A Memory of Violets (28 page)

Her mother's voice. “Your father's dead, Tilly. He's dead.”

                    
Standing in the kitchen, a chill winter wind blowing down the chimneybreast, her body shaking as she read the telegram from the War Office confirming that the Eleventh Battalion had suffered heavy losses at Tweefontein, and that Private Samuel Harper had fallen.

                    
A small, brown paper package on the kitchen table—all there was to show for his bravery and sacrifice for his country. A standard-issue felt cap and three letters: one for each of them.

                    
A silent whisper into the murky, gray light of morning. “What will become of me? What will become of me now?”

                    
Tears falling down her cheeks, a cockerel crowing in the yard, a dog barking, the kettle whistling on the stove. Esther
comforting her mother, her mother comforting Esther, Tilly standing alone. Everything as normal, when nothing would ever be the same again.

                    
A brown paper package containing a felt cap and three letters: one for each of them.

Tilly woke with a start. It was still dark outside, the light from the gas lamps creeping in through the window, sending curious shadows dancing across the walls. It took a moment for her to remember that she was back at Violet House.

S
HE
'
D PACKED IN A HURRY
after reading Esther's telegram, sending a hasty reply from the post office in Clacton:
Will arrive in two days. Tell Mother I am coming. Tell her to wait.
Her farewells to Elsie and Sarah had been hurried and anxious, their kisses placed on her cheek along with a prayer that all would be well. She'd watched Edward turn and walk back into Foxglove House, her feelings confused, her heart full of hope and dread, as the carriage rumbled past the meadows where the children played so innocently.

The journey back to London had passed in a blur. The girls had greeted her with serious faces and words of support. She barely remembered being introduced to Mrs. Harris—a stout woman with a kind face and warm hands.

Her onward train north departed at nine o'clock the following morning.

With thoughts of her father racing through her mind, she lay perfectly still, waiting for the first hint of daylight to creep through the window. She remembered a line from
Wuthering Heights
.
I have to remind myself to breathe—almost to remind my heart to beat!
She'd never understood how it was possible to feel such
despair, until the news they'd all been dreading had arrived in Grasmere, wrapped in a brown paper package.

She'd had to remind herself to breathe, remind her heart to beat.

Her father had always been a good horseman, teaching Tilly and Esther to ride when they were young. Because they were country girls, he taught them to ride like he did—legs astride—rather than in the traditional sidesaddle fashion.

Their mother disapproved. “How will anyone ever consider the girls for wives when they ride like a man? It's not right, Samuel.”

He would laugh at his wife and kiss the top of her head. Tilly knew he adored her mother, even when she was fussing and criticizing, as she was so apt to do.

“Well, if any man is more worried about how the girls ride than what they know, or what they have read, or what interesting conversations they can hold, then I doubt we would want him for their husband, would we, Mrs. Harper?”

Tilly loved her father for that, how he always found the right thing to say.

But although he worked with horses, rode them whenever he could, and taught Tilly and Esther to ride as soon as they were able, nobody could have guessed that Samuel Harper would take his horsemanship to war.

Driven by the patriotic fervor that spread across England like a pox as the war in South Africa escalated, he'd taken an interest in the recruiting notice from the War Office. A second wave of volunteers was needed to join the Imperial
Yeomanry—experienced horsemen were required. By that stage of the conflict, married men were no longer discouraged from signing up.

“They're offering a wage of five shillings a week, Hannah. It's my duty to go. It'll be an honor to fight for Queen and country.”

The day he traveled to Aldershot for his training, Tilly sobbed inconsolably into her pillow. Even the mountains and lakes couldn't help her this time.

It was a heavy, gray January morning when he left, the skies leaden with dense, dark clouds. Tilly watched him walk down the lane and knew that he would never come back, knew that her life would never be the same. It frightened her more than anything had frightened her before.

“I won't look back, Tilly,” he'd said, his chestnut eyes smiling as he prized her hands, fingertip by desperate fingertip, from around his neck. “I'm going to walk away now, my darling girl, and I won't look back. I'll see you again—when it's all over.”

She'd stood on the stone doorstep of their cottage, her mother's sobs audible inside, Esther standing quietly by her side. She so desperately wanted to run after him, wanted to scream and shout and wrap her arms around him so that he couldn't go. But she didn't. She stood perfectly still, trying to do what her daddy had asked: to watch him walk away from her with pride in her heart. He was going to fight a war for their country, and that was the bravest thing a man could do. That was what he'd told her.

“Look back, Daddy. Please, look back,” she'd whispered.

He didn't.

If he had, she would have seen the tears streaming down his cheeks and the look of absolute terror on his face.

