A Memory of Violets (11 page)

“It is wonderful and exciting news indeed! Never before has a charitable mission, such as ours, been asked to assist in this manner. That afflicted persons have been specifically asked to produce such important work is, most certainly, without prece
dent. But Queen Alexandra has heard of the excellent work being done by our girls, and of the wonderful flowers they make. She has therefore decided to honor our achievements by placing this order with us for her first Queen Alexandra Rose Day.”

There was prolonged, spontaneous applause, which started somewhere in the middle of the congregation and moved outward in all directions, spreading like ripples across a lake. Tilly thought of her small church at home, so stiff and formal. There would be great consternation at such an outburst. She joined in, clapping enthusiastically, caught up in the buzz and excitement.

When the noise died down, one of the girls sitting alongside Tilly stood up. Tilly recognized her as a resident of Violet House.

Albert Shaw noticed her. “Yes, Eileen. Did you wish to say something?”

“Yes, Mr. Shaw. I was wondering how many roses we will be making for the Queen.”

He laughed. “More than we've ever made before, Eileen. Thousands of them!” The girls gasped. “Yes, I know it sounds a lot,” he continued, “but I am confident we can achieve what has been asked of us. Imagine how pretty the streets of London will look with everyone wearing a rose in their buttonhole!

“We have ample time to produce the blooms for the event, which will take place on the twenty-sixth day of June. We will be bringing some of the older girls from our orphanage in Clacton, to teach them how to make the flowers, and I will need every one of you to work to her best ability. With God's love and hard work, I know that we can do it. Let us all go back to our homes tonight with faith in our hearts and let us pray for those who do not have a home to return to on this evening, or any other.”

Tilly joined in the final recitation of the Lord's Prayer before the congregation said their collective Amen.

With the sermon over and everyone's attention fixed firmly on the remarkable news about the Queen's roses, it took some time for Tilly and Mrs. Pearce to organize the girls and get them ready for the short trip back to Violet House.

While they gathered up their coats, hats, and crutches, Tilly found her eyes drifting toward the front of the chapel, where Mr. and Mrs. Shaw were chatting with people who were eager to leave some coins in the Flower Homes collection box or to pass on their regards in person. They really were an impressive couple. People gathered around, drawn to them and their infectious passion for their work and their faith.

As Tilly watched, she noticed Edward, standing quietly at their side, talking to nobody in particular. Her gaze then shifted to Herbert, who was chatting animatedly with a pretty young lady, who giggled and coquetted like a fool at every word he said. Tilly found herself quite unable to take her eyes off him, despite the fact that she had already decided she didn't care for him at all. Arrogant, that's what he was. As if he sensed her watching him, Herbert turned his eyes in Tilly's direction, staring directly at her over the young woman's shoulder. Tilly quickly looked away.

“Handsome bugger, isn't he?”

Jumping at the voice in her ear, she turned to see Mrs. Pearce standing behind her.

“Goodness! Mrs. Pearce. You gave me a fright!”

“Lost in daydreams of handsome young men, were you?” she teased.

Tilly blushed furiously, dipping her head. “Not at all. I was just admiring Mrs. Shaw. She's so elegant. Her clothes. And the way she dresses . . .”

Mrs. Pearce smiled knowingly. “She is indeed. Good-looking
family—all of them. 'Specially the nephew. Oh, don't worry. You're not the first to sneak a look at Herbert Shaw, and I'm sure you won't be the last!”

“Mrs. Pearce! Honestly, I was just admiring . . .”

But Mrs. Pearce had disappeared into the crowd, leaving Tilly with her flushed cheeks and her private thoughts.

She left as quickly as she could through the heavy wooden door, grateful for the light breeze that lapped at the edges of the evening air and cooled her cheeks. She resisted the urge to look back as she left the chapel. If she had, she might have noticed Edward Shaw watching her. If she had, she might have noticed the flash of anger in Edward's eyes as his brother entertained a group of women with a tale about a young girl from the north who'd arrived that afternoon, bringing half of the Carlisle-to-London express with her. If she'd looked back, she might have seen things a little differently.

S
he's gone! Little Sister is gone—and I don't know where she can be!

