Emma holds her breath, as if by staying totally still she can extend the sweet anguish of this memory. She exhales and forces her next question through her tears. ‘How can I possibly recognise her?’
‘Well, you’ve been spending a hell of a lot of time reading up about theTitanic. Maybe you saw her somewhere in a book or online?’
Emma shakes her head. She knows that’s not it. She cannot explain why she is so sure, but her certainty is solid– tangible.
‘Why have you been getting so obsessed about theTitanicanyway?’ Will asks, putting his phone down and picking up his tea. He mutters, ‘Would’ve been quite nice when I was alive. Never could get you to watch documentaries.’
‘Maybe it’s because I thought you’d be interested.’ She stares at the space where Will isn’t. ‘Or perhaps it’s about the flowers.’
‘You did always love flowers.’ He sighs. ‘White peonies.’
‘Yeah.’ She can’t say any more. She wants to ask him so much, demand so much from him.
‘So do you think she’s The Florist?’
‘Yes … no…’ Emma is glad she has made him change the subject.
‘She’s not, you know,’ Will says, half grinning, picking up his phone again.
‘How can you tell?’
‘Just look, Ems. You’re the scientist.’
She enlarges the image and the shock of disappointment makes her insides feel hollow. Of course she must already have seen it– but she’d been too focused on the face in the photograph for it to have registered.
On the front of the woman’s starched white apron is a large cross. She was not The Florist. She was The Nurse. Why would The Nurse be involved with flowers?
Even as she holds tight to a slender thread of hope, Emma knows it doesn’t make sense.
‘Did she survive?’ Will asks.
‘What?’ Emma is distracted by her disappointment. She reads on. ‘Yes, she was rescued.’ Well, that was something.
‘You still think you know her?’
Will is reading her thoughts.
‘What, a long lost relative?’ Will laughs.
Emma doesn’t.
‘You really think so?’
She ignores him and reads the few sparse details. Emma has noticed that the information about the female crew is often less detailed than for the men. Perhaps society hadn’t been that interested in working class women?
Once again she stares intently at the face on the screen– if the memory she is chasing doesn’t come from her recent research maybe it is something in her past? Has she seen this face before in an old family album? She checks the details; The Nurse’s family originally came from Ireland. There are no Irish people in her family, as far as she knows. Her father’s parents were from Seville, and her mother’s family? She recalls they came from Kent and going further back, France. The Nurse certainly doesn’t look like her. Trim and petite, with dark eyes. But then Emma doesn’t look much like her parents, or grandparents, come to that.
She looks up to ask Will what she should do next– but he is gone. She stares at the empty chair until her head aches and it feels like the band tightening around her brow will crush her.
She stands and goes to sit in his place. She rubs the arms of the chair, slowly and repeatedly.
‘What should I do, Will?’
‘I don’t know, Ems.’
Will is not back, but she knows he is there within her, a part of her. So much time– so much love. How could it be otherwise.
‘I am sorry, you know,’ he says.
