She hadn’t realised her face would give her away so completely. The thought of trying to explain pushes her down the only other path open to her– just keep going. ‘Buttonholes, corsages, flowers sent as gifts to the passengers, and arrangements for the first-class lounges,’ she rattles this off, not quite looking him in the eye.
‘There you go then,’ he says encouragingly, as if reassuring a child. From the bemused look on his face, Emma can tell he has no clue what just went on.
‘Now, flowers for passengers would have definitely come under the purser,’ Alistair continues, still watching her closely. ‘I’ve always reckoned he was the one person on board I would’ve liked to meet. No one seemed to have a bad word to say about the guy. He had a table in the restaurant like the captain did, for a few chosen guests: the purser’s table. Everyone wanted to be on his table, and apparently Captain Smith would give him the most difficult passengers because he could always bring them round. Just sad he went down with the ship, like the captain…’
As he talks, Emma feels a flicker of hope. Alistair seemed to think there is something worth pursuing– and after all, isn’t he the expert here? He talked of ‘worlds’, but the purser would still have been overseeing what would be a large ‘country’– a country that needed to be filled with flowers. She thinks back to the description of theTitanicscented with fragrance ‘like the Riviera’.
Alistair grins. ‘And another thing I can tell you about our friend the purser– he was the bloke in charge of the stewardesses.’ He sits back, an expectant look on his face.
‘So, you think stewardesses were working for the purser on the flowers?’
He nods.
Okay, not The Florist, but three or four stewardesses who arranged the flowers. Emma considers this. It couldn’t have been just anyone. After all, it wasn’t as simple as that– not everyone has a gift with flowers. Her mother, for instance, was terrible at arranging flowers. This thought dawns on her with an immense feeling of pleasure.
She looks at Alistair and manages a smile.
‘Look, Emma, I think we could both really do with a drink. Do you fancy getting out of here? I know a great cocktail bar nearby.’
She pauses– thinking of her train– but it is still early.
‘Go on, Em. You know you want to.’ He grins at her. And she realises he is quite right.
Chapter 51
Violet
Stephanotis
She reviews the list The Purser has given her and wonders how she will manage to get it all done. TheOlympichas just set sail and she still has so many tasks to complete. She would like to ask The Purser why it is that the youngest stewardesses get more of the work– this is something that has never varied, whatever ship she is on– but she thinks she would need the safety of a confessional, with a screen between her and those flicking eyes to ask him such a question. She does not want The Purser’s eyes to rest on her and find her wanting, so she picks up speed and rushes on, like the hull beneath her feet.
When she stumbles, she thinks at first she has forgotten to tie her bootlaces or that her mother’s prophecy has finally come true: ‘One of these days you’ll rush so much you’ll meet yourself coming back and trip yourself up.’ Then she realises the stumble is just the first step in a drunken dance, and she is lurching, feet staggering, arms flung out, side-stepping towards the wall.
And then she is falling.
And she is not the only thing to fall; the lamp and ashtray have joined her on the floor. She is glad the White Star Line always insist on the best quality wool carpets for their staterooms.
A box containing powder has flown from the dressing table, coating the carpet around her in a layer of lavender scented dust. She can see spots, like spilt icing sugar against the black of her skirt. The lavender cloud is still settling when she notices the stephanotis scattered around her. The vase rolls back and forward on the dressing table and the water flows and drips onto the carpet, leaving darker splashes in the lavender powder.
Her mind skips to finding a bucket, tidying up, saving the flowers– and it is only then comes the thought, which she understands should have been her first thought: why did the ship stumble in the first place?
It occurs to her that she is in a bucket herself– a bucket floating in water.
She hears people rushing past the door and overhead comes the scraping of chairs and feet. And still she sits on the floor like an indecisive doll.
The door opens abruptly– not with the cough, gentle tap and murmur that The Purser has taught them but with a swish and a clang.
‘You want to get out of here, girl.’
And then the steward with the red hair and bandy legs is gone.
She pulls herself up and heads to the door. She peers into the corridor and watches the barrelling bandy legs hurrying away. She can hear her mother’s voice: ‘Just look at that. He wouldn’t stop a pig in a passage.’ It dawns on her that the legs (that wouldn’t stop a pig) are moving at considerable speed.
So she closes the door behind her, leaving the powder to settle and the water to drip, and follows the bandy legs along the passageway to the stairs, running as fast as she can.
Chapter 52
Emma
