Betty and Les are waiting for Emma when she arrives at the Flower Cabin the following morning. She reads concern in their look, and something else: supressed excitement?
‘My God, Emma, you look like you haven’t slept a wink.’
Emma is pretty sure this isn’t what Betty meant to say.
‘I know!’ Emma replies, realising she sounds like she’s accepting a compliment. ‘I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t sleep, so I started searching.’
‘Les, go get us all a coffee.’ Betty dismisses her husband, and Emma is reminded once more of the tortoiseshell cat that lives with the big, wary dog.
A long pause. ‘Right you are.’
Emma senses Les searching for the right saying about coffee.
‘Right you are,’ he repeats, for once defeated.
As the door bangs behind Les, Betty pulls out a stool for her. Emma glances at the boxes of flowers waiting to be unpacked in the corner– Tamas must have come early this morning. These days there are fewer and fewer boxes, and she doesn’t like to think what this might mean for the business. It is not long to autumn, and she can feel Santa’s Grotto looming.
‘The flowers can wait five minutes,’ Betty says, patting the stool. And for once, Betty doesn’t say anything more. Emma wonders where the woman from yesterday has gone.
‘Betty?’ Emma wants to say something to her about last night, but how to say it without inviting more questions? Instead, she changes direction. ‘When I got home last night, I was going to give up, move on.’
‘But?’
Emma looks at Betty’s butterfly T-shirt, not quite meeting her eye. ‘Then I thought Mrs Pepper … Jane … wouldn’t have given up.’ Nor would Will, but she doesn’t mention that.
Betty says nothing, waiting.
Emma hurries on. ‘I thought of the stores on theTitanicthat were full of flowers after Frank and Frank had left that night: the daffodils, roses, daisies, carnations and all the other spring flowers, standing in buckets– waiting in the dark for the ship to wake up.’
As she says this, she wonders about the fragrance that would have welcomed the person opening the store door. Could anyone ever hope to recapture that scent? She thinks briefly of Philippe, the retired perfumier who she has been emailing, the expert on floral fragrances who investigated the perfume bottles found on the ocean floor.
She continues, glancing around her, ‘Betty, I can’t stop thinking about the flowers in the store. Who looked after them? There were five hundred vases delivered to the ship, so someone must have arranged the flowers into them, and…’
Les kicks open the door, and it occurs to Emma that he must have run all the way from the café. ‘Here we are, wake up and smell the coffee.’
He smiles slowly at his wife and the words,small, ship-shape and sexycome into Emma’s mind.
Betty takes the proffered mug and turns back to Emma, but not before Emma catches the hint of a sideways wink. Emma takes her coffee from Les, but can read nothing in his pleasant, bovine expression.
‘Where was I? The vases, right. So I tried to find more references to flowers in passenger accounts, and there are so many– the daffodils “as if fresh picked,” and someone else mentioning the tables of the à la carte restaurant, “gay” with pink roses and white daisies. And then I thought about what Jane, said about the first florists being gardeners, and I wondered… Well, if there was no official florist on board– and there isn’t really any record of one– maybe one of the stewards, femaleormale,’ she says, glancing at Les, ‘could have had a background as a floristora gardener and been responsible for the flowers.’ Emma realised in the night that her own– what? Obsession?– was getting in the way. She had fixated on the idea of a female florist– but why couldn’t The Florist have been a man?
‘Can you check something like that?’ Betty asks, sipping her coffee.
‘Yes– there are so many records about the crew online. I’d already checked the women for a floristry background, but I double-checked them looking for a new connection with gardening and then I started on the men. I ruled out third-class stewards, because steerage would hardly be decorated with flowers, but I included all the first and second-class stewards. All the reports say that the second class on theTitanicwas like every other liner’s first class.’
‘How many stewards was that?’ Betty queries.
‘It ran into hundreds. I also tried to look into what their parents had done, because of course they might have learnt their trade from them.’
‘And you looked at them all?’ Betty sounds stunned.
Emma nods. ‘It was tragic, Betty, so many times I was reading about their families and their children, and then at the bottom it just said: “Died. Body not recovered”. Over and over again. Some bodies were found, and then it records who identified them– it must have been terrible for their shipmates. Sometimes they could only be identified by their possessions.’
The Flower Cabin has grown quiet, and Emma catches the sound of birds and traffic in the distance.
‘Did you find a gardener?’ Les asks.
‘Yes and no. William Hughes and John Ransom, who were first-class stewards, both had fathers who were gardeners, but they went to sea when they were young, and there’s no mention of them having worked as gardeners themselves. They probably wouldn’t have had time to learn the trade. Humphrey Humphreys—’ Emma catches the look on Betty’s face. ‘Yes, I did wonder what his parents were thinking. He was a second-class steward. He grew up in Devon, where his father was a gardener, but he died when Humphrey was eleven, so he had even less chance to learn from him.’
