Gathering everything she needed from the scullery, she set to work so that by the time Mrs. Pearce went to wake her at six, Tilly had already lit the fire in the range and the copper, set the kettle on to warm, cleaned the grates and fenders in the kitchen and parlor, swept all the downstairs floors, including the passage, and sifted the cinders from the previous day. The rooms were much smaller than she’d been used to at Wycke Hall, and she’d worked quickly and efficiently.
Mrs. Pearce was almost speechless, standing by the fireplace in the kitchen, sniffing the air. “And you sprinkled tea leaves on the floor to lay the dust before you swept?”
“Yes. Found the tin in the scullery.”
“And you blacked the grate?”
“Yes, I found the blacking in the firebox.”
“And you’ve shaken out the hearth rug?”
“Yes, and I laid a coarse cloth while I cleaned the fireplace,” Tilly said, anticipating the next question.
Mrs. Pearce was clearly pleased with Tilly’s work. “Well then. I suppose we should have a cup of tea before we lay the breakfast table. Then there’ll be the chamber pots to empty. I must say, I’m very impressed, Miss Harper. Very impressed indeed.”
Tilly smiled and followed Mrs. Pearce along the passage into the scullery. “To new beginnings, Mrs. Ingram,” she whispered into the cool morning air. “To new beginnings.”
Chapter 16
Sekforde Street, London
April 2, 1912
Tilly’s father had always said that people cannot truly be happy in a place until they let it inside them. “Only when you know somewhere as well as the back of your own hand—when it gets under your skin and becomes a part of you—only then can you know you belong. The tourists who visit our beautiful lakes for a short holiday and spend the whole stay complaining about how it rains all the time will never truly understand what a joy it is to live here; they will never belong.”
It was just over a week since Tilly’s arrival in London. A week’s worth of dust had been swept from the stairs of Violet House. A week’s worth of bed linen had been stripped and washed. A week’s worth of London grime had been scrubbed off her boots and the windows of the terraced house she now called home. She remembered her father’s words as she stood now, in the middle of the new factory room, wondering when she would feel that she truly belonged here among the flower girls.
She looked around the vast space, her eyes drawn to the neat rows of workbenches where dozens of girls sat in deep concentration, surrounded by mountains of small pink roses. It was a scene of quiet industry and she felt a sense of deep pride spreading within her as she watched the girls at work. She was part of this now. In her own small way, she was contributing to this commendable operation. Apart from anything else, she was part of an organization that was working for the Queen. What would her mother have to say about that?
“It’s very impressive, Mrs. Shaw,” she remarked, her head tilted back, to take in the full scale of the building, which she was seeing for the first time. She stared at the high ceiling, at the electric light fittings suspended above the girls’ heads and the long row of windows that ran along one wall, letting in great swaths of natural light. “It’s so much brighter than I’d imagined. Not at all stuffy or cramped, like other factories I’ve heard about.”
“I insisted that the rooms be bright and well ventilated,” Mrs. Shaw explained. There was an irrepressible enthusiasm to her voice. “All standard factory acts and regulations are in force, just the same as in an ordinary trading factory. We even have a lift to help the girls move between the two floors—and that’s something of a luxury, let me tell you!”
A low murmur of chatter from the girls was interspersed with ripples of laughter and the occasional scraping of a chair leg as someone stood up. They worked companionably, sharing their tools and taking pleasure in each other’s handiwork as box after box was filled with the pink Alexandra roses. It seemed to Tilly not like a factory at all.
Most of the girls were so immersed in their work—their foreheads furrowed in deep frowns of intense concentration—that they barely noticed Tilly and Mrs. Shaw as they walked between the rows of workbenches. Some of the younger girls were more easily distracted, nudging each other and whispering before looking up and smiling at the two ladies as they walked past. Like her husband, Mrs. Shaw greeted them all by name.
