A Memory of Violets

by Hazel Gaynor

  After he survived several battles and the skirmishes near Rustenburg in September, Tilly’s hopes that he would return to her increased with each letter. The government announced plans to decrease the number of Imperial Yeomen, each wave of returning soldiers providing fresh hope that he would soon be home.

  But it was hope that came too late.

  On Christmas morning, 1901, the Eleventh Battalion were attacked at Tweefontein, shot in their tents while they slept.

  People told her that a quick, noble death was better than suffering horrific injuries or being taken prisoner, along with the six hundred others that day. He’d been a hero, they said. He’d fought as an equal in the army to which he had volunteered.

  Their words were of no consolation to Tilly.

  She had one photograph of her father. It had been taken during his too-short month of training at Aldershot. In it, he stood proudly, shoulder to shoulder with his new battalion. In his uniform—dark navy Norfolk jacket, breeches and gaiters, lace boots, and felt hat—he looked every inch the experienced soldier. But when she looked closer, she was sure she saw fear in those chestnut eyes.

  Tilly was eleven years old. Her beloved daddy had left her.

  She had to remind herself to breathe—almost to remind her heart to beat.

  A BROWN PAPER PACKAGE on the table. A felt cap. A letter for each of them.

  The letters!

  It struck her with such force that she sat bolt upright in bed. The package from the War Office. Three letters—one for each of them. What had happened to them? They were never mentioned again, forgotten about in the aftermath of grief. Her father had written a letter especially for her. Where was it?

  She stepped out of bed, washed, and dressed, her hands trembling in the dark chill of the room. Her train didn’t leave for hours, but she would go to the station and wait. She had to get home. Even more than she needed to see her dying mother, she needed to read the words of her dead father.

  Open letter to “Daisy”

  From The Christian Magazine, September 10, 1912

  Thank you, once again, for your extremely generous donation to our cause. Without an address to thank you personally for your contribution, it is my hope that you will read this entry, which I write by way of our humble gratitude and thanks.

  As you know, without the patronage of individuals such as yourself, we would simply not be able to carry on with the work of the Flower Homes and Flower Village. Since we have just taken on the rent of a seventh house on Sekforde Street, the additional sum of money you have provided is most welcome indeed.

  As I am sure you are aware, Queen Alexandra chose our girls to make the ten thousand “Alexandra Roses” that were sold across the city on the inaugural Queen Alexandra Rose Day, June 26. The girls worked extremely hard to produce the volumes of roses required, but their efforts were rewarded with a brief visit to the factory by the Queen the following day. How their eyes shone with pride as she spoke to them about their work.

  Some £30,000 was collected from the sale of the roses. The money will be distributed among various charitable causes throughout the city, including the Foundling Hospitals and Ragged Schools. I cannot find the words to express how this makes my heart swell with pride.

  Our Flower Village in Clacton, Essex, is proving to be an extremely successful venture. We now have twelve homes—each named after a flower—as well as the Babies’ Villa and a convalescent home. In total, we accommodate one hundred and twenty blind and disabled girls aged between two months and fourteen years. We recently finished construction on the new infirmary, which will accommodate twenty deserted children who are in most desperate need of medical help. We have named the building “Daisy Villa” in your honor. My nephew is currently working with architects to draw up plans to build a further six homes on land that has been obtained through generous donations of friends and supporters like yourself.

  I still find myself shocked and appalled by the continual neglect of the poor children I see on the streets. It is a pitiful sight to behold. I fear that there will never be a lack of unfortunates requiring our help, but it is the many maimed, crippled, and blind flower girls—the worst afflicted—who need our help most of all. It is not our desire to “fix” them or change them in any way—simply to assist them in becoming self-supporting. Through the establishment of our factory, and the production of our artificial flowers, we are able to do just that.

  We would welcome you to visit our flower factory in London or the Flower Village in Clacton. It would be my honor to show you what we have been able to accomplish with your generous assistance.

  With warmest regards,

  Albert Shaw

  Superintendent, Training Homes

  for Watercress and Flower Girls

  Chapter 36

  Grasmere, Lake District

  September 1912

  Tilly’s stomach lurched as the branch-line train came to a stop beside the platform. She lifted her trunk from the overhead luggage rack, pulled down the window to open the carriage door, and stepped into the cool evening air. She was the only passenger to alight.

  She jumped as the guard blew his whistle, great clouds of steam and smoke enveloping her as the train creaked on, toward its destination. She stood alone, pulling her hat down over her ears and putting on her gloves, the chill of the platform seeping through the soles of her boots and catching her breaths in a fine mist. Only when the last wisps of gray smoke had dissolved around her did she pick up her trunk and begin the short walk to her cottage. It had been only six months. It felt like many more.

  Of any season that could have brought her home, she was glad it was autumn. This was when the real beauty of the landscape was revealed: the rich coppers, russets, and tans of the oak and horse-chestnut trees shimmering in the glow of the low evening sun, as if they were made of precious metals. The distant mountains were bruised with browned bracken and purple gorse. Haystacks dotted the fields like a row of paper dolls. The bushes and hedgerows were lush with elderberries, and sloes. Ripe for the picking, her father would say. Perfect for making gin. Fat blackberries hung from gnarled briars like brilliant black jewels; crimson rose hips clustered alongside hawthorn and holly berries. It was all so abundant.

