A Memory of Violets (37 page)

Often, after spending time chatting with the young flower sellers, I would leave them to tie their posies and walk among the alleyways that open up off Drury Lane. As I walked, I would see group after group of ghostlike children huddled together
on filthy staircases—their staring eyes not really looking at me, but through me. I am not ashamed to admit that I would shed a few tears as I returned—with a heavy, guilt-laden heart—to the warmth and comfort of my own home. I have often found it difficult to sleep at night, unable to forget the haunting faces of those children, who would sleep where I left them while I tossed and turned in my comfortable bed.

At such times when I experienced this melancholy, I took much comfort from the developments of our mission—particularly from the confirmation that the Earl of Shaftesbury was to become president of our little society. I knew, without any doubt, that with his esteemed name attached to our affairs, we would have much greater success in continuing to raise funds. Construction on the Babies' Villa in Clacton commenced immediately, and plans were drawn up for an infirmary to add to the ever-growing Flower Village. Given the physical plight that some of the poor little orphans came to us in, it was a much needed facility.

On a more current note, I am delighted to report that I felt the first kick from Evelyn's belly today. Quite some kick it was, too—almost visible to the naked eye! Evelyn insists that it doesn't hurt, although I find that hard to believe and insisted on her retiring early to get some rest, despite her protestations that she felt quite energetic and well. The creation of life really is a miracle that dumbfounds me every time I experience it, and I pray to the Lord for the continued health and well-being of my wife and our unborn child.

• • •

I'm not sure at what point I decided to take the two Irish girls into the Flower Homes. They still had an aunt living with them, but the more I spoke to Florrie, the more apparent it became that this aunt would be better off in Bedlam. It became clear to me that she had no more of a mind to care for those two little girls than she did to pour a bottle of gin down the drains.

While I would sit, late at night, in the warmth and comfort of my study, where I was supposed to be recording the minutes of a board meeting that our new president, Lord Shaftesbury, had attended, I often found myself procrastinating, unable to get the pitiful faces of those two little girls out of my mind.

And so I set my mind on talking to Florrie about the matter of herself and her sister going to our orphanage homes at Clacton. I was certain that the prospect of regular meals, sand between her toes, and the fresh sea air in her lungs would be sufficient to tempt Florrie to leave London, although she was always a fiercely independent young thing, and I was afraid she would decline and insist on continuing to sell her flowers here.

It never failed to amaze me how afraid the waifs and strays could be of a change in their circumstances. Many a time I saw how difficult they found it to adjust to a conventional life—struggling to sleep in a proper bed (having never experienced the luxury) and even finding that they missed their life on the streets. Within the first month of many a girl's arrival at the homes, she would be restless and want to go to the streets again. I suppose it is the same with any human being; they are more often happier with what they know and what is familiar to them than they are in unfamiliar circumstances—however much improved those circumstances may be. How strange it seems that a proper bed and a regular working day of six in the morning until eight in the evening, week in, week out, may be a more frightening prospect to some than a life of sleeping with the vermin on filthy doorsteps and not knowing where your next meal is coming from.

In any event, I resolved to talk with young Florrie the next time I saw her on the streets or at the Club Room. And once I set my mind on this, part of me desired to go to Rosemary Court immediately and locate her that very night. I remember how I almost suggested the idea to Evelyn, but thought better of it. She is a sensible human being after all—unlike me—and I knew that she would only tell me what I already knew: that it would be impossible to find the girls at that hour of the night, not to mention a dangerous and foolhardy enterprise.

So, I settled to my paperwork instead and prayed that the girls had a peaceful, safe night—if it is possible to have such a thing out there amid the cruel streets of our city.

• • •

In other matters I am delighted to report that Evelyn's belly continues to swell with child. The physician is happy with
her health, and that of the infant. He is, unfortunately, not so impressed with my own health. I should perhaps confide in my wife the extent of my illness, but I do not wish to worry her, especially in her delicate condition. So, I will continue to pray for us all. There is, perhaps, never a more worrying time for a man than that during which his wife is with child and in which he also finds his own health in a state of decline.

• • •

It is with some difficulty that I write these words, knowing that if I had taken the girls under my care sooner, as I had felt compelled to do, a most tragic incident would not have occurred. Dear Evelyn tells me I must not blame myself in any way, insisting that it was a terribly unfortunate event that nobody could have prevented. But she didn't see the look in Florrie's eyes when I found her. It is a look that will haunt me for the rest of my life on God's good earth.

I had become anxious to see the girls after deciding on my plan to place them in the orphanage in Clacton, and having not seen them about for several days, I will admit that I had begun to worry for their welfare. So I took it upon myself to seek them out, and after much wandering, I eventually found the child Florrie in a room at Rosemary Court, utterly distraught and bereft. Her little sister, Rosie, was gone. Lost. Disappeared.

There was nothing I could do or say to console her. She looked as if she hadn't slept or eaten in days. It was quite, quite heartbreaking to see her so desperately sad and to be so helpless to remedy the situation.

She pleaded and pleaded with me to help—to go with her and look for Rosie (which I did—both with the child and when I was alone). I knew that there was no purpose to informing the police. With there being so many lost and deserted children roaming the streets, it is hard to tell one from another. In any event, I suspected that the harsh reality of the matter was that the poor little girl would not have survived long on her own. There are all kinds of ill-intentioned people in this city of ours who will prey upon a lost and bewildered child and take them in to use to their own advantage. I suspected that someone would already have her making matches or pins or be teaching her how to pick
pockets. Perhaps a worse fate had befallen her—although I prayed to the Lord to keep her safe.

