A Memory of Violets Read online

  Mrs. Ingram leaned forward. “And tell me, dear,” she said, “in what way are the girls crippled?”

  There was no hint of embarrassment or discomfort in her voice. Most people Tilly knew didn’t care to talk about the cripples, finding it an impossibly awkward topic of conversation, something only whispered about on street corners or behind closed doors.

  “Their afflictions vary. Some don’t have full use of their hands after suffering from polio as infants. Some were born blind or developed problems with their eyesight after the scarlet fever. Others lost arms or legs in factory accidents. Without the full use of their limbs they can’t be employed in domestic service. Selling flowers, or begging, was all they could do—until Mr. Shaw came along.”

  “I don’t mean to appear insensitive,” Mrs. Ingram continued, leaning even farther forward, sending a delicious burst of rose perfume drifting toward Tilly, “but how do they make the flowers without the use of arms or hands—or the benefit of eyesight? It seems to me an impossible task.”

  Tilly smiled. “Honestly? I have no idea. But they’ve somehow found a way. During my interview for the position, Mrs. Shaw explained that they’ve adapted quite remarkably. She told me the girls seem to instinctively take to the work, forming the leaves and petals of even the most delicate flowers with relative ease.”

  “It’s really quite something. Isn’t it?” Mrs. Ingram leaned back, her head resting against the top of the seat. “Still, I imagine it can’t be the easiest of circumstances to work in—with cripples, I mean. I suppose it requires some sort of training—or experience?”

  Tilly glanced at her hands. “Not really. Experience in domestic service was the main requirement for the position, although I suppose an understanding of the girls’ physical limitations is helpful.”

  A sudden rocking of the train as it rounded a bend caused a momentary lapse in their conversation. Mrs. Ingram grabbed the edge of her seat.

  “My goodness! These trains are unpleasant, aren’t they? I simply cannot understand the fascination with them. I’d much prefer to travel by horse and carriage, even if it does take longer.”

  Tilly disagreed. She was enjoying the sensation of speed, of the distance growing between her and her Lakeland home. The sooner she got to London, the better.

  “Well, I have to say, I admire your spirit, Miss Harper. It sounds like you’ll have your hands full. There can’t be many young women who would put themselves into such demanding circumstances. Good for you, I say.” Mrs. Ingram paused, rummaged in her coat pocket, and produced a small paper bag. “Mint imperial?”

  She offered the sweets in a manner that implied they were some sort of antidote to the impossible task Tilly was about to undertake. Tilly took one, smiling weakly, wondering whether she was up to the challenge of the “demanding circumstances” of her new position after all.

  Appearing to have completed her interrogation into Tilly’s future employment, and unable to speak with a mouth full of mint, Mrs. Ingram took to gazing out of the window again, her eyes fixed firmly on the passing countryside. Tilly did the same, allowing herself to relax into the soothing, rocking motion of the train as the fields gave way intermittently to towns and cities where great chimneys peppered the horizon, sending plumes of black smoke snaking up between the white clouds.

  Narrowing her eyes against the glare of the sun, Tilly watched Mrs. Ingram as she twisted the lace handkerchief around and around between her fingers. She wondered what Mrs. Ingram had meant about its being up to her daughter to decide whether her journey was an end or a beginning. Tilly wondered whether she wasn’t the only passenger the train was accusing of running away; perhaps others had secrets as well.

  It had been an early start, and Tilly’s eyes soon grew heavy in the warmth of the sun now streaming through the carriage window. How long ago it seemed since she’d woken in the lavender light of dawn, lying in the bed she had slept in since she was a young child. How long ago it seemed since she’d stood in the doorway of their humble cottage that morning, taking in the beautiful landscape as her breaths were carried toward the mountaintops in a dewy mist. She shivered at the memory of Esther’s blank expression, at the sensation of her mother’s reluctant embrace, which had sent a far greater chill through Tilly’s bones than the cool morning air that surrounded her.

