‘Look, Miss Brown!’ Mary runs across the playground on Friday morning, her school bag bouncing on her back and a drawstring bag swinging from her wrist. She skids to a stop in front of me. ‘I brought some real ones! Please, Miss Brown. Can we make them this afternoon? Can you show me what to do?’
I’m holding an armful of folders, a mug of tea, six lost property items and a laptop. ‘Good morning, Mary. You can tell me what you’d like to make when we get into the classroom.’
She tosses a plait over her shoulder. ‘Did you sleep in?’
By the time I returned home from the horses this morning, it was almost eight o’clock. It’s only eight-thirty now, but school starts at nine. I haven’t set up the classroom yet.
‘Yes, because I had trouble getting to sleep last night. Can you take my laptop while I unlock the door?’
Mary throws her schoolbag on the ground but hangs on to the drawstring bag, following me inside and putting the laptop on my desk at the front of the room. She jumps from foot to foot as I dump the rest of my things next to the laptop and sit in my chair.
‘Let’s see, then.’
When she releases the string and tips the bag upside down, three long, leafy stems fall in a clump on the table. ‘You said we could make flowers in craft,’ she says. ‘Can we make these? I’ve seen you do them before.’
‘My grandmother taught me how to make them.’ I unravel the stems. ‘August is early for bougainvillea. This is lovely.’
‘It grows on the shed at home. Dad had to get on the ladder because all the red flowers were at the top.’
I touch the papery crimson surfaces. ‘The bright parts are called bracts, Mary. The flowers are the tiny white blossoms in the middle.’
‘Dad hates the spikes.’
‘It will be good to have a real sample to work from.’ I point to the paint-spattered trestle table at the back of the room. ‘Put the stems in a vase of water, and sit them over there. Take care not to scratch yourself.’
She grins. ‘You’ll get to look at bougainvillea all day.’
It wasn’t long before Inge died that Matts and I sat side by side at her dining room table to do our homework. Matts had moved a vase of bougainvillea, vibrant scarlet bracts with tiny white flowers, to my side of the table, because he’d insisted that, as he was thirteen, he needed more room than I did. When Inge walked into the room and saw what Matts had done, she moved the flowers back to the centre.
‘Beauty is precious,’ she said softly, her hand on Matts’s shoulder. ‘We must keep it close. I have told you this before.’
A look passed between them. Matts opened his mouth as if to argue before shutting it again. He rearranged his books to accommodate the flowers. ‘Yes, Äiti.’
‘I can make flowers just like that,’ I piped up. ‘Gran taught me.’
‘Bougainvillea?’ Inge said. ‘You must show me how it is done.’
The next day was a Saturday, and I knew that Matts, who didn’t rate my flowers, would be at a football match with his father. Dad dropped me off outside the house, and a gardener recognised me and led me through the security gates. When Inge finally answered the doorbell, she looked different than usual because her long fair hair was loose. I wanted to tell her that she looked like Rapunzel, but I held my tongue. Think before you speak. My father’s constant admonishment rang in my ears. Maybe Inge didn’t want to look like Rapunzel?
Inge kissed one cheek and then the other and then the first one again, like she always did. ‘Good morning, my little Sapphire.’
I must have looked like Mary often does, jumping from one foot to the other in excitement. ‘I came to show you how to make the flowers!’ I raced past Inge and flung open the doors to the dining room, stopping short when I saw a man leaning against the table. His suit was dark against the brightness of the vase of bougainvillea behind him.
‘Buenos días,’ he said, straightening.
Inge came up behind me. ‘This is Sapphire,’ she said quietly. ‘Today she will make me flowers. Bougainvillea.’
‘Like these?’ He pointed to the flowers on the table. Only he couldn’t point properly because he only had a thumb on his hand. He crouched down low and smiled into my eyes. ‘I do not believe it.’
I held out my supplies. ‘I can teach you too if you want me to.’
When Inge put an arm around my shoulders, I smelt her perfume. It was the same one Mum always wore. She squeezed gently. ‘We will show Gabriel another time.’
By the time she returned and sat next to me at the table, her hair was neatly tied up in the chignon she generally wore. I’d brought a small tablecloth from home and I spread it out before setting out paper and scissors, glue and wire.
‘What lovely paper,’ Inge said.
‘It’s called maroon,’ I said. ‘But you can use other colours too, like fuchsia and coral and salmon. Everyone thinks the coloured parts are the flowers but they’re not.’
Inge watched me all morning, and we were both still sitting at the table when Matts and his father came home. Inge held out her arm and beckoned them in.
‘Look, Leevi, Matts, how clever Sapphire is.’
My paper bougainvillea was barely distinguishable from the real ones in the vase. Mr Laaksonen, who was a number of years older than Inge, graciously complimented my artistry, but when Matts rolled his eyes, a blush warmed my face. I hurriedly pushed the flowers across the table.
‘You can keep them,’ I told Inge, looking anywhere but at Matts as I scrambled to my feet, stuffed my supplies into my bag and pushed the chair against the table. ‘Mum said I have to be home for lunch. I’ll call and ask her to pick me up.’
I was dialling the landline when Matts touched my arm. ‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘You don’t have to,’ I said.
‘Give me the phone, Kissa.’ When I handed it to him, he placed it firmly in the bracket. ‘I like to walk you home.’
Matts walked me home last night.
It wasn’t surprising that I was anxious after the meeting. I want to join your committee. I wasn’t expecting to see the kangaroos or the lights. I didn’t have a chance to breathe deeply or rationalise or do any of the things I have to do to ward off a panic attack.
I kneel as I sweep crepe paper scraps from the floor near the trestle table. Making the shapes exactly the same size isn’t as important with bougainvillea as it is with other plants, but that’s not something Archie wants to know about. His concentration is fierce as he traces around the templates and follows the pencil lines with scissors. Mary and Amy stand either side of him and press the bracts into shape with their thumbs.
‘You’ve done so well today,’ I say. ‘Next week, I’ll show you how to make the flowers.’
Mary sighs. ‘I wish we could do this every day.’
When I clap my hands, the children mimic the rhythm. Ahmed and Moses, identical eight-year-old twins with big brown eyes, put down their scissors and glue.
‘The bell will ring soon, so it’s time to clear our desks. Who’s looking forward to the weekend?’ I laugh when a sea of hands pops up. ‘As you tidy, tell the other children at your table what you’re most looking forward to.’
Ahmed raises his hand. ‘What are you looking forward to, Miss Brown?’
‘I …’ When my smile disappears, I force a new one. ‘Going to the farmhouse tomorrow, and spending the day with my horses.’