Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Emma

Sunflowers

Clementine's flower shop is in an alleyway off Magdalene Street, close to the river. Two large, double doors are thrown open onto the passageway, and flowers are lined up in baskets around the entrance, creating a path leading into the shop. Next to the door, bunches of flowering mint and lemon snapdragons are wrapped in brown paper. In front of these are wooden crates full of crimson and candy-pink geraniums.

Emma can't help smiling as she walks into the shade of the shop. More flowers are arranged here around an enormous cotton sunshade. The fabric of the shade is a mixture of cobalt blue and gold. Lime-green tassels hang from its outer edge. Underneath the umbrella, in large, turquoise jugs, are dozens of sunflowers. The air smells so similar to the Flower Cabin that Emma immediately feels at home. She wonders if all flower shops smell the same, and whether it would ever be possible to bottle this fragrance. She thinks of Philippe, the retired perfumier in Paris– if anyone would know, he would.

Clementine comes out from the back of the shop and Emma introduces herself.

‘Oh, please call me Clem,' the woman says smiling at her. ‘Everyone does.'

Clem looks to be in her late fifties; her black braids, flecked with grey, are tied back from her face with what appears to be the same material as the umbrella. She wears a sundress of lime-green and purple flowers.

Clem calls for her assistant to come and meet Emma.

‘Gilly's got it all under control, so we can go and sit out the back and talk.'

Clem leads the way through a kitchen to a small, courtyard garden. The flowers growing up against walls are even more colourful than those in the shop; pink lilies and orange crocosmia are planted alongside purple agapanthus. In terracotta pots, lime-green alchemilla cast feathery shade over scarlet begonias. Emma thinks how much Les would enjoy seeing them.

Clem motions for Emma to sit at a table piled with books and plant pots, then disappears back into the kitchen. As Emma sits down on the bright orange canvas chair, she wishes she had worn something other than a plain navy dress. She feels like a dark splodge on a vibrant palette.

Clem returns with two enormous glasses of white wine. She hands one to Emma before sitting down with a sigh.

‘How's the lovely Betty?' she asks.

‘She's good and sends her love. Have you known her long?'

It occurs to Emma that she is not feeling nervous. Perhaps it's being in Cambridge; she spent three years in the city as an undergraduate, and being reminded of her academic past and her friends, the Glory Girls, puts her at ease. The warmth radiating from the woman beside her, helps, too. She thinks momentarily of the smiley, friendly girl in the library.

Clem tilts her head up towards the sun, eyes narrowed. ‘We met when we shared a stand at a local garden festival– you know, one of those plant and flower stalls. My partner and I used to live just outside Oxford. I don't think Betty and I stopped talking or laughing all afternoon. Betty says you're now working as a florist at the garden centre?'

Emma then admits what she has been tempted to say to every customer she has ever served: ‘I'm not really a florist.'

Clem opens both eyes wide and turns to her. ‘I've trained a few florists in my time, honey, and I think it's either in your blood or not. Some of the fanciest florists I've met have no soul when it comes to flowers.'

Emma thinks of Les saying good morning to his begonias. One day she followed the yellow snake the wrong way and she nearly bumped into him. She swiftly retreated but not before she had overheard him greeting his plants.

‘I've always loved flowers,' Emma continues, picturing her dad in his garden, ‘but I think I'm a bit out of my depth. Has Betty told you about our search for The Florist on the Titanic ?'

As Clem nods, it dawns on Emma that a few weeks ago she would not have shared this. Perhaps Tamas was right– it was better to travel with others. She realises Clem is looking at her thoughtfully, and for a moment she is reminded of Les's comment: ‘… just one of those people who…' Who what ?

Emma takes a sip from her glass of wine. She is glad she decided to stay overnight in Cambridge and that her car is already parked at the hotel. ‘How long have you been a florist?' she asks.

Clem smiles. ‘Ever since I left school– it's all I ever wanted to do. My mother was a florist, too.'

‘Betty said she worked on the QE2 ?'

‘Yes. I once did the flowers for the Oriana , just before her maiden voyage, but Ma, she was the expert. When she was young, she did six transatlantic crossings and two round the world trips. She loved those trips.'

