Chapter 8
NOW
Dear Lexie,
It’s true, isn’t it? That we never really know what someone else is thinking?
That said, I know your thoughts about weddings!
Well, you were never going to keep them to yourself.
But I’m not sure you know that although it was hard work, flowers were a respite for me.
Especially growing them. Mary’s garden was a part of my life that Ryan stayed away from.
I think you felt that, too. It was where I felt most free, most connected to nature as I planted, then months later, cut the flowers we’d grown.
I’ve always found flowers therapeutic, some days more than others.
This morning, as we work on a wedding, each flower as I look at it seems to me a piece of artistry, each petal delicately exquisite, each leaf a thing of beauty.
As I put them together, I weave in a wish that’s heartfelt, that this marriage will be a happy one.
It’s one of the perks of our job that we are privy to the region’s most beautiful, historic places.
This wedding is no exception, in the grounds of a sprawling country estate.
Some of our work has to be set up the day before, and this afternoon, Lucy and I make a start with the ancient chapel, decorating it with hundreds of candles and trails of white roses, their softness contrasting with the stone.
Moving onto the marquee, inside it we create what looks like the wildest, most beautiful garden of cascading leaves and artfully tumbling flowers. Though I say it myself, it’s a triumph.
‘What’s happened to us?’ Lucy stares at it all in amazement. ‘I mean, did we actually do this?’
Standing beside her, I feel a flicker of pride. ‘It’s our best yet, isn’t it?’
I find rare moments of joy in days like these. They last until I remember. This evening, I’m tired, but instead of going home, I walk to the beach. The tide is reaching its high point and, sitting on the shingle, I turn my face towards the sunset.
In the past, I was always too busy, my days taken up with being a mother and a wife. But I am no longer answerable to anyone else. Looking out to sea, I gaze at the horizon, fantasising for a moment about leaving here, going somewhere far away. Having an adventure – how about that, Lexie?
But right now, it isn’t the time. Ollie and Jenna’s baby will be here soon.
And as I’ve said to you before, my life is here.
You know better than I do how it feels to be far away; your desire to travel is about more than seeing the world.
It was about learning how other people lived, experiencing other cultures.
But as you also know, however much you might want to leave them behind, some things you can’t help but carry with you.
As I sit here, I remember a conversation we once had. You were trying to explain how overwhelmed you felt; how you had nowhere to go with the feelings you battled.
I feel weighed down, Mum. I keep seeing what is wrong in the world. And nothing changes. I know a lot of people don’t want it to! And I know why – there’s safety in familiarity. But that’s part of the problem! It drives me crazy that more people can’t see that!
At the time I wrote it off as teenage angst. Our thoughts and feelings can be weighty things. And I was too preoccupied with everything else that was going on to feel the pain of those causes that haunted you.
Then you’d pick up a message from a friend, smiling as you read it, your angst forgotten for a while, balanced by happiness. Your mind constantly asking questions; searching for answers. But you also knew how to look for the good in life.
There are so many things we don’t have the power to change. But I got to thinking that, in our own small way, we have choices. Whatever’s going on, we can choose to look at the beauty around us. Allow ourselves to feel those fleeting moments of joy.
I loved that you could do that – and that’s what I do now. Sitting on the shingle, I breathe in the salty air and watch the sea in constant motion, the multiple shades of green in the waves, the blinding white of the breaking water. Then I turn my eyes to the sky.
* * *
It’s 4 a.m., still dark, when Lucy and I start work on Saturday morning.
‘I’ve made very strong coffee. We’re going to need it.’ She pours me a mug. ‘You’re doing buttonholes and I’m doing bouquets, right?’
‘Sounds good to me.’ I take the mug she passes me, then begin the painstaking task of wiring individual flower heads and leaves, twisting the finest strands of foliage amongst them before taping them all invisibly. They’re the smallest of finishing touches, each one put together with care.
These early mornings are a time of day I’ve come to love and I’ve left the door to our workshop open, so that now and then I glance towards it, watching the sky lighten from pitch black to midnight blue before it takes on an opalescent hue, listening as the dawn chorus starts.
Counting the completed buttonholes, twice – just to make sure – I arrange them in a display box.
‘Remember that wedding they added an extra bridesmaid at the last minute and forgot to tell us?’ I remind Lucy.
‘We didn’t find out until we delivered the bridal flowers – we thought it was us who’d got it wrong. ’
‘I will never forget,’ Lucy says fervently.
‘Worst nightmare ever. Hold this, will you?’ She passes me one of the bridesmaids’ bouquets and I take it, watching her tie it with trails of pale ribbon, a glorious confection of pastel blooms, the flowers exuding life, happiness even, if it’s possible for flowers to do that.
It contrasts with the pang I feel as I think of you again. For some reason, you are at the forefront of my mind today.
