. ‘Mattie said it was Paris’s newest garden, in a manner of speaking,’ Emma said, as they walked past green lawn, an ivy-covered wall and beds full of beautiful flowers, including, surprisingly, a bottlebrush bush covered in bright red flower spikes, ‘and she says that she wishes Alain—my grandfather—could have seen it. He would have been so happy to know it could still happen, there could still be new gardens in Paris …’
This garden had been marked by Mattie with a sketch of a frolicking dog—it’s the perfect garden for them, she’d said—and sure enough, they saw a particularly appealing character with a fluffy white coat and black button eyes, which was busily running around a laughing couple who were clearly its owners, ignoring their cries of ‘Here, Nina!’
‘It’s a Bichon Frisé,’ Liz informed Emma. ‘They’re very playful,’ she added, with a wistful look back at the little creature, ‘but Marty prefers the bigger breeds, and Rudi is gorgeous. Rudi’s a German Shepherd,’ she explained.
‘Can’t you have one of the others too?’ Emma asked, ‘I mean your place in Ireland looks pretty big’—Liz had shown her some pictures on her phone—‘so surely you don’t have to have only one dog.’ She didn’t say, Why should your husband have the right to lay the law down about it? but she certainly thought it.
Liz’s eyes twinkled behind her glasses. ‘Oh Emma, I know, but it’s early days in our married life, and well, Rudi’s been literally top dog for years, he wouldn’t take well to a newcomer, he was already not so thrilled about me! So you know, I’m keeping my powder dry for the moment, but when the right time comes, I’ll strike.’
Emma felt a bit foolish. Liz was clearly not the sort of woman to meekly accept some spousal stricture and what she said made sense. Animals could get jealous, just like people. Like me with Marc-Antoine , she thought, uncomfortably. Firmly dismissing the thought, she said, ‘How did you and Martin meet?’
‘In a garden, believe it or not! Well, if you’re stretching a point, that is—it was actually Hyde Park in London. My office in London at the time was very near the park and I used to go for a walk there at lunchtime, if the weather was fine. Anyway, this particular day I managed to trip on something and twisted my ankle. Marty happened to be walking by, he came to my rescue, helped me to a bench, we got talking, and well, it went on from there. Romantic, eh?’ Her face was lit up with a beautiful smile.
‘Absolutely,’ said Emma, smiling back. ‘And now I know why you really love gardens.’
‘Get on with you,’ said Liz, flapping a hand at her. ‘I’ve loved gardens since I was a kid. But now I’ve told you about my romance, I want to hear about yours.’
Emma stared. ‘I don’t have one—I mean, I’m not in a relationship, at the moment.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’ Liz’s expression was a comical mix of dismay and surprise. ‘It’s just that the way he was talking about you, I thought that …’
‘No,’ Emma snapped, her colour rising. She didn’t have to ask who Liz was referring to. ‘He—we hardly know each other. And we’re practically related. Well, not really. I mean, it’s complicated …’ She trailed off.
‘Complicated. I see.’ Liz shot her an unreadable glance. ‘Well, it’s my mistake, Emma. Me and my big mouth. Forget I said anything. Now, where are we headed to next?’
Emma remembered the warm tone of Marc-Antoine’s voice this morning on the phone. Had that warmth been more than … No. Surely not. He was simply relieved she’d agreed to his crazy plan. And his text message had been friendly, but no more, Liz was imagining things. Emma looked down at the map, and, trying to keep her voice steady, she said, ‘Well, it’s across the Marie bridge here—’ pointing to a line with ‘Pont Marie’ above it, ‘over to the ?le Saint-Louis, where I thought we could take a break from gardens and have some lunch in a bistro, and then an ice cream at the famous Bertillon stand, and then we can stroll across the Saint-Louis bridge, to get to the ?le de la Cité and the flower market. We’ll have a good look at that. And then—’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Liz, laughing, ‘let’s leave the and then for later, right? Onwards to the bridges and lunch. I’m famished!’
They had a very good seafood lunch—a superb scallop risotto for Emma and a big bowl of bouillabaisse for Liz—and by two o’clock the pair were threading through the crowds in the flower market, heading for Arielle’s stand. The surly man from the other day gave them a sour look as they went past his shop without stopping, but Emma took no notice, her attention all on Arielle’s magnificent display of pink and blue flowers. Beside her, she heard Liz breathe, ‘Wow. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Arielle, who was talking with a man as they approached, saw them and smiled in welcome. ‘Hello, Emma. It is nice to see you again.’
