A Memory of Violets
September 1880. Clacton.
It was June when I lost you, Rosie. June of the year 1876. Mr. Shaw tells me so. All the same, it’s hard to believe it is four full year since I last seen you. It seems like only yesterday I felt your hand slip from mine. I still remember that awful panic, like someone was after choking me, so as I couldn’t catch my breath. Thought I would suffocate without you.
I didn’t have the words to write back then, but I do now. I go to the school, see, where I learn my letters and numbers. I like school—it’s nice to be able to read and write, and I don’t get walloped like at that ragged school I went to.
The school mistress says it’s good for me to write down my memories. She says it will help me remember you and that it will help with my writing, too. I try to be neat and tidy on the page, like she teaches us. And I plan to give this book to you, Rosie, when I find you. I know you won’t be able to read the words, with you not seeing proper, but I’ll read them to you so as you can understand how I never forgot you, nor stopped looking for you.
I’ll tell you about my journey from London to Clacton, shall I?
I reckon most children would be thrilled to travel on a train to the seaside, but when I stepped off that platform at Fenchurch Street into the carriage compartment, I felt an awful sadness creeping over me. I was leaving you, Rosie. Leaving London.
The noise of the locomotive as it creaked out of the station scared me half to death, the smoke puffing out of the funnel like a great monster, the wheels clanking and the whistle screeching like a fishwife. I had to cover my ears it was so loud. Luckily, Mr. and Mrs. Shaw were traveling with me, to make sure I got settled into the orphanage. I remember staring at Mrs. Shaw’s belly, which was as round as the moon, and her telling me she was to have another baby soon.
She lost that baby not a month later. Gone up to Heaven she is. Another angel.
I stared out the window as we left the grayness of London, and I gawped at the green fields we were soon passing. I’d never seen fields before. I’d seen nothing other than London. I liked the look of them fields—and the sky so big above them—but all I could think was that I was leaving you—every turn of the wheels, every blessed bit of grass taking me farther away from you, Rosie. I watched it all through my tears.
Mr. and Mrs. Shaw were awful kind. They tried to comfort me as them salty tears fell down my cheeks. I dabbed at them with Granny’s lace handkerchief, what I kept scrunched into a ball in my hands till it was as sodden as the cresses after the rains. I wanted to jump out the window and run all the way back to Rosemary Court.
Mr. Shaw tried to take my mind off things, telling me about the villages we were passing and the sights we saw. “England is full of views like this, Florrie. Only cities like London are dark and crowded. There’s no end to England’s landscape.” He told me of places I’d never heard of: the waterways of Norfolk, the lakes of Westmorland, the mountains of Wales and Scotland. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t care for any of it without you by my side.
After a long time, the train stopped at a place called Weeley, where a kind man, Mr. King from the local tavern, was waiting with his wagonette to take us to the orphanage.
As we rumbled along, I got a funny taste from the air—and a smell I didn’t know. Mr. Shaw told me it was the salt, from the sea. I stuck my tongue out and lapped at it like a cat drinking milk. It tasted so nice, that salt.
Then we went round a bend and, Lor! There it was. The sea. Couldn’t take my eyes off it. I sat, staring at that ocean for an age, all blue and twinkling like stars was caught in them waves. Ye’d have smiled at the funny noise of them seagulls, all screeching like a bawling baby. And that sea breeze, Rosie! I felt that it could lift me up by my petticoats and carry me into the clouds.
I soon got used to life here at the orphanage. I won’t deny it is nice to wake up to that fresh sea breeze every morning. It makes me want to skip and run and laugh at them silly seagulls. Makes me feel like I am alive, that sea air does, and I’m happy enough here by the sea, but I think of you every day, Rosie, and pray to God that He will keep you safe.
When I’m after getting sad at night, Mother comes to comfort me. She tells me I mustn’t worry about you. She says a person can never be truly lost, as long as someone is looking for them. And I’ll always be looking for you, Rosie.
