Carved Flowers
The new White Star liner, theOlympic, is a ship like no other.
She has a friend who sails with the Cunard Line and all the talk there is about being the first, being the fastest. But for her money– if she had any– she would always sail with the White Star Line. The crew she works with look down on the ships of the Cunard Line, rushing hither and thither, trying to push their way in where they don’t belong.
She does not say this to her friend.
What the White Star Line promises is luxury– perhaps not in the small cabin she shares with another stewardess but in first class and even in second class, the opulence is enough to take your breath away. On theOlympic, the staircases sweep, the glass sparkles and the carvings of flowers in the pale oak panelling are so realistic she almost believes that the wooden butterflies nestled there might fly away as she approaches.
The corridors of theOlympicare a new map that has to be learnt by heart, with shortcuts to negotiate and navigate. But around her are the faces of old friends and acquaintances– familiar outcrops in an unfamiliar landscape. They greet each other, share a word about their new home, and time allowing, swap gossip like waiters exchanging plates as they pass.
And presiding over it all, making sure that these exchanges do not cause the steps to falter, the pace to slow, is The Purser. He may not wish to serve on the Cunard Line either, but she suspects he wants his staff to be the fastest moving beings on the seas. Sometimes she thinks that when she gets home she should challenge her brothers to a race. If The Purser were watching her, she would certainly win.
She is in her cabin looking for a clean apron. Lost in thought, she has forgotten for a moment what she came in here for. She unhooks the sampler hung over the bed. Since her sister gave it to her, she has taken it on every voyage, a reminder of home and the small fingers that sewed it. At night before she goes to sleep, she sometimes counts the stitches that make up the petals of the flowers and the letters of her name.
She does not do this to help her sleep. The thought makes her smile– no stewardess would ever need to count sheep or stitches. At the end of a sixteen-hour day, sleep is always waiting, hat on, bag packed.
No, she counts the stitches to rid her mind of the clutter– the lists, the irritations and the gossip– clearing it to leave space to think of her family and especially of her sister. She wonders how she is managing at home and allows herself the small sin (three Hail Marys) of hoping she is missing her, too.
Chapter 48
Emma
Dog Roses
There is a crowd gathering at the entrance to the V&A, and Emma shuffles into the queue feeling like an imposter. People are hailing others in the line and, as they creep forward, she feels a familiar dread rising inside her. Then she hears a couple, some several metres ahead of her, talking in Spanish, and she turns to the stranger next to her and, smiling, asks if she has come far. As she says it, she marvels at how far she has come– although in quite a different way.
When she reaches the entrance to the museum, she is handed an envelope from the curator who had put her name on the guest list. She says goodbye to her new acquaintance and opens the note.
It is an apology for not being able to meet her in person–You can imagine how crazy today has been– but it explains that she has been in touch with her historian friend, Alistair, and that Emma should contact him:He’ll be here somewhere. He’s aTitanicnut. Emma steps aside and texts the number on the note.
It transpires Alistair is already halfway through the exhibition and he suggests that they meet at the end. His final message says he is wearing an orange top and has a nose she cannot miss.
Emma puts her phone away and steps on board.
From the first display, she is mesmerised. The exhibits bring to life how ocean liners became the showcase for the best in interior design, decoration and furniture from around the world. Every detail was considered, from the glassware to the smallest match holder. She gazes at maple and silver-bronze tables from theQueen Mary; exclusively designed dishes from Wedgewood for the Orient Line; and huge gold panels depicting godlike athletes from the French ship, theNormandie. Company competed against company and country against country, each aspiring to the pinnacle of taste and modernity. Black-and-white footage shows movie stars posing on deck and a replica ‘Grand Staircase’ illustrates how passengers sought new and more extravagant backdrops for their haute couture. When competition was fierce, a company might choose a particular claim to champion: the Cunard Line was all about being the fastest, while the White Star Line wanted its ships, theOlympic, theTitanicand theBritannic, to be the most luxurious ocean liners in the world.
Emma is so anxious not to keep Alistair waiting that she almost misses the final exhibit: a large plinth on which is projected the rocking, undulating water of a grey ocean. In the centre of the display, is a panel of pale, sand-coloured wood– it looks like it is floating there. It is intricately carved with musical instruments, ribbons and flowers.
She stands transfixed. This is a panel from theTitanic. This carved panel, which she can almost reach out and touch, was part of the first-class lounge. Frank Senior and Frank Junior had probably walked past it carrying armfuls of plants.
She studies the carving, trying to take in every detail. The flowers look like wild dog roses. Did another flower lover– a florist of sorts– ever look at the these and try to decide if they were roses?
Putting aside the strange connection she feels with The Nurse, she feels a parallel pull to the idea of an unofficial florist being on board. She has established therewereflowers– a ship full of them– and Clem supports her view that someone must have been providing a floristry service.
Emma studies the carved petals of the dog rose. She feels as if she is in touching distance of this fellow flower lover. She wonders, not for the first time, why it matters to her so much, and why she still keeps thinking of this flower lover as ‘her’. Maybe as a florist herself (she decides she likes this title), she doesn’t want theTitanic’s (unofficial) florist to be overlooked and forgotten by history?
You want to save her.
Emma doesn’t know what to do with this final thought, so instead she looks around her for a historian called Alistair.
He really does have a beak of a nose. He also has an angular, attractive face and a very good haircut. She spots him first by his bright orange jumper. He wears a bag slung across his chest and everything about him– his face, his clothes, his shoes– are a lot younger looking than Emma was expecting. He doesn’t look much above twenty-five. Somehow, she thought a historian with an interest in theTitanicwould be an ageing professor.
She introduces herself, and he shakes her outstretched hand, suggesting as he does, that they go to the members’ room where they can get a coffee. As they walk, he explains that he is a maritime historian with an interest in the social impact of shipping and shipbuilding, particularly around the First World War era. As he speaks about his fascination with theTitanic, Emma recognises the same deep-seated passion that fires many of the scientists she has worked with. She breathes out.
They sit down at a table, ‘All I’ve gathered so far is you’ve been looking into the florist on theTitanic.’ He leans towards her, smiling, ‘So tell me more…’
Chapter 49
