A Memory of Violets (25 page)

L
ong before they reached the coast, the salty air penetrated the narrow gaps at the tops of the compartment windows. Tilly breathed it in deeply as she closed her eyes, allowing the fresh scent to flood her body with well-being.

As Mr. Shaw had predicted, the train arrived at Clacton station just sixty minutes after departing from London. The girls were delighted to find a fleet of omnibuses waiting to transport them to the orphanage.

“Can you smell the salt in the air, Miss Tilly? Isn't it delicious?”

Tilly laughed at Hilda's excitement, watching as she and the other girls stuck out their tongues, tasting the fresh, brackish breeze that swirled around them, tugging at their hats and pin
afores. The clear light and sense of space struck Tilly the most. After the claustrophobia of London, it took all her willpower not to run around in great, swooping circles like she had as a giddy child the first time she'd visited St. Bees beach with her father.

Although it took a while to move everybody from one mode of transport to another, nobody complained or fussed; everyone waiting patiently, despite their eagerness to reach their destination. They enjoyed the warmth of the generous autumn sun on their faces and the sensation of the fresh sea air as it filled their grateful lungs. The seagulls wheeled overhead, making the girls laugh with their peculiar cries.

Eventually, they were on the move again, the sparkling, turquoise sea ever present on the horizon as the merry cavalcade followed the coastline, weaving up a gentle incline toward the cliff tops.

Tilly's first sight of the Flower Village was the tops of several tall, red-brick chimney pots, soaring up toward the few clouds that dotted the sky. As the omnibus rounded a final bend, she read a large sign in black and white lettering, which stood proudly in a meadow alongside the road.

WELCOME TO SHAW'S FLOWER VILLAGE
ORPHANAGE AND HOLIDAY HOMES FOR AFFLICTED,
BLIND, AND CRIPPLED CHILDREN

Beyond the sign and the meadow stood a neat crescent of a dozen or so red-brick, two-story houses. Lace curtains swayed gently in the breeze that blew through the open sash windows. Just-reddening ivy crept over the fronts of the houses, while carefully tended gardens graced the fronts, before extending into
lush meadows. Conifer and bay trees, hypericum berry and holly bushes skirted the pathways that snaked between the houses.

A group of children playing in the meadow heard the approaching omnibuses and ran, limped, and hopped toward the fence, cheering and waving. The flower girls waved back, leaning out of the windows to shout enthusiastic hellos.

“Isn't it perfect, Miss Harper?” Hilda said. “Did you ever see anywhere so pretty?”

“It is lovely,” Tilly agreed. “Very lovely indeed.”

In fact, it took her breath away.

As the convoy pulled up in front of the crescent of houses, Tilly was happy to see Mrs. Shaw waiting to greet them. She had traveled ahead the previous day to help with arrangements for the fete. She stood beside two tall, starchy-looking women in pale blue dresses and white aprons, whom Tilly presumed to be the matrons she'd heard so much about. Beside them stood a row of the sweetest little children, all smartly dressed in matching white pinafores and bonnets, their cheeks flushed pink with the pinch of the sea breeze. They resembled a line of toy dolls, neatly arranged by a careful child. They waved their chubby little hands in greeting as the omnibus came to a stop.

It was only then that Tilly noticed Edward, standing beside Mrs. Shaw. She was surprised at how pleased she was to see him—another familiar face from London—and only hoped that his dreadful brother wasn't lurking around somewhere to trip her up with his awkward questions and sarcastic remarks about “the north” or stockingless feet.

She stepped from the omnibus, helping the girls down after her, settling those who required them into their chairs, clambering back into the bus to retrieve forgotten crutches from beneath seats for others.

Edward quickly stepped in to help as she struggled with one of the cumbersome chairs that had been brought to the front of the house.

“Let me do that. Awkward things, these new chairs. Never seem to move properly, especially over gravel. Think I preferred the Bath chairs myself. Better wheels.”

Tilly stepped to one side, grateful for Edward's help. She was struck by how relaxed he seemed. She'd never heard him speak so freely. Even at the dinner party, there'd been an awkward hesitancy about him, especially around her. Now, he spoke clearly and confidently, without the uncertainty she'd become accustomed to. And because he didn't look constantly at his feet when he spoke, he appeared taller. She noticed how his strawberry-blond hair glistened in the sun, how the blue of his eyes seemed accentuated under the clear autumnal skies.

“So, what do you think of our little Flower Village?” he asked as he continued to help Tilly organize the girls, whose nonstop chatter was like the drone of a beehive beside them.

“
Little!
” Tilly laughed. “It's amazing! I've heard so much about it, but it really is wonderful. Such a contrast to London's smog and narrow streets.”

“And that's precisely why I love it here. London can be so suffocating, don't you think?”

“Yes. It can be a little . . . choking. It's lovely to breathe such clear air.” For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hubbub of the girls' excitement swirling around them carried on the breeze. “And the gardens look so pretty.”

“Ah, now that's all down to Mr. Hutton, our gardener. He takes great pride in his gardens.”

Mrs. Shaw had joined them and overheard Tilly's remark. “Perhaps Edward could show you around the grounds a little
later, Matilda,” she said. “We'll be busy with the fete all day, but there should be a little time before supper. I'm sure Tilly would like to see the rose garden, Edward.”

He looked at Tilly. She looked at Mrs. Shaw. It wouldn't usually be encouraged for a young woman to walk with a man, unchaperoned.

“I'm sure Edward will be the perfect gentleman,” Mrs. Shaw prompted, sensing her hesitation.

“I'd love to see the rose garden,” Tilly said. “If you're sure I'm not inconveniencing anyone.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Edward said. “The scent of the roses is quite something. Especially just before dusk. That's when they give off their best perfume—after a day being warmed by the sun.”

