A Memory of Violets (36 page)

March 1, 1913

Dear Daddy,

I've been drawing these pictures for you ever since the day the packet arrived from the War Office to tell us the news we had been dreading. I simply could not believe you weren't coming home, so I continued my sketching, illustrating the hole your death left in my life. I always imagined that one day you would return, and I would give them to you.

                    
I have to accept that I will never again run to you and fall into your open arms, as I so often dreamed I would. So, I am giving my drawings to you now—leaving them
where I know you will find them, here at the lake, nestled within the mountains we loved so much.

                    
I want to thank you for raising me on your own, for always believing in me. Fate may have led my mother, Lily, to you, but I believe it was destiny that brought me back to her. I see her in the photograph you sent with your letter. I look so much like her! How I wish I could have known her.

                    
I wear the silver locket around my neck and I sometimes sense your hand resting on the top of my head. It comforts me to know that you are still here, watching me, guiding me. My husband tells me I still have the wind at my heels, but I feel a peace in my heart now. The storm has passed.

                    
There are so many other things I want to say to you, but words seem so inadequate. I will let my sketches, and the beauty of this place, speak for me.

                    
Sleep well, Daddy.

                    
Until the next life.

Your loving daughter,

Tilly

xxx

Tilly had wrapped the sketchbook and her letter in a paper parcel. She placed it now on a large piece of driftwood and pushed it out into the lake, watching as the current took it. She followed it as it moved slowly toward the center, where it was lost in the early morning mist. As she turned to walk away, she caught a flash of a white rabbit in the distance, scurrying into its burrow. “White rabbits. White rabbits. White rabbits,” she whispered.

It was just dawn—the sky streaked with shades of violet, lavender, and bluebell. It was the first day of a new month, and a sense of spring laced the air.

Taking her husband's arm, she leaned her head gently on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Edward. Thank you for coming back with me one last time. I feel at peace now. Let's go back home—back to Clacton.”

As Tilly watched the brilliant orb of the sun rise in the sky, a ray of hope and happiness spread within her. She had been lost for so very long. Now, she was found.

I
wait in the silent, early morning light. It is the first day of spring. The primroses will be in this morning, I tell her. Let us run to get the best of the blooms. “Rosie,” I call. “Rosie, I am here.”

I sit by her bedside, watching her slow, irregular breaths. Her once flame-red hair, now grayed with the passing of the years, fans out on the pillow around her. Her frail hands rest on her chest, rising and falling with each breath
.

She senses me near her—I know she does. Sometimes she opens her eyes, looking around to find the cause of the cool breath she feels against her cheeks. She speaks of roses. “I remember,” she whispers. “Buy my sweet roses. Tuppence a bunch. Poor little girl. Buy a bunch, kind lady.”

“Take my hand, Rosie,” I whisper. “Don't let go.”

She reaches out, her touch like silk. A dazzling white glow surrounds us, the air enriched with the scent of a thousand blooms: roses, violets, lilies, and lavender
.

I hold her hand, tight in mine, and we rush toward the beautiful, beautiful light
.

I
t is an absolute pleasure to start by thanking two ladies in particular: my amazing agent, Michelle Brower, for all her sage advice and hard work (I must remember to send her more tea), and my incredible editor, Lucia Macro, who—from the moment she read the manuscript—was as passionate about my little flower sellers as I was. I'm so grateful for her enthusiasm and support and consider myself very lucky to be under her guidance and expertise.

To my publisher at William Morrow, Liate Stehlik, and everyone in New York who has worked on this book—thank you! Special thanks to the eagle-eyed copy editors who spot my bloopers and spare my blushes, and to the brilliant marketing team—especially Jennifer Hart and Molly Birckhead—who wave their wands and tell the world that a new book has been born. A big thanks to my wonderful publicist Megan Schumann who, quite frankly, I don't know what I'd do without, and thank you also to Nicole Fischer for her terrifying efficiency and for answering
the questions only a newbie author would ask. And to Diahann Sturge, thank you for the beautiful design work. To the team at HarperCollins360 in London—Karen, Ellie, and Helena—thank you for taking me on board your exciting new venture! I am so thrilled to be working with you all to bring this book to the UK and Ireland.

Writing historical fiction poses its own peculiar and fascinating problems. While I had endless amounts of information about London's flower sellers, Alexandra Rose Day, and John Groom's organization, I sometimes struggled to find smaller, essential details about the minutiae of Tilly's life in 1912. Many people—most of them volunteers—answered my cries for help with astonishing enthusiasm and detail: Peter Robinson at Cumbrian Railways Association, Roger Kennell at Frinton & Walton Heritage Trust, and Guy Marriott at the London Transport Museum. It really did matter to me that I knew the exact train routes and how much Tilly's motor-cab fare would have cost, so thank you all! Pat Cryer's website 1900s.org.uk was also a wonderful source of period information for writing the scenes set in Violet House.

