Chapter 52

Chapter 52

Emma

Fuchsia

The bar is dimly lit and decorated in shades of plum and faded gold. The shelves behind the counter are a beacon of light in the gloom, glistening with coloured bottles and polished glasses. Two barmen in white coats look up as they enter. There are several small tables around the edge of the narrow room, but Alistair heads to the tall stools at the counter at the back of the bar. The walk through Kensington has done much to dissolve any constraint between them. Alistair didn't ask why she was so upset earlier, but he told her about his family, who now live in Edinburgh and about his four older sisters who are forever trying to organise his life for him. He told her his favourite sister is also called Emma and that he always calls her ‘Em'.

As they sit down, one of the barmen comes up and introduces himself as Jan. Emma guesses Jan is in his late twenties; he has short brown hair, a slight beard and hazel eyes. He wears his white barman's coat neatly rolled to just below the elbow. and Emma cannot help but watch his hands and arms as he puts out small, square serviettes on the bar and offers them each a cocktail menu.

‘Let me know when you're ready.'

Jan speaks with a slight accent. Emma, the linguist, isn't sure where it is from and, quite frankly, she couldn't care less. Just looking at Jan is enough for her.

As Jan walks away, Alistair catches her look and gives a small snort of laughter. ‘Your face!'

Jan has moved to the front of the bar to serve new customers, and Emma is suddenly very aware that her slim-fitting, navy skirt is riding up above her knees. ‘I know!' she says, trying to simultaneously read the cocktail menu, pull her hem down and stop herself from laughing. ‘But he's gorgeous.'

‘Not my type,' Alistair says, looking at Jan critically.

‘Oh, God, I'm not being serious– it's just he took me unawares.'

‘You wish,' Alistair mutters, laughing.

She puts her head down, pretending to read, shoulders shaking. Eventually she draws a deep breath. ‘I think I'll see what Jan recommends.'

Alistair says nothing but raises both eyebrows.

Jan is back. ‘Come to a decision yet, or would you like a recommendation?'

Alistair speaks for both of them, which is just as well, because Emma's tongue seems to have become stuck to the roof of her mouth. ‘Yes, we do need your help, Jan. Do you have anything that has a floral twist to it?'

‘Floral,' he says slowly. ‘I think I can do that. Do you fancy something that has a sour note, or would you like to start with some bubbles?'

‘Oh, bubbles, I think,' Alistair says.

Emma makes a huge effort to get hold of herself. ‘I know that sounds like an odd request, but I'm doing research for a book that's all about flowers.' Emma hopes her voice is a nice blend of scientist and schoolteacher.

‘That's a first, for sure. Leave it with me.' Jan looks at her and smiles, and Emma knows she has never felt less like a schoolteacher in her life. She tries to ignore Alistair, who is now silently laughing beside her.

The first cocktail Jan suggests is a Parisian Rose. ‘This has a base of Grey Goose vodka, flower shop tincture,' he explains.

Emma looks at him in disbelief. ‘Flower shop tincture?'

‘Better believe it,' Jan says, looking up briefly from constructing their drinks. ‘Grey Goose is a French vodka– then I'm adding a little lemon juice and syrup, and topping it up with pink Champagne.' He places the tall, fluted glasses in front of them. ‘Now for some extra flowers,' he says, sprinkling the tops with pale-pink, sugared rose petals.

‘It's so pretty,' she enthuses.

‘And do the bubbles go up your nose?' Alistair asks innocently.

Emma kicks him on the ankle.

Jan is soon away, serving some hard-drinking Russians further down the bar.

‘This is exhausting,' Emma exhales. ‘I'd forgotten what it's like to fancy someone.'

‘Do you want to go somewhere else?' Alistair asks.

‘No, this is fun.' Emma sips her Parisian Rose. ‘Do you have someone in your life?' she asks, then immediately worries that she sounds like a women's magazine.

‘Did have– didn't work. Left me for his personal trainer.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘No, you're all right. It's getting easier. Think I might even get back out there. What's not to love about a lanky historian with a fanatical interest in the Titanic ?'

