Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Violet

Forget-me-nots

The Big Barbadian who is the Smoking Room steward crosses the rising deck as if he is taking a summer walk. The rougher the seas, the broader his smile. She wonders, as he leans his body weight into his large feet, whether he is pushing the ship into the waves.

He is the kindest person she has met on board, and he passes her hints and advice like a man feeding a kitten he has grown fond of. He makes up for her cabinmate who looks like a woman who would put kittens into a sack and drown them.

When she first found her cabin, she thought two women were already living there and that she had made a mistake. Then she realised her companion had simply spread her possessions onto every surface like a child refusing to share. Not that she can imagine her cabinmate ever having been a little girl. Rather, she thinks she was born angular and irritable and old.

Her cabinmate offers no help, only resentment, and this she dishes out like it is harvest time and she has cut it fresh herself. On top of the lashings of resentment, she has one piece of advice, which she hands out like a slap:

‘The youngest has to do more of the work, it's only fair.'

It doesn't seem fair to her, but she soon finds out it is true. It feels like she never stops moving. She runs to help her passengers; she spins to clean and clear; she jumps when spoken to. Everything is rushing and bobbing– the ship and her on it.

She does not know which is worse: the seasickness or the homesickness. The seasickness leaves her white and sweating. Until now, she never knew you could sweat with cold. She tries to lean into the waves like her large friend and concentrates hard on not being sick, especially when she is being bullied by the over-perfumed woman with bad teeth in Stateroom Four. She wonders what would happen if she were sick all over her and her Pekinese, in its puce satin bed. Would she be thrown overboard? She doubts if even the kindly Big Barbadian would dive in to save her.

Her homesickness comes in waves like the seasickness. It can start with the sound of feet pounding on the wooden deck or the sight of blue flowers embroidered on a handkerchief. The memory of her sister wearing a forget-me-not crown she has woven for her– a prelude to pain.

The homesickness and the seasickness are things that must be borne, and when the sea calms and the temperature rises, she finds both are easier to endure. As the sun comes out, painting the ship in brighter colours, so the passengers seem to unfurl like flowers. They smile at her and think to praise her for an extraordinary service, like fetching a shawl, then a book, then a parasol. Their memories improve, too, as the sun bakes their hat-covered heads and soon they can recall her name and remember they are meant to tip her.

The sun does not reach into her companion's part of the cabin– which includes the entire floor, all the surfaces, every drawer and most of the hanging space in the cupboard. Here it is still winter.

Sometimes she escapes the chill, and up on the deck, hidden behind the lifeboat winch, the sun warms her shoulders and arms until they are the temperature of freshly baked bread. There are precious minutes here, moments when she can watch the world of water.

And it is from here she spies her first dolphin.