Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Violet

Cornflowers

Her mother picks away at the cloth on the table and she is sure she will soon be picking away at her and her sister. She wonders what they have done wrong. They have laid the table and placed a jam jar of cornflowers on the windowsill. Perhaps her mother thinks she bought them and wasted money, but they were given to her by the old man who has a garden by the station. She would like to tell her mother about how he told her the names of the flowers on the railway bank: rosebay willow herb, dog rose, enchanter's nightshade. But she is mesmerised by the picking finger.

Her sister is stood behind her chair, one small finger on her back, keeping connection with her elder sister. Her finger does not pick but taps gently as if transmitting her anxiety in morse code.

She looks around for what they have missed– they have spent the past two days washing, ironing and tidying. Is something in the wrong place?

Then it comes to her. Her mother must feel in the wrong place. Is she thinking of the ship, of the friends she made on board? Does she want to be with them? So she asks her– after all, she is the eldest– and her jealousy gives her courage. She knows her sister would never find the words and the boys are still miles away, waiting for their Sunday-afternoon visit.

‘Is it strange to be home, Ma? Do you miss the ship?'

‘God bless you, child, I would be glad if I never had to go to sea ever again.'

‘Then what is it, Ma?' Her sister has found her voice.

Her mother looks at them both. ‘You say we can't see the boys before Sunday?'

They both nod and the picking stops. Her mother draws herself up and nods back at them. ‘Well, that can't be helped. Haven't you made the room look nice. All so tidy, and flowers and everything.' She smiles. ‘My goodness, it is quiet without the running and stomping.'

And she realises what is troubling her mother: the boys are in the wrong place. Maybe she and her sister should have left the room messy; slammed doors and scattered the cornflowers on the wooden floor. Maybe that would have made for a happier homecoming.

Later that night, when her sister is asleep, her mother calls for her and pats the arm of her chair. She sits on it even though it makes her too tall and she can't really see her mother's face properly. Her mother touches her arm and looks down at the fire, her forehead and nose tinged pink from the glow. Away from the firelight, where her brown hair curls around her ear, her cheek is pale like uncooked dough. For the first time she notices that her mother's hair is streaked with grey.

Her mother phrases the question slowly: how would she feel about going to sea? The work is hard, but she would meet all sorts of people. She knows of a company that may be looking for crew– she could put in a word. She tells her daughter she is a good girl.

Before her mother has finished speaking, she has jumped in with worries about her sister and brothers. Her concern shocks her, like a plunge into cold water. Who will look after them? How will they manage? As she comes up for breath, she realises she is now looking at a different view, her mother's view.

‘Would you stay at home then? Could the boys come back?'

Her mother puts her head on one side. ‘We'd have to wait and see.'

This has always meant ‘yes', in the past. She feels suddenly hopeful for the boys.

‘I wasn't too well on the last trip. I'm not sure how much longer I can do the work.' She smiles up at her daughter. ‘And you're such a good girl. A woman now, truth be told. Twenty-one next birthday.'

‘Something of a se?orita?'

Her mother looks puzzled, as if she has heard this before but can't quite place it. ‘Well, what do you think?'

She thinks she will have to put her sister in her case and keep her in her cabin with her. She thinks she cannot bear to be without her. She thinks she wants to cry. She thinks she wants her father to come and save her.

She says, ‘I think I could do it if you told me what to do.'

To balance the lie, she tells one truth: ‘And I would like to see dolphins.'