Oh, I ain't never been so afraid nor so awful, awful sad in all my life. What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?

Looked everywhere for her, I have, anywhere I can think she might be—the Garden, the Club Room, the doorways. Even looked down the sewers to check she weren't hidin' there, but she ain't nowhere to be found! She's not come home for three days and nights now. Just gone she is. Lost in the crowds. Oh, Rosie, where are you? What will I do?

We was on Westminster Bridge, see. We was selling the prim
roses and violets, and some of us was leanin' over the bridge to look at the boats leaving the pier. I was tellin' Rosie how nice they all looked when someone knocked my basket clean from my hands and kicked the crutch from under me. Fell to the ground like a sack of coal, so I did, and I felt her little hand slip from mine, and when I'd gathered myself together—oh—she was gone! Little Sister was gone!

“Rosie! Rosie!” I cried, over and over and over. “Dear God, Rosie Flynn, where are ye? Rosie!” I shouted and shouted her name as I grabbed at skirts and pulled at the ladies' fancy boots and shoes as they walked past me, my useless leg scraping against the ground; my crutch kicked out of reach. But they didn't stop to help, just carried on with their Sunday promenade, stamping all over my violets and primroses, what was strewn all around me. Too busy, that's what they were. Too busy to stop and help a crippled flower seller what had fallen and lost her little sister.

“Oh, please, Miss, please help me! Please, someone, help me find my sister! Rosie! Rosie!” I called and called and grabbed at them skirts but nobody stopped to help me.

The sellers were all callin' their wares—“Roses! Roses! Buy yer sweet red roses!”—and the crowds was all laughin' at the Silly Billy doing his clever tumbles, and nobody could hear me, or if they could, they didn't care nothin' for a wretched girl on the ground, sure they didn't.

I've walked the streets these last days and nights, desperate to hear Rosie's sweet little voice. Like the cock linnets, singing in their cages, that's what she sounds like. If only I could hear her sing. If only I could see that beautiful red hair. If only I could feel her little hand in mine.

Ain't slept once, so I ain't. Can't. Not till I find her, not till her hand is back in mine. She don't know her way around like I do,
and, with her nearly blinded, she won't be able to find her way on her own, sure she won't. She needs to hold my hand, so as I can guide her—and I made a promise to Mammy that I'd look after her. I promised. I always told Rosie not to let go of my hand. “Don't you be lettin' go. You hold on good an' tight now.” That's what I'd tell her. But it was me what let go of her, and now she's gone, and it's all my fault, all my fault.

Oh, please, can't somebody help me? Please! You have to help me find her. I beg you. I beg you. I beg you.

W
hen everyone was back at Violet House, Tilly helped Mrs. Pearce to prepare a supper of bread and butter and hot milk. Tilly soon found her way around the small scullery, setting a saucepan of milk on the range, as Mrs. Pearce chattered on, telling her where she would find the firebox and the tea leaves and the mops and brushes for the morning. In the room down the passage, she could hear the girls talking about Queen Alexandra Rose Day. She smiled at their enthusiasm, despite her exhaustion.

After they'd all eaten their fill, the girls gradually peeled themselves away from the table in the cozy kitchen room, settling themselves to some sewing or a game of cards. Noticing
that Tilly couldn't stop yawning, Mrs. Pearce insisted she go to bed.

“You look like death warmed up, girl. Go and get a good night's rest or you'll be fit for nothing tomorrow. I'll stay here tonight. I'll wake you at six and go through the daily routine with you then.”

Tilly didn't argue, grateful for the opportunity to retire for the night. She filled a ewer with warm water from the kettle on the range, took a candle, and bid everyone a good night before trudging up the stairs. She sighed at the prospect of sweeping them the next morning.

Reaching her room, she washed her face and hands at the basin before changing into her nightdress. Despite the mild spring day, and the fire that burned in the small grate, there was a distinct chill to the room. She took a shawl from her trunk, wrapping it around her shoulders as she walked over to the writing table and opened the drawer. She was pleased to see that the wooden box was exactly where she'd left it. She was worried it might have disappeared—reclaimed by whoever owned it.

