by Mary Wood
It all felt strange to Flora, but she didn’t want to say so. Although she felt embarrassed with the sound of her pee hitting the bottom of the jerry-pot and wished that Aunt Pru had a bathroom, she was happy to be here and wished she’d never have to leave.
‘So this is your little niece, eh? Me and you’s going to get on fine, girl. My, you’re pretty. Look at those lovely, big brown eyes. Them would melt anyone’s heart.’ Rowena’s laugh filled her front room. It was a jolly warble-sound that started Flora giggling. She liked Rowena, very much.
‘Oh, you have a piano! May I play it sometime while I’m here, please?’
‘You play, girl? Now, ain’t that something, and you not yet knee-high to a grasshopper. Come here, girl, I’ve gotta hug you.’
Flora didn’t know what Rowena meant, but it sounded funny, and being wrapped in Rowena’s huge body felt good. She smelt of the spices that permeated her home. And she and her home were a huge bundle of colour. Bright reds, oranges and greens seemed to be splashed everywhere – in the blankets thrown over the furniture, in the curtains and even in the rug, which looked like it was made of bits of cloth sewn together.
Rowena’s frock wasn’t like a normal frock; it was a long, deep-blue cloth with big sunflowers printed over it, which wrapped around her body from her feet to her shoulders. The same cloth swathed her head to form a huge turban. Her lovely face seemed dominated by her glistening white teeth, which more than filled her mouth.
‘Do you carry things on your head, Rowena? Only we did a lesson in school about Jamaica, and all the ladies had big urns on their heads?’
‘Not here I don’t, girl, but back home I did as a girl, and me momma and grandmother did, too. But then me da brought me and me momma here, in a huge ship. “We’re going to make our fortune in the Motherland, girl,” he told me. But instead, he died of the cold, and me momma of the coughing sickness, leaving me in an orphanage.’
‘That’s sad, but you’re all right now, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t you be feeling sorry for big old Rowena now. I’m happy, girl. More of my folk came over and got me out of that place. I have a big family here now, and we all take care of each other. Most of them live hereabouts. We have big parties, and the menfolk all have jobs. Them’s only cleaning jobs and kitchen work, but them’s jobs all the same. My old man works in the kitchens of the Savoy Hotel, and he brings home a wage that would keep us for a year back home.’
Though this was said with pride, Flora couldn’t help but laugh. Rowena was funny, loving and quite different from any person she’d ever met.
‘Has Flora time to play me something on the piano, Pru? I’d love to hear those ivories played. My momma played, though she never read a music note in her life.’
‘Oh, can I, Aunt Pru?’
‘Aye, you can, me little love. We’ve time.’
As Flora sat and played the gentle melody of ‘Green-sleeves’, a tune she loved – especially the line ‘To cast me off discourteously’, as this seemed somehow to relate to herself – there was silence, and she looked up to see both Rowena and Aunt Pru wiping tears from their eyes.
To get such a reaction filled Flora with joy, for she knew they weren’t sad but were moved by her playing. At that moment she knew that music was all she ever needed, to make her feel whole. Music and the love of her Nanny Pru, because, no matter how she was to address the only woman who had ever truly loved her, she would always be ‘Nanny Pru’ in her heart.
Chapter Four
Determined to see Rome, on being forced to leave the Santa Maria School of Music and Art in Tuscany, Flora had booked herself onto a guided tour – a whirlwind of a few moments here and there, over a two-day trip. Today, her last, she stood gazing at the Trevi Fountain and marvelled at how quickly the years had flown by. July 1914: how did that happen? It doesn’t seem a minute since I first left home, all those years ago, to go to school in Bexley.
The sun sparkling on the water gushing from the fountain brought Flora’s attention back to its beauty, as she saw how it caused magical rainbows. Droplets danced, then reflected the colours all around her as she jostled for position with other tourists, each one eager to see their coin land in the fountain and to make their wish.