Emma wonders if this is why she has slipped so easily into Alistair's company– their shared obsession? Sharing an interest does seem to pull people together– she thinks of the Glory Girls– and it occurs to her that maybe people with a shared connection like helping each other.

‘How about you?' Alistair asks.

Emma is saved from answering by the reappearance of Jan, who asks them what drinks they want next.

‘We're in your hands,' Alistair says, draining his drink.

Next on Jan's list is a blackberry and elderflower martini. He serves this with a small purple and pink fuchsia head hanging on the side of the glass.

‘It's the arms,' Emma whispers, sipping her martini, the fuchsia resting in the curls she has tucked behind her ear. She is staring down the bar, watching Jan work.

‘I only ever consider personality,' Alistair says, then laughs at Emma's startled look. ‘Nah, legs,' he confesses. He tips his head sideways towards Jan. ‘He likes you,' he declares.

‘No! No, far too young,' Emma exclaims– but a little wistfully.

Alistair grins. ‘So?'

As they drink their martinis, Emma tells Alistair about the people who have helped her with her research: Les, with his interest in the historical society; Guy and his realisation about the photographs of the Titanic ; the smiling girl who helped her in the library; Tamas finding the flower nursery; Mrs Pepperpot pulling together the photos of the Bealings; Betty and her never-ending encouragement; Clem with her insight into how much work there was for a florist on board. ‘She was really helpful,' she concludes.

‘Bit like myself then.' Alistair nudges her shoulder with his, and picking up the cocktail menu, says, ‘I tell you what– I'd like to try a cocktail they'd have drunk on the Titanic . We should toast your florist, or florists,' he says, ‘whoever they are.'

Emma glances at him sideways.

‘What is it?'

Emma breathes in. She can feel the alcohol loosening her tongue, ‘You know, I thought I was here to save her.'

‘You've lost me there.'

‘I… My husband died a year or so ago, and … well, it's complicated.'

Alistair reaches out and touches her arm. ‘Jeez, Em, I'm so sorry.'

She doesn't want to talk about Will, really, not because she feels she can't confide in Alistair, but because she is enjoying herself. And for the first time in months feeling good feels normal.

‘You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, Em.'

She thinks of the people who called her ‘love' and ‘honey' and now ‘Em', and she is glad. So she tries to find the words, fleetingly wondering if Alistair speaks French or Spanish.

‘A few weeks ago, when I started wondering if there was a florist on the Titanic , I couldn't let the idea of finding her go. It's become an obsession, I guess– I think partly to stop me dwelling on other stuff to do with my husband.' She looks at Alistair to see if he's with her.

‘Go on.'

‘I got it into my head that if I could find her and prove she'd survived, I would have saved her, and that would make a difference, somehow.' She glances at him. ‘Mad, I know, but I wasn't exactly thinking straight.' She smiles. ‘I've spent quite a lot of time lately not sleeping, not talking and in fact, not doing much of anything.'

‘Been there, would have got the T-shirt but couldn't be arsed.'

Emma laughs. Then she tries to put into words what has just come to her. ‘I guess what I'm trying to say … not very well … is that it's just struck me that maybe I wasn't there to save her– I think she was there to save me. To stop me from drowning.'

Alistair turns his whole body towards Emma and half smiles. ‘Who knows? As they say Em, "stranger things happen at sea".'

It is just what Les would say.

‘Look, I've been thinking, Em– I know you were disappointed when I said that thing back there about the Titanic being made up of different countries—'

‘No, it's—' she begins.

‘Em, you looked like a puppy who'd been kicked. But think of it this way: you wouldn't have come this far without all those other people you mentioned. It's turning out to be a team effort, right?'

She nods.

‘Well, I think the flowers on the Titanic were the same– different people doing their bit. And maybe there wasn't one maestro, one top dog, but that doesn't mean the efforts of the people who helped aren't worth celebrating, from the Bealings to a few florists of sorts on board. All those small contributions matter.'

Emma imagines all the people who have helped her meeting up. She'd like to put a big table in her garden near the apple trees and cook lunch for them all. She would serve chilled red wine and lamb or maybe paella, something her father would have liked.