I’m keeping some of your favorite flowers what I found in the meadow and in the gardens that Mr. Hutton keeps so nice. One of the girls puts the flowers between the pages of her Bible. She says they dry out like paper if you leave them long enough and then you have them to admire all year round, even in the winter. She likes to put them onto card and make a picture of them. I’ll keep my flowers here, in this book. Do you remember how I used to tell you about the flowers all speaking a language—that they all have a meaning? The gentlemen would buy flowers for a posy to tell their sweethearts of their love for them, and the ladies would choose flowers to send a message of sorrow to a friend whose sister had died. I hope you’ll hear my flowers talking to you one day. I chose them especially.
Each year seems to pass quicker than the last. Is it really four full year since I first came here? Is it that long since I last saw you, my dear little Rosie?
There are lots of rules and jobs here, which I find dull, but Mother says it’s good for a girl to learn how to behave with proper manners. She says, “A tidy home makes for a tidy mind,” and that I shouldn’t be grumbling about small jobs like turning out the cupboards and cleaning all the pictures and windows.
The food is grand, though, and there’s always enough for seconds. I stuff my belly so full sometimes I think I’ll burst—except on Wednesday’s, when it’s mutton. I don’t care for that mutton—it smells like them bones Da used to collect. Do you remember how we’d sit and sort through the rag and hold a posy of violets to our noses to block out the bad smell?
When we all have our jobs done, we like to have a grand game of schools together, or play dressing up, or plays. Sometimes we have a picnic in the fete field with the Bluebells or the Daffodils (that’s what we call the girls from the other homes). We practice the Greek dancing for the fete-day displays and play at games of hide-and-seek, blindman’s buff, and skipping.
When it’s warm enough, we go to the sea for a swim, with our bathing costumes. Some of the older girls swim way out, so their feet can’t even touch the bottom, but I just like to stand up to my knees and jump over the waves. That’s mighty craic, that is! You’d love the feel of it. When I think of how frozen and sore your little feet were and how warm and clean my feet are after standing in that sea . . . but I try not to let myself think of such things too much. It makes me too maudlin.
When it rains or when Mother says it’s too cold to be outside, we stay in and make stuffed dolls with stockings and rags, and then we do needlework to make clothes for the dolls. We take the dollies to the hospital for the poorly children (there are three suffering from meezels this week, one from new moania, and seven from sore heads).
After tea we like to go into Mother’s room to listen to the stories she reads to us. She also tells us about the orphange. We especially like it when she tells us about Isabella Hope Dearing. She was a little girl here who was looking forward to going home for Christmas, but she died of the consumption on Christmas morning. Before she died, she told the Mother she had seen an angel and that she wasn’t afraid. “This is my going-home day,” she said, before she died. We all cry when Mother tells us that part, and we bow our heads when she reminds us about the wreath of white lilies and snowdrops, made by the flower girls in the chapel workrooms in London for the little girl’s grave. A wreath is placed in the gardens here, every year, in her memory. Isabella Hope Dearing is the nicest name I ever heard.
Today we had the Harvest Festival fete day—the last of the summer. It was great fun, and lots of people came to visit for the day. The adults played games of stilts and ran relay races, and there was a tug-of-war for the gentlemen. The
children played wheelbarrow races and sang nursery rhymes and in the evening the older girls did their Greek dances and the hoop routine. The best event was the Grand Fire Drill display. I was one of the children who had to be rescued from the pretend fire from one of the upper rooms. The gentlemen climbed up ladders and lifted us down over their shoulders. It was such fun!
I helped serve tea and lemonade to the guests. A kind lady told me I had the prettiest eyes she’d ever seen and that she liked my Irish accent. She told me she grew up in France. She was so pretty with her lace dress and parasol—we all gawped at her, like she was a princess in a fairy story. I saw her little girl from a way across the meadow. She had beautiful red hair, just like yours, Rosie. I wanted to run to her, to see if it was you. But I didn’t. Of course it wasn’t you. It was just a little girl, come to see the poor orphans with her mother.