  But despite the landscape’s familiarity, it struck Tilly how time had moved on. The last grip of winter had still touched the area when she’d left for London; the snow had clung to the mountaintops with a grim determination. The wildflowers—cowslips, buttercups, poppies, rapeseed—that she knew would have speckled the fields with glorious color during the summer, had been and gone. Time had slipped away, seasons had passed, regardless of whether Tilly Harper was here or not. It was a stark reminder that life had carried on perfectly well without her.

  Her boots crunched over dry leaves, snapping the brittle, bare branches that lay underfoot. Despite the pounding in her chest and the knots in her stomach, she held her head high, allowing the honeyed light of the setting sun to brighten her face as she walked around the bend in the lane and caught the first glimpse of her home.

  The cottage seemed smaller than she remembered, dwarfed by the mountains that soared in the background. The distinctive gray hues of the Coniston slate seemed dull against the myriad colors of the landscape beyond. A spiral of smoke drifted from the chimney; she caught the smell of woodsmoke—so familiar. She walked on, her eyes absorbing every detail: the wood stack by the side of the house, a spider web on the gate, gilded by the sun. Her home. The place that had harbored so many of her hopes and dreams. The place that now spoke to her only of sadness and regret.

  Forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other, she progressed slowly toward the low front door, recessed slightly against two stone columns. The iron handle and knocker, forged by her father, lay against the oak, the wood weathered by years of harsh mountain weather.

  She stopped. Took a deep breath. A beginning, or an end?

  She knocked gently, pushed the door open, and walked inside.
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  “HELLO,” SHE CALLED as she stepped inside, her voice small and nervous. The word hung in the musty air. There was no response. “Hello,” she called again, placing her trunk on the slate floor of the scullery. Still, nothing.

  She felt like an intruder, anxious and uncertain. She looked around: the black cooking pot hung across the fire; the horse brasses on the lintel above the fireplace; a milk jug on the table, a few sprigs of bell heather and hawthorn placed inside; the cat sleeping on a chair by the fireside, its nose buried in its thick, bushy tail. All was quiet. Even the usual rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the back room was absent.

  And then she heard the steady, familiar squeak of rubber on the slate floors. Wheels turning, slowly. It was a sound that set her teeth on edge. Esther’s wheelchair.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Time seemed to stop, the breeze outside seemed to still as Tilly studied Esther’s face: pale and beautiful, her striking sea-green eyes so empty, so devoid of life or hope. The sight of her struck Tilly like a blow to the chest, stirring long-forgotten emotions deep in her heart. Was it pity? Was she, after all these years, feeling sorry for her sister? For the fact that she would never walk? For the fact that part of her had wanted this to happen?

  As she looked at Esther, she suddenly knew why she couldn’t hear the clock. It had been stopped.

  “Is she dead?”

  Esther nodded. “She heard the whistle of the train. She knew you were here.”

  Tilly blinked. She refused to let herself cry. Her legs trembled beneath her petticoats.

  “She didn’t wait? She didn’t wait to see me?” The words came in a rush; anger in her voice, years of disappointment and resentment flooding out of her. “She knew I was here. That you’d be safe. She went without saying good-bye?”

  Esther stared at her. “She’d waited long enough, Tilly.”

  She turned her chair around and wheeled herself back to her bedroom.

  Tilly stood in the darkening silence of the cottage. She listened to Esther’s muffled sobs, the sound running through her like a knife. She wanted to reach out to her, to embrace her, to tell her it would be all right—but she couldn’t. The emotional brick wall built by her younger self was held together with so many layers of resentment that, even now, when their lives were crumbling around them, it was impossible to break down.

  Unsure of what else to do, Tilly turned to what she knew best. She walked outside, to the mountains and lakes she loved so much, retreating into herself: the girl with the wind at her heels and a storm blowing in her heart.

  AS THE AMBER SUN SANK behind the mountains, casting dusky shades of rose and orange onto the lakes, Tilly returned to the house.

  Esther had calmed a little. Tilly persuaded her to take a nap while she saw to the necessities: drawing the curtains, covering the mirrors. Then she made the short trip to the Jenningses’ farm to fetch the doctor, just as she had done all those years ago when Esther was being born.

  Mrs. Jennings wept when Tilly told her the news, heartbroken to learn that her good friend had passed. She dabbed at her tears with a tea towel she was holding and hugged Tilly tightly, insisting that she make her a cup of sweet tea for the shock. Tilly politely declined.

  “I don’t want to leave Esther alone for too long,” she explained. “If you could ask Dr. Jennings to come as soon as he returns from Oxenholme, I’d be very grateful.”

  “Of course, dear. He’ll come as soon as he can. You poor dears. You poor, poor dears.”

  Only when she returned to the cottage, knowing that the doctor would soon be on his way, did Tilly go to her mother’s room.

  She thought about the last time she’d seen her. They hadn’t parted on an argument or harsh words. Much worse than that, they’d parted under a cloud of distance and silence. For so many years they had fought and argued and condemned each other for their differing opinions and outlooks on life. When Tilly had left for London that March morning, it was as if they were simply too exhausted to continue their battle.

