Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Emma

Delphiniums on others– like today– they elude her, shifting on a backwards step to avoid her touch, her gaze. She understands this. After all, she grew up with it.

She thinks of her mother and searches beyond the horizon, looking into the distance that separates them: she imagines the valleys that run down to the sea; the channel full of boats; the wide open kilometres in France; and the years that have passed since the days of her childhood. Surely all this should be enough to protect her from her mother?

She looks down on the garden and thinks of Les. He has taken to providing her with plants for her garden: delphiniums and lupins. He says the plants are damaged so will only go to waste (which she doesn't believe) and issues clear instructions for bedding them in and how to keep them pest-free. She must ask him if there are some weeds with roots that grow so deep you can never really hope to shift them.

With relief she heads down from the field to collect her things for her day in the garden centre. She will ring her mother later. Much later.

Once in the car, her thoughts turn to Will as naturally as water flows to the gravitational pull of the earth. She thinks Will would have made a good gardener. In fact, she is sure of it. He was methodical and physically strong. She knows he would also have been fascinated (and surprised) by her interest in the Titanic . Is that why she feels so suddenly committed to it– a link back to the man she loved?

They met in London through mutual university friends when Emma was twenty-seven. Emma remembers sitting down beside Will at supper, catching the slight scent of sandalwood and thinking it an unexpected and old-fashioned fragrance. She had been feeling worn out (her PhD research had hit a problem), set up (she had thought she was just meeting her friends) and then discouraged and unattractive when she noticed Will's thighs were so much thinner than hers. He exuded the physical wellbeing and confidence of a long-distance runner, and compounded this by saying he worked for a well-known law firm. Emma felt her insecurities surface and had sunk to meet them.

But by the end of the evening she had discovered three things: Will had been teasing her with a gentleness and skill that drew her admiration and genuine laughter; he had a voice she thought she would never tire of listening to; and in addition, she discovered she had a fondness for the scent of sandalwood.

There was also the way he looked at her. He gazed at her like he had never seen anything like her before in his life, like she was something gorgeous, magnificent. By the end of the evening, she was sitting straight on the uncomfortable kitchen chair, not caring that she was a good head taller than him.

At the time, Will had just started working as a senior associate for his law firm but what spare time he had he began to spend with her. Each time they met, she was sure his look of admiration would turn into one of bemusement– what had he been thinking? But instead it morphed into naked lust and then over time– she could no longer hide from it– into love.

Looking back on that time, she is sure her expression must have stayed the same throughout: sheer amazement. And love. She knew she loved Will the moment he made her laugh. She had just not expected him to love her back.

When she got her doctorate and then her research position, they moved together to Oxford. A newly married couple, a new city– for her, a new start. Later, when their hoped-for baby never came, they were both devastated. She rarely lets herself think about that time now; revisiting it feels like slicing into a wound that will never really heal. Once they knew for certain she couldn't have children– and there was no doubt in the end that the biological fault lay with her– Will had been unusually quiet for days. They discussed adoption, but both felt, based on friends' experiences, that it wasn't a simple answer. Then Will had taken his road bike out on one of the worst days they'd had for months and cycled a 100km route over the downs.

When he got back, he made it clear that it was nobody's fault; she, they, the two of them, were enough for him. Emma has never underestimated what that took.

By the time she reaches the Flower Cabin, the rain is hammering down. Betty and Les have taken shelter there to drink their morning coffee.

‘Tamas has been asking at the market about Bealing's,' Betty starts. ‘He's not got anywhere yet, but he's promised to keep going.'

Emma nods.

Betty turns casually towards Les. ‘Emma's been doing some research on the Titanic . I'm sure she'd like to hear about the talk you gave the other night, Les.'

‘The Titanic , you say?' Les replies, on cue.

Emma doesn't believe for one moment that this is news to Les. She steps back quickly to stop them glancing at each other behind her.

‘Yes, I'm– I'm writing a book.'

This does look like it is news to Les. Emma is not surprised; it's news to her, too. Where did that come from?

‘About the Titanic ?' Les frowns at Betty, and Emma can hear his thoughts as clearly as if he has spoken them out loud: You didn't tell me that. What am I supposed to say now?

‘A book, you say?' Les queries, rubbing his beard.

Betty is the first to recover. ‘A book– how interesting,' she says, forcefully offering him a biscuit from a packet of chocolate digestives.