Why do you think it is that some people never seem to find happiness? Or do you think they’re chasing something that doesn’t exist?
I remember the day you said that, a Sunday in late spring; after a roast lunch at Ollie and Jenna’s, you and I had gone for a walk.
The trees were covered in bright green leaves, the air alive with birdsong.
I remember thinking you were talking about Ryan; made some glib comment about happiness being overrated.
But happiness isn’t. And I know, now, it wasn’t Ryan you were talking about.
‘It’s a bit early to deliver the bouquets,’ Lucy says. Then, realising what she’s said, she frowns disbelievingly. ‘Has either of us ever said that before? Too early?’ she repeats. ‘I mean, normally we’re rushed off our feet to the very last minute – especially after all the work we’ve had to do.’
I survey the array of bridal flowers that will be the finishing touch to the most magical of days. ‘Are you sure we haven’t forgotten something?’
Lucy shakes her head. ‘I’ve checked our list.’ She pauses. ‘Twice. Everything’s done. You know what this means, don’t you?’ She smiles. ‘For once, we have time for breakfast.’
* * *
When we arrive at the venue, the installations we created yesterday still look as fresh as the proverbial daisy, while the rest of the wedding set-up happens effortlessly. The bride is ecstatic about her flowers. As florists, it’s everything we could wish for.
The warmth of everyone we come into contact with makes the contrast with my own life all the more stark when I get home. For the rest of Saturday, I catch up with housework and do a load of washing, picking up a voicemail from Ollie.
Jenna’s had a scare but she’s fine. Don’t worry Mum. Just thought you’d want to know.
Feeling a jolt of fear, I call him straight away. If anything were to go wrong, it doesn’t bear thinking about. As it rings, I pray that Ollie picks up.
‘Ollie? What’s happened?’
‘Everything’s fine, Mum. Jenna couldn’t feel the baby moving. But she’s had a scan and everything’s OK.’
‘Thank God.’ My mind is racing. ‘Did they say why it happened?’
‘They think it’s because the baby’s got bigger.’ He sounds tired, but relieved. ‘Jenna’s upstairs – resting.’
I’m horrified. ‘You mean they didn’t keep her in?’
‘This was early this morning, Mum,’ Ollie says. ‘I didn’t want to worry you. I knew you had a busy day.’
They’re fine, I tell myself. But I know how things can change in an eyeblink.
How, when it does, you can’t think about anything else.
It’s how I felt the day you were in an accident.
Thrown into turmoil because I wasn’t with you; every maternal instinct telling me you shouldn’t have been going through that without me.
It must never, can never, happen again. ‘Ollie, promise me, if something like this ever happens in the future, whatever the time of day or night, you’ll call me? ’
‘Sure, Mum.’ He sounds surprised. ‘Please don’t worry. Jenna’s fine.’
Making myself a cup of tea, I stand at the window, gazing across the garden. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day. Dropping everything. Hurrying to the hospital. Not knowing how bad your injuries were. Every mother’s worst nightmare to know there’s nothing you can do, except be there.
Going to the cupboard, I get out a box of old photos and start going through them.
As I look at them, a feeling of nostalgia takes me over.
Motherhood has been the most important part of my life and there are a thousand images of you and Ollie together as memories flood back, bittersweet, of Christmases and birthdays, of family holidays.
I’ve always told myself they were happy times.
I look at the two of you as young children, your lit-up faces, my heart twisting with love.
Then at photos of Ryan and me, both of us younger, his arm around me, my face turned towards his.
No question, once, there was love between us.
There are more photos of when we met, when Ryan was fun – the life and soul of the party, his friendship sought after.
I think of the pranks he and his friends got up to – how they worked hard, but they played hard too.
Nostalgia tightens its grip on me as I study photos of him with the two of you.
When you were young, on those days that he was fun Dad; when your faces were alight with happiness, when laughter rippled through our house.
But those moments became less; as the years pass, the pictures tell a different story.
I study a photo of Ollie, then search for more. Find a handful in which he is smiling, too many in which he looks closed off, as if his mind is far away.
There are as many of you and slowly I trace your years back; my beautiful child. Where did I miss the change from sweet, bright-eyed girl to a teenager with guarded eyes, to whom the world was not kind; for whom the light seemed to go out? I hope where you are now, you’re so much happier, Lexie.
My body tightens as I sit here, this home that used to feel so cosy suddenly empty.
I put the photos away, the memories suddenly too painful.
And there’s the thing. When it comes to emotional pain, I can’t take it.
Can’t let myself feel it. It strikes me that Ryan can’t either, that it’s the reason he feels he needs to drink.
But Ryan has always drunk, I remind myself.
All the time I’ve known him – apart from the occasional, hope-filled, life affirming interludes, when he managed not to.
When, for a while, I believed everything would change.