Chapter 63

Chapter 63

Violet

Crimson Roses

She wraps the skirt of her new uniform tightly round her legs to slide through a small alleyway formed by wine cases. There is no point in collecting more dust, more work. She moves like the crab she once saw in the West Indies– a crab following a scent. And then she finds them: box upon box of flowers.

On the top, wrapped in muslin, are the lily of the valley. Beside them, dark and pungent, are bunches of violets tied with ribbon and lying in a basket. Beneath these are the boxes she must lift and sort.

First, she tweaks the corner of the top one. She tells herself this is just to check, but really it is because she cannot resist looking. Inside, she glimpses perfect rose heads, lying like crimson silk against the straw.

The steward with the large arms has returned, and she cajoles him into helping her. He is busy: he has his own work to do; The Purser will be after him. But she knows she has him at the first smile. Sometimes, it is like offering a kitten a piece of wool; they cannot resist it. She knows that with his help, she will be able to move the flowers to the pantry in one trip.

She carefully unpacks the boxes, laying the flowers side by side, keeping the cards and messages in order. ‘Bon Voyage', with the translucent white lilies; ‘I love you, my Darling', with the rich roses; ‘Bonne chance à New York', with the pale pink carnations; ‘Safe journey, Dearest', with the violets. There is no message with the lily of the valley.

She finds other flowers like this– no message, just a name, sometimes a cabin number: the bronze orchids, the creamy white daisies and the tall yellow roses.

No one has ever sent her flowers, but if they did, she thinks she would like a card to come with them, handwritten with a message of love. She cannot imagine the words, but she thinks of dark ink and of curling handwriting against the white of paper.

She smiles a little as she trims the roses, flicking the thorns off the stems into the straw with her thumb. She is a hard worker, a busy young woman, and except in the worst storms, she is calm and efficient. She is also someone who tries to find the good in every situation. In this, she knows she is her mother's daughter. She thinks that her friends and family know this about her, but she is certain they do not know that she traces her finger wistfully over the cards that say, ‘I love you'.

Before she begins to move the bouquets she has arranged into her passengers' cabins, she stands still, surrounded by dozens of flowers– glorious fresh blooms, their fragrances mixing into a unique perfume just for her. For a few minutes, these are her flowers. No other passenger on the ship will have the joy of such abundance or hold so many kind and loving messages in their hand.