Lifting it out gently, she carried the box over to the bed, placing it to one side as she slipped under the covers, her toes flinching against the cold bed sheets. When she was settled, she lifted out the contents again, wondering whose possessions they were and how long they had been hidden away at the bottom of the wardrobe. She picked up the rag doll, noticing the word
Rosie
stitched neatly onto her little calico dress. She looked at the photograph, studied the faces. A collection of nameless girls stared back at her. One was holding a large spray of orchids. Placing everything else back into the box, Tilly pulled the candle closer, opened the notebook, and began to read.

June 24, 1880

It was Mr. Shaw what found me all those year ago.

                    
I'd been sleeping nights on a bench at Westminster Bridge, thinking you might remember where we were that day and come back. But then I worried that you might have gone looking for me at Rosemary Court, or the markets, and what if you was waiting for me there and I was on Westminster Bridge? So I hobbled round the markets at daylight, wishing I could walk faster so as I could cover more ground and get back to the Court. I'd sit on that tatty old mattress and wait for you then, praying your little face would appear through the door.

                    
But it never did.

                    
It was a relief to see Mr. Shaw—Lord knows how he found me in that stinking room with Auntie May gone off someplace in her head, talking to the fairies. I wept and wept and told him all about you being lost, and he listened while I near choked on my tears and pleaded with him not to let them take me to the workhouse. I begged him to help me find you 'cause I promised Mammy I'd mind you.

                    
He spoke some words to Auntie May, who wouldn't have known him if he was Jesus himself come to see her. Then he took me to the Club Room at Covent Garden. Do you remember it, Rosie? That hot cocoa and the good and kind ladies? We was happy in that room, wasn't we?

                    
I was wrapped in blankets and given hot soup. A lady with kind eyes sat with me, not speaking, but rubbing the back of my hand so gently. It was like she was rubbing hope into my skin. “Don't give up,” she told me. “You'll find her.” But
even with all the kindness and the soup and the hot June day and the blanket, I couldn't stop the shivering. The lady said it was the shock what was doing it to me.

                    
Mr. Shaw sat with me for a long time, talking in that soft, buttery voice of his about our Good Lord and how He would be watching over you, keeping you safe. I remember looking into his eyes—bright blue, like cornflowers. I could only imagine the skies in Heaven could be as clear and true.

                    
After I'd calmed down and had a belly full of soup, he took me in a carriage to a place called Violet House, in Sekforde Street. It's near Farringdon Market, where we sometimes sold our cresses. Do you remember how cold the water was at the pump, our hands and feet frozen blue as we washed those muddy bunches? I can still smell them, all peppery and musty.

                    
Mr. Shaw told me all about the crippled girls who live in the houses on Sekforde Street. They used to sell their flowers on the streets like we did, but they make silk flowers now, in the chapel workrooms. He said I might make those flowers, too, when I was older.

                    
I was washed and given clean clothes and boots and a bonnet. I don't remember much about my time in that house, but I know everybody was kind to me. They looked at me with sad eyes. They didn't need no words to say that they knew something of my suffering.

                    
The girls in the house told me of the orphanage at the seaside, where I'd be taken good care of. Mr. Shaw said he'd spoken with Auntie May again and got some sort of sense from her. She'd agreed it best for me to go to the orphanage. “Everything will be all right, Flora,” he said. “You've
suffered enough now. You're not to worry anymore.” He had a way of talking and looking at you that made it difficult not to believe him.

                    
I didn't want to leave London, Rosie; didn't want to leave you, but Mr. Shaw insisted it was for the best. “You must try to be strong and keep well so that you'll be able to look after Rosie when she's found,” he said. “I promise I'll keep searching. I'll look for her down every alleyway, on every doorstep, and behind every market barrow.”

                    
I had a liking for Mr. Shaw. Trusted him and his kind blue eyes, so even though I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of traveling so far away from you, I took him at his word.

                    
After a few more days in Violet House, where I slept a little better and ate as much as my poor, puffed-up stomach could manage, we set out for my new home at the Flower Village in Clacton, on the south coast.

