A Memory of Violets

by Hazel Gaynor

  She put the milk jug down, her hands shaking as she felt the color drain from her cheeks. She glanced around, looking for Violette Ashton. Was she here? The words of the unsent letter danced around her mind. I know this will sound most unusual Mrs. Ashton, but I believe you may be able to assist me in discovering the whereabouts of someone who I would dearly love to find.

  “Are you not feeling well, Miss Harper?” Mrs. Ingram asked, staring at Tilly. “You look a little pale.”

  “Oh, no,” Tilly bluffed, quickly recovering herself. “I’m perfectly well, thank you. Just a little weary. It’s been a busy day.”

  “Yes, I can imagine. And more train travel for you to get here. You poor girl, you have my every sympathy!” Mrs. Ingram sipped from her teacup. “I must say, the girls have put on some wonderful displays. You might remember my daughter, Violette? She insisted we come to show our support. She’s become a firm supporter of the Flower Homes since meeting Mr. Shaw on Alexandra Rose Day. We were fortunate enough to have tea with him at the Mansion House that afternoon, courtesy of the Lady Mayoress. Ah, here she is now.”

  Violette walked into the refreshment tent, three pretty, raven-haired girls at her side, ranging in age from ten to fourteen. The youngest walked with a crutch. Tilly hardly heard Violette speak as she introduced her daughters, missing their names entirely. She could only think about the letter concealed within Flora’s notebook.

  “It’s quite the strangest thing, Mother,” Violette remarked, “but I can’t help feeling that I’ve been here before. There’s something about the sounds and the smells—the sea, the salty air, the cry of the seagulls—it all feels so familiar.”

  “Really, darling?” Mrs. Ingram replied. “I can’t imagine why.”

  Tilly’s mind was racing. She remembered reading something in Flora’s notebook, something about Flora meeting a French lady at one of the Clacton fete days. She’d said the lady had a child with her, a child with red hair.

  Now it was Violette’s turn to notice Tilly’s distraction. “Are you unwell, Miss Harper? You look very pale.”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Ashton.” She pulled at the collar of her blouse. It was choking her. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go to fetch more lemonade. I’m sure the children will be glad of it.”

  Rushing back to Poppy House, glad to be in the cool interior, Tilly ran upstairs to the room she had been given for the week. Lifting Flora’s notebook from her coat pocket, she removed the unsealed envelope. It was marked simply Mrs. Violette Ashton. Did she dare?

  Placing the envelope in her skirt pocket, she walked back downstairs, making her way toward the scullery, where she took a jug of lemonade from the dresser. As she did, she noticed a pile of picture postcards. The image on the front was of a group of girls from the Flower Homes. They were arranged around a work table that was covered with displays of their flowers. She picked one up, reading the label at the bottom. SHAW’S HOMES FOR WATERCRESS AND FLOWER GIRLS, 1883. She recognized it as the same postcard she’d found among Flora’s possessions in the wooden box. Placing the postcard in the envelope with her letter—which she quickly returned to her pocket—she began to strain the lemonade into a clean jug. The scent of the lemons made the back of her nose tingle and her eyes smart.

  She was almost done when Edward rushed into the scullery.

  “Miss Harper! I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  “It’s quite all right,” she muttered. “I’m just finished.”

  “We’re about to start the tug-o-war and I need a ribbon to mark the center of the rope. Sarah said there should be one in a drawer here somewhere. You wouldn’t happen to know . . .”

  “Tilly! Are you in there?” Mrs. Shaw was calling for her now. “You’re going to miss the gentlemen in the tug-o-war!”

  She was flustered, as much by the sudden appearance of Edward as by the letter in her pocket.

  “Coming!” she called back. “Sorry, Mr. Shaw. I have to go.”

  “Go!” He laughed. “Ah, here are the ribbons. And I look forward to six o’clock,” he added as he rushed from the room.

  Tilly blushed, straightened her skirt, and grabbed the jug of lemonade before making her way back outside, the slim envelope in her pocket weighing as much as ten men.

