A Memory of Violets (22 page)

A Note on Shaw's Training Homes for Watercress and Flower Girls (from
The Christian Magazine,
June 21, 1912)

                    
It is with the utmost honor that I received a request from Queen Alexandra earlier this year, for the flower girls of our Training Homes in Sekforde Street to make roses for her inaugural “flag day.” This flag day, “Queen Alexandra Rose Day,” will be held on Wednesday, June 26. The flower girls have made—by hand—thousands of pink roses, which will be sold as buttonholes on the streets of London, by a small army of female volunteers. The money raised from the sale of the flowers will be used to support hospitals and other charitable concerns across our city.

                    
I cannot express in writing the pride I feel when I see how hard the girls have worked to produce such an incredible volume of flowers—every single rose as perfectly made as the next. Indeed, I am sure that God Himself would find it difficult to reproduce such perfect replicas time and time again.

                    
What started out as such a humble operation now sees us running some dozen homes at our orphanage in Clacton (housing over one hundred girls in total). We also have six homes, housing twelve girls each, here in London and are proud to have recently opened a factory, dedicated to the production of the flowers.

                    
I have so often felt that my ability to express, in writing, the plight of London's orphans and street sellers is wholly
inadequate. How does one explain the hunger, depravation, and fear that these poor unfortunates suffer, daily? It is quite impossible. I therefore felt it fitting to mark the occasion of Alexandra Rose Day with words, written some years ago, by one of the first flower sellers who came to the Training Homes, here in London.

                    
I can only hope that those who read her words may be inspired to buy a rose from our sellers, and will, in turn, inspire others to do the same. By the end of the day, I hope that the man who never wore a buttonhole because he objected to making himself conspicuous will find that he makes himself conspicuous by wearing none.

Albert Shaw

Superintendent, Training Homes
for Watercress and Flower Girls

Sometimes, when I have a full belly and a clean bed to sleep in, it is easy to forget that I was once a starving little girl, living on the streets, selling flowers for a living. But I make myself remember, because I want to always be grateful for what I have now.

                    
I first met Mr. Shaw when I was eight years old. He stopped to help me and my little sister, after a man had knocked my flower basket from my hands. When Little Sister went missing later that year, Mr. Shaw took me to his orphanage at Clacton.

                    
It was like arriving in Heaven seeing those endless skies of the south coast. I don't know what would have become of me if he hadn't found me and given me a home there. When I was old enough, I was brought back to
London and trained to make the flowers with the other girls. I know that we are a source of astonishment and pity to many people, but we don't ask for sympathy. We just want to live and work as ordinary people—to do an honest days' work for an honest days' pay.

                    
I can never thank Mr. Shaw enough for what he has given me, and the other girls of the Flower Homes and the Flower Village. He has been more of a father to me than my own flesh and blood ever was and I thank Mr. Shaw, and our Good Lord, for keeping me safe and for giving me a reason to hope, when I would otherwise have had none.

Flora Flynn, December 25, 1901

A
lexandra Rose Day arrived with a flurry of soft, white clouds and a whirlwind of excitement. Tilly threw open the sash windows, letting the sun warm her cheeks. She swept the stairs, scrubbed the front step, mopped the passage floor, and polished the mirrors until everything gleamed. She balanced on a chair at the window in the front parlor, hanging up the lace curtains that she'd washed especially for the occasion. She waved at one of the other housemothers as she walked by. The air fizzed with anticipation.

The girls could barely eat at breakfast—nerves and a steady stream of excitable chatter leaving no space for porridge or bread and butter, no matter how much Tilly reminded them that they needed their strength for the long day ahead.

“Come along now, girls,” she nagged. “Try to eat a little of something at least. We can't have you fainting with hunger if you
do
meet the Queen.”

But she was no more capable of eating anything herself, her stomach flipping and tumbling in great, giddy waves, so that it was all she could do to sip slowly at a cup of tea and nibble at a slice of toast. It felt like she was eating sawdust.

Mrs. Pearce had popped in early, to give Tilly a hand. She was her usual frantic self, rushing around like a dervish, fetching this, flapping about that, and chattering about the other.

“The men from the factory were up half the night, delivering boxes of roses all over London, ready for the sellers,” she said as she slammed a pot of tea onto the table. “There's hundreds of volunteers going to be selling the roses. All of 'em highly regarded society ladies, and some of 'em friends of the Queen herself! Imagine. And they'll be selling
your
roses, girls!”

With rumors rife that the Queen planned to visit the factory, all the girls had washed their hair until it shone, and brushed their teeth until they squeaked.