But how I wished it had been you, Rosie, come to tell me you’d found me after all this time. Sometimes I find it hard to remember your sweet little face. And that scares me. What if I forget? What if I can’t remember you, Rosie? What will become of you then?
“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.”
Tilly dropped the notebook into her lap, startled by the voice. Putting her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun, she saw the silhouette of a man standing in front of her.
“Miss Harper, isn’t it? The girl from the north?”
“Mr. Shaw! What a surprise.” She daren’t stand up, horribly conscious of her bare feet hiding beneath her skirts.
He grinned like a fool. “Still searching for a bit of green, I see! You country folk do make me laugh!” He bent down, took her hand in greeting and stood for a moment, not speaking.
Tilly felt his smooth skin against hers. A light breeze sent goose bumps running up her arms as he looked at her.
“Is it good?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“The book.” He gestured to the notebook Tilly was clutching in her other hand. “Is it good?”
She felt her heart racing.
“Oh, this? Not really.” She let her hands fall to her sides, hoping that the folds of her skirt would conceal the notebook. “I picked it up from one of the stalls on the South Bank earlier—just passing the time really.”
He smiled, his deep brown eyes sparkling like polished walnut in the sunlight. Tilly couldn’t help but stare back at them.
“Well, it’s a wonderful afternoon for some quiet reading. I should leave you in peace. I hear things are quite frantic in the workrooms ahead of next week. No doubt you’re in need of a little solitude.”
“It is a little hectic, yes! But the girls are working so hard on the Alexandra roses—and they never complain. Well, not very often.”
“And I believe the Queen hopes everyone in London will wear a rose in their buttonhole on the twenty-sixth. Uncle Albert has all kind of plans to decorate the motor cabs that will deliver the roses out to the ladies who’ll be selling them. He says he’ll decorate the trams, too. There really is no end to his ambition!”
“It will be quite the spectacle, all right. There’s such excitement among the girls. They’re hoping Queen Alexandra will visit the factory.”
Tilly felt awkward in Herbert’s company. There was something about him that made her feel like a foolish schoolgirl, especially since he stood in front of her and she remained sitting on the ground.
“Well, it was very nice to see you again,” she said, for want of anything better, hoping he might leave her in peace.
“Likewise. Perhaps we’ll meet again soon. I’ve never visited the north of England. I’d love for you to tell me about it sometime.” He hesitated, as if expecting her to say something else. All she could think about were her bare feet. “Well, enjoy the rest of the afternoon, Miss Harper—and mind you don’t get too hot in this sun.”
She wasn’t sure whether she detected a smirk on his face as he tipped his hat in farewell and turned to walk across the grass. She watched him melt into the crowds, shielding her eyes from the sun, which cast a long shadow in his wake.
Chapter 26
Violet House, London
June 1912
Her father walking down the shale path in his soldier’s uniform. A smile on his face, a twinkle in his eyes. He had come home!
She ran, shrieking with delight; ran from the cool of the scullery into the warmth of the sun, to the warm embrace of the father she loved so much.
He stopped and sank to his knees as he saw her, his arms outstretched in welcome.
“Daddy! Daddy! You’re home! You came home!”
Running, tripping, falling into his outstretched arms, throwing her hands around him, nuzzling into the sun-darkened skin on his neck, his standard-issue felt cap falling from his head.
“Yes, Tilly! Yes, love! I came home. I came back for you, my love . . .”
“Do you miss your family?”
Tilly opened her eyes. She was sitting in her favorite chair, the warmth of the late evening sun having lulled her into a deep sleep. Looking up from the embroidery she’d been working on, she saw Queenie standing in the doorway, half in and half out of the room.
“Did you say something, Queenie? I think I nodded off for a moment.”
