A Memory of Violets (20 page)

                    
When it's warm enough, we go to the sea for a swim, with our bathing costumes. Some of the older girls swim way out, so their feet can't even touch the bottom, but I just like to stand up to my knees and jump over the waves. That's mighty craic, that is! You'd love the feel of it. When I think of how frozen and sore your little feet were and how warm
and clean my feet are after standing in that sea . . . but I try not to let myself think of such things too much. It makes me too maudlin.

                    
When it rains or when Mother says it's too cold to be outside, we stay in and make stuffed dolls with stockings and rags, and then we do needlework to make clothes for the dolls. We take the dollies to the hospital for the poorly children (there are three suffering from meezels this week, one from new moania, and seven from sore heads).

                    
After tea we like to go into Mother's room to listen to the stories she reads to us. She also tells us about the orphange. We especially like it when she tells us about Isabella Hope Dearing. She was a little girl here who was looking forward to going home for Christmas, but she died of the consumption on Christmas morning. Before she died, she told the Mother she had seen an angel and that she wasn't afraid. “This is my going-home day,” she said, before she died. We all cry when Mother tells us that part, and we bow our heads when she reminds us about the wreath of white lilies and snowdrops, made by the flower girls in the chapel workrooms in London for the little girl's grave. A wreath is placed in the gardens here, every year, in her memory. Isabella Hope Dearing is the nicest name I ever heard.

Today we had the Harvest Festival fete day—the last of the summer. It was great fun, and lots of people came to visit for the day. The adults played games of stilts and ran relay races, and there was a tug-of-war for the gentlemen. The children played wheelbarrow races and sang nursery rhymes and in the evening the older girls did their Greek dances and the hoop routine. The best event was the Grand Fire Drill display.
I was one of the children who had to be rescued from the pretend fire from one of the upper rooms. The gentlemen climbed up ladders and lifted us down over their shoulders. It was such fun!

                    
I helped serve tea and lemonade to the guests. A kind lady told me I had the prettiest eyes she'd ever seen and that she liked my Irish accent. She told me she grew up in France. She was so pretty with her lace dress and parasol—we all gawped at her, like she was a princess in a fairy story. I saw her little girl from a way across the meadow. She had beautiful red hair, just like yours, Rosie. I wanted to run to her, to see if it was you. But I didn't. Of course it wasn't you. It was just a little girl, come to see the poor orphans with her mother.

                    
But how I wished it had been you, Rosie, come to tell me you'd found me after all this time. Sometimes I find it hard to remember your sweet little face. And that scares me. What if I forget? What if I can't remember you, Rosie? What will become of you then?

“I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you.”

Tilly dropped the notebook into her lap, startled by the voice. Putting her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun, she saw the silhouette of a man standing in front of her.

“Miss Harper, isn't it? The girl from the north?”

“Mr. Shaw! What a surprise.” She daren't stand up, horribly conscious of her bare feet hiding beneath her skirts.

He grinned like a fool. “Still searching for a bit of green, I see! You country folk do make me laugh!” He bent down, took her hand in greeting and stood for a moment, not speaking.

Tilly felt his smooth skin against hers. A light breeze sent goose bumps running up her arms as he looked at her.

“Is it good?” he asked.

“I'm sorry?”

“The book.” He gestured to the notebook Tilly was clutching in her other hand. “Is it good?”

She felt her heart racing.

“Oh, this? Not really.” She let her hands fall to her sides, hoping that the folds of her skirt would conceal the notebook. “I picked it up from one of the stalls on the South Bank earlier—just passing the time really.”

He smiled, his deep brown eyes sparkling like polished walnut in the sunlight. Tilly couldn't help but stare back at them.

“Well, it's a wonderful afternoon for some quiet reading. I should leave you in peace. I hear things are quite frantic in the workrooms ahead of next week. No doubt you're in need of a little solitude.”

“It is a little hectic, yes! But the girls are working so hard on the Alexandra roses—and they never complain. Well, not very often.”