Everywhere Tilly looked, the tables were piled high with the tools of the flower girls’ trade: scissors, pins, spools of different-colored threads, pots of glue, wire, paintbrushes in all shapes and sizes, and endless boxes of paint. All the tables were adorned with flowers at various stages of completion: leaves without stems, stems without petals, petals without color. Here and there, partially constructed blooms lay flat, awaiting the next phase of their creation, while in other places completed flowers stood proudly in tall stands, thirty or more sprays arranged in each, running the length of the tables. Tilly also noticed that each girl kept a small book beside her.
“What are the books for?” she asked.
“Ah, those are for the girls to record the number of flowers they make so they can receive their due payment at the end of the week,” Mrs. Shaw explained. “We make no secret of the fact that the girls are paid a fair wage for a hard day’s work. The youngest girls, who are still learning and work more slowly, can make six or seven shillings a week when we’re at our busiest. The older ones can make anything between thirteen and twenty-five shillings a week.”
One of the girls in front of them stood up and rang a bell, producing a cheer and an appreciative round of applause from the others—except Buttons, whom Tilly happened to be standing near at the time and whom she overheard mumbling “show-off” under her breath.
“That signals one hundred!” Mrs. Shaw said, noticing Tilly’s confusion. “Well done, Ada,” she added, giving the girl a gentle pat on the shoulder. It was a gesture the girl clearly appreciated, beaming as she settled back to her work.
“As you can see, there are many, many stages to go through before a flower is complete,” Mrs. Shaw noted as they stood to watch for a while. “First the petals and leaves are cut on the hydraulic press upstairs. We use different materials for different flowers—muslins, sateens, silks, velvets, and plush. Then there is a process of coloring and shading the material, then drying. At that point, the petals are given to the girls to form into shapes using goffers—the hot irons. The roses, and flowers with lots of petals, have to be formed carefully from the center outward. Then the hand painting takes place before the leaves and blossoms are attached individually onto stems with fine silk or with a paste. Finally, the mounters mount the flowers into sprays, or for dress trimming, headdresses, bonnets, hats—whatever is required.”
With the recent announcement about Queen Alexandra Rose Day, most of the girls were working on little pink roses. Tilly watched as delicate pink petals were painstakingly glued and pinned together to form the flower heads, boxes and boxes of completed cherry-blossom-pink roses sitting on the workbenches. Some girls were working on larger roses for displays and others were working on regular orders, painting the dyed petals with the distinctive markings that would transform them into freesias, roses, and chrysanthemums. The colors of all the different flowers dotted around the room made for a wonderful sight, every color of the rainbow captured.
“I had no idea there were so many stages involved in making the flowers,” Tilly said. “Or that it is such detailed work. It only makes me admire the girls all the more for seeing it.”
Mrs. Shaw’s eyes shone with pride.
“We did wonder, at first, whether the girls would be able to manage,” she said. “As you can see, it’s very intricate work. Even those of us fortunate enough to have the full use of our limbs and eyes would find it challenging. We shouldn’t have doubted them for a moment. Actually, it was one of your Violet House girls, Queenie Lyons, who was among the first to come to the training homes. Lily Brennan was another. She went to live with a
family member in the north, if I remember correctly. Lovely girl.
“Queenie and Lily took to the flower making like a duck to water—in fact, all the girls did. It’s a curious thing, but they seem to have a peculiar aptitude for the work. Perhaps it comes from a life surrounded by flowers. Perhaps it’s just sheer determination. I only wish we could let more people see the work they do,” she continued, “then perhaps we would get more financial support and dear Albert wouldn’t be forever worrying about funding.”
She sighed before turning to Tilly. “But I mustn’t trouble you with talk of such matters, Miss Harper. When we’ve shown our beautiful flowers to the whole of London on Queen Alexandra Rose Day, I hope we’ll never need to worry about such things again! Now, come along, I’ll show you the hydraulic press on the second floor. It might sound terribly dull, but it really is a fascinating piece of equipment.”
As they walked toward the lift, Tilly stopped to speak to some of the girls from Violet House, admiring their work. She already felt a connection to them and missed them during the daytime, uncomfortable in the silence their absence left as she went about her work in the house.