  She rested her cheek against the window, her ears tuning, once again, to the rhythm of the train . . . running away, running away, running away . . . As she fell into a restless slumber, the memories, which lurked always at the edge of her thoughts, awoke in her mind and rushed eagerly into her dreams . . .

  The hooves of the ponies thundering over the soft grass; the dark, brooding mountains ahead, cast into shadow; a pheasant taking to the skies, startled by their approach.

  Laughing and calling to each other; the thrill of the chase. Her idea.

  “Look after your sister and don’t go too fast,” her mother said. “Remember, Esther isn’t as confident on the pony as you are.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “And don’t go too near the railway tracks.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  A flash of brilliant purple and blue from a damselfly dancing in front of her; the sweet, heady smell of the gorse and heather, intensified by the earlier sun. It was late in the day. They had stopped to pick lavender. Her idea.

  “Don’t be late back. You know how the light plays tricks on your eyes at dusk.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  A thick, swirling fog descending rapidly from the mountaintops. The strange hue of twilight. A flash of white rabbit darting into the grass beside her. A nervous snort from Esther’s pony. The shriek of a kestrel circling above.

  “Shouldn’t we be making our way back, Tilly? The fog is getting worse.”

  “Shhh. Listen, Esther! A train! Let’s try and outrun it.”

  “But, Mother said . . .”

  “Come on. I dare you.”

  Chapter 3

  London

  March 25, 1912

  As the motor cabdriver navigated his way through the alarming assortment of traffic converged at the junction of King’s Cross and Pentonville Roads, Tilly gazed in stunned silence through the small window. It was the lack of color that struck her the most; the drab, muted tones of gray upon gray, as if all the other shades had been painted over or forgotten about. The bright yellow daffodils and the ever-shifting shades of blue that graced the lakes of Westmorland had never felt farther away. As she worried at the buttons on her high-collared blouse, she wondered how she would ever feel at ease in this vast, colorless place, wondered when she would next take a breath of clear, fresh air.

  Frowning at the sight of a wretched young boy sweeping the road, she recalled Mrs. Ingram’s parting words: “I think you and London are going to get along quite well, Miss Harper. She may look like a rotten old crone at first, but she scrubs up as fine as any lady when you really get to know her! Just give her time.” Tilly hoped Mrs. Ingram would prove to be correct.

  AS THE TRAIN had made its final approach to Euston Station, Tilly and her fellow passengers had stared out of the windows, struck by the unfamiliar sights that heralded their arrival in London: the soaring factory chimneys spewing out thick black smoke like immense just-extinguished candles; the grimy tenement housing that hugged the railway line; the cloying smell of soot and sulfur that drifted through the compartment window, which Tilly had secured shut with the leather strap. The clear blue skies that had accompanied Tilly for most of her journey had soon disappeared beneath the gloomy fog of industry, wispy clouds replaced by the billowing smoke that gushed from the train as it crept slowly to a stop beside the platform.

  As the guard opened the compartment door, Mrs. Ingram wished Tilly a fond farewell. “It was very nice to meet you, Miss Harper, and fascinating to hear about your place of work. I sincerely wish you—and the girls—the very best of luck.”

  As she’d stepped onto the platform, Tilly saw the lace handkerchief fall fr
om Mrs. Ingram’s hand. “Oh! Mrs. Ingram! Your handkerchief!” she’d said, picking it up and handing it to her.

  “Goodness! Thank you. Thank you very much. I’m quite attached to that handkerchief. I should have been most sad to lose it. A reminder to us both, perhaps, to take better care of the things we treasure the most.”

  Collecting her own trunk from the luggage car, Tilly had watched, then, as Mrs. Ingram embraced an elegantly dressed younger woman on the platform. “My dear Violette,” she’d heard Mrs. Ingram say. “It’s so good to see you! It just isn’t natural for a mother to go so long without seeing her daughter.”

  Tilly had smiled as Mrs. Ingram was engulfed by three children. Her grandchildren, Tilly presumed. One, she’d noticed, walked with the aid of a crutch.

  “WOULD YOU HAVE THE TIME?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat so that the driver might hear her above the din of car horns and the rumbling wheels of wagons and handcarts and the lilting cries of hawkers.