Without the support of Kildare County Council's bursary, I couldn't have made the much-needed research trip to the London Metropolitan Archives. Opening those dusty archive boxes in the hush of the reading room was a very moving experience, and a pivotal moment in the development of the book and my belief in myself as a writer.

I don't know how I can ever properly thank the amazing Philippa Gregory for giving me (me!) her time and invaluable feedback on the early chapters. After meeting her in Dublin in September 2012, I had a sense that somehow a door had opened—I could never have guessed how far. The e-mail she sent late one
evening, offering her thoughts on my chapters, could not have made an exhausted mummy and frustrated writer any happier. I will never forget her support and generosity.

Closer to home, I must thank my amazing friends, fellow writers, and family who cheer me on, “Like” my Facebook updates, wave pom poms at appropriate moments, make very kind offers to accompany me on trips to New York (Tanya, Sheila—I'm looking at you!), and generally live through the long gestation period of my books. Special thanks to my sister, Helen, for telling me about
Goblin Market
and for reading early chapters and saying kind things (even when they were terrible) and, of course, the biggest thank you of all to Damien, Max, and Sam for putting up with me, especially when I go into editing lockdown and become the crazy lady in the attic. I love you all, and yes, you can have sprinkles on your ice cream.

I must also thank a wonderful teacher at Driffield School—Michael Knight—who is sadly no longer with us. It was through his brilliant production of My Fair Lady, and his casting of a much younger me as Eliza Doolittle, where the idea for this novel really started.

Finally, to my wonderful readers—thank you all. I simply couldn't do it without you.

Hazel x

About the author

Meet Hazel Gaynor

About the book

The Memoirs of Albert Shaw

The Language of Flowers

The Story Behind the Book

John Groom: The Real Albert Shaw

Reading Group Discussion Questions

Read on

More from Hazel Gaynor

HAZEL GAYNOR
is an author and freelance writer. Originally from Yorkshire, England, she now lives in Ireland with her husband, two children, and an accident-prone cat. Contact Hazel on Twitter @HazelGaynor or visit hazelgaynor.com.

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1842–1912
The first time I encountered the two wretched little Irish girls was on an April morning in the year 1876, at the Aldgate Pump. This is the point at which Leadenhall and Fenchurch Streets meet and where, they say, the City stops and the East End begins.

The older girl, Flora (who, I subsequently learned, also goes by the name of Florrie), was sobbing as she tried to rewash her cresses and rearrange her posies of primroses after “a swell” had knocked the flower basket clean from her hands as he rushed past. “The swells ain't got a bit o' heart, Mr. Shaw,” she wailed, after I tried to calm her and introduced myself. “They pushes us out of the way if we ask 'em to buy a flower. They're a bad lot, sure they are!”

What a sorry sight she made, weeping and complaining about the ruination of her stock, “and the sun barely risen and hardly tuppence earned.” I noticed how her hands shook as she worked, numbed by a combination of the freezing water and the lack of a decent meal in Lord knows how long.

I eventually calmed her by paying her the value of her spoiled stock and handing her a breakfast ticket for her and her sister to use at the Club Room at Covent Garden. How her sullen eyes
lit up at the prospect of a hot cup of cocoa and some bread and butter—such a simple pleasure for many children, but such unexpected treasures for street urchins like these two ragged little girls.

I spent a little time with them at the Club Room, where I was able to talk to Flora further and discover something of her circumstances. Surprisingly, she was quite happy to talk—so many of the girls are shy, nervous creatures and will barely look a person in the eye, let alone speak with them. Perhaps it is the Irish gift of the gab that made her speak so openly. Perhaps it was just want of a friendly soul to hear her speak. In any event, I was glad of my notebook and pencil so that I could record some of what she told me. I find that it is only through the girls' own words that I can ever truly express—to the more fortunate—the real plight of these poor souls. I always hoped that if I might capture something of these “conversations” in our fund-raising pamphlets and
The Christian Magazine
, benevolent, kindhearted folk would learn something of the pitiful conditions these children live in and might, as a consequence, donate generously to our cause.

The girls were so dramatically different in appearance that I was surprised to learn they were sisters—born of the same “Mammy” and “Da,” the elder assured me. The only common feature between them was the color of their eyes—a curious shade of emerald-green, which, I am sure, only the Irish would be capable of producing. I did notice, during my first encounter with them, that the younger child, Rosie, suffered from some problem with her eyes. She wouldn't hold my gaze long enough for me to inspect this more closely, but I suspected that she did not have her full vision.