  Tilly had thought about it as she’d made the long journey back from London that morning. As the train had sped northward, she’d felt a desperate need to fill the gaping hole of silence between herself and her mother. Even a blazing argument would be better than the blank nothingness they’d allowed to fester, like a sore neither of them was capable of healing. More than anything, Tilly wanted to tell her mother how she’d been accepted by the girls at Violet House, that she’d made a success of her new life in London, that she was cared for by many, many people there. She wanted Hannah Harper to know that her daughter wasn’t the failure she’d always believed her to be. And the thought of never being able to explain this had bothered Tilly far more than the prospect of how her mother might receive her after all these months apart.

  But she was too late.

  Approaching the bedroom, she hesitated. She felt light-headed, her breaths coming quickly, her hands cold and clammy. Grasping the handle of the door to steady herself, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and pushed the door ajar.

  She peered inside.

  The room was shrouded in darkness, the curtains drawn across the small window. Other than a candle that burned on the windowsill, the space was gloomy. Shadows danced on the walls as the candle flame flickered, disturbed by a draft. As her pupils adjusted to the darkness, Tilly began to make out shapes, her eyes drawn to the bed in the center of the room.

  There she was.

  Her mother.

  Tilly walked slowly toward the bed, her fingers steepled, as if in prayer, resting against her lips.

  For an eternity, she stood in silence, looking at her mother, waiting for the rise and fall of the bedsheets.

  All was still. The clock pendulum, motionless.

  Who was this woman who had nursed her, rocked her to sleep, played with her, sung songs to her, made daisy chains with her in the fields? Who was this woman who, for six blissful years, had been her absolute world? How had it all gone so wrong?

  “Why didn’t you wait for me?” The whispered words tumbled from her lips. “You knew I was here. Why didn’t you wait?” She stared at the lifeless face as frustration surged through her. “You knew I wanted to say good-bye—that I had questions only you could answer. Why did you deprive me of that?”

  She fell to her knees, her body shaking.

  “What did I do? I was just a child!” There was anger in her voice now. “I needed you to love me, and you pushed me away.” She wanted to shake her, wake her up. “What did I do, Mother? What did I do?!”

  Tilly felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Dr. Jennings.

  He spoke quietly, calmly. “You’ve had a terrible shock, Tilly. You both have. Come and sit down. Mrs. Jennings is making tea.”

  She stood up and allowed herself to be led from the room, her hands still trembling. But she refused to let the tears fall.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY passed in a blur of arrangements, formalities, and tea as news spread in the village and people came to the cottage to pay their respects and pass on their condolences. Laurel wreaths were hung on the door, pennies were placed over lifeless eyes, candles burned.

  Feeling suffocated, Tilly put on her coat and hat and walked the short distance to the village post office, where she sent a telegram to Mrs. Shaw, explaining what had happened and that she didn’t know when she would be able to return to London. For now, she knew that she would have to stay in Grasmere, with Esther. Esther the cripple. Esther the invalid. Esther, the poor little girl whose pony had bolted after being startled by the whistle of a locomotive, whose pony had fallen on top of her, crushing her spine. Esther, who had lain lost in the fog for hours. Esther, who, like everyone else, blamed her sister for taking her so close to the railway track when she knew that the ponies would be startled, when she knew that her mother had asked her to take care of her sister.

  Since the accident, Esther had been allowed to wallow in her self-pity. She’d had everything done for her.
She rarely left the house, ashamed of her useless legs and her cumbersome wheelchair, afraid of the taunts from children who knew no better. She couldn’t bear the pitying looks from people whom she’d once called her friends but who didn’t now know what to say to her. A crippled girl! In Grasmere! They couldn’t have felt more awkward if a Negro woman had come to live among them.

  It struck Tilly how empty Esther’s life was—so different from the lives of the girls at the Flower Homes. They didn’t consider themselves incapable. They didn’t wallow in self-pity. While they’d blossomed and grown, Esther had simply withered. Like a violet in a winter frost, she was slowly dying.

  As Tilly returned to the cottage, she thought of Flora’s desperate search for Rosie, and with a sudden clarity, she knew that she, too, had to try and find the sister she had lost many years ago.

  EXHAUSTED FROM THE EMOTION of the day, she was relieved to fall into bed that evening. And yet, despite her aching tiredness, she couldn’t sleep, her mind a whirl of questions and uncertainties. How she wished she was back in Clacton, sitting among the roses and the lavender with Edward. How she wished Elsie hadn’t come running down the path with Esther’s telegram. She lay in silence, staring through the window at the bright orb of the perfect harvest moon and the stars that glistened in the frost-filled sky. She thought of two sisters torn apart, of a brown paper package from the War Office, of a lace handkerchief, a cluster of shamrocks neatly stitched in one corner.

  Perhaps she would have fallen asleep eventually. Perhaps she would have closed her eyes and stopped questioning, stopped wondering. Perhaps, if there hadn’t been a faint knock at her bedroom door, she would have kept that brick wall strong and firm.