“I did. Didn’t realize you were snoozing. Thought you were concentrating on your sewing. I was just asking whether you miss your family. You’ve been here three months now, and I noticed you haven’t had any letters. Three months is when most of the housemothers start to feel homesick, so I just wondered if it was bothering you the same way. That’s all.”
Queenie spoke in the same manner to everyone: direct, abrupt, and without the niceties other people placed around their sentences. At first, Tilly had put it down to her Yorkshire upbringing, but as Mrs. Pearce had explained, “Queenie Lyons is as short in manners as she is in stature. You’d do well to make a friend of her, rather than an enemy.” Tilly had tried not to take Queenie too personally. It wasn’t easy.
She bristled at Queenie’s question and stood up, fussing with the cushions on the sofa—with anything—to deflect the attention away from herself.
“Well, yes. Of course I miss my family,” she mumbled, “but I’m so busy, I hardly have time to think about them. And I consider you all to be my family now.”
Hilda glanced up from the book she was reading. “That’s a lovely thing to say, Miss Harper. Isn’t it, girls? And we think of you as part of our family, too.”
Sweet Hilda, not a bad word to say about anybody. She was as different from Queenie as it was possible to be.
Queenie persisted in her interrogation. “But you must miss your mother and father. It’s only natural to miss your parents when you leave home for the first time. I just thought it seemed a bit strange that you hadn’t mentioned them.”
Tilly eyed Queenie suspiciously. While the others had all made Tilly feel very welcome, Queenie had watched from a distance, without ever showing any real interest. Tilly knew that Queenie had been at the Flower Homes the longest, having arrived as a young girl. “Queenie knows practically every girl who has ever lived or worked here,” Mrs. Pearce had explained over the weekly wash. “She remembers almost every housemother and assistant housemother, and that gives her a sense of superiority.”
Tilly stopped her plumping and tidying. The other girls in the room had fallen silent. Perhaps they’d all been wondering about her family life, perhaps they all had questions they’d like to ask.
Hilda sensed Tilly’s discomfort. “Queenie, you shouldn’t be so rude. You shouldn’t be asking Miss Harper all these questions. Her family is none of our business.”
“It’s all right, Hilda, honestly.” Tilly sat on the sofa. “I suppose it’s only natural for you all to want to know more about me. I haven’t said anything because I thought you’d all find my life back home boring. There’s really not much to tell.”
“What’s it like? The Lake District?” Now Alice joined in, putting her cards do
wn on the table. “Does it rain all the time, like they say? Sounds bloody miserable to me.”
Tilly laughed. “Yes, Alice! It rains all the time! But when you see the mountains reflected in the lakes, and the shadows of the clouds racing over the summits—the colors changing from green to gold to purple as the sun catches the gorse and the heather—when you feel the mountain air blowing through your hair, it is truly magical. And the taste of the gingerbread from Sarah Nelson’s shop—now that’s something to miss, all right!”
She soon had a group of girls gathered around. They listened, wide eyed, as she told them about the lakes and mountains and wildlife, which, for those who had never lived anywhere other than the city, sounded like descriptions from a fairy story. Tilly found herself enjoying the opportunity to talk about home, although she said nothing about her mother or Esther, and nobody asked, not even Queenie.
THE NEXT MORNING was a glorious summer Sunday. It was now only three days until Alexandra Rose Day, and the girls were relieved to have a day off from the relentless pressure of making the little pink roses.
As they made the now familiar journey to the small chapel at the end of the street, Tilly found herself walking alongside Queenie. Or perhaps Queenie had made sure she was beside Tilly. Either way, Tilly sensed something different about Queenie. She seemed more relaxed, more comfortable in Tilly’s company.
“I didn’t mean to upset you yesterday evening, Miss Harper,” she said as they walked. “I can be a nosy old cow at times. That’s all.”
Tilly chuckled. “That’s all right, Queenie. I think we can all be accused of being nosy at one time or another.”