Chapter 47

Chapter 47

Violet

Carved Flowers

The new White Star liner, the Olympic , is a ship like no other.

She has a friend who sails with the Cunard Line and all the talk there is about being the first, being the fastest. But for her money– if she had any– she would always sail with the White Star Line. The crew she works with look down on the ships of the Cunard Line, rushing hither and thither, trying to push their way in where they don't belong.

She does not say this to her friend.

What the White Star Line promises is luxury– perhaps not in the small cabin she shares with another stewardess but in first class and even in second class, the opulence is enough to take your breath away. On the Olympic , the staircases sweep, the glass sparkles and the carvings of flowers in the pale oak panelling are so realistic she almost believes that the wooden butterflies nestled there might fly away as she approaches.

The corridors of the Olympic are a new map that has to be learnt by heart, with shortcuts to negotiate and navigate. But around her are the faces of old friends and acquaintances– familiar outcrops in an unfamiliar landscape. They greet each other, share a word about their new home, and time allowing, swap gossip like waiters exchanging plates as they pass.

And presiding over it all, making sure that these exchanges do not cause the steps to falter, the pace to slow, is The Purser. He may not wish to serve on the Cunard Line either, but she suspects he wants his staff to be the fastest moving beings on the seas. Sometimes she thinks that when she gets home she should challenge her brothers to a race. If The Purser were watching her, she would certainly win.

She is in her cabin looking for a clean apron. Lost in thought, she has forgotten for a moment what she came in here for. She unhooks the sampler hung over the bed. Since her sister gave it to her, she has taken it on every voyage, a reminder of home and the small fingers that sewed it. At night before she goes to sleep, she sometimes counts the stitches that make up the petals of the flowers and the letters of her name.

She does not do this to help her sleep. The thought makes her smile– no stewardess would ever need to count sheep or stitches. At the end of a sixteen-hour day, sleep is always waiting, hat on, bag packed.

No, she counts the stitches to rid her mind of the clutter– the lists, the irritations and the gossip– clearing it to leave space to think of her family and especially of her sister. She wonders how she is managing at home and allows herself the small sin (three Hail Marys) of hoping she is missing her, too.