  WHEN THE LAST OF THE GUESTS had departed, the last of the cups, saucers, and plates had been washed and dried, and the last of the many chairs and tables had been neatly stacked and removed from the gardens, Tilly wearily hung her apron on the hook at the side of the scullery door, smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks, and stepped outside into the cool evening air. Her feet ached, her arms were sore from lifting and carrying, her hands were as dry as paper, her head pounded, and she still had supper to serve to dozens of hungry girls in half an hour, but the prospect of her six o’clock rendezvous lifted her spirits.

  As she walked around the side of the house toward the rose garden, she watched the butterflies that flitted and danced among the purple buddleia. They replicated the fluttering in her stomach: whatever would she find to talk about with a man who’d barely said two words to her since she’d arrived in London six months ago? An unchaperoned meeting like this was most unconventional and although Mrs. Shaw seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement, Tilly knew her own mother would not approve. It was one of the reasons she’d agreed to it.

  Edward was waiting for her, leaning casually against the red-brick archway at the entrance to the garden. Tilly watched as he ran a hand through his hair and took a draw on his cigarette. He saw her and smiled.

  “Very punctual, Miss Harper,” he remarked, checking the time on his pocket watch.

  “Please, call me Tilly.” Her voice caught in her throat, betraying her nerves. “Miss Harper sounds so formal. Clacton doesn’t seem like the sort of place for formalities.”

  Edward laughed. “You are quite right. I’d be perfectly happy to dispense with the formalities. So, Tilly, shall we take a stroll in the rose garden. After you.”

  As Tilly walked through the narrow archway, the aroma hit her immediately, the air laced with the sweet perfume of the many blooms that had been warmed in the sun. It was delicious. The garden was abundant with different varieties and colors of roses that still thrived in the mild September weather.

  “Mr. Hutton started the rose garden years ago, when there were only a few houses here,” Edward explained. “It’s always struck me how the garden has grown at the same rate as the orphanage, how the children have flourished just like the roses.” He paused to pick at some aphids on an ivory tea rose. “I often wonder what the children make of it all here,” he mused. “The contrast to their life in London could hardly be greater if they’d been removed to another world entirely.”

  “It’s a pleasure to see them so vibrant,” Tilly replied, “the orphans and the flowers. It really is a special place for children to grow up.” She bent down to inhale the scent of a cluster of bright orange roses. “I’ve always loved the smell of roses. It reminds me of my grandmother.”

  She was transported back to her grandmother’s garden as she savored the sweet scent. She recalled how her grandmother had comforted her after her father’s death, how she’d held Tilly tightly as they’d watched the snow falling among the Christmas roses, as tears fell down her cheeks.

  “I’ve loved flowers since I was small,” she continued. “Granny had a lovely garden. She always took great delight in seeing the roses bloom. She said it was the first sign of summer.”

  As they strolled along the winding pathways, clusters of vivid pink rambling roses scenting their way, it struck Tilly how comfortable she was in Edward’s company—comfortable enough to talk about her home and family. She felt free under the clear skies of the south coast, finding it liberating to be able to talk without feeling judged or anxious.

  As Edward told her about the history of the orphanage, Tilly was also surprised by how animated he was. He really was a different person here. Perhaps it was being away
from Herbert, or perhaps it was just the beauty of this place—the vast, open spaces—which allowed people to relax in a way that London never could.

  Reaching a small wooden bench nestled beneath a canopy of rambling rosebushes, Tilly bent down to read an inscription on a small plaque on the back of the seat.

  GOD GAVE US ROSES IN JUNE SO THAT WE CAN HAVE MEMORIES IN DECEMBER

  “That’s so beautiful,” she whispered. “Do you know whose words they are?”

  Edward stood at her shoulder. She could sense him next to her.

  “It was one of the children. Apparently, it was something her mother used to say. An Irish girl, if I remember. Very poetic people. The matrons had the seat put here in her memory.”

  “It’s very lovely.”

  Tilly stood in respectful silence for a moment, tilting her head to look up as a solitary seagull flew overhead, swooping and banking on the thermals.

  “Do you like it here?” Edward asked, following her gaze skyward.

  She turned to him. How had she never noticed how handsome he was: his hair always combed neatly to the right, his dignified nose—perfectly straight—and the slightest suggestion of a mustache that skirted his top lip? How had she not seen this before?