Mrs. Shaw smiled brightly. “That's settled then. Miss Harper will be free by six. I'll leave you to make your arrangements.” She looked pleased with herself as she turned to address Tilly directly. “Sarah is the matron in charge of Poppy House, where you'll be staying, Matilda. She'll show you around, and when the girls have eaten lunch we'll meet in the back gardens. The guests will arrive at two o'clock. Edward, don't forget we still have the fire drill to set up.”

He smiled. “Yes, Aunt Evelyn. I hadn't forgotten.”

“Good.” Mrs. Shaw turned then, with an efficient swish of skirts and a hint of lavender water, and walked back into Foxglove House.

“Miss Tilly! Miss Tilly! Buttons has taken the seat I had chosen, and she won't budge.”

Hilda was standing on the doorstep of Poppy House, the next house in the terrace. She looked cross.

“All right, Hilda. I'll come and sort it out now,” Tilly called. She turned back to Edward. “I'd better go before a war breaks out.”

He laughed. “Six o'clock in the rose garden?”

She nodded. “Six o'clock.”

“And enjoy the fete, Miss Harper. It is quite the spectacle!”

They parted company as Tilly walked over to Hilda, her boots crunching noisily across the gravel. And no matter how much she tried, she couldn't stop the curl of a delighted smile that tugged at the edges of her lips.

T
ILLY
'
S TOUR OF
P
OPPY
H
OUSE
began on the top floor. Sarah, the senior matron at the Flower Village, proudly showed her the dormitory bedrooms. Crisp white sheets lay on the beds, blue candlewick blankets were tucked perfectly around the edges of the mattresses, and the windows were wide open, allowing the fresh sea air to flood the room.

“There are four cots for infants and twelve children's beds,” Sarah explained, “which makes for a crowded room, despite its size. There are just over a hundred children here currently, varying in age from young infants to girls of fourteen or fifteen years. They leave us then, to go into service, or to the Flower Homes. Just as in London, each house is very much a ‘home' under the care of a mother. Girls over the age of eleven are expected to assist with the younger children. All the rooms have views of the sea and are always well ventilated,” she continued, throwing open more windows. “We've been inspected and measured by the sanitary officer of the district and certified to contain the requisite number of cubic feet of air.”

Tilly had no idea what a cubic foot of air was, but she nodded in what she hoped was a knowledgeable manner.

Sarah chattered on as she tugged at sheets and plumped pillows. “A tidy bed makes for a tidy child. We encourage the children to keep everything neat and well organized. There's no
point going to sleep in an unmade bed. That's where all the problems start, you know. Up here,” she added, tapping her head with a stiff finger.

Tilly liked Sarah. Like Mrs. Pearce, she was strict and direct—as Tilly had expected her to be—but it was clear that she always had the best interests of the children at heart. She was a woman with exactly the right attitude to gain the respect of a hundred motherless children.

“On the first floor, at the front, there are two bedrooms. This one is Mother's,” Sarah said, flinging a door wide open, “including, as you can see, a pretty little cot for an infant, and a child's bed, for whenever a child is unsettled. You'd be surprised at how often that bed is needed. Terrible dreams some of the children have. The other room,” she said, opening a different door, “is used as a spare room. This is where you'll sleep while you stay with us. A week, I believe.”

“Yes. That's right. Mrs. Shaw was very kind to suggest I stay on after the fete. She thought it might be helpful for me to get to know the work of the mothers here. I've been managing Violet House on my own, you see, after Mrs. Harris broke her leg and . . .”

She trailed off. Sarah wasn't listening. She was already striding on ahead, opening and closing more doors to show Tilly other rooms. She moved so quickly that Tilly barely had time to see what Sarah was referring to as she followed her downstairs, matching her step for step down the narrow staircase.

“On the ground floor there are two parlors facing the Old Clacton Road. One is used as Mother's, the other as a reception room for visitors. As you can see, there's a scullery and washhouse at the back. The ground-floor room is used as a kitchen, where the children take their meals. There is plenty of space
for the children to romp about when they can't get outside. We also have a piano—the children perform musical drills. Good for their concentration. Some are becoming quite the little musicians. Now, here we are, back in the lunchroom. I'll leave you to your girls. I suspect they're all ravenous after the journey—and there's nothing better than sea air for stirring the appetite.”

T
HE
REST OF
T
ILLY
'
S MORNING
was spent with the girls of Violet House and Poppy House, who talked ten to the dozen, old friends catching up on life at the orphanage and new friendships being formed among girls who had never met before. She soon had a pounding headache and longed to sit down with a cup of tea, but, after much pleading, it was agreed that she and Elsie, the mother at Poppy, would take the girls down to the beach before the fete started.

Tilly and Elsie worked quickly to wash and dry the lunch dishes, sweep the floors, and wipe down the tables and chairs; then the boisterous group made their way to the shore. Fortunately, it was only a short distance down the cliff path to the dunes, which they navigated—somewhat awkwardly—before stepping onto the beach.

It was a vast expanse of golden sand. Tilly stood for a moment, listening to the crashing of the waves and the cries of the seagulls as the breeze tugged at her hair and ballooned her skirts out around her legs. She'd forgotten how much she loved the sound of the sea. She gazed at the rolling waves, the motion almost hypnotic.

“France is just over there,” Elsie said, pointing directly across the water. “Hard to believe really, isn't it!”

Tilly knew instantly that she loved it here: the stiff breeze blowing her hair around her face, rushing past her cheeks; the endless
sky above her; the enormity of the ocean and the endless possibilities it suggested. She felt alive, invigorated. And then eager hands were pulling at her to help remove stockings and shoes.