She raised her gaze to the beautiful statues, which seemed to be saying, ‘We will grant your wish. Our winged horses will fly to heaven tonight and ensure that God hears you.’
Part of Flora was sad that her music studies had been cut short, and she wanted to wish it wasn’t so, and that she could remain in Italy until the first day of next April, 1915 – her twenty-first birthday. But she knew that wasn’t possible.
The order to leave Italy had been sudden. The college principal had burst into the concert room where the orchestra, of which she was a member, had been rehearsing, and had declared, ‘You all have to leave for home. I have here a communication, dated 16th July 1914: “Due to the escalating unrest in Europe, we advise that all British citizens are to be evacuated to the United Kingdom within two weeks. The arrangements are . . .”’
Those arrangements had given Flora enough time to bring forward the plan she’d had to see Rome during the summer break, which had almost been upon them. Not that I will see as much as I wanted to.
Sighing, she turned round and, closing her eyes, threw her coin over her shoulder. Her wish would be what it always was, but this time she hoped it would come true: Please let things be different for me at home. I only want to be happy and accepted by my mother.
The tour guide broke the spell. ‘Come along, everyone. We still have the Teatro Costanzi to visit, before you board your boat for home.’
Although this was going to be a highlight for her, Flora let those who were eager to please the guide file after him before she did. She wanted to watch the ripples caused by her coin and count them as they spread wider than any of the others. Did this mean her wish would come true?
Her father’s last letter hadn’t sounded promising:
Your mother isn’t well, dearest Flora. She has asked your Aunt Amelia to take you in for a couple of years. Amelia has taken on the task of introducing you to society and we hope that you will meet a suitable husband. I have put aside a large amount of money for such an event, and for you to draw a generous allowance from. I will visit you there, once you are settled, and we will discuss my plans for your future.
I remain your loving father.
Loving father! Flora tossed her long, dark hair back over her shoulder. Over the years her likeness to her mother had become more pronounced; she had the same slight and yet curvaceous figure, the same thick, glossy hair, and her facial features were as clear-cut and beautiful as her mother’s. She knew, too, that her temper could flash in just the same way her mother’s did, but that she was different, in that she didn’t hold a grudge, but forgave readily. This last trait she took from her father, but how glad she was that she hadn’t inherited his spineless attitude – always seeking forgiveness, and wanting to keep the peace. Didn’t he know that this undermined the love he said he felt for her? She would rather that he was still the philanderer he used to be. At least then he wasn’t a lapdog, and he stood up for her.
As for going to Aunt Amelia’s home in Brighton, he could jolly well think again! Flora had plans of her own. She intended to go to Aunt Pru’s, to live with her and Freddy.
Flora had spent a week each year with Aunt Pru. The subterfuge of her being at Millicent’s home had worked throughout her school years, as no one took any interest in her. Normal, loving parents would have sought more information, but no such complications ever occurred. And each year Daddy consented without question, only occasionally passing a remark that he hoped she’d enjoyed her visit and had been a good girl – and that was that. After leaving school and going to college, Flora had simply told them that she would be spending an extra week in Scotland, with like-minded students, taking part in concerts. The fund that her father had set up for her was more than enough for her needs, and for an
y travelling she wanted to do.
Those short stays with Aunt Pru and Freddy had been the happiest of her growing-up years, and the only time she experienced the feeling of being truly loved. Although they still lived in Stepney, they had moved to a larger house around the corner, nearer to Aunt Pru’s friend, Abe. The downstairs of the house was given over to school rooms.
Flora had long since realized the extent of the relationship between Aunt Pru and Abe, even though Aunt Pru went to great lengths to hide it, when Flora visited. Freddy confirmed these suspicions on her last visit. Now fourteen and a thoughtful young man, handsome like their father, and with a love of music, like her, Freddy played the violin beautifully. She’d taken him to a concert – his first. The music had enraptured him and afterwards, whilst in a cafe drinking cocoa, he’d talked more than she’d ever known him to.