  “Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, I do. I like it here very much.”

  ALL TOO SOON, their brief time together had passed and Tilly had to return to the house to serve supper. They strolled amiably along the meandering pathways until they returned to the narrow archway.

  “Perhaps I could show you the other gardens during the week?” Edward said.

  “During the week?”

  “Yes. You’re staying on, aren’t you? I’m sure Aunt Evelyn mentioned it.”

  “Yes. That’s right. Mrs. Harris is back, you see, so she’ll be able to mind the girls in London while I’m here. I’ll be helping with the babies.”

  “I’m staying on a little longer also. Boring meetings with architects and accountants—that sort of thing.”

  Tilly laughed. “Then, yes. I’d love to see the other gardens.”

  He bade her good evening and walked back toward Mr. Hutton’s cottage.

  Lost in her thoughts of the rose garden and Edward’s pleasant company, Tilly returned in a daydream to Poppy House, where thirty hungry and exhausted girls were waiting for their supper.

  AFTER WAVING HER CHARGES OFF as the omnibuses made their way to the station for the return trip to London, Tilly climbed wearily upstairs to her room. She splashed water on her face, changed into her nightdress, and collapsed into the comfortable bed. Too exhausted to read Flora’s notebook, she lay in the dark and listened to the sea. She’d left the shutters open and turned on her side so that she could look out at the millions of stars twinkling in the clear, dark sky. She’d missed the sight of them.

  She wondered, for just a moment, about the envelope she’d given to Violette Ashton. She’d said very few words as she’d handed it to her.

  “I thought you might like a picture postcard of the Flower Homes. It was taken a few years ago, but you might like it all the same.”

  Mrs. Ashton had simply thanked her and placed the envelope in her purse as the fire-drill display began.

  Tilly wondered whether she’d read the letter yet. If she had, did it mean anything to her?

  Lulled by the sounds of the sea and the ache in her limbs, she soon fell into a deep sleep, too tired even for dreams.

  Chapter 33

  Clacton

  September 1912

  Tilly’s immediate love for the Flower Village intensified over the following days. She found herself charmed by the stunning seascape, by the breeze that rippled through the long meadow grass, and by the atmosphere of love and hope that oozed from every home, every room, every child at the orphanage. In particular, she developed a strong affection for the very youngest children.

  Although she’d become accustomed to the afflictions of the older girls at the Flower Homes, Tilly found herself less able to accept the sight of the infants and toddlers, who were still struggling to adapt to their useless limbs and unseeing eyes. Elsie explained how some of them had suffered from polio when they were newborn, and Tilly’s heart broke for them. Still, they made her laugh with their childish innocence and endless questions—excited by the chance to meet somebody new and ask her about the mountains and lakes of her home and about how the girls in London had made roses for the Queen. They loved to hear Tilly’s stories, asking her to repeat them over and over again, especially the story of Alexandra Rose Day.

  “It’s quite amazing,” Elsie said as Tilly shadowed her in her work and helped her fold endless piles of bed linen, “how children who will hardly speak or look at you when they first arrive can blossom before your very eyes. Sarah says they’re like crocuses in the spring, the way they open up. They break your hearts when they leave to go into service, or to go to London to the Flower Homes. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that, no matter how long I work here.”

  Amid all the usual routines of cooking, cleaning, and washing, Tilly found a new joy in her duties at the Flower Village. There was something less drab about scrubbing at small pinafores with carbolic while a pleasant breeze drifted through the open washroom window, and she almost took pleasure in hefting the heavy basket of mangled sheets out to the back gardens, where she hung them on long washing lines to snap and flap in the wind. The smell of the bed sheets when they were dried by the sun and the sea air was one of the nicest smells Tilly had ever known. She held the bundle of folded sheets to her face and breathed in deeply. Elsie laughed at her and said she must be cracked in the head if she took pleasure from the smell of folded bed sheets.

  It was on the morning of her second full day at the Flower Village, while she was picking lavender for scenting the soap, that Tilly was startled by a cough behind her. She jumped and turned around, dropping the sprigs of lavender in the process.