  “Four bells and all’s well,” the driver shouted in reply. “I’ll have you there in no time, Miss.”

  Tilly thanked him and settled back into her seat, several church bells chiming the hour as she did, as if to confirm the time, in case she had doubted him. The wheels of the car juddered beneath her as they bounced along the uneven roads.

  Happy to let the driver concentrate on navigating through the traffic rather than chatting, Tilly settled her gaze outside. She was fascinated by the motorcars swarming over the road like an army of black ants. She stared at all the unfamiliar sights: street sellers pushing handcarts piled high with precarious mountains of vegetables; the muffin men carrying great trays of muffins on their heads and ringing their handbells to attract attention; groups of smartly dressed newspaper vendors calling out the day’s headlines; knife grinders, bootblacks, match sellers, flower sellers—the streets were crowded with people shouting their wares, walking easily among the hansom cabs, trams, motor buses, and carriages.

  Buildings hugged the streets in every direction, the shop fronts covered with huge boards advertising soap, meat, stout and ales, coffee and tonics. Posters and billboards promoted the suffragette newspaper as well as glamorous-sounding theater shows at the Olympia and the Palace. One proclaimed the terrifying experience of the Chamber of Horrors exhibit at Madame Tussauds. Tilly stared in wonder at it all, noticing the thick fog that cast a strange yellow light over everything and everyone, making the scene look almost unreal. She was about to ask the driver what the Chamber of Horrors was when he had to swerve suddenly to avoid a stationary hansom cab.

  “Of course, you’ll have heard the story of the girl who died there,” he announced, seemingly unconcerned about the collision he had just avoided.

  Tilly leaned forward so she could hear better. “I’m sorry. What girl? Where?”

  “At the Crippleage. You did say that’s where you’re going, didn’t you? Shaw’s Crippleage?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

  “Irish girl. Sad, really.”

  Tilly was confused. Why did everyone insist on talking in riddles today? “Somebody died there? What happened?”

  “Say she died of a broken heart. Missed her sister, see.”

  “Her sister? But where was her sister?”

  “Ain’t nobody knew—not a soul. She didn’t like to talk about it, what with her being so sad about it all the time. Heard she’d been taken to the workhouse, or taken in by a gang of pickpockets. Something unpleasant, anyway.”

  “That’s very sad.”

  “Not uncommon in those days, though, Miss—still ain’t. There’s men taking girls off the streets all over London. Teach ’em a life of crime they do—show ’em how to take the gentlemen’s pocket watches and the ladies’ purses. They take the crippled kids ’cause nobody would suspect a cripple of stealing, now, would they?”

  Tilly was shocked by the driver’s tale. “And how old were the sisters?”

  “Only young. Don’t think the littlest would have been more than four year old when she went missing. I was just a young coster lad back then—before I started with the hansom cabs and the hackneys and now this contraption. I knew them two girls from the markets. Never saw a day when they weren’t together, trudging around barefooted, selling their scrawny bunches of violets and primroses and watercress. Broke the older girl’s heart it did when the little one went missing. That’s what they say anyway. ’Course, I never seen her since.” He paused to concentrate on making a difficult right turn across the continual stream of traffic.

  Tilly tugged again at her blouse, wishing she could undo the top buttons. Or was it her corset that felt like it was choking her? She wriggled and fidgeted in her seat, her breaths coming quick and shallow. She didn’t like the feeling of being hemmed in, unable to see any farther than the next corner or beyond the rows of shops that stood like soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, blocking any view of what might lie behind.

  “That’s the funny thing about sisters, ain’t it,” the driver continued. “Some can’t stand the sight of each other and some can’t bear to be apart.” He chuckled to himself. “Strange things, families, eh?”

  Tilly stared blankly ahead. “Yes. I suppose they are.”

  They both fell silent again as the motorcar weaved down a series of dark, narrow side streets. Tilly thought about the two sisters. She thought of Esther; saw her perfect porcelain face through the cottage window, her sea-green eyes staring directly into Tilly’s and yet looking past her, through her. It was unnerving the way she did that, as if she were peering into another world, as if it were her eyes that had failed her, not her legs.

