Violet
Frangipani
The time passes like the weather. Sometimes it races like a great North Easterly– the blast of harsh early mornings the prelude to days of rushing and carrying. Other times, the hours seem to hang like a still, grey day. The work is slower, but the passengers’ demands are never-ending, like the vast sky that sweeps above them. Then there are a few precious times when the weather is perfect and the languorous days are there to be stepped into like a warm bath. She remembers when her first ship arrived in the West Indies and the Big Barbadian took her to meet his family. They sat at a long table by the beach, the air rich with a fragrance his mother told her was from the frangipani flower. They ate food she had never dreamt of and drank a heady, caramel punch that gave her dreams of home.
Since then, she has returned home a few times, made her way onto different ships and finally found her sea legs. She is a proper sailor now– if she smoked a pipe, she would pack it with Faithful Lover. She has discovered other crew members who are friendly, like the Big Barbadian. Some are too friendly; she knows her mother would shake her fist at them. She has learnt to step and sidestep, twist her waist to avoid an arm, duck her head to dodge a kiss. Sometimes she hums a tune in her head as she does this, as if it is a private dance.
She has met no one else like her first cabinmate, who would have shut the door on life just for the pleasure of keeping it waiting in the cold. Most people are like her– they have their good ways and their bad ways– and the majority of transgressions are easy to ignore. Like when the soup chef spits Italian curses if he feels a storm is brewing, or the potboy takes more than his share of milk for the kitten everyone knows he keeps under his bed. Or when the cashier pretends she has made a mistake so that the restaurant manager will lean over her shoulder to examine her exquisite figure work.
As she moves around the ship– rushing to fetch and carry, pausing to take orders, hovering on the ball of a foot to exchange a glance, a smile, a raised eyebrow– she tries to hold fast to her mother’s favourite maxim: love thy neighbour as thy self. It is easier with some neighbours than others. But then her mother had never told her that life was easy.
There is a rhythm to her days that she has come to accept, if not love. She sometimes imagines she is sat on a fairground ride; the people around her look happy or sick or frightened, but her own face is blank. In her mind’s eye, she watches a man in a leather waistcoat and mustard scarf turning the handle of the ride. Only he knows how fast they will spin or where they will go. She does not know many people who run their own rides– most people are like her, sitting, waiting, making the best of it.
She knows she is better off than the stewardesses who leave their children behind each time they go to sea, the sailors’ widows who Mr Turkey spoke so highly of. She still does not know their ages, and she thinks it would be hard to guess, because leaving their children has lined their faces just like the years have done.
Sometimes she wonders if the faint line between her brows has been drawn there by her sister’s finger.
Chapter 43
Emma
Red Carnation
On the way back to her hotel, Emma makes a detour to the tapas bar. Roberto is just ushering out the last of his customers when he sees her approaching.
‘Ah, Emma, please come in– I have been hoping I might see you again.’
He greets her in Spanish and politely bows her in, the long white apron wrapped about his neat, plump figure still pristine, even after an evening of service.
The tapas bar is dimly lit, and Roberto settles her at a candlelit table at the back. He cuts short her thanks for his kindness, instead pressing a nightcap on her. Emma chooses a glass of chilled red wine, in memory of her father, and for the next hour they talk in Spanish about families and friendship. Roberto wants to know all about her father– his language and his hometown. His manner of speech is slow and formal, and he chooses his expressions carefully. In some ways, he reminds her of Les– well, a miniature, Spanish Les.
As he pours them both a second drink, their talk turns to what brought her to Cambridge. She explains her interest in theTitanicand her investigation into the flowers on board.
‘And you are being helped by a woman who herself worked onboard ship?’ he queries.
‘Yes and no,’ Emma explains. ‘She’s helping, but it was her mother who actually ran a flower shop on board theQE2.’
Roberto sips his small glass of port, toying with the petals of a red carnation that stands in a narrow vase on the table. ‘This is a most unusual project. And yet, I know that after all these years theTitanicstill has a lot of international interest.’
Emma nods. ‘I guess it’s because it was such a catastrophic event at the time, the sinking of the unsinkable ship, and so many different nationalities were involved.’
‘Were there many Spanish people sailing on theTitanic, do you know?’
‘Ten,’ Emma replies with the certainty of the Recently Obsessed. ‘Nine were passengers and one was a member of staff. Most of them survived.’
He nods grimly. ‘Where do you go next in your quest?’
Emma is reminded of Tamas and, for a moment, is side-tracked by a nagging worry.
Without waiting for an answer, Roberto continues, ‘You must continue, you know– I have a feeling it is part of your recovery.’
They have not talked about Will, but Emma is in no doubt that Roberto has a good idea of what she is struggling with. After breaking down in his bar, her normal defences have collapsed– but somehow, she doesn’t want to rebuild them. It’s a relief and a pleasure to be at ease with Roberto.
And maybe the Spanish is helping, too. Talking to him in her father’s language brings a huge measure of comfort.
‘I’m going to keep going, I think.’
‘Well, I am very interested in history myself, so you must tell me how you get on, and if I can help in any way, let me know.’