When breakfast was over, Tilly helped to pack the last few boxes of roses into the cars and carriages that had gathered on Sekforde Street, ready to take fresh supplies out to the sellers. Just as they had on the day she'd arrived, the girls had decorated the street and the outsides of the houses, garlands and garlands of pink roses crisscrossing the street from the upper floors of the houses and adorning every window box and doorframe. The vibrant pink petals shimmered in the early morning sunlight. Tilly stood on the doorstep, admiring their hard work.

Mrs. Pearce joined her, stopping for a second to catch her breath. They stood together, admiring the scene.

“Beautiful, isn't it? Just beautiful.”

“It is that, Matilda. It is that.”

The excitement grew as the girls prepared to leave the house. They laughed over lost gloves and hats, fussing over each other as they pinned their own Alexandra Rose buttonholes to their pinafores. Tilly knew they were all waiting for the arrival of Mr. Shaw.

And then the alert they'd all been waiting for finally came.

“He's here! He's here!” Buttons shouted from the parlor, where she'd been watching at the window all morning. The parlor was usually reserved for Christmas Day, or when extra-special guests visited, but they'd been given permission to use the room today. Buttons's cries were accompanied by the blare of a car horn. “Mr. Shaw's here with the motor cab,” she cried. “Come and see! Oh, come and see. It's beautiful!”

Tilly was nearly knocked off her feet as the girls rushed through the front door, spilling out onto the street. The girls from the other houses soon joined them. Tilly dropped her scrubbing brush into the tin pail, dried her hands on her apron and rushed to see for herself.

Mr. Shaw stood in the middle of the street, resplendent in his black frock coat and top hat. Beside him was a motor cab, although it was unrecognizable as any kind of motor cab Tilly had ever seen. Hundreds of tiny pink roses covered every inch of the vehicle. A special gauze frame had been placed over the windshield and decorated with roses that spelled out the words
QUEEN ALEXANDRA ROSE DAY
. On top of the car sat another gauze frame, more roses framing the edges, making a spectacular border for the magnificent
A ROSE
emblazoned across the front.

Tilly joined the others as they gasped and stared in
admiration. Walking around the cab, she saw that each side panel had been decorated with roses spelling out the words
PLEASE WEAR THE ROSE TODAY
. Another large letter
A
was formed from roses at the back. On the driver and passenger doors were impressive crowns—made from roses—and all around the window frames, the wheel arches, and across the luggage rack, rose garlands were draped and twisted into stunning spirals. It was simply beautiful. The delight of the girls filled the street—those who could see describing in vivid detail to those who could not, and who felt their way slowly around the vehicle, seeing it through their fingertips.

“The motor cabs will take fresh supplies of roses from the factory to the sellers throughout the day, keeping them restocked,” Mr. Shaw explained. “This is one of dozens of decorated cabs. What a sight to cheer London's dreary streets!”

If anyone had ever doubted the flower girls' ability to fulfill the Queen's request, they certainly didn't doubt it now. The displays were stunning, the roses were out on the streets, and the volunteers were ready to start selling.

Mr. Shaw called everyone's attention as he stood on an upturned crate to make an impromptu speech. “Today you can all be very proud. Today you do not need to hide in the shadows, afraid of what people might think of you. You have done an incredible thing. Be proud. Be jubilant, and let the work of the Training Homes for Watercress and Flower Girls be known by every person in London.”

A loud cheer went up as the girls hugged each other. Even Mrs. Pearce couldn't resist, throwing her great arms around Tilly, enveloping her in flesh, as tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Oh, look at me,” she laughed, dabbing at her eyes with the
corner of her apron. “It just gets to me sometimes. I couldn't be prouder of them if they were my own daughters. Daft, isn't it.”

Tilly smiled. “Not at all, Mrs. Pearce. I feel exactly the same.”

I
T HAD BEEN ARRANGED
that the girls from each house would travel to different areas of London to help the volunteers and to talk to people about the work of the Flower Homes. Arriving at their designated base at Hyde Park Corner, the girls of Violet House were met by an impressive display. Just outside the entrance to the park was a large table, draped with a Union Jack flag. To the right was a pagoda, standing some twelve feet high, decorated from top to bottom with garlands of pink roses and three large letter
A
's at the front and sides. On the table were several framed pictures of a young Queen Alexandra and vases of roses and examples of the girls' work.

Tilly was delighted to catch her first glimpse of the ladies who were selling the flowers. A dozen or so were gathered in a group to one side of the display. Newspaper reporters were talking to them as photographers took their pictures, recording the event for their newsreels and newspapers. The ladies were all neatly attired in white organdy and muslin dresses, with striking red and white sashes bearing the words
ALEXANDRA ROSE DAY
proudly emblazoned across their chests. They wore white stockings, white shoes, and straw hats with garlands of the pink roses around the brims. Each of the ladies held a box full of roses, and small collecting tins hung from their wrists. Crowds were gathering around to look.