Other than the eyes, the girls were as different as winter and spring. The elder had a pinched, haunted look about her, the deep hollows around her eyes making her look many years older than she was. No doubt she gave the lion's share of any food to the younger girl, who had a more rounded look to her face, even though it was smeared with filth. While Flora's hair was as pale as a primrose, Rosie was blessed with the red hair of her native Ireland.

The girls, like all the street children I encountered, wore what could only be described as rags—tattered, dirty frocks, which hung off their undernourished bodies, and meager shawls draped about their hunched, narrow shoulders. They both went about barefoot, as is common among the poorest street sellers and orphaned children. It never failed to amaze me how oblivious they seemed to the rough cobbles and filth they walked over with every step. It was a sight to make one dreadfully conscious of one's own comfortable boots, cleaned and polished every morning.

Although Flora spoke with a clear Irish brogue, she was not so difficult to understand as some of the Irish who come from the County of Cork, or the Midlands. Hers was a much softer accent, and seemed to have been somewhat tempered by shades of the local dialect when she used certain words or phrases. The younger child didn't speak much at all, and I had reason to wonder if she might be deaf and dumb. Nevertheless, she was a pretty little thing, and her occasional shy smile spoke more than any words she may have carried in her head.

In addition to the girls' pitiful appearance, it saddened me greatly to hear the elder speak in such an adult, wearied manner, her tone more like that of a grown woman who has known all the struggles of life. All that they have in the way of toys is an old peg that the younger girl plays with as a doll, and the occasional rotten apple to kick down the street.

Perhaps it was my dear wife Evelyn's pregnancy that had my emotions running particularly high (a pregnancy that, although surprising, was considered a great blessing—an unexpected gift from God, which we both embraced with all our hearts), or perhaps I found myself becoming more intolerant of the desperate human conditions I encountered every day, but after meeting those little Irish girls, I remember that I returned to Sekforde Street more determined than ever to raise the necessary funding to expand our work and to help more children like them. I recall how I hoped that I would encounter Flora and her “little sister” again, as I found myself quite unable to stop thinking about them.

I often wonder how many more children are hidden away
in the darkest corners of our streets. Perhaps it is better not to know, for there are surely not enough bricks in all of London to build houses enough to give them all a safe, warm home.

It is late now, so I will extinguish the candle and retire. And even though my heart may be heavy with the burden of all that I have seen and heard, it is also filled with hope and faith as, once again, I find that my appeals for funding have been heard. I plan to write tomorrow to our architect, Mr. Hogg, to request that he draw up plans for a Children's Hospital and for the Babies' Villa, to be added to our Flower Village for the orphans in Clacton.

I suspect it is this dreadful cough I have developed that has me feeling so particularly desolate this evening. Of course, Evelyn insists on mixing me a terrible concoction to ease the discomfort in my chest. How I ever came to deserve such a dear and patient wife is truly beyond my means of comprehension.

• • •

I came across many “little mothers” as I walked the streets. This is the name given to the young children who raise their younger siblings in the absence of any parents. Yet there was always something uniquely compelling about young Flora's devotion to her sister. I cannot recall (with the exception of my own wife) when I had seen any mother as dedicated to the task of raising a child as she was, and I was always struck by the manner in which she addressed her, as if mimicking the mothers she'd observed around her, copying them and their “motherly” voice, singing the songs she'd clearly heard her own mother once singing.

While it was terrible to see such an absence of “childishness,” I cannot deny that I found it admirable to see the girl take on her responsibilities and seek to fulfill her sense of duty to her sister. She told me that she had made a promise to her deceased mother that she would mind the younger child. The father was still living at that time—a rag and bone man, if I recall correctly. Although much of his day was spent seeking escape from his life at the bottom of a bottle of liquor. He relied on his daughters to go out to earn some sort of a living for the family.

It was situations such as this that never failed to galvanize me in my efforts to expand the work of the mission—to continue to seek ways in which we could remove these children from the
dreadful conditions they lived in before they became further statistics on the child mortality charts. It was children like Florrie and Rosie Flynn who inspired me to place further advertisements in the newspapers to alert people to our cause and to seek further funding for the homes and for the orphanage at Clacton.

Yet every time I put pen to paper, I found myself struggling to find the right words to convey just how desperate the situation was. How could any man portray in writing—on a page cluttered with advertisements for malt drinks and soap—the sorry sights I witnessed every day? How could I begin to express the horror of the dying mother I encountered at a tenement slum in a dark court at The Dials who, in the last stages of consumption, begged me to take her child to the orphanage. “For the Lord's sake,” she begged, “take her into the home. Please—take her.”