“And I believe the Queen hopes everyone in London will wear a rose in their buttonhole on the twenty-sixth. Uncle Albert has all kind of plans to decorate the motor cabs that will deliver the roses out to the ladies who'll be selling them. He says he'll decorate the trams, too. There really is no end to his ambition!”

“It will be quite the spectacle, all right. There's such excitement among the girls. They're hoping Queen Alexandra will visit the factory.”

Tilly felt awkward in Herbert's company. There was something about him that made her feel like a foolish schoolgirl,
especially since he stood in front of her and she remained sitting on the ground.

“Well, it was very nice to see you again,” she said, for want of anything better, hoping he might leave her in peace.

“Likewise. Perhaps we'll meet again soon. I've never visited the north of England. I'd love for you to tell me about it sometime.” He hesitated, as if expecting her to say something else. All she could think about were her bare feet. “Well, enjoy the rest of the afternoon, Miss Harper—and mind you don't get too hot in this sun.”

She wasn't sure whether she detected a smirk on his face as he tipped his hat in farewell and turned to walk across the grass. She watched him melt into the crowds, shielding her eyes from the sun, which cast a long shadow in his wake.

Her father walking down the shale path in his soldier's uniform. A smile on his face, a twinkle in his eyes. He had come home!

                    
She ran, shrieking with delight; ran from the cool of the scullery into the warmth of the sun, to the warm embrace of the father she loved so much.

                    
He stopped and sank to his knees as he saw her, his arms outstretched in welcome.

                    
“Daddy! Daddy! You're home! You came home!”

                    
Running, tripping, falling into his outstretched arms, throwing her hands around him, nuzzling into the sun-darkened skin on his neck, his standard-issue felt cap falling from his head.

                    
“Yes, Tilly! Yes, love! I came home. I came back for you, my love . . .”

“Do you miss your family?”

Tilly opened her eyes. She was sitting in her favorite chair, the warmth of the late evening sun having lulled her into a deep sleep. Looking up from the embroidery she'd been working on, she saw Queenie standing in the doorway, half in and half out of the room.

“Did you say something, Queenie? I think I nodded off for a moment.”

“I did. Didn't realize you were snoozing. Thought you were concentrating on your sewing. I was just asking whether you miss your family. You've been here three months now, and I noticed you haven't had any letters. Three months is when most of the housemothers start to feel homesick, so I just wondered if it was bothering you the same way. That's all.”

Queenie spoke in the same manner to everyone: direct, abrupt, and without the niceties other people placed around their sentences. At first, Tilly had put it down to her Yorkshire upbringing, but as Mrs. Pearce had explained, “Queenie Lyons is as short in manners as she is in stature. You'd do well to make a friend of her, rather than an enemy.” Tilly had tried not to take Queenie too personally. It wasn't easy.

She bristled at Queenie's question and stood up, fussing with the cushions on the sofa—with anything—to deflect the attention away from herself.

“Well, yes. Of course I miss my family,” she mumbled, “but I'm so busy, I hardly have time to think about them. And I consider you all to be my family now.”

Hilda glanced up from the book she was reading. “That's a lovely thing to say, Miss Harper. Isn't it, girls? And we think of you as part of our family, too.”

Sweet Hilda, not a bad word to say about anybody. She was as different from Queenie as it was possible to be.

Queenie persisted in her interrogation. “But you must miss your mother and father. It's only natural to miss your parents when you leave home for the first time. I just thought it seemed a bit strange that you hadn't mentioned them.”

Tilly eyed Queenie suspiciously. While the others had all made Tilly feel very welcome, Queenie had watched from a distance, without ever showing any real interest. Tilly knew that Queenie had been at the Flower Homes the longest, having arrived as a young girl. “Queenie knows practically every girl who has ever lived or worked here,” Mrs. Pearce had explained over the weekly wash. “She remembers almost every housemother and assistant housemother, and that gives her a sense of superiority.”

Tilly stopped her plumping and tidying. The other girls in the room had fallen silent. Perhaps they'd
all
been wondering about her family life, perhaps they all had questions they'd like to ask.