  “Mr. . . . Edward! You gave me a fright.” She put her hand to her chest, her heart pounding.

  “I can see that,” he said, laughing. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He stooped to pick up the dropped stems and passed them back to her. “Looks like you’ve gathered quite a bunch there.”

  “Yes. For soap. But I think I might have gone a little over the top! It smells so lovely though, don’t you think?”

  He leaned forward to inhale the vibrant purple flowers, his face close enough to Tilly’s that she could see the pale eyelashes that framed his eyes. She shivered, despite the warmth of the sun and the shawl around her shoulders.

  Edward smiled and brushed his hair from his forehead. “I don’t suppose you’d have time for a short stroll? I didn’t get a chance to show you the walled garden yet. Mr. Hutton would never forgive me if he found out you’d returned to London without seeing his famous walled garden.”

  Tilly hesitated, glancing toward the house. “Well, I should really be getting back to prepare lunch . . . but I suppose a few minutes can’t do any harm.

  “So, how have your ‘boring’ meetings been going?” Tilly asked as they walked.

  “Ha! Quite well, as it happens. It’s so much easier to manage everything in person. There are so many little decisions that need to be made—windows to be put here instead of there, doors to open out rather than in. Progress is much faster when I’m here. And I’m always perfectly happy to find an excuse to stay awhile longer.”

  “Is it a new house you’re planning?”

  “Two new houses, actually. A convalescent home and a new cottage hospital. It’s incredible, the pace at which this place has grown since the early days, when only Buttercup and Daffodil Houses were built. There’s still plenty of land available for more building, too. I suspect we’ll eventually use it all. That’s what my uncle plans, anyway.”

  Tilly stopped to shake a stone from her shoe before they continued walking.

  “How is your uncle’s health?” she asked. “Mrs. Shaw mentioned that he’d been feeling unwell r
ecently and I can’t help noticing how he coughs so dreadfully and struggles to get his breath.”

  “Hmm. He isn’t the best, I’m afraid. Even a short stroll down to the beach yesterday caused him quite some discomfort. It’s the smog in London. Irritates his chest. The doctors say he should rest and spend as much time here as possible, but Uncle Albert is a stubborn old swine, and he can’t bring himself to leave London. He feels he would be ‘abandoning his girls.’”

  The sound of Mr. Hutton’s grass mower grew louder as they neared the houses.

  “Poppy. Foxglove. Freesia. Buttercup. Daffodil.” Tilly read the names of the houses, etched into stone lintels above the doors. “Such lovely names. I believe it was Mrs. . . . your aunt’s idea to name each house after a flower.”

  “Yes. She insisted that the orphanage be a place where the children could flourish. She always thought of the orphans as like little flowers that would blossom and thrive with the right care and attention. She was absolutely right.”

  “You can see it in their eyes,” Tilly agreed. “There’s a sparkle, a hope. And there’s something about the space here. The meadow, the beach, the sea, the sky . . . I really can’t think of a better place for any child to grow up—especially after all the darkness and horror of their terrible lives on the streets. No wonder they have such hope. How could you not when you realize the world is so vast and endless?”

  They walked on in comfortable silence, the ever-present seagulls wheeling and crying overhead. They passed the rose garden and went on into the walled garden, where lavender, stocks, and sweet peas mingled to create the most wonderfully sweet scent. The high walls offered a welcome shelter from the cool breeze.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying,” Tilly ventured as they walked, their feet crunching on the shale path, “but you seem a lot more relaxed here than you did in London.”

  Edward was silent for a moment. “I think sometimes a place can bring out the best in a person, don’t you? I don’t know what it is, but I’ve always felt very comfortable here. I remember visiting as a young boy and loving the openness of it all, the rush of the wind in my ears. For the first time I felt I could run, laugh, and scream with the other children, free from the restrictions of a stuffy schoolroom. I didn’t feel I had to be like . . . well . . . let’s just say I felt as though I could be myself here.” He stopped for a moment to admire a bush full of rose hips, the lush berries just turning from orange to their rich, distinctive red. “And, of course, my brother can’t stand the seaside, so he rarely comes here.”