Sunflowers
Clementine’s flower shop is in an alleyway off Magdalene Street, close to the river. Two large, double doors are thrown open onto the passageway, and flowers are lined up in baskets around the entrance, creating a path leading into the shop. Next to the door, bunches of flowering mint and lemon snapdragons are wrapped in brown paper. In front of these are wooden crates full of crimson and candy-pink geraniums.
Emma can’t help smiling as she walks into the shade of the shop. More flowers are arranged here around an enormous cotton sunshade. The fabric of the shade is a mixture of cobalt blue and gold. Lime-green tassels hang from its outer edge. Underneath the umbrella, in large, turquoise jugs, are dozens of sunflowers. The air smells so similar to the Flower Cabin that Emma immediately feels at home. She wonders if all flower shops smell the same, and whether it would ever be possible to bottle this fragrance. She thinks of Philippe, the retired perfumier in Paris– if anyone would know, he would.
Clementine comes out from the back of the shop and Emma introduces herself.
‘Oh, please call me Clem,’ the woman says smiling at her. ‘Everyone does.’
Clem looks to be in her late fifties; her black braids, flecked with grey, are tied back from her face with what appears to be the same material as the umbrella. She wears a sundress of lime-green and purple flowers.
Clem calls for her assistant to come and meet Emma.
‘Gilly’s got it all under control, so we can go and sit out the back and talk.’
Clem leads the way through a kitchen to a small, courtyard garden. The flowers growing up against walls are even more colourful than those in the shop; pink lilies and orange crocosmia are planted alongside purple agapanthus. In terracotta pots, lime-green alchemilla cast feathery shade over scarlet begonias. Emma thinks how much Les would enjoy seeing them.
Clem motions for Emma to sit at a table piled with books and plant pots, then disappears back into the kitchen. As Emma sits down on the bright orange canvas chair, she wishes she had worn something other than a plain navy dress. She feels like a dark splodge on a vibrant palette.
Clem returns with two enormous glasses of white wine. She hands one to Emma before sitting down with a sigh.
‘How’s the lovely Betty?’ she asks.
‘She’s good and sends her love. Have you known her long?’
It occurs to Emma that she is not feeling nervous. Perhaps it’s being in Cambridge; she spent three years in the city as an undergraduate, and being reminded of her academic past and her friends, the Glory Girls, puts her at ease. The warmth radiating from the woman beside her, helps, too. She thinks momentarily of the smiley, friendly girl in the library.
Clem tilts her head up towards the sun, eyes narrowed. ‘We met when we shared a stand at a local garden festival– you know, one of those plant and flower stalls. My partner and I used to live just outside Oxford. I don’t think Betty and I stopped talking or laughing all afternoon. Betty says you’re now working as a florist at the garden centre?’
Emma then admits what she has been tempted to say to every customer she has ever served: ‘I’m not really a florist.’
Clem opens both eyes wide and turns to her. ‘I’ve trained a few florists in my time, honey, and I think it’s either in your blood or not. Some of the fanciest florists I’ve met have no soul when it comes to flowers.’
Emma thinks of Les saying good morning to his begonias. One day she followed the yellow snake the wrong way and she nearly bumped into him. She swiftly retreated but not before she had overheard him greeting his plants.
‘I’ve always loved flowers,’ Emma continues, picturing her dad in his garden, ‘but I think I’m a bit out of my depth. Has Betty told you about our search for The Florist on theTitanic?’
As Clem nods, it dawns on Emma that a few weeks ago she would not have shared this. Perhaps Tamas was right– it wasbetter to travel with others. She realises Clem is looking at her thoughtfully, and for a moment she is reminded of Les’s comment: ‘… just one of those people who…’ Whowhat?
Emma takes a sip from her glass of wine. She is glad she decided to stay overnight in Cambridge and that her car is already parked at the hotel. ‘How long have you been a florist?’ she asks.
Clem smiles. ‘Ever since I left school– it’s all I ever wanted to do. My mother was a florist, too.’
‘Betty said she worked on theQE2?’
‘Yes. I once did the flowers for theOriana, just before her maiden voyage, but Ma, she was the expert. When she was young, she did six transatlantic crossings and two round the world trips. She loved those trips.’
‘Did they need a lot of flowers on board?’
‘For sure– masses of them. They used to take on new flowers for the shop when they did their stopovers. Ma said when they docked in the West Indies, they brought on board the flowers she’d known as a girl. She came to Britain from Jamaica as a teenager, and I think she missed those flowers. Well, you would, wouldn’t you?’ Clem stretches out in her chair, green and purple flowers rippling.
‘Wow! So they had an actual flower shop on board,’ Emma remarks.
She settles back with her wine and begins to tell Clem what they have discovered about the Bealings and how the cut flowers were stored on theTitanicthe night before they sailed. And that, despite all this, and the passenger accounts about flowers, there was no record of a florist sailing in the crew of the ship.
‘We could work out what was involved, you know,’ Clem eventually offers.
‘How do you mean?’