In letters that made their way slowly back to Grasmere from increasingly unfathomable distances, Tilly learned that after her father had turned the corner at the end of the lane, he'd traveled to Aldershot for his training (or what little training the hastily recruited soldiers were afforded). He'd passed all the necessary fitness and medical inspections, and because he was not a coward, a drunkard, or incompetent—as many of the other would-be recruits proved to be—Samuel Joseph Harper had set sail from Southampton on the SS
Avondale Castle
on March 14, 1901. He didn't write much about what happened during their time at sea, but eventually a letter reached home to say that he and the rest of his Battalion had arrived in South Africa by the end of April. Tilly's old schoolmistress showed her where South Africa was on a map of the world. To her young eyes, it seemed as though her father was as far away from the mountains and lakes of their home as it was possible for anyone to be.

After he survived several battles and the skirmishes near Rustenburg in September, Tilly's hopes that he would return to her increased with each letter. The government announced plans to decrease the number of Imperial Yeomen, each wave of returning soldiers providing fresh hope that he would soon be home.

But it was hope that came too late.

On Christmas morning, 1901, the Eleventh Battalion were attacked at Tweefontein, shot in their tents while they slept.

People told her that a quick, noble death was better than suffering horrific injuries or being taken prisoner, along with
the six hundred others that day. He'd been a hero, they said. He'd fought as an equal in the army to which he had volunteered.

Their words were of no consolation to Tilly.

She had one photograph of her father. It had been taken during his too-short month of training at Aldershot. In it, he stood proudly, shoulder to shoulder with his new battalion. In his uniform—dark navy Norfolk jacket, breeches and gaiters, lace boots, and felt hat—he looked every inch the experienced soldier. But when she looked closer, she was sure she saw fear in those chestnut eyes.

Tilly was eleven years old. Her beloved daddy had left her.

She had to remind herself to breathe—almost to remind her heart to beat.

A
BROWN PAPER PACKAGE
on the table. A felt cap. A letter for each of them.

The letters!

It struck her with such force that she sat bolt upright in bed. The package from the War Office. Three letters—one for each of them. What had happened to them? They were never mentioned again, forgotten about in the aftermath of grief. Her father had written a letter especially for her. Where was it?

She stepped out of bed, washed, and dressed, her hands trembling in the dark chill of the room. Her train didn't leave for hours, but she would go to the station and wait. She had to get home. Even more than she needed to see her dying mother, she needed to read the words of her dead father.

Open letter to “Daisy”
From
The Christian Magazine,
September 10, 1912

                    
Thank you, once again, for your extremely generous donation to our cause. Without an address to thank you personally for your contribution, it is my hope that you will read this entry, which I write by way of our humble gratitude and thanks.

                    
As you know, without the patronage of individuals such as yourself, we would simply not be able to carry on with the work of the Flower Homes and Flower Village. Since we have just taken on the rent of a seventh house on Sekforde Street, the additional sum of money you have provided is most welcome indeed.

                    
As I am sure you are aware, Queen Alexandra chose our girls to make the ten thousand “Alexandra Roses” that were sold across the city on the inaugural Queen Alexandra Rose Day, June 26. The girls worked extremely hard to produce the volumes of roses required, but their efforts were rewarded with a brief visit to the factory by the Queen the following day. How their eyes shone with pride as she spoke to them about their work.

                    
Some £30,000 was collected from the sale of the roses. The money will be distributed among various charitable causes throughout the city, including the Foundling Hospitals and Ragged Schools. I cannot find the words to express how this makes my heart swell with pride.

                    
Our Flower Village in Clacton, Essex, is proving to be an extremely successful venture. We now have twelve homes—each named after a flower—as well as the Babies' Villa and a convalescent home. In total, we accommodate one hundred and twenty blind and disabled girls aged between two months and fourteen years. We recently finished construction on the new infirmary, which will accommodate twenty deserted children who are in most desperate need of medical help. We have named the building “Daisy Villa” in your honor. My nephew is currently working with architects to draw up plans to build a further six homes on land that has been obtained through generous donations of friends and supporters like yourself.

                    
I still find myself shocked and appalled by the continual neglect of the poor children I see on the streets. It is a pitiful sight to behold. I fear that there will never be a lack of unfortunates requiring our help, but it is the many maimed, crippled, and blind flower girls—the worst afflicted—who need our help most of all. It is not our desire to “fix” them or change them in any way—simply to assist them in becoming self-supporting. Through the establishment of our factory, and the production of our artificial flowers, we are able to do just that.

                    
We would welcome you to visit our flower factory in London or the Flower Village in Clacton. It would be my honor to show you what we have been able to accomplish with your generous assistance.

With warmest regards,

Albert Shaw

Superintendent, Training Homes

for Watercress and Flower Girls