Some of what Freddy said had frightened Flora. It seemed that Abe wasn’t the respectable businessman that she’d supposed, but a gangster, and wasn’t always kind to Aunt Pru. ‘But don’t worry, Flors’ – Freddy had always called her Flors – ‘I keep my eye on him.’
Not wanting to disillusion him, Flora hadn’t said anything, but thought what an inadequate defence he would be for Aunt Pru, if ever she needed it. She hadn’t pushed for more information on what Abe did, either, but had consoled herself with the thought that Abe’s funding of Pru’s school for poor children in the area showed that he did have a good side.
Freddy had gone on to say, ‘You know that he and Mum sleep together, don’t you?’
She’d nodded and changed the subject. But now she felt glad that she knew for sure, because it was something she had to sort out with Aunt Pru. She needed Pru to know that her moving in didn’t mean that Pru had to change her life, as Flora was certain had happened every time she’d visited. She knew this would be a lot for Aunt Pru to accept.
Knowing the very different circles in which Flora moved from those that she and Freddy moved in, Aunt Pru had over the years always tried to shield Flora from the way her and Freddy’s life really was. But as she’d gained more understanding, Flora had realized that Aunt Pru was ashamed of how things had turned out for her. Well, she has no need to be. She did the best she could, after the way my father treated her – making her believe she was special to him, then casting her out with a one-time payment, once Mother found out. Poor Aunt Pru should be proud of what she’s achieved. Father is a beast!
From the little she’d seen of her family over the years, Flora had been saddened by the way her father, who now owned fifteen haberdashery shops across the south of England, meant nothing in his own home. Her elder brother Harold, who still had no time for Flora and buttered up to his mother, managed three of the family shops and, Flora had noticed, was in a kind of conspiracy with her mother against her father. As for Francis, he had become weak over the years; he managed just one of the shops, and bowed down to Harold’s every wish. Flora made her mind up to tackle her mother. She would try to persuade her to see the pain that she’d inflicted on her daughter, and would try to make her love her in the same way she did Harold and Francis. There would be no husband-hunting, though, as her own plans for her future didn’t include marriage.
Francis wrote often. Mostly complaining letters, though his interest in foreign affairs gave her an insight as to what was going on in the world – something none of her lessons at school or college covered.
From the age of twelve, he’d written to Flora about the strategic alliances being made – Britain with France, and then later with Russia. He’d told her all he knew of the Balkan Wars as they happened. And now he feared that Britain might become involved in a war with Germany.
Re-joining the others on the tour, Flora dreaded getting back into the horse-drawn coach with them. As she was alone and the youngest, they expected her to take the most uncomfortable seat at the back of the twelve-seater carriage. The strong perfume of the women, mingled with the sweaty smell of the men, made her feel nauseous. Needing a distraction from all of this, Flora dug out of her bag Francis’s latest letter, which had arrived on her final day at the Santa Maria School of Music and Art:
War is bound to happen. There is unrest in Serbia. But worse than that, the news is full of the murder of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austrian throne, and his wife, while on a visit to Bosnia. The Austrians believe the assassin to be a Serbian and are targeting their anger towards Serbia.
Mother has forbidden Harold and me even to talk about the possibility of war, and has told us she would die if either of us thinks of joining the forces. Well, she needn’t worry on my account. I’m terrified of such a prospect!
But guess what? Do you remember that spotty girl we used to giggle at when we saw her in church – Annie, her name was. She’s the daughter of one of Mother’s friends. Well, she’s joined the British Red Cross as a trainee. They are recruiting girls, just in case. Mother says that Annie is willing to go abroad, if needed. Can you imagine!
At this moment Flora could imagine, and she liked the idea.