‘And you too,’ said Emma. She introduced Liz, who said a few words in very hesitant French, and then Arielle introduced the man beside her as her friend Daniel, who worked in the Cluny Museum as a botanical historian. That interested Liz, who asked a couple of rapid questions which Daniel answered in English. Then Liz said, gesturing to the display, ‘And this is amazing! Does it have a theme?’
‘Thank you. Yes, it does,’ Arielle said, beaming. ‘It’s about the beauty of May, expressed in pink and blue.’ And she talked about the flowers, as Emma translated. There was borage with its bright blue star-shaped edible flowers; bleeding-heart plants with their hot pink and white bell blooms; the pale pink of impatiens next to the pale blue of flax flowers; the deep pink of rose campion with their velvety, silvery leaves; the trumpet-shaped sapphire-blue flowers of gentians, and the homely pink and blue glory of hydrangeas.
‘Incredible,’ Liz said, shaking her head. ‘I’d never have thought to combine those particular flowers together, but they look perfect. Do you mind if I take a photo?’
‘Not at all. Please go ahead.’
‘Thank you. Emma, would you mind standing in front of the flowers for a moment?’ Liz said. ‘Just to give some perspective,’ she added, seeing Emma’s expression.
‘It should be Arielle, it’s her display,’ Emma protested, but Arielle smilingly shook her head. She gestured at Emma’s dusty-pink knee-length dress and pale green sandals. ‘You are better colour coordinated than I am,’ she said.
Thankfully, Liz wanted only a couple of photos with Emma in them, so she was glad to be able to duck away again as Liz continued taking photos from every conceivable angle. As they stood there watching her, Arielle said to Emma, in an undertone, ‘This very sympa lady, is she a member of your family?’
‘Oh no—she’s a friend of a friend.’ Not wanting to explain who the ‘friend’ was, she hurried on, ‘I’m her guide for the day. She’s Australian. She doesn’t care for monuments but loves plants and gardens and so I’ve been taking her around the most interesting places: my grandmother made a map for us, and of course the flower market is on it—see here …’ And she showed the map to Arielle, who drew in a breath, saying, ‘ Absolument ravissant! ’ Absolutely gorgeous!
Daniel, who had been silent till now, leaned over to look and his eyes widened. ‘Superb,’ he agreed, in English, ‘what wonderful detail! A garden map is such a wonderful idea.’
‘Yes, exactly,’ said Liz, and she and Daniel began an animated conversation about maps, while Arielle asked Emma about her garden project. Arielle was clearly taken with Emma’s enthusiastic description so when she asked, rather hesitantly, ‘Might you come and look at it one day and see what you think? I’d happily pay you for your time.’ Arielle smiled, said she’d be delighted, and they exchanged numbers.
Shortly after, Emma and Liz left the flower market, taking the Metro to the station closest to the Champs-élysées and the Tuileries Gardens. Not that they were visiting either today, but the station was near the hidden oasis known by two names: the Garden of the Swiss Valley and the Garden of New France. The first, older name, had come about because the garden had once been part of the grounds of the charming Swiss pavilion in the 1900 Universal Exposition of Paris; the second, official name, given long after the pavilion had been pulled down, was in honour of the early history of French Canada, once known as New France. On Mattie’s map, it was marked with the waterfall sketch and, in tiny script, another name of her own invention: le jardin des escaliers poétiques , the garden of the poetic steps.
That was because the garden could only be reached by a set of worn, uneven stone steps, tucked in close to the unusual marble sculpture of the great poet Alfred de Musset. The steps wound down into a hidden beauty, as the busy, noisy boulevards above seemed to disappear completely, and you found yourself in a peaceful emerald world where the only sounds were birdsong, bee buzz, the occasional soft voice or footfall of a fellow walker, and the trickle of water.
Emma and Liz walked among deeply shaded paths, near inviting benches where they might rest a while in contemplation, past replica Greek ruins and statues of the early navigators and mappers of New France, passing stone archways and a carved wooden footbridge as they headed towards the alluring sound of water to reach a small stream with its own miniature waterfall cascading over rocks. The water was overhung with big trees that, at this time of year, were in full glorious leaf.
