‘I certainly do,’ says Betty.
The three of them sit quietly for a moment. There is a burst of laughter from the adjoining bar.
‘So how do you feel now?’ Alistair breaks the silence.
‘On one hand, still confused as to why I think I recognise Violet, yet on the other I’m pleased and I suppose proud to think we’ve found a florist on theTitanic– even if it’s not the traditional florist I was envisaging at the start. And I think you were right in what you said in London– you shouldn’t ignore someone’s contribution just because it’s only a small part of a bigger team.’ She smiles at Betty.
‘That’s history for you, Em,’ Alistair says, ruefully, ‘I should know. People think it’s about finding one big truth– something no one else knows. But it doesn’t really happen like that. In fact, a lot of egos have crashed and burned chasing after one spectacular historical find. Most of the time it’s small discoveries, tiny triumphs. When you add your bit to the mix you’re fitting into a much bigger picture. Then when you stand back and look at it, you don’t really see your bit anymore, but you do notice the other people standing beside you gazing at the same view…’
‘And?’ Emma prompts.
‘And then, if you have any sense, you all go to the bar and have a few drinks.’
Emma smiles at him. The three of them are looking at the same view now. It’s like her scientific work. Terrible genetic conditions, diseases, viruses– only ever beaten when people worked together.
Her mind drifts to her home and her garden. Her plan to gather together all the people who have helped her returns– she will mow the lawn under the apple trees and cook lunch for them all. She could serve butternut-squash ravioli to start and then slow roasted lamb, and maybe hang some lights from the branches above the table.
Her thoughts are interrupted by Alistair. ‘Look, I’ve got to head out now, but I wanted to catch you before I went. There’s more stuff to do with what happened to Violet in later in life, but I’ll email you all that.’
‘Fantastic,’ Emma says, gratefully. She is feeling lightheaded with all they have learnt and wonders if Betty feels the same. She seems unusually quiet and thoughtful.
‘Look, before I go, there’s one other thing I did want to show you. I’m going to hold it up the screen so you can read it for yourself.’
She leans forward.
There, on the screen is an extract that Alistair has highlighted– words written by Violet Jessop, stewardess of theTitanic:I myself could not live without flowers.
‘Oh! There you go, love,’ Betty enthuses, losing her air of self-absorption.
As Alistair’s screen goes blank, Emma finds she is lost for words. She links her arm with Betty’s and squeezes it tight. Her mind cannot seem to take in all they have found out and how far they have come. She feels exhausted and giddy, but also exhilarated. She doesn’t know quite what to do with herself. She turns to Betty, and it strikes her that she looks tired. ‘What now—?’ she starts, thinking perhaps they should head for bed.
But it seems Betty has other ideas.
‘I rather liked Alistair’s idea of all those historians getting together and sharing a drink. I do feel we ought to celebrate.’ She glances towards the warm glow of the bar. ‘Do you know, love, I have never had a Champagne cocktail and I rather think I would like to try one.’
Emma grins and pulls her friend to her feet, dismissing the ache that is now working its way down her neck to her back.
‘Then that is exactly what we’ll do,’ she proclaims as she leads the way to the bar.
Chapter 65
Violet
Daisies
She stands just inside the doorway for two, three seconds, watching. The Purser is writing at his desk, his fountain pen flicking across the page, bold but neat, in the manner of the man. She thinks of the handwritten letters of love attached to the bouquets she has arranged. She does not wish for this man to write to her– he is a married man and some years older than her– but she would not mind if she met someone who grew into such a man. When she thinks of the word ‘Gentleman’, The Purser is who she thinks of.
She knows there are men who have been born to this title, and she has met many such men on board ship. Some are considerate men who remember her name– but most would not think to help her if she dropped something or struggled to open a door while carrying a loaded tray. Sometimes she wonders if they even see her at all. She thinks maybe these men have had the title of Gentleman for so long they have worn it thin, like an old shirt.
‘Ah, Violet.’ The Purser looks up. ‘Come in.’ He checks his watch. ‘Do you have everything you need?’
This is his way of asking if everything is just so. She assures him all is well, happy that she will not be found wanting. She is rewarded by a smile.
‘Well then, sit awhile– a few moments’ peace will harm no one.’
She sits down on the chair by his desk but does not let her back ease into it. If she gave in to this comfort, she fears she would never get up again.
They talk of the time they spent with their families before boarding the ship. He remembers to ask after her sister, and she hopes that his wife is well. He tells her they had a grand send-off with a night at the ballet and supper afterwards. He says his wife looked very fine in a new dress.