  “That were just before Mr. Shaw took her to the orphanage in Clacton,” the driver continued as the cab emerged onto a larger road again. “Spent her childhood down there and come back to work in the Crippleage to make the flowers when she was old enough.”

  “And what happened to her then?”

  “Not sure, to be honest, Miss. Think she spent the rest of her days making the flowers. That was all. Seemed to be the only thing she cared about. Died there some years ago, as far as I remember. They say she never got over losing her little sister.”

  Tilly was unnerved by his revelations that someone had died at the house she would soon call home. “What a sad story,” she said.

  “Most of ’em are, though, Miss, ain’t they? Any worth the tellin’.” He had to stop talking as a dramatic coughing fit gripped him. Tilly instinctively put her hand to her mouth. She’d heard how easily disease was spread in London.

  “At least the elder sister was taken in somewhere safe.”

  The driver nodded. “I suppose so.” Recovering himself, he continued. “Does a wonderful thing, Mr. Shaw. Like a living saint he is, giving all them poor girls a home to live in and an occupation. Still,” he added, lowering his voice a little, “you’d feel sorry for ’em, wouldn’t you?”

  “For who?” Tilly held her hand over her mouth and nose as a nauseating stench of sulfur, rotting fish, and manure filled the cab.

  “Well. You know. People like them.” He lowered his voice further so that Tilly had to strain to hear him above the noise outside. “The blind and the cripples. Can’t think of nothin’ worse than not being able to walk or see. Think I’d rather die than live like that. Need your wits about you in London, Miss—’specially round St. Giles or Spitalfields—riddled with disease and criminals. The houses there ain’t fit for the rats to live in, and it’s certainly not safe to walk about alone. It’d make your eyes water, Miss, if you saw how some people live. Well, let’s hope you never need to be visiting them parts of the city, eh!”

  Tilly pulled her coat closer around her as the motor cab bumped over cobbles, jolting her from side to side. She looked again at the fog that clung around the chimney tops, casting everything into a haunting half-light and giving the impression of evening time. How was she, a naïve blacksmith’s daughter from the country, ever going to manage in this sprawling, dangerous metropolis? Th
e London she’d read about in stories and seen depicted in the newspaper reports commemorating the King’s coronation last summer bore no resemblance at all to the gray misery of Farringdon Road. There were no tree-lined malls here, no grand parks, no majestic statues or shimmering fountains. All she could see was poverty, slum housing, and the remnants of another busy day in the markets. Life was cruel for the people who lived here, she could see that. She felt the knots tighten in her stomach.

  After turning off Farringdon Road and driving along a little farther, the driver began to slow the motor. “Well, here we are then, Miss. Sekforde Street.” They turned a final corner. “Cor blimey! Looks like someone’s expecting you an’ all!”

  Tilly gasped at the sight before her, pressing her nose up against the glass window. “Oh, my goodness!”

  “A sight for sore eyes that is! Well, I never.” The driver whistled through his teeth as he stepped out of the motorcar and walked around to open the door for Tilly. He helped her step down from the cab and lifted her trunk onto the street, both of them unable to take their eyes off the sight that greeted them.

  Tilly handed him a shilling and thanked him.

  “God bless you, Miss.”

  He tipped his cap and stepped back into the motorcar.

  Vaguely aware of the engine firing up and the cab rumbling off down the street, Tilly stood motionless on the cobbles, gaping at the sight in front of her.

  Flowers.

  Flowers, everywhere.

  Garlands and garlands of flowers decorated the entire street; draped around the windows on all three floors of the terraced houses; crisscrossing the sky above her, suspended on invisible wires, giving the impression that they were floating there by themselves. Flowers were draped over window boxes and framed the doorways of every house. Roses, geraniums, daisies, lilies, carnations, orchids—every conceivable type of flower was represented in the display, and every single one, Tilly knew, had been made by hand.