Chapter 67

Chapter 67

Violet

Hyacinths

It is cold on deck, and she regrets not bringing her winter coat on this trip. Her mind had been set on New York in the spring: the avenues, the parks, the blossom and sunshine that on some days can make it feel like an English summer.

Despite the cold, she likes to come out on deck each evening. She stands back, making room on the promenade for the young men who are heading for a night cap– or three. She has seen that look before– the night is young and so are they. She is young, too, but she feels a hundred years older than the sleek-headed men who walk like they own this deck. Older, yes, but not necessarily wiser. She imagines these men have winter coats in their cabins.

A young woman steps out of a doorway on the arm of an elderly man. She holds the door open for them, and the woman nods at her as she passes by. She leaves behind a fragrance in her wake– an unfamiliar perfume, intense and sweet. But among the mix of scents, there is something she recognises: she is transported back home to the bowl of hyacinths that her sister gave their mother for a birthday present.

She walks past the windows of the first-class lounge and looks in. She smiles to see the banks of flowers, the droplets of water on the petals sparkling like crystals in the light. It pleases her to think that The Purser's flicking eyes will have alighted on them. She can imagine his smile as he thinks of the daisies at the Ritz. She allows herself a smile, too.

In the glow from the lamps, she can see the gowns she has brushed and hung now filled with flesh and bone. Some women spill from the tops of their dresses, arms plump and white, while others look like the dressmaker has sent them a size too large. Her mother would want to give these women a good meal– whether they wanted it or not. Then there are the women who wear their gowns like a glorious second skin– you cannot see where the shimmering cloth ends and the milk white shoulder begins. They are luminous creatures that turn and glisten in the light, diamonds sparkling as brightly as the stars above her head. These beautiful women walk like they own the world, not just the deck beneath their satined feet. She thinks maybe they are right.

She turns her face to the sea and walks over to the rail. The wooden varnish is smooth under a hand that she knows is rough from stripping roses. The air is so sharp that she only takes in small gentle breaths, not wanting to fill her lungs all at once with the icy air. She once fell into a stream as a little girl, and the cold reminds her of this. The water was not high, but then neither wasshe. Asherfather strode in and pulled her up into his arms, the cold had made her heart pound so much she could not drag in a breath.

She has still not learnt to swim, but few she has met on board have. They prefer to spend their time on shore sitting with friends and family, swapping stories and smoking Faithful Lover. If it came to it, they say it will be up to God, and they would prefer a quicker ending.

In the years that follow she sometimes returns to the memory of this moment, looking out into the icy darkness. Did she feel a premonition of tragedy? Did a feeling of unease seep into her like the icy air? She can never quite decide.