‘Ah, a book about the Titanic ?' Les repeats, doubtfully, directing his question at Emma, but his eyes flicking to Betty.

‘Oh, I don't know. I had this idea… It may come to nothing.' Les's confusion is contagious. Emma has no florist, Tamas can't find the nursery that provided the flowers. What was she thinking? And why a book?

In the silence that follows, Emma looks down, embarrassed. Then she looks up quickly; she just needs to get a grip. She is not a child. ‘I'd like to hear about the talk you gave, Les. I'm sorry I didn't get there the other night. Sometimes I find groups of people a bit intimidating.' She shrugs her shoulders and looks slowly down at herself as if acknowledging that based on the size of her, this may be hard to believe. It occurs to her that these three sentences may be the most she has ever said to Betty and Les all in one go.

Les glances at Betty, and Emma cannot interpret the look that passes between them. Satisfaction? A bet won?

‘You know, the Titanic is a fascinating subject.' Les leans back against the counter, coffee forgotten. ‘Did you know there was a fire on board when they left the Harland and Wolff works in Belfast?' He doesn't pause for an answer. ‘The fire was in the coal bunker behind the ship's boiler. It was a huge fuel store, three decks high. No one could get at the fire to put it out and there was no way they were going to delay the sailing date.' Les studies his wife for a moment, and Emma recalls Betty once saying that Les was a great one for the Discovery Channel. ‘But this was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Fires like that weren't uncommon, but this one was burning away against the hull. Scientists worked out this caused Titanic 's steel plates to become brittle. The straw that broke the camel's back, you could say.' Les nods slowly. ‘Experiments showed this could have reduced the hull's strength by as much as … oh … I believe it was seventy-five per cent. Well, the result of that would have been catastrophic when they hit the iceberg.'

Betty starts to speak, but Les hasn't finished. He waves a large, stubby finger in the air. ‘The stokers who survived were warned by the head of the White Star Line not to mention the fire at the enquiry. I think that speaks for itself– tells its own tale.' He takes a big slurp from his coffee, then looks round, his eyes momentarily widening, as if startled that he has found so much to say without his notes.

Betty takes her glasses out of the pocket of her bumblebee cardigan and starts to polish them. ‘Look, Les and I were—'

But her husband interrupts. ‘And that is why I called the talk, "Secrets of the Titanic ". I don't think many people realise that it might have been the main reason for the disaster.'

‘That's really interesting, Les. I wonder—' Emma starts.

This time it is Betty who interrupts. Emma can't help feeling there is something Betty is desperate to get out.

‘Les and I have been meaning to say to you, Emma,' she says, turning her attention to the packet of chocolate digestives, and pulling one slowly from the pack. ‘Well, we wanted to say, love, that we– well, we know about your husband, and we are very sorry. We know things must be difficult. Our accountant recognised your surname on the payroll and he was in the same running club as your husband. I don't want you to think we were prying…' She is looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘But if there is anything we can do…'

Emma's stomach lurches. She can fill in the blanks . Just ring us. Just ask.

But Betty wrong-foots her: ‘… to help you with your research… or the book, or whatever, we would be happy to. Les is very interested in history, as you know, and has done a bit of research himself in his time. And I, well, I…' Betty doesn't finish but looks up at Emma, frowning slightly. ‘We thought if you needed time off, needed to go anywhere for research, maybe could do with an advance…?' She is frowning even more as she finishes.

Emma stares at Betty and Les's faces. They look acutely uncomfortable and it dawns on her that these two relative strangers, who have business troubles of their own, are offering her their assistance. She looks quickly away, touched and mortified, trying desperately to tuck in the misery that she has unwittingly left showing.

‘Emma, love…' Betty takes a step towards her.

Emma looks back at her, and all she can think is she likes it when Betty calls her ‘love'. To stop the tears that threaten, Emma rushes into speech. ‘I'm okay, really I am. We had savings and life assurance. And I was paid pretty well for the research I did.'

‘Research?' Les queries, and Emma remembers that she didn't really tell them what she had done before– had made it sound like she had worked in admin at the university. Her CV's academic record had been pretty brief, concentrating on her languages.

‘Yes, well, I'm a scientist by training. My doctorate was in enzyme genetics and—'

‘Goodness me. A doctor, you say?' Betty exclaims.

Les beams at her. ‘Well, fancy that.'