Hilda sensed Tilly's discomfort. “Queenie, you shouldn't be so rude. You shouldn't be asking Miss Harper all these questions. Her family is none of our business.”

“It's all right, Hilda, honestly.” Tilly sat on the sofa. “I suppose it's only natural for you all to want to know more about me. I haven't said anything because I thought you'd all find my life back home boring. There's really not much to tell.”

“What's it like? The Lake District?” Now Alice joined in, putting her cards down on the table. “Does it rain all the time, like they say? Sounds bloody miserable to me.”

Tilly laughed. “Yes, Alice! It rains
all
the time! But when you see the mountains reflected in the lakes, and the shadows of the clouds racing over the summits—the colors changing from green to gold to purple as the sun catches the gorse and the heather—when you feel the mountain air blowing through your hair, it is
truly magical. And the taste of the gingerbread from Sarah Nelson's shop—now that's something to miss, all right!”

She soon had a group of girls gathered around. They listened, wide eyed, as she told them about the lakes and mountains and wildlife, which, for those who had never lived anywhere other than the city, sounded like descriptions from a fairy story. Tilly found herself enjoying the opportunity to talk about home, although she said nothing about her mother or Esther, and nobody asked, not even Queenie.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
was a glorious summer Sunday. It was now only three days until Alexandra Rose Day, and the girls were relieved to have a day off from the relentless pressure of making the little pink roses.

As they made the now familiar journey to the small chapel at the end of the street, Tilly found herself walking alongside Queenie. Or perhaps Queenie had made sure she was beside Tilly. Either way, Tilly sensed something different about Queenie. She seemed more relaxed, more comfortable in Tilly's company.

“I didn't mean to upset you yesterday evening, Miss Harper,” she said as they walked. “I can be a nosy old cow at times. That's all.”

Tilly chuckled. “That's all right, Queenie. I think we can all be accused of being nosy at one time or another.”

“I didn't mean to pry. I just thought you might like to talk about home.”

“Well, thank you. It was very thoughtful of you.”

Although she didn't actually say the word
sorry,
Tilly understood that this was Queenie's apology, and she accepted it as such.

“You look a little tired, if you don't mind me saying. Are you sleeping well at night?” Queenie asked.

Tilly hesitated. She looked at Queenie, wondering what she knew.

“Reasonably well. Yes. I suppose it always takes time to get used to a new house—and a new bed. And, London is much noisier at nighttime than I'm used to.”

“I knew the person who occupied that room before you.”

Tilly stopped walking. “Oh?”

“ 'Course, it's been empty a good few years now. Nobody wanted to sleep in it after Flora—they all said it was too cold and depressing.”

“Flora?” Tilly felt a shiver run up her spine.

“Yes. Flora—or Florrie, as I always knew her. She became housemother not long before she died. Preferred the girls to use her proper name: Flora. Thought it sounded more official or something.”

Tilly couldn't believe what she was hearing. She wanted to pull Queenie to one side, forget all about chapel, and ask her about Flora. Maybe Queenie knew something about Rosie. She had so many questions.

“What was she like?” Tilly asked.

“Florrie was a natural with the flowers. One of the best. Came up from the orphanage at Clacton with Lily Brennan when they were both fifteen and finished with their schooling. Inseparable those two were—Irish, you see. Always stick together, don't they. They slept in beds next to each other in that little room at the top of the house and sat beside each other in the workroom. Became great friends. She had a good pattern hand, Florrie did—clever with the designs, you know, so she was always in demand. She was good with the girls, too. Understood them. She'd lived through hell and knew what it was like out there selling on the
streets. She told me she never took it for granted being here, that she was thankful for it every day.”

“She never married? She lived here all her life?”

“Yes. Couldn't get over all that business with losing her sister. Always looking for her at the markets and talking to the flower sellers in case one of them might know her, or even
be
her, grown up. That was her life: looking for her sister and making the flowers. Florrie always believed that Rosie was alive somewhere—but I wasn't so sure. What are the chances of a little blind girl surviving out there on the streets without anyone to mind her? Even if she'd managed to get away from the man who Florrie suspected of snatching her that day, I doubt she would have lasted more than a few days without food or shelter. Very sad. I think it was the not knowing that Florrie found so hard.”