‘Did they need a lot of flowers on board?'

‘For sure– masses of them. They used to take on new flowers for the shop when they did their stopovers. Ma said when they docked in the West Indies, they brought on board the flowers she'd known as a girl. She came to Britain from Jamaica as a teenager, and I think she missed those flowers. Well, you would, wouldn't you?' Clem stretches out in her chair, green and purple flowers rippling.

‘Wow! So they had an actual flower shop on board,' Emma remarks.

She settles back with her wine and begins to tell Clem what they have discovered about the Bealings and how the cut flowers were stored on the Titanic the night before they sailed. And that, despite all this, and the passenger accounts about flowers, there was no record of a florist sailing in the crew of the ship.

‘We could work out what was involved, you know,' Clem eventually offers.

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, the number of days at sea, how many people. I bet I could make a good guess about what they needed to do.'

Emma sits up straighter in her chair. ‘Well, for a start, Les already worked out that they would have needed 1,190 buttonholes.'

Clem raises her eyebrows. ‘There we go. And what else? First question, how many passengers? Do you know?'

Emma makes a grab for the notebook in her backpack, ‘There could have been around 2,500 passengers, but there were 1,317 on board for the maiden voyage, plus the crew.'

‘That's a big ship,' Clem acknowledges. ‘I know they're building some liners that will take, oh, five thousand and more, but the QE2 was still a world of a ship and that took around two thousand passengers. And how full the ship is doesn't matter as much as how full it could be. You've still got to have everywhere looking its best.'

A ship full of flowers .

‘Now, the work would depend on how long they were going to be at sea.'

Emma is already on it. ‘From leaving Southampton, it was due to take about seven days to New York, via Cherbourg and Queenstown.'

Clem chews on her thumbnail. ‘You'd have to change the flowers at least the once. The thing is they'd want the ship to be looking good when they got to New York. Ma, she said they did tours of the QE2 when they got to America– you know, VIPs and such like coming to have a poke around.'

Emma stretches her legs out, luxuriating in the warmth of the sunshine and the absorbing conversation. She remembers a piece she'd read during her research and turns eagerly towards Clem. ‘The Olympic had eight thousand visitors when it first docked in New York.'

‘The Olympic ?'

‘It was the Titanic 's sister ship; they were built alongside each other, but the Olympic was launched a year earlier. It was basically the same ship, but when it came to finishing the Titanic , they made some changes, like closing in one of the decks and turning one of the promenades into more cabins and a French-style café. It wasn't that the Titanic was so much bigger than the Olympic , in fact it was only three inches longer – it was just heavier– and that's how it came to be known as the largest ship in the world.'

It amazes Emma how much she now knows about the Titanic .

Clem nods and puts her wine glass down. ‘So, where were we? Your florist would have to change the flowers at least the once.' Clem looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘Do you know whether they were getting telegrams on board?'

Emma looks up. ‘Yes, they were. In fact, there were so many messages to do with the passengers that they weren't following the shipping news and weather– that was all part of the problem. Somebody in the Titanic 's radio room actually sent a message saying, "Shut up, I'm busy"!'

Clem shakes her head, adding, ‘Well, that's more flowers for you. People sending their loved ones flowers on board.'

‘So, you think there really would have been a florist?' Emma asks, trying hard not to plead.

‘Look, I can only go by my mother's work, but I know she was often rushed off her feet. I'd say the Titanic would need someone on board, someone who had a gift with flowers.' She looks pensive for a moment. ‘But without a shop to manage, they might be working at other stuff, too. That's my guess.'

Not The Florist, then, but a stewardess (or steward) who had a gift with flowers– Emma rather likes that thought. She thanks Clem and tells her to wait while she goes next door to a delicatessen and buys a bottle of Prosecco and three cakes. She lets Clem's assistant, Gilly, choose the first cake and pours some Prosecco into her mug, before returning to the garden.

Clem looks as though she is asleep, but she opens an eye when she hears the glug and fizz of the wine. ‘It's a shame Betty couldn't come,' Clem says, raising her glass in a toast to her.