‘It's nothing really. Most of the people I worked with were far more qualified than I am.' This is true. In her field Emma knew herself to be a junior part of a highly prestigious team. And she rarely used her title outside of work– she found too many people told her about their back or bowel problems.

‘But a doctor, you say,' Betty repeats. ‘Well, I still think that's an impressive achievement.' She says this like she is proud of Emma, and Emma finds herself standing a little straighter and smiling shyly down at her.

‘How long has it been now?' Les changes tack, a look of concern on his face.

Emma is not really sure which event Les is referring to. ‘Well, I got my doctorate about twelve years ago, and it's just over a year since Will died.'

‘And you're not getting any better?' Les looks increasingly concerned.

His wife is giving him furious glances. ‘Would you "get better" if I died?' Betty interjects, tartly.

Les's reaction reminds Emma of someone pretending to throw a ball for a St Bernard. His confusion is complete. Eventually, Betty takes pity on him and turns her attention to Emma. ‘So you're interested in who supplied the flowers for the Titanic ?'

‘Yes, and more than that– I think there must have been a florist on board. If you think about it, all the public rooms would have needed decorating and flowers would have been ordered for some of the cabins. Someone with skill must have arranged them.' Emma can hear her voice coming out squeaky in her anxiety to persuade Betty.

‘Are there records you can look up?' Betty asks.

Emma relaxes. She has said it out loud and no one has laughed at her. ‘You would be amazed at the information that's available. All the crew are listed– but no mention of The Florist. I can't find her name anywhere. It's a real mystery.' She can't help herself, she is back to imagining a very specific person, The Florist. Betty nods and Emma takes this as encouragement and goes on. ‘I found a quote from someone, saying that the Titanic was "a ship full of flowers". It was April, so there would have been lots of spring flowers to choose from. Other greenhouse varieties, too, like roses. Oh, and there were flower storage areas, so presumably she needed more flowers for things like corsages, buttonholes and bouquets during the voyage. I just think The Florist must have been on board, somewhere.'

‘You've given this a lot of thought,' Betty says, pushing her glasses up.

Emma doesn't say that she has thought of little else for weeks.

‘You keep saying "she". Maybe it was a man?' Les ponders.

Emma ignores this altogether; in her mind it is always The Florist. Female.

Like her?

She hurries on. ‘It began when I couldn't sleep, and I ended up watching a programme about the Titanic . It was the night I should have… Well, I'm sorry, Les, sorry I didn't, I couldn't… Anyway, I kept thinking about the flowers and the clove carnations and the smell of them and the cigar smoke, and what had happened to The Florist.' Emma is aware she is gabbling– free wheeling– brakes off. ‘I think flowers matter in some way. We fill houses– and ships with them; we use them to send messages; we grow them; we even eat them. Once you see that, you start to see flowers everywhere.' Emma glances at the roses, lilies and delphiniums lined up on the shelves of the Cabin. ‘When we marry, we carry flowers; when we die…' Emma has hit a pothole. She tries to say something more, but the words stick in her mouth.

‘Love, has this anything to do with your … um … your loss?' Betty asks, gently.

Panic forces the word out. ‘No!' Emma says, emphatically. But there has been a miniscule pause, a tiny disconnect– a flaw in her perfectly reasoned case. Is it to do with her loss? Emma hardly knows.

‘So,' Betty says slowly, sidestepping the obvious crack in the pavement, ‘what can we do to help?'

Emma feels confused. ‘I don't know really. I guess it's just good to tell someone about it. Say it out loud.' She doesn't add, ‘I have no one else to talk to'. Instead, she offers Betty one truth, ‘I think I've become a bit obsessed.'

Betty leans over and pats her arm, then starts gathering up the coffee mugs. ‘Well, it's nice to hear you talking for once. You just let us know what we can do to help.'

Emma is surprised by her own shock– and she then wonders why. She knows she has been struggling to hold it together, to engage in even short conversations. As she watches Les walk tothe door, she starts to wonder if she began the game of trading clichés or whether it was the other way around.

Les turns before leaving, clearly still troubled. He blows out a breath, making his beard tremble. ‘So is this book going to be about the Titanic or about flowers?'

Emma may not be sure where this idea of a book came from but there is one thing she is certain of, ‘It's about finding The Florist on the Titanic .'

And saving her. Emma does not say this last part out loud. She isn't even sure what it means. The thought just slips through the door at the last moment and makes itself at home in her mind.