Before she came to Italy to study music for a year, her continued education at St Alban’s College in Edinburgh had an emphasis on music and languages, and as she’d always shone at both, it had been an easy, happy time for her. But the college had also tried to develop practical skills in their pupils. Apart from those needed to run a home, and the more genteel occupations of embroidery and painting, there had been optional courses run by the St John Ambulance Brigade. Flora had loved these lessons, and had obtained the highest level of first-aid certificate.
As a member of St John Ambulance, she now thought she could apply to them. I, too, could train to be a nurse, and then, if the war happens, I would volunteer for oversees duty. My classical training can wait. The more she thought about this, the more Flora warmed to the idea. After all, very few women, especially pianists, were accepted by the large orchestras, so her prospects were most likely in teaching – which didn’t overly excite her, although she did relish the thought of perhaps giving some of her time to Aunt Pru’s school, to bring music to the poor of the East End.
Sadness overcame her at this thought, as she pondered how few opportunities there were for women. There was nothing she would like more than to perform onstage. To have an audience hushed while she played. To hear that silence when she finished, and then the rapturous applause. She’d heard this so often at concerts, and had always wanted it to be her the audience was applauding. But then there should be more opportunities for the poor, too, and she could make a difference in that field, as her lovely Aunt Pru was doing.
The journey home took four days and, during it, Flora went over and over how she would tackle her mother. In the end she decided that direct confrontation was the only way – she would force her mother to listen to her, and to face the issues that had drawn a deep crevice between them. She so wanted them to be friends and, maybe, love would follow. How wonderful that would be.
Her mother’s greeting gave her the perfect opportunity. ‘Oh, you’re home! Well, don’t get too settled. Aunt Amelia is expecting you in a few days.’
‘Mother, can I speak to you?’
‘For goodness’ sake, what about? I haven’t much time. I have a committee meeting of the Red Cross.’
‘You’re part of the Red Cross? I didn’t know that.’
‘What did you want to speak to me about?’
This curt dismissal, cutting off any interest that she might show in her mother, always hurt. The wall between them was going to be difficult to break down, because it was a wall of hate. One put up by her mother and, seemingly, impenetrable by Flora.
‘Can we go into the garden and maybe have tea served?’
‘I told you, I – I have to go out.’
‘Please, Mother, it’s important.’
‘Oh, very well.’
The warmth of the sun did nothing to thaw her mother, and her face remained stiff with anger. Flora sat down at the garden table and looked around her, hop
ing to gain some peace from her fraught nerves by gazing at the beautiful flowers and shrubs blooming in every corner and giving off a wonderful scent. Here, in this walled paradise, you would never know you were so near the centre of the capital city.
Grace coughed, bringing Flora’s attention back to the present and reminding her that the moment was upon her. She’d planned this meeting so often that she was word-perfect. ‘Mummy, I—’
‘You are not a child, Flora, you should address me as “Mother” now.’
‘Sorry, yes. I – I just wanted to try to clear the air between us. I wanted to say that—’
‘What are you talking about: clear the air! We haven’t fallen out. What ridiculous notion have you got into your head now?’
This wasn’t going well at all. It didn’t seem as if Flora’s longing to have her mother as a friend would ever happen. ‘Whatever I did to displease you, I want you to forgive me.’
‘What nonsense is this? Has your father put you up to this?’
‘No! No, I haven’t spoken to Father. I’m unhappy. I want you to love me, to accept me back home. I want us to be friends.’
Rising as if her chair had burned her, Grace looked down into her daughter’s face. ‘You’re a grown woman, and yet you still do all you can to annoy and upset me. I should never have had you. You’re nothing but a thorn in my side. Don’t think for one moment that you will ever live under the same roof as me. I couldn’t bear it.’
‘Mummy!’
‘“Mother!” Do you hear me? “Mother” – though I’ve wished a thousand times that I wasn’t.’ Turning and almost falling, her mother raced across the lawn.
Tears stung Flora’s eyes. Why? Why?
Through the blur of those tears, she saw her father approaching. His walk spoke of his anger. Her mother must have gone straight to him, though Flora hadn’t even known he was in the house.