As for Florrie, I spoke to her aunt, who agreed that I could take the child to the care of the housemother at Violet House in Sekforde Street. I knew she would be well cared for there until she had built up her strength, and then I planned to house her at the Flower Village in Clacton—once I was happy that she would be able to tolerate the journey.

I felt so utterly helpless, but there was nothing I, nor anyone else, could do to help the poor child who had gone missing. I tried to forget that she was not yet five years old and did not have the full use of her sight, for there is surely nothing more frightening than to be alone and lost and not be able to see where you are, or to know who may be walking a few yards behind you.

I did, of course, ask our missioners—who walk the streets every day looking for children to assist—to be especially vigilant and to look out for the child. I hoped that her distinctive red hair might prove to be of some assistance in locating her. Other than that, I knew that only Almighty God himself could intervene, so I prayed and prayed that the child was unharmed and that some kind, benevolent person had happened upon her and taken her somewhere safe. I recall how I sat weeping in bed, clinging to my dear wife. “There must be some good people left among this world of villains, thieves, and swindlers, Evelyn. Surely, there must.”

December 1912
Somebody once told me that all flowers are beautiful, but some are more beautiful than others. I forget who it was said those words to me, but they have always stuck with me. And yet, as I sit here in my bed at the Flower Village and smile at the sound of the girls' laughter while they decorate the Christmas tree, it occurs to me that this does not ring true of children. To my mind, all children are beautiful, without exception.

I have been blessed to father three healthy children, all of whom have gone on to have children of their own. And yet, there was a fourth child, our dear little girl, whose breaths would not come once she left the warm cocoon of her mother's belly.
No matter how much we prayed for her, she could not stay with us. Our little Violet was needed elsewhere, to bring light to others.

My heart is heavy this late winter's afternoon. I know that my health fails more with each passing day. I remember how I watched the autumn leaves as they dropped from the great oak trees around Mr. Hutton's carefully tended gardens and found myself wanting to wither and fall with them. And yet, I go on. I endure, despite all the doctor's grim warnings.

And while I find that I am too weary to extract much in the way of joy from the quiet moments that fill my days, I find that this gives me time to reflect on the good and purposeful life I have known. I have much to be grateful for, much to be thankful for—especially since my lasting prayer has, finally, been answered. Little Rosie Flynn has been found. After all these years, she is found, safe and well.

The young woman, Miss Harper, who came into our lives and our homes earlier this year, has found her. After all these years of hoping and praying, after all the nights when the shadow of that lost child darkened my heart, Rosie has been found, full of health and life and with her eyesight fully restored and three children of her own. It is surely a miracle and one that swells my heart with happiness. I only wish that dear Flora could have seen her sister once more. How proud she would have been of the woman Rosie Flynn has become.

As I rest here and write these words, I find a wonderful sense of completeness—a calm settling within—and I wonder. I wonder if I might soon slip quietly away, with just the sound of the children's laughter and the gentle hush of the sea to carry me onward, to the brilliant light that beckons.

Copy of a Letter Written by Albert Shaw in
The Christian Magazine,
September 1876

Open Letter to “Daisy”

I must thank you, “Daisy,” for your most generous donation to our cause. I hope that you will read this entry, which I submit by way of humble gratitude.

Just yesterday, I visited our orphanage in Clacton and was
much inspired to see how the health of so many of the children has improved since being taken there. One little Irish girl, who weeps every night for her lost sister, has gained so much in weight that Matron is busy making new dresses for her! While the child's heart may still feel the pain of her sister's absence, I am encouraged to see how her cheeks glow with vitality.

Nevertheless, I cannot help but feel that we can do more. As such, our board members have agreed that we will rent several more houses in Sekforde Street, to provide more family homes for these poor, afflicted flower sellers. Providing the training to make flowers is also proving to be a very successful enterprise. By removing the girls permanently from a life on the streets and providing them with a proper purpose, we can hope to make a real difference to their lives. Happily, our recent pamphlet drive and prayers for funding have both proved to be extremely fruitful.

I thank you again for your support and generosity and pray for a mild autumn so that for all those flower sellers we cannot reach, their cresses do not freeze and their violets will not spoil in their baskets.

With gratitude,
Albert Shaw
Superintendent, Training Homes
for Watercress and Flower Girls

 

I
N WRITING
A Memory of Violets
, I was constantly struck by the cruel contradictions of the lives of the flower sellers. Here were some of the poorest women and children in society, living the harshest of existences, and yet every day they were surrounded by the beauty of the flower markets. Black-and-white images and shaky newsreel footage taken during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries give a fascinating glimpse into market life in London, but it is difficult for us to imagine what these scenes would have looked like in full color. Oddly beautiful, perhaps.

Research for the novel also led me to understand more about the wonderful world of floriography—the term given to the Victorian tradition of the language of flowers. Of course, the Victorians were not the first to use flowers and herbs to express meaning. The symbolism and “language” of flowers and herbs goes back much farther, with many ancient civilizations using this manner of expression. But the Victorians and their almost obsessive passion for all things flora are best associated with the language of flowers.