                    
I took the only three things I had: a black button from Da's old coat (which I kept to remind me that, however bad things got, I was sure not to get a beating when I got home), a wooden peg what you used to play with as a doll, and the lace handkerchief given to me by Mammy when she was dying. I had a mind to leave that handkerchief in London, seeing as it had brought no good luck at all, but something made me take it. I hoped you had yours in your pocket, Rosie, where you always kept it. I hoped that it would keep you safe, while I could not.

                    
I pray each night that you'll find these words one day, that you'll be able to forgive me for losing you. More than anything, I hope we can find each other, Rosie, because while you cannot be found, a part of me will always be lost.

Her eyes growing heavy, Tilly placed the notebook back into the box before returning it to the drawer in the writing table. She slipped back under the bed covers and blew out the candle. The room grew colder, the scent of violets drifting and swirling around her as she fell into a restless sleep, thoughts of the two sisters tumbling through her mind. She imagined a cool breath against her cheek, someone watching her, words whispered softly into her ear.
Find her. Find her. Please help me find my sister.
And then her dreams came . . .

The shrill blast of the whistle as the locomotive approached, the driver sending a warning to anyone who might be crossing the tracks or working on the line. The fog, thick and swirling, making it difficult to see any distance at all.

                    
The nervous whinnies of the ponies.

                    
“Listen, Esther! A train! Let's try and outrun it. Come on. I dare you.”

                    
Another blast of the whistle as the engine thundered past. One hand holding her hat on her head, the other pulling at the reins, urging her pony onward, faster and faster, chasing the carriages alongside the fence, her excited screams drowned out by the thunderous clatter of the locomotive until it raced ahead, around the bed and out of sight.

                    
A momentary silence. Her heart pounding. Her breaths coming quickly with the thrill of the chase.

                    
Hooves thundering past her. Esther's cries, fading into the distance, smothered by the fog, absorbed by the mountains.

                    
A faint, sickening crack. A scream. Then, silence.

                    
“Esther! Esther! Where are you? I can't see anything.”

                    
Thick, swirling fog, covering everything in a silent, misty shroud.

                    
Digging her heels into the pony, guiding it first one way, then another. No landmark to work from; no landscape. Her senses blurred with panic and the blinding fog.

                    
“Esther! Where are you?” Fear in her voice, tears streaming down her cheeks.

                    
“Look after your sister,” her mother had said. “And don't go too near the railway tracks.”

                    
“Yes, Mother.”

                    
“I dare you,” she'd said to Esther. “I dare you.”

                    
Urging the pony onward in every direction. Where was she? Perfect little Esther, out there in the fog. Perfect little Esther, lost and alone.

                    
She must get help.

                    
Turning toward home, but which way? Which way? Galloping, galloping, galloping—each fall of the hooves on the soft, peaty ground taking her farther and farther away from her injured sister, farther and farther away from home, from help, from the life she might have known.

Tilly woke to the scent of violets and a pillow moistened with tears she couldn't remember crying.

Shivering, she stepped from the bed, her feet flinching against the cold of the oilcloth floor. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she tiptoed across the room and looked out at the still-dark street. A cat prowled along the rooftops. A gas lamp guttered in the distance, the greenish light casting an eerie glow over the cobbles.

Lighting a candle, she settled herself at the writing table. She thought about the fragile pressed flowers, the heartbreaking entries in Flora's notebook, the faded photograph, the peculiar little trinkets—she was fascinated by them. They spoke to her of loss
and remorse and of what it is to be a sister. Something about these simple things from a time past whispered to Tilly of her future.

Taking up her pastels and opening her sketchbook, she began to draw the blooms in the vase on the windowsill, her hands moving briskly over the page. She stopped every now and again, certain that she was being watched, that she'd heard a movement behind her. The hairs at the back of her neck prickled like nettle stings. Telling herself not to be silly, she worked on, until the first, pale light of dawn fell across her page. Closing the sketchbook she readied herself for her day.

She washed quickly, gasping as she splashed the cold water onto her face. Dressing in her undergarments and plain black dress, she tied the coarse apron around her waist before putting on the white crochet cap that had been provided for her. She tucked her unruly curls under the cap, laced her boots, and crept downstairs, flinching as each step creaked and cracked like ice beneath her feet.