Emma knows Guy doesn’t really understand why she gave up on science and moved to her new job, but he did his best to sound enthusiastic when she told him, and he remembered, along with her, the hours she had spent with their father in the garden. He even admitted: ‘Well, I suppose youhavealways loved flowers.’
Before Emma can answer his query about theTitanic, he adds, ‘Will was always quite interested in that sort of history stuff, wasn’t he?’ And even with a computer screen between them, Emma can tell he quickly wishes this unsaid.
Emma hears a sharp, disapproving, ‘Ttch!’ in the background.
This distracts her. ‘Is Mei Lien there?’
Guy doesn’t answer but swivels his laptop around so that Emma can see his wife sitting at the other end of the table to him, bent over her own laptop. Mei Lien is a hedge-fund manager, and Emma has rarely seen her when she is not glued to a computer or a phone. Mei Lien raises her hand in greeting and her eyes upwards, towards her husband, acknowledging Guy’s lack of tact. Then her head is down again, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Guy returns his screen to its previous position. ‘So, come on, what’s with theTitanic?’
Emma explains what she has been researching, although not why. She doesn’t think she could even explain that to herself. ‘But in all the photos of theTitanicthere aren’t any flowers,’ she concludes, having explained the conflicting evidence.
Guy looks thoughtful for a while. Eventually he asks, ‘When was this, nineteen … what?’
‘1912.’
After another pause, he continues, ‘Okay, how about this for a theory? You’re talking early twentieth century. Photography wasn’t really used that much. Advertising and publicity was geared towards illustration, right? Often really detailed. It’s not my area of speciality but I know dealers who collect that early twentieth-century stuff. Also, photographs took time to be developed so they weren’t used in the media like today…’
Emma interrupts him. ‘I know they didn’t let the press on board theTitanic.’
‘There you go. I bet you the photos you are looking at were publicity shots taken weeks before theTitanicsailed. Maybe when the ship was completed and kitted out at the shipyard.’
‘Brilliant!’ Emma feels a huge rush of love for her brother. ‘So obviously, no flowers.’
Guy stares intently at her. ‘This is really interesting, sis. It kind of changes how I imagine what theTitanicwas like inside. I mean, I know it was opulent, but “a ship full of flowers”– that would have been something. I mean the fragrance alone…’ He turns his head suddenly towards where his wife is sitting. ‘What?’
Emma can hear Mei Lien’s voice but not her words.
‘Good idea,’ Guy responds before turning back to Emma, ‘The boss says, try and find the flower supplier.’
Emma always knew her brother had married a smart woman. She tells him this before changing the subject and catching up on her brother’s news.
That night, Emma dreams she is on board theTitanic, walking along the deck carrying a vase of white freesias. When she reaches the first-class restaurant, the tables are ready-laid with stiff linen, along with silver cutlery and glasses etched with the fluttering flag of the White Star Line. In the centre of each table is an arrangement of spring flowers: daffodil heads bobbing gently in time with the vibrations from the ship’s engines.
The Florist has been there before her.
Chapter 12
Violet
Freesias
They smile at each other over her head, even as they ask her questions. Then each in turn looks at her, checking on her, making her more comfortable. Sometimes she wishes the comfort didn’t come at such a painful price.
Only once do they both look at her at the same time, Merry Eyes now serious. ‘Can she keep a secret?’ she asks.
The doctor looks away first, staring out into the garden where until last week her bed had been. Now she is on the veranda, half in the garden and half out, as if no one is sure whether she is coming or going.
Merry Eyes keeps looking at her. Would she let her hide a letter for her friend, the doctor, in the drawer by her bed? He would collect it when he came to visit and then leave his reply in the same place. It would be a kind of game. . .
Her words trail off.
She looks at Merry Eyes and thinks of the grey nurse with hair like twisted wool, whose fingers search the drawers and cupboards at night.
‘You could play pillow post,’ she replies, not wanting the grey nurse to be scrabbling away at their secrets, spoiling their game.
Merry Eyes looks puzzled, eyebrows frowning.
