Lilac
She pulls her suitcase from under her bed and starts to pack. After her shoes and clothes are arranged (‘roll, don’t fold’), she pauses before adding the three magazines that one of her American passengers gave her. She believes she has earned every one of the colourful pages.
The American languished her way to New York, calling for her favourite stewardess to bear her company. She explained it was not seasickness she was suffering from– goodness, hadn’t they sailed every summer in Maine since she was a girl?– no, it was neglect of the cruellest kind that was draining her spirit. She could not say more.
But she insisted her favourite stewardess return for each instalment, sometimes requiring her to sit with her late into the night. She was charming in her requests and tearful in her thanks, a handkerchief scented with lilac pressed to her lips. Her tears traced pale lines in the powder on her exquisite face. She begged her friend to visit her in New York and personally put into her hands the magazines she had no use for.
Finding herself near to the American’s home one afternoon during shore leave in New York, she decided to visit. Curiosity and sentiment stifled her mother’s voice whispering in her ear: ‘No good wlll come of it.’
As usual, her mother was right.
She was ushered into a room filled with guests, the pale, thick carpets softening the sound of conversation and laughter like a fresh fall of snow. The American was as charming as ever and moved forward with the graceful gestures she remembered from the hours they had spent together. Her voice rose in gentle enquiry, and as she turned to introduce her dear friend to the others, her favourite stewardess knew for certain that she had no idea who she was.
She would like to throw away the magazines that smell of lilac, but she knows her mother and sister would like to look at them and will enjoy seeing how much she is valued by her passengers.
Finally, she places the bundle of well-read letters from home into her case. It is good to think she will soon be returning to the address written on the top right-hand corner of each. She frowns, thinking of the last letter. Her mother wrote to urge her to take up the new post she has been offered, and she is not sure whether to follow her advice. She likes theOlympic; she is used to it. Still, at least she would not be alone. Friends here with her on theOlympicare to change to the new ship, and they say they would like to sail with her again.
She packs the last of her belongings and reflects that her reluctance is unlikely to tip the scales when weighed against a mother who is always right. Perhaps, as her mother says, it will be an opportunity.
And, at the very least, it would mean serving on the most splendid ship the world has ever seen: theTitanic.
Chapter 56
Emma
A Bed of Roses
‘Do you have five minutes? There are some ideas I’d like to run past you both about the garden centre. I’m not trying to interfere– I just hoped I might be able to help a little.’
They are back in the Flower Cabin, sheltering from a thunderstorm, sharing coffee and a lemon cake that Emma brought in with her this morning– a better attempt than the cake she tried to make weeks ago, after she missed Les’sTitanictalk.
It occurs to her that maybe Betty hasn’t told Les she has discussed their business problems with her, and perhaps he will mind.
But Les appears to be smiling behind his beard. ‘Well, I always say, two heads are better than one.’ Then, glancing out towards the rain, he says, ‘There’s no time like the present. Just let me get something to sit on.’ He reaches behind him for a large crate, which he places beside Betty’s stool.
Despite Les’s encouragement and Betty’s smile, Emma’s voice wavers as she starts. ‘Betty explained that the main problem is the drop in numbers since the ring road was built.’
Both nod solemnly at her.
‘I was wondering … well, instead of thinking of your location as a problem, it could be a real bonus for us.’ She hopes they don’t mind her saying ‘us’. ‘Every other garden centre in the area is on a very boring industrial estate or in a shopping complex– whereas we have the most beautiful backdrop.’ She thinks of the mornings when she has sat on the bench looking across the allotments to the downs that rise up behind the garden centre. ‘The only problem is, just that: it’s the backdrop. Everything faces the wrong way. The café windows look out on to the front and the car park. I just wondered– could we turn it all around?’
Les rubs his beard. ‘You mean open up the back?’
Betty chimes in. ‘It’s only the wooden storage sheds behind the back wall.’
‘Exactly,’ Emma rushes on. ‘If you could take out some of the end section and put in French windows, the whole café would look out over the garden centreandthe downs. Who wouldn’t want to look at that over coffee and cake? The café could be a venue for events too– for parties. perhaps evening classes. We could even start a book club for those interested in nature and gardens.’
‘Now, that I would really like,’ Betty exclaims.
‘You could even move the flower shop near the café, Betty– people always like to watch as we make up bouquets. It’s a bit like seeing someone cook.’ She doesn’t add that she would like to make their posies less formal. Slowly, slowly– one step at a time. ‘And we often have flowers we can’t sell but still have some life left in them, so rather than throw them away, we could make up posies for the tables, and this would remind people we sell cut flowers as well as plants. And if we do events in the café, we can always suggest that we supply the flowers for those.’ She glances down at the notes in her hand. ‘I’ve also been researching other industries, and it seems to be all about developing things people will talk to their friends about. I think a lot of it is about creating a bit of theatre. I was reading about an interior design show where they covered unexpected things in fabric– like the outside of a bath, or a beach hut. We could do it the other way round– take a sofa and instead of cushions, have flowers planted out in it. Anything that makes people stop and look.’
‘A bed of roses,’ Les says, slowly.
‘Perfect.’ Emma beams at him. ‘The other thing I know from being new to gardening is that people really need ideas. So maybe we could take some small plots– and I mean very small– plant them up and then have a display behind it selling what’s in that patch. We could have different colour themes…’
‘Or gardens that attract bees and butterflies,’ says Betty, with a glance down at her Red Admiral T-shirt.
‘Exactly. And we could support all of this kind of thing through social media.’