“White and red are the national colors of Denmark, the Queen's native country,” Mrs. Shaw explained to Hilda, who had asked about the ladies' outfits. “They look wonderful, don't they? Every one of the volunteers is dressed the same.”

“I hear there are titled ladies selling the roses today,” Queenie whispered to Tilly as they watched the group have their picture taken. “Quite the society event this has turned out to be. Look, there's Lady Wyndham and Lady Bancroft. I heard that the Lady Mayoress has her own stall set up beside the Mansion House.”

The sellers laughed and joked with passersby. One of the ladies ran after a man on his bicycle, calling to him until he stopped and bought a rose. The chatter and laughter and the rattle of coins being dropped into the collection tins made for a wonderful atmosphere. Unable to resist the temptation to join in, it wasn't long before Tilly picked up a box of roses and walked out into the gathering crowds to join the other sellers.

The roses were so popular that supplies soon began to run low, and the sellers and the Violet House girls were relieved to see one of the decorated motor cabs as it arrived with fresh stock. The word from the driver was that the roses were being bought by everyone.

The newspaper sellers at Hyde Park Corner proudly attached roses to their waistcoats, adding a cry of “Roses, buy y'r Alexandra roses” to their cry of the day's news. Shoppers stopped to look at the rose sellers, children tugging at their mothers' arms, encouraging them to buy a rose. The coal men, window cleaners, and road sweeps each paid his penny for a single bloom, proudly attaching it to his grubby clothing. Starchy-looking businessmen shoved their hands into their pockets looking for a penny. Some gave shillings, half crowns, and sovereigns. Someone even placed a five-pound note in Tilly's collection tin.

By noon, the volunteers and the girls were exhausted. Their feet ached and they were all uncomfortably hot under the midday sun. But their aches and pains were soon forgotten when word
spread through the gathered crowd that the Queen's carriage was approaching.

Hilda was the first to see her. “Girls! Girls! Look! It's the Queen! The Queen is coming!”

They all rushed to the edge of the pavement, eager to get the best view of the procession.

The crowds cheered at the sight of their Dowager Queen's black carriage making its way along the road. The mahogany coats of the two horses at the front gleamed like polished wood in the sunlight. The clatter of their hooves against the road reverberated through Tilly's chest. Queen Alexandra smiled graciously as the procession passed Hyde Park Corner. She waved a white-gloved hand to the onlookers, who waved their handkerchiefs up and down in return, rejoicing at the sight of the Queen and Princess Victoria, who sat beside her.

Tilly stared numbly, trying to take it all in so that she would never forget what she was seeing. The Queen wore a beautiful black jacket and skirt, her clothing reflecting her status of mourning for the King. A heart-shaped headdress stood tall on her beautifully coiffed hair and a delicate veil fell across her face. The vivid blue of her garter sash was the only color about her other than the posy of pink roses she held in her hands. Her trademark pearl choker—worn, it was commonly believed, to hide a scar on her neck—glinted as it caught the sunlight, adding a soft luminescence to her face. The sides of her carriage were adorned with garlands of pink roses.

One of the lady sellers ran out toward the Queen's carriage, bowing as the horses clattered past. She offered her basket up to the Queen, who took a handful of the roses, throwing them like confetti to the crowds lining both sides of the street. Everyone cheered and applauded. Men threw their hats into the air.

Tilly had never seen anything like it. Her heart swelled with pride. She knew the girls who had made these flowers. She knew how tirelessly they'd worked to complete the volumes on time. She also knew how they cried into their pillows at night, frustrated by their physical limitations. But Tilly also knew of the deep-rooted affection they held for each other, for Mr. Shaw, and for their work, and she knew it was that which kept them alive inside.

She watched the joy and pride on their faces as the Queen's procession passed, and she thought about Esther—about the long, empty days she spent cooped up inside the cottage; nowhere to go, nothing to do. What was keeping Esther alive inside? She thought of those empty, staring eyes and for the first time in as long as Tilly could recall, she felt a sadness for her sister. It was like a rose petal, slowly unfurling within her heart.

B
Y LATE AFTERNOON
, the girls and volunteers were still busy selling. Tilly was restocking her box when her attention was drawn to someone who had stopped to buy a rose: a slim, elderly lady, wearing a wide-brimmed hat. She stood with an attractive younger woman as they spoke to two of the sellers and admired the displays.

“They really are beautiful, aren't they,” the older lady remarked. “It's hard to believe they were made by hand.”

It was an accent Tilly had heard before, a face she recognized. Picking up her box—now full to the brim with the little pink roses—she walked toward the two women.

“Mrs. Ingram?”

The woman turned, surprised.

“Yes. That's right. Do I know you?” A flash of recognition crossed her face. “Well, I never! The girl from the train!”