“The girls are very fond of you,” Mrs. Shaw remarked. “You’ve a certain way of interacting with them which they seem to respond to very well. It isn’t always the case. We’ve had housemothers leave before their first week is out. Quite unable to settle. You seem to be fitting in very well indeed.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so,” Tilly replied, delighted with the compliment and wishing her mother could be there to hear Mrs. Shaw speak of her in such flattering terms. “You’ve all made me feel very welcome.”
“All the same, it must be difficult for you being so far from home. You must plan a weekend visit before the end of the summer. All the housemothers get a weekend off, once a quarter.”
Tilly was caught off guard. “Oh, gosh. I don’t think I could stand that long train journey again for a good while yet! My family certainly won’t expect to see me this side of Christmas.”
The truth of the matter was that she had no intention of returning home. Not at Christmas. Perhaps never.
“Well, let me know if you change your mind. It’s important for us all to be among our own families from time to time—even if they do leave us reaching for the smelling salts when we leave!”
Tilly laughed to cover her discomfort.
After stepping into the lift, the two women were jolted up to the second floor, where Tilly was surprised to see Edward Shaw hard at work on a large hydraulic press. She and Mrs. Shaw stood for a moment, watching as he worked methodically, pushing levers with his feet to turn the huge metal drum onto which the stiff sateen cloth had been placed. From this, the shape of the rose petals was stamped out. The noise was deafening, but he was concentrating so hard he didn’t seem bothered by it. He didn’t even notice that he was being watched.
“These are for the Alexandra roses,” Mrs. Shaw explained, leaning toward Tilly and raising her voice to be heard above the hiss and thump of the machine. “It’s hard, repetitive work, but Edward never complains. He’s a wonderful asset to us. He was involved in much of the planning and organization of the new factory. He shows a great aptitude for the work, and the girls like him very much. Of course, everyone presumes it will be Herbert who will take over the operation in the future, but it seems that Edward has my husband’s favor.”
“Really? But he seems so quiet.” Tilly was amazed. She’d barely heard Edward speak and certainly couldn’t imagine him running the Flower Homes and the orphanage with anything like the charisma of his uncle or his brother.
Mrs. Shaw laughed. “It’s often the quiet ones who are the most intriguing, though. Don’t you think?”
Tilly watched Edward as he worked. He wasn’t handsome like his brother—not at all—but now that she considered him, there was, perhaps, something about him. His was a much softer face than Herbert’s, his chin tapering into a narrow jaw. Strawberry-blond hair fell into his eyes as he concentrated on the press.
He looked up suddenly, catching Tilly’s eye. She jumped, embarrassed to have been caught staring at him. He nodded at her, brushed the hair from his eyes, and continued with his work. She was relieved when Mrs. Shaw led her to a balcony area from which they could look down onto the floor below.
“Do you think they’ll get the roses finished in time?” Tilly asked as they watched the girls hard at work.
“Oh, yes! Absolutely! We could make ten times the amount if the Queen required it! Roses for the Queen. Who would ever have believed it, Matilda?”
Mrs. Shaw stood for a moment, surveying the scene in front of her as if hardly able to believe that they had come so far. Tilly knew that for the Shaw family, and for everyone who was involved with the work, this wasn’t just about establishing an efficient operation to make artificial flowers, or about a workforce that had been hired to produce work and receive payment in return. It went much deeper than that. This was a family—a religion all its own.
“You must all be so proud of what you’ve achieved, Mrs. Shaw.”
“We are. Very proud indeed. There’s a lot still to be done, though, and we cannot allow ourselves to rest on our laurels.” She sighed. “I just wish Albert’s health were better.”
Tilly hesitated. “Yes, Herbert mentioned that Mr. Shaw is unwell. He seems so . . . vibrant.”
“The stubborn old goat hides it very well, but he doesn’t have the strength he once had. The filthy London air chokes his lungs. It really isn’t good for him here. He’d love to spend more time in Clacton. That’s where his heart lies—among the fields and the cliffs and the rolling sea. It captures your imagination, that place, holds you in its heart.”