‘I know.' Emma pauses. ‘When we went to Stamford together, I think she enjoyed it…'

‘But?' Clem looks at her over her wine glass.

Emma doesn't say anything.

Clem laughs. ‘Did she talk a lot?'

Emma gasps in relief. ‘She never stopped.'

‘She does that when she's nervous– doesn't pause for a single breath. It's quite something.'

‘Nervous? You think so? I thought she was really looking forward to it.'

‘Doesn't mean she wasn't nervous,' Clem says, leaning forward and choosing a cake.

‘I'd not thought of that.'

‘And you, well…' Clem is studying Emma.

‘What?' she asks, defensively.

Clem smiles at her. ‘Well, honey, let's face it. I bet you scare the hell out of Betty!' She starts to really laugh this time.

Emma is incredulous. ‘What?'

Clem just keeps on grinning at her. ‘You have to look at it from her point of view. You're a scientist, a doctor, Betty tells me. You speak, what is it– four languages?'

Emma nods, embarrassed.

‘And she told me you picked up the floristry work like you'd been born to it. Hell, you are impressive.' Clem is still smiling at her.

‘I don't feel impressive,' Emma admits, looking back at her. ‘Most of the time I can't seem to…'

Is this what Les had meant? That Clementine was the sort of person who you ended up confiding in? Emma might not be able to finish her sentence, but she is surprised she has said this much.

White peonies come to her mind: fresh from market, petals stuck so tight, like round pebbles on the end of the stem. But they opened, didn't they? Eventually.

‘Betty told me about your husband…'

‘Will.' Emma looks up. She wants Clem to know his name.

‘I know Betty is happy to help you if she can. And between you and me, I think what Betty needs just now is to have someone to keep an eye on. You know, since her mum died. She loved her but, boy, was she a handful. I think she led Betty a right dance towards the end. Now with her gone, I don't think she likes to admit it, but she's at a bit of a loss…'

‘My mother's difficult, too,' Emma says. ‘I don't think she's a very nice woman, and I worry a lot that I'm like her.'

Emma cannot believe she has spoken the words, finally voiced the fear. She has never told anyone this before, not even Will, but she has always worried that her struggle to fit in is somehow rooted in selfishness. And there is no one more selfish than her mother. Like mother, like daughter?

‘Then don't be like her,' Clem says briskly, pouring them both more Prosecco. Emma blinks. Can it really be that easy? Is it simply a matter of choice?

She shakes her head. ‘Do all your friends come to you for advice?'

Clem just sits back, closes her eyes and smiles up at the sun, not saying anything. Emma decides to follow suit.

Maybe this is why Betty didn't come; maybe she hoped her friend Clementine would talk to Emma, realised that sometimes it is easier to open up to a stranger.

With eyes closed, Emma listens to the buzz of conversation from the shop and the ring of a doorbell nearby. From the distance comes the sound of a voice talking loudly above the traffic.

She isn't sure if she's been asleep, if she's been dreaming, but she suddenly knows there is something else she wants to ask Clem.

‘What I suppose I'm trying to find out … what part of this is about,' she says, picking up her wine glass and waving it expansively in the air, ‘is why flowers? Why do flowers matter?'

Clem's laugh is a snort this time. ‘You don't ask for much, do you, honey?' She hugs her arms about her and looks sideways at Emma. ‘I can tell you this, flowers are everywhere. Not just for weddings and funerals but for christenings, birthdays, new homes, thank yous– for just about everything. I've been into people's homes, gardens, offices– where they eat, party and pray– and in all these places, flowers are welcomed like friends.' Clem leans over and clinks her glass with Emma's. ‘And another thing– most flowers are sent from women to women. Not for the grand occasion or as a big showy gesture.' She grins. ‘That's what some men think we want. Ha! They're fools.' She continues, reflectively, ‘Flowers are about women reaching out when their friends are celebrating or when they're sad or sick or grieving. Flowers say, "I will always love you, my friend".'

Emma finds she cannot speak.

When she can control her voice, she checks if Clem sends her flowers to addresses outside of Cambridge. Then she orders a hand-tied bouquet to be delivered to a curly-haired woman who lives in a small bungalow behind a garden centre in Oxford.