As they walked, Emma told Liz a bit about the area’s origins in the time of Marie de Medici, who’d reigned for seven years as regent of France after the shocking assassination of her husband, the swashbuckling king Henri IV, the same one who’d employed the Duke de Sully as his finance minister. It was Marie who’d first created gardens here as a refuge, as well as being involved in the design of the Luxembourg Garden on the other side of the river. ‘The garden of the poetic steps’ had changed since her day, but it retained a feeling of another time; a tiny green sliver of what had once been a very different and smaller city, with fields and woods outside its now-vanished walls.
The two women stopped to rest on a bench, gazing at the water, drinking in the birdsong and talking softly about their conversation with Arielle and Daniel in the flower market. Emma had ended up buying a pretty enamel pin of a hydrangea blossom for her grandmother, but Liz had come away with a more substantial haul for her home in Ireland: three small garden ornaments in the shape of birds and several packets of seeds. Plus an open invitation to come back to the stand whenever she was in Paris. Which, she told Emma as they sat resting their feet before heading off to the river ferry, she was definitely going to do. ‘Today has opened my eyes to a whole new way of seeing this city,’ she said. ‘If ever you decide to do more tours like this, I know plenty of people who would be interested. You’re absolutely brilliant at it.’
‘Thanks,’ Emma said, a little embarrassed but very pleased. ‘It was Mattie’s map that did it really. I found it so inspirational.’
‘You should go into business together then,’ said Liz, stretching luxuriously before getting to her feet. ‘A gorgeous tour and a gorgeous souvenir map. What could be better for a unique experience of Paris? People would line up for it!’
Emma laughed. ‘There speaks a true entrepreneur,’ she said.
‘Well, why not, girl? Dare to dream and the world will dream with you!’ Liz said cheerfully. ‘What’s next?’
‘The last stop on our tour—the Luxembourg Garden,’ Emma said. ‘It’s not a hidden garden, but it’s a very special one, and it has its own secrets. Have you been there before?’
‘Never,’ said Liz, ‘but I’m looking forward to it.’ She pointed to it on the map. ‘The dancing statue, right?’
Emma smiled. ‘And soon you’ll see why.’
A short time later, as they sat on the Batobus, gliding along the river towards the Left Bank, Emma thought again of what Liz had said about the garden tours. It had probably been a throwaway comment because she’d enjoyed the day, but with her marketing brain switched on, Emma could see that it wasn’t a bad idea. Once she’d finished restoring the garden, maybe she could think of doing it. After all, among the tourists there would be many people who loved gardens, and gardens in Paris were especially appealing. And how wonderful would it be to work with her grandmother? But would Mattie even want to? She was in her eighties after all. And could I really do it , she wondered. I don’t really know enough about gardens. I can’t pretend to give practical information because that would make me an impostor. Charlotte could do that. Or Arielle. But not me. The only thing I can do properly is tell stories .
Just then, her phone buzzed with an incoming call. Mattie. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said, when Emma answered. ‘How is it going? Where are you now?’
‘We’ve been having such a lovely day! And we’ll be at the Luxembourg in twenty minutes or so.’
‘I thought I could meet you there. What do you think?’
‘That would be wonderful! I know Liz would be delighted to meet you. She adores your map.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I think she’d love to hear your story of the dancing faun!’
There was a smile in Mattie’s voice as she said, ‘Then I will see you very soon, at the foot of the dancing faun. Oh, and Marc-Antoine is taking us to a restaurant by the river this evening with your lady and her husband, isn’t that lovely? I am so looking forward to it.’ She sounded almost girlishly excited. ‘I haven’t been out at night for quite a while, not even to walk on the quays. Alain and I used to do that quite often, but it feels too lonely on my own.’
What could Emma say to that? That she didn’t feel like going out after spending all day tramping around? That she could have taken Mattie for a night out by the river before this, rather than having to wait for Marc-Antoine to do it? And that she was ridiculously, stupidly nervous about seeing him again? ‘That sounds lovely, Mattie,’ she said, as the Batobus stopped, and they got out. ‘I’m looking forward to it too.’