“It sounds delightful. I’d love to see it someday.”
“Well, then you must go! We have the summer fete days to look forward to—oh, they’re really such fun. The children do a wonderful job with their games and dancing, and the spectacle of the fire drill is something to see! Yes, yes, you must come. I’ll mention it to Albert. You can accompany the girls from Violet House when they go. We’d be glad of your assistance.”
Tilly was thrilled at the prospect. “That would be wonderful. Thank you. I’ll look forward to it.”
As the girls stopped for a tea break, Tilly excused herself.
“I really must be getting back to the house. The girls won’t thank me if their supper isn’t ready when they get home! Thank you for showing me around, Mrs. Shaw. It’s been truly fascinating.”
As she left, Tilly noticed a sign above the factory door: GIVE THE WORLD YOUR BEST, AND THE BEST WILL COME BACK TO YOU. She impressed the words onto her mind and resolved to try her best to abide by them.
TILLY ENJOYED HER EVENINGS at Violet House, with the exception of Mondays—washdays—when her hands were too raw and her body too exhausted to enjoy anything other than a soap-scented sleep. On other evenings, with the bulk of the day’s work behind her and the coal scuttle filled, ready for lighting the range the next morning, she looked forward to sitting in the cozy warmth of the kitchen with a reading book or her sketchbook. She didn’t even mind so much when a little sewing or mending was required, enjoying the chance to chat with the girls while she worked. She had quickly become familiar with their individual personalities and knew whom she could engage in conversation and whom she should leave in peace and quiet.
But her thoughts often drifted back to the drawer of the writing table in her bedroom and the wooden box hidden there. Although Tilly enjoyed the noise and companionship of the girls in Violet House, she also looked forward to the peace and solitude of her room, where she could read more of the notebook, without interruption. Flora Flynn’s haunting words had stirred something in Tilly’s imagination. There was something about Flora’s desperate search for Rosie that resonated with her so that she felt somehow connected to the two sisters, as if they followed her, watched her, as she moved about the house with her buckets and brooms.
After h
er tour of the factory and a busy day of cleaning, she was relieved when the last of the girls went to bed. Locking and bolting the doors—as she did every night—she turned off the gas and climbed the stairs to her room, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her aching feet. In many ways, the work here was less demanding than the work at Wycke Hall—Violet House was far smaller for a start—but the added responsibility of the twelve girls weighed heavily on Tilly’s shoulders. She didn’t want to let anyone down; didn’t wish to be found wanting in any aspect of her duties, of which she was constantly reminded by a large board that hung on the scullery wall (thanks to Mrs. Pearce, she suspected) setting out the routines of the house.
Standing up, she stretched her back and walked over to the window, resting her forehead against the cold glass. The street below was quiet and empty, lit by the gas lamps, which cast intermittent pools of light on to the cobbles. The view was becoming as familiar to Tilly as the moon rising above the jagged outline of the mountains back home. Still, she didn’t think she would ever get used to not seeing the stars, obliterated as they were by the foggy London skies.
Settling herself at the writing table, she took up her pastels and sketchbook, working on a study of one of the dried violet flowers she had found in the pages of the notebook. Her body ached and her eyes soon grew heavy with the urge to sleep, but she moved her fingers deftly across the page, rubbing her fingers over the soft pastel, blending colors to add definition, shape, and form. This was Tilly’s way of relaxing, of unwinding after a busy day. As she worked, the familiar scent of violets floated around her. She felt the atmosphere in the room change, as if the air had been disturbed, as if someone had brushed past her.
“Is that you, Flora?” she whispered. “Are you here?”
She sat perfectly still. Nothing. The scent of violets disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
Eventually, unable to keep her eyes open any longer, she closed the sketchbook, climbed into bed, blew out the candle, and curled up under the counterpane. Then she waited for sleep and the dreams that she knew would soon follow.