Alistair calls Jan over. ‘So, Jan, we're going to need all your skill– we have a challenge for you. We need a cocktail that they would have drunk on the Titanic …'

A few minutes later, he and Emma are holding two cut-glass tumblers. They toast The Florist (or more likely Florists) and sip their Manhattans.

While they are finishing these cocktails, Emma reaches into her bag for her phone. She opens up the photos and holds the image she has been obsessing over out for Alistair to see.

‘I want to ask you about her.'

‘Oh, I know her,' Alistair says slowly, smiling at the serious young face staring up at him.

‘The thing is, I keep coming back to her. I know she can't be The Florist on board because she was The Nurse, but—'

Alistair grins. ‘No, she wasn't.'

‘But…' Emma frowns, pointing to the cross on the starched white apron. ‘What about the nurse's uniform?'

‘That's a First World War uniform,' says the First World War historian, confidently. ‘When she was on the Titanic in 1912, she was a common or garden stewardess– or not so common as it turned out. You know her name, right?'

‘Violet.'

‘Yep,' Alistair says, ‘This here is Violet Jessop. Famous to us Titanic nuts because she survived three collisions on White Star liners– the Olympic , the Titanic and the Britannic .'

‘Wow, I didn't realise it was all three,' Emma queries.

Alistair nods, ‘She nearly died when the Britannic went down. It was used as a hospital ship during the First World War and hit a mine. This is when this photo would have been taken. Violet was in the water for some time and she couldn't swim. Can't quite remember how she made it.' Alistair shakes his head. ‘You'd think by the end no one would have sailed with her.'

‘She must have been very lucky– or unlucky, I suppose, thinking about it a different way.' Emma frowns. ‘Why had I got it into my head that she was a nurse on the Titanic ?'

‘That's cos of the photograph. They always use it on any article to do with the Titanic , but it was taken a few years later.'

Emma stares at the screen. Violet Jessop– a stewardess who became a nurse. She feels the old, tugging undertow of recognition, and a new thought strikes her: she wonders if Violet Jessop liked flowers.

‘Out with it,' Alistair demands, staring at her. ‘What's Violet got to do with it all?'

‘It's just a feeling. I know it sounds stupid, but when I saw her I thought I recognised her.' She is blushing now. ‘I felt a connection– something to do with my family. I just can't place it.'

He is laughing. ‘A long-lost relative?'

She wants to say, Yes. Maybe , but feels it would sound stupid.

‘Do you know if you have any relations who were involved with the Titanic ?' he asks.

‘I've been looking into my family tree– nothing on my mother's side and my dad's family are Spanish so that's harder going. But nothing so far.'

Alistair grins at her. ‘You want Violet Jessop to be your florist, don't you?'

Emma's mind is racing. She has been thinking of her research as two parallel lines: The Florist and The Nurse; but now the two strands twist. An image of a DNA helix forms in her mind, two parallel lines close together and spinning in unison, and she says, on instinct, ‘Of course I do', and laughs, thinking how unscientific she is being.

Alistair takes pity on her. ‘Look, I could have a dig into her past if you like– you've got me hooked now, too. Everyone just talks about the fact she was on all three ships; I don't know how much is written about her work and if she knew anything about flowers. But at least her name's gotta be a good sign. Think about it– her parents probably liked flowers, if they called her Violet, so maybe they passed that onto her.' He leans forward suddenly. ‘Hey, Em, are you crying? Violet was saved– she was okay. She survived. Oh, Em, please don't. You'll start me off.'

She smiles at him through her tears. ‘I'm not really crying,' she says, half laughing and half crying.

‘Yeah, looks like it,' Alistair says, grabbing some serviettes off the bar and handing them to her.

‘It's just feels like something has come together. I can't explain it more than that.'

‘Look, we don't know that much about her yet. But she did survive– she wasn't drowned. Come on, cheer up. Surely that's got to be worth another cocktail?'

When they eventually leave the bar, Jan presents Emma with a cocktail menu. He has written his number on the back.

She puts it in her bag, not because she has any intention of ringing him, but because it is always nice to be asked.