Tilly's thoughts drifted back to her room. To the wooden box. To Flora's notebook. To the scent of violets and the feeling of being watched.

“You must miss her,” Tilly said, as they started walking again to catch up with the others.

“I do. She was a good housemother and a hard worker. Seemed to feel it was her duty to look after the girls. Said we were like her family, all of us, like her own sisters and daughters. I think she would have liked to have had children of her own. The Irish like a big family round them, don't they?”

Tilly smiled. “I wouldn't know. I don't know any Irish.”

“What? With
that
hair?”

Tilly laughed, touching her rich auburn curls. “Ah, yes.
This!
Nobody knows where that comes from. Bit of a cuckoo, I am. One of those family mysteries.”

They arrived at the chapel at the same time as Herbert Shaw.
Edward was trailing in his wake, as usual. Herbert held the door open for Tilly, making a grand gesture of doing so.

“Good evening, Miss Harper. I hope you are keeping well and bearing up under the dreadful heat of your first London summer?”

“Good evening, Mr. Shaw. I am enjoying the summer very much, thank you. At least the trees in the parks provide some welcome shade.”

“Indeed. It would almost be tempting for a lady to remove her stockings if she were to find a secluded spot.”

Her cheeks flared scarlet. She didn't think he'd noticed. He must have seen her stockings and shoes where she'd placed them among the tree roots. She wished she could melt away into the flagstones.

Thankfully, their conversation was interrupted as Herbert turned to greet somebody else.

Sensing Edward watching her over Herbert's shoulder, Tilly smiled and wished him good evening. He mouthed a few words in reply, but they were drowned out as everyone laughed at something witty Herbert had said.

T
ILLY SLEPT FITFULLY THAT NIGHT
, thoughts of home and of Flora at the forefront of her mind. She couldn't believe that Queenie had known Flora Flynn. She couldn't believe Flora had once slept in this very room—possibly in this bed. She wanted to tell Queenie about the notebook and the trinkets. She especially wanted to ask her about the pressed flowers—about what they might mean—but something held her back.

As she fell into a restless sleep, the familiar dreams drifted in, creeping around her troubled mind like storm clouds over the mountains. She dreamed of a hand resting on top of her head; of being watched; of the rich perfume of violets and roses swirling in the air around her.

A
FTER SEVERAL HOURS
tossing and turning, Tilly got up and dressed by candlelight. Peering out of the window, she could tell that it was still early—the lamplighter had not yet been to extinguish the gas lamps. She guessed it must be around four o'clock. She took Flora's notebook from the wooden box and turned to the page she had marked with the lavender ribbon, and began to read.

October 1883

I'm back in London now, living in Violet House, where I first came when Mr. Shaw found me. It's in the middle of the street, with Rosebud on one side and Bluebell on the other. I share a room with Lily Brennan at the top of the house. The room is nice—there's a big wardrobe at one end, where we keep our dresses and pinafores and boots, and there's a window, which lets in some light when the fog's not lurking. It's like a palace compared to that room we had in Rosemary Court.

                    
The girls here are friendly and there's a few of us have come from the orphanage. Some of the other girls have been here years already. Queenie Lyons thinks she's in charge, telling us all what to do like a sergeant major. I don't mind her so much, though. I've met worse people than Queenie Lyons.

                    
It's strange to be back in London, back among the streets we called home for so long. I miss the Flower Village—the sound of the sea and the blue skies. It's funny to think how sad I was to leave London all those years ago, not sure what life would be like at the orphanage. And now, here I am, sad to have left there.

                    
London seems darker than I remember. Maybe it's because I got so used to the colors of Clacton. The sun shines so brightly there. I suppose it doesn't help that it hasn't stopped raining all day, and the yellow fog still hangs about, choking the sky and everyone beneath. Lily says she's worried about Mr. Shaw. Says she hears him coughing all the time.