‘A loose cannon?’ Les suggests.
Emma laughs. ‘I guess,’ she admits. ‘I suppose I should look before I leap.’
She thought this might make him smile, or at least respond in kind, but instead, Les is looking preoccupied. Eventually he says, ‘My first boss, now he spoke a fair few languages. He always said the thing that mattered was what language you thought in– said it made all the difference to how you spoke to people. Even had a bit of Japanese, he did. Now he said they were very polite folk.’
The realisation hits Emma like a hearty blow from Tamas between her shoulder blades. She is only ever rude in English. A second startling thought follows: she may not speak Japanese but what if she thought in Spanish (her favourite language) and then replied in English? At the very least, it would buy her time.
‘Well, with all those languages … food for thought, eh?’ Les casts one last look around her kitchen and turns to leave.
After she shuts the door, Emma stands on the mat looking back into the kitchen as Les had done.
It really is the most god-almighty mess. She is glad that Betty didn’t come with Les– she would hate her to see this.
She puts aside thoughts of her conversation with Les and her earlier one with her mother. She has something much more pressing to do.
It takes Emma most of the evening to clear the kitchen. She starts with the table, sorting, recycling and binning the accumulation of the past months. When the mess still inhabiting the kitchen sides is thrown into stark relief, she attacks this, too. For months she has not been able to find the energy or impetus to tidy up, but now not only does she never want Betty to catch sight of this– she also wants more space to work.
As she cleans, an idea comes to her. In her old research work, it was all about looking for connections. Isn’t this what she needs to do here?
By 10 p.m., she is back at the kitchen table, laptop and printer in front of her, with a pinboard propped beside her chair. Periodically, Emma adds a photograph or note to the pinboard. She has been collecting pictures of the female crew. Some photos were taken on deck; some appear to be copies from old family albums. The women vary considerably in age and beauty– some have frank, open faces, others look grim, as though life has hardened them. She will just have to keep going, with a logical, scientific approach– making connections. Did any of them have a particular interest in flowers? Did they have some background in floristry?
The one thing that hasn’t changed throughout all her research, is her belief that The Florist was a woman.
Chapter 18
Violet
Painted Carnations
She had expected winter in England to be cold– and rainy. Everyone on the boat had been more than happy to discuss the weather. At first she thought they had exaggerated. This rain, which drifted rather than fell, could not be the famous London rain everybody talked about?
But weeks on, months on, she has realised the persistent power of it. While nobody was watching, this insignificant drizzle has politely robbed everything around it of colour, until all is grey and damp.
The only splash of brightness in their street is an advertisement painted on the side of a house at the end of the terrace, wet brickwork showing through the red and white painted flowers.
Carnation Milk, the milk from contented cows.
She has not seen a single cow or sheep since they arrived in England, and she wonders if they too come in tins here.
‘Carnation Milk is the best in the land,
Here I sit with a can in my hand.
No tits to pull, no hay to pitch,
You just punch a hole in the son of a bitch.’
One of her brothers– whoever is nearest– might get a swipe from their mother if they reach the end-line, but it doesn’t stop them singing it as they pound up the stairs to their small flat on the first floor. Her brothers have quickly adopted the songs, the sayings and the accent of London. They have learnt to dodge through the streets and alleyways, and they jump and splash through the puddles with ease. ‘Right little Londoners,’ their uncle calls them.
She has no idea where they are today, but she is glad to have the kitchen for just herself and her sister as they try to make something of their mother’s hat ready for her interview tomorrow. She pulls gently at the brim, easing out the creases. Her sister sits close beside her, looking through a box of ribbons, proud of the fact she knows her colours.
She doesn’t mind what ribbon her sister chooses as long as it isn’t yellow. She wonders if the yellow ribbon bound around the flowers at her father’s grave has now faded to white, fluttering and flying somewhere over the grasslands that surround the church.
Her sister is looking up at her anxiously and she realises she hasn’t responded to her.
‘Yes, a blue ribbon will be perfect. She’ll like that.’
Her sister smiles.