I always asked myself: How can anyone truly comprehend why we have established this operation, unless they have seen such poverty and human suffering with their own eyes?

As I write these recollections, I pray, once again, for a miracle, and I pray, also, for a mild spring and an early summer. There is nothing better than a dose of warm weather to cure a cough such as mine. Either that, or the fresh sea air, and I am looking forward to my next visit to Clacton for precisely that purpose. Happily, Evelyn's pregnancy progresses well. She is in good health and insists that she will be perfectly fine without me if I do visit the south coast.

• • •

I was very touched to know that the girls were visiting chapel—and to hear young Flora speak so fondly of our Club Room at Covent Garden. When I met children like Flora and Rosie, and especially when I heard their desperate tales, it felt like such a small, insignificant thing we did for them—the occasional cup of cocoa and a mended tear in a dress could hardly make much of a difference when there was so much wrong in their lives. Yet, my dear wife often reminded me that when your existence is as unforgiving as theirs, cocoa and stitching can become very large and significant things indeed. Perhaps, beyond anything physical we could provide, the most important aspect of our work was simply giving the children a sense that somebody cared about
them. Being loved and cared for should be the absolute right of every child, should it not?

Nevertheless, being the “restless, intolerant, stubborn fool” that I am (my dear wife's words—she, I might add, loves me dearly despite these rather unattractive attributes), I could not help but feel that more could be done.

I was most pleased when it was agreed by our board members that we would rent several more houses on Sekforde Street, to provide more family homes for the flower sellers. Offering the training to make artificial flowers was proving to be very successful—and although the small workrooms in the Chapel Hall hardly met our needs, they sufficed. I always sensed, though, that it would be only by housing the girls, removing them permanently from their life on the streets, and providing them with a proper purpose, that we could ever make a real and lasting difference to their lives. Happily, our pamphlet drives and prayers for funding to enable us to rent the additional Sekforde Street houses, and to expand the orphanage at Clacton for the youngest children, both proved to be extremely fruitful.

Undeniably, the greatest boost to our cause was the generous contribution from Lord Shaftesbury, who happened to come across me as I assisted a crippled seller in Piccadilly Circus one summer morning. She'd been knocked off her crutches by a hansom cab, and Shaftesbury was quite concerned by the girl's plight. After speaking with me for some time and visiting the Mission Hall, he promised a generous sum and assured me that he would use his contacts to assist in raising further funding.

I still find it quite remarkable that I ever found myself corresponding with such an honorable gentleman as Lord Shaftesbury! When it came to the welfare of the children, my capacity to mix with gentry and royalty appeared to know no bounds. “Stubborn fool” as I was, I was inclined to believe that with the generous support of such patrons, and with God's good will, we may just achieve our aims.

On a less positive note I am to visit the doctor tomorrow at Evelyn's insistence. This infernal cough will not improve, and she insists that I am keeping our unborn child awake at night.

• • •

As I write down my recollections, it has struck me how Florrie made very little reference to her own, or her sister's, afflictions. It was almost as if she had forgotten that they did not possess the means with which to move about and behave in the same way that normal people, such as you or I, might do. There was never a word of complaint or self-pity—and this was by no means a characteristic unique to the two Irish girls.

In all the flower sellers I encountered—the afflicted, blind, and orphaned—there was never a suggestion of feeling sorry for themselves, such as a gentleman may feel if he is deprived of a woman's affections or of his evening brandy, finding that the bottle—emptied on some previous occasion—has been put back into the cabinet. These children displayed the greatest of human spirit, and I suspect it was this, rather than the few mugs of cocoa and blankets from our mission, that kept many of them alive.

Florrie remained resolutely focused on her duty to generate a living for herself and her sister. Although she was tall for her years and able to stand quite upright while resting on her crutch, there was a noticeable stoop to her shoulders and back. I can only conclude that this was a result of all the bending and lifting and carrying she had done for almost her entire life—the young, pliable bones of her body bent and twisted out of shape before they'd had a chance to form the natural shape that the Good Lord intended.

Despite her hardships, she had a bright enough face, and her eyes seemed to hint at an inner soul that might someday, if recovered in time, become a jewel to somebody. I was of the opinion that she could be a reasonably clever child if she were given the chance to attend school.

Perhaps the thing that struck me most about Florrie was the continual air of concern and worry that hung about her, a seriousness that was truly sad to see in one so young—and all born of her duty to care for her sister. They really were inseparable, like living shadows of each other.