Violet
Primroses
Fat, burgundy snowflakes are falling from the sky. She stands at the porthole, craning her neck to peer upwards. A loud cheer goes up from the deck above and a few more flowers fall. Clove carnations are being tossed into the water where they float and spin in the waves. They bob for a final encore and are then sucked under by the churning water. A stray handkerchief joins them, floating through the air then crumpling like a broken kite. They are leaving Southampton, and the passengers are marking the occasion in the traditional way.
Normally a ship like theTitanicwould be accompanied by a flotilla of boats, tooting, piping and blasting their good wishes in alanguage all of their own. The coal strike has put pay to that and the water is strangely silent– but this only makes the cheers seem louder than normal, more distinct.
She wonders if The Purser Priest, who has also transferred to theTitanic, knew the men might throw their buttonholes into the air when the massive ship pulled away from the dockside. She feels sure he must have done. He is not a man who leaves things to chance; he is a man who understands that small details matter. She imagines he ensured that buttonholes were delivered to staterooms early in the day, rather than in the evening as was normal, just so they could be thrown.
It seems a shame that the flowers have been consigned to a watery grave so soon. She would like to rescue one carnation and keep it in her cabin, but she would never be able to reach out far enough to catch one as it falls.
She is pleased to be sailing once more with The Purser, who is becoming her friend. There have been snatched conversations spread over many evenings, many journeys– a few minutes here, a few minutes there– in which she has talked of her sister, he of his wife.
Occasionally they have shared their plans for their gardens. The Purser’s garden runs down to the canal at the back of his house and includes a rose garden, of which he is very proud. Her garden exists only in her imagination. They both know this, but it does not stop him asking how her dahlias have done this year, anxious to know whether the colours were as glorious as last. And it does not stop her replying.
She considers for a moment going up on deck. She has never been on deck for the start of a voyage and she would like to see the people lining the rail of the ship, waving to strangers and loved ones alike. But her place is below, unpacking and unfolding.
She thinks of that day many years ago, when her job was to pack and fold, when she helped fit her family’s life into a number of small suitcases and baskets. Now she is pulling what seems to be a never-ending stream of silk and satin dresses from a large trunk. She feels like a conjuror as she shakes out the yards of material. She imagines a dove flying out from one of the case’s many compartments, like she once saw with her sister in a theatre off Leicester Square.
As she lifts out an evening gown, a pretty blonde maid appears in the cabin, carrying a large vanity case made of dark green leather. Shaking out the dress, she can smell the fragrance of a lingering perfume emerging from the folds of silk. There is also the acrid smell of stale sweat and she wonders how well this maid knows her job. The young maid thanks her for her help and says she will take charge of the dresses. The maid is nervous and flushed. Perhaps it is her first post.
In the next cabin, she must tidy up the scattered possessions that have been thrown onto the bed, chairs and desk. She watched these passengers arrive, a couple of newly-weds who moved cautiously around each other, not yet used to the other’s rhythm. Trapped together in the cabin they both faltered, movements quick and nervous. When he suggested they go up on deck to watch the ship depart, they both threw their possessions down in relief and headed swiftly for the open space. On deck they can stroll arm in arm as they did when they were courting.
She picks up a hat decorated with a scattering of lemon primroses. She would like to try it on– and privately thinks it would suit her better than the pale bride, who she feels should be decked out in warmer, blushing pinks. But her mother has always had very strict views on the subject of envy, and she is sure she would have something to say about coveting thy neighbour’s hat. So instead, as she clears and tidies the space around her, she thinks of her own new hat, decorated with sweet peas. It is the prettiest hat she has ever owned. The only thing that would make it the perfect hat isif the sweet peas were real and she could breathe in their fragrance as she walked.
As the ship begins to move, she glances again at the primrose hat and allows herself one thought, which she does not think her mother would begrudge her: her sweet pea hat would not suit the new bride either.
Chapter 60
Emma
Jasmine
After ensuring Betty is safely aboard a sightseeing bus, Emma takes a train to the suburb where Philippe Hanchard lives. She turns down a leafy avenue leading away from the station. Despite the heat that is visibly rising from the tarmac in the road, the air is less oppressive here than in the city. She hopes the change in atmosphere will help with the headache taking up residence just behind her eyes. She pushes hair off her clammy forehead and steps deeper into the shade.
She finds the house halfway up the street, behind a set of large green, wooden gates. She can see very little from the road, only treetops and part of a roof. Philippe Hanchard buzzes her in through a small door set into the wall. A cobbled path leads away from the door, under an arch of purple bougainvillea, and along the side of a single-storey stone building.
As she turns the corner, she realises this is the back of a summerhouse. At the front, a series of double doors open on to a rectangular swimming pool. White, wooden loungers are arranged around it, and on a round table is a pile of navy and white striped towels. The pool shimmers turquoise in the sunshine and in the corner she can see lemon hibiscus heads turning lazy circles in the water.
Reluctantly, she leaves the pool and follows the path past lawns edged with rosemary, and terraces planted with golden rudbeckia and scarlet verbena. She can hear a sprinkler going somewhere in the distance. She approaches the house through an avenue of ceramic urns planted with marguerites. It is a low, rambling building: part Baroque and part curved modern extensions of smoke-coloured wood and glass. In front of the main door, up a short flight of stone steps, stands Philippe Hanchard, his long arms open.
‘Welcome,’ he says.
Emma follows Philippe across a pale, flagstone hallway into the kitchen.
‘I’m rather presuming you would like a coffee?’ he says, over his shoulder, as he approaches an electric-blue coffee machine.
‘Yes please.’
‘Good, I’ll make these and then we can go into my study.’
They both speak in French, and Emma feels that the language suits such an elegant setting. She watches Philippe as he works. He is a tall, thin man with short grey hair cropped close to his head. In another era he could be a beautifully ageing Hollywood star– either that, or an elegant monk. She imagines he must be nearing seventy. He is extremely well dressed, but from his hands it looks like he does his own gardening. They emerge from his crisp white cuffs, brown from the sun, his knuckles like knotted wood.
‘Your garden is beautiful,’ Emma comments.
Philippe sighs contentedly. ‘Now I’m retired, I spend most of my time there. My wife prefers to make our home a beautiful space, but for me it is always the garden.’ He loads a tray with their coffees and a plate of honey-coloured macaroons and directs her to his study.
The study glows the colour of rosewood– the floor, the bookshelves and the desk are pale gold warmed with a hint of red. Three tall windows are shielded by muslin blinds, softening the bright August light that floods the room.
