Flower (3 page)

“Allow me to escort you to the tea stall across the road, young ladies. And won’t you give me the pleasure of buying you a nice cup of tea and a meat pie for little Miss Lillie here?”

The pie is full of meat and onions, with pastry so flaky it melts in my mouth.

“You’re late. Supper’s over,” Mrs. Riley says, when I get back. Bert sticks his tongue out at me, but tonight I don’t care that he ate my portion.

A few weeks go by before I see Helen again. There must’ve been goings-on at the big house. Mrs. Riley is extra mean ’cause the money is late. When Helen does come, Mrs. Riley says, “Ain’t forgotten us, then?” She counts the coppers as usual, and Helen says, “It’s all there, and a bit over for being late. I’m sorry–I’ve been poorly with a cough.”

Later, when we go out, she gives me a pair of boots wrapped in newspaper. “Miss Sadie outgrew them, and Gertie was supposed to throw them out. I’d told her about you and how fast you’re growing. I can trust her; she’s my friend. She asked me to get rid of them, and winked when she handed them over.”

I’ve never had anything so beautiful to wear before. The leather is soft and the boots are only a little bit too big. We stuff newspaper in the toes. Then I wrap the boots up again and hide them under my shawl. Later I put them under the bed, in the corner. I do the sweeping so Mrs. Riley won’t see them, unless she’s snooping.

This afternoon Helen said, “You remember that nice Mr. Charles? Last week he took me to the Music Hall. We sat up high in the gallery and looked down at all the toffs and their ladies, and the commotion in the
private gold boxes–the ladies fanning themselves and drinking champagne. Lovely it was. There was this singer, Lottie Collins. She’s been to America and is ever so famous. She came out on the platform, with all the lights shining round her. She was wearing the most beautiful red satin dress. When she danced, she lifted up her skirt and showed her petticoats. Rows and rows of frills, hundreds there must’ve been. She sang a song, and got us all to sing the chorus: ‘Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay, Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.’” Helen sang it for me and I hummed along.

“On the way home, Mr. Charles bought me a bunch of violets from a flower-seller. First time anyone bought me flowers. I felt like a real lady. This one’s for you. I pressed one of the violets under the washstand.”

“Oh, Mother … I mean Helen, thank you.”

“We share, don’t we? You’re my little girl. I’ll take care of you, don’t you worry.”

“Where are we going now, Helen?” I said.

“I’m going to show you a place, and I want you to remember the way, so you can find it by yourself if ever you need to. Stepney Causeway, it’s called.” She made me say it out loud three times, so I wouldn’t forget. We sang it to the tune of “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.” Then we stopped in front of this big gray building.

“Looks dark, Helen. I don’t like it. It makes my stomach feel funny.”

All her good mood gone, she said sharply, “You stop that kind of talk, Lillie. It’s a big place, that’s all. As big as Buckingham Palace, where the king and queen live. It’s a fine place. There are some words written over the door. I’ll read them to you, and don’t you forget what they say:
NO DESTITUTE CHILD EVER REFUSED ADMISSION.
That means, it’s for boys and girls who have no place else to go. You can knock at the door, and they’ll take you in and feed you and look after you.” Then she grabbed my hand and we turned around to go back to Mrs. Riley’s.

“Cheer up, my little Lil,” Helen said, and started to sing again. I joined in. A window opened above us and a man threw us a penny. We laughed so hard Helen began to cough, and then couldn’t stop. She put her handkerchief to her mouth and, when she took it away, I saw a drop of blood.

When we got back to Mrs. Riley’s, she patted my cheek and said, “Be a good girl.” Then she walked off into the rain and I could hear her coughing all the way down the alley.

I wait and wait for her for three Sundays and a Wednesday. I lose count how many weeks she doesn’t come. Mrs. Riley gets crosser and crosser, and slaps me more often. Some days I go without supper.

One morning she tells Bert to get his jacket. “We’re
going uptown to see what’s what. Lillie, finish them pile of hankies, if you know what’s good for you.”

They are gone a long time. None of us has anything to eat at midday. I am hemming the last of the hankies when they come back. Mrs. Riley sends the others upstairs.

“I got something to tell you, Lil. It’s bad news. Helen’s gone. Died and gone to Heaven. The cough killed her. Tuberculosis, her friend Gertie said. Them people she works for paid for the funeral.”

I look down at a drop of blood that has fallen on the hanky. I must’ve stuck the needle in the tip of my finger. I never felt it. I don’t cry–even when Mrs. Riley cuffs me for spoiling the work.

“Go and wash out the stain,” she says, “and fetch me your boots, the ones you hide under your bed. I can sell them and they’ll pay for your keep a bit longer. You heard me, girl. I want them now.”

Next day she takes in a baby for me to mind, a thin little yellow-faced girl who screams all day. She sleeps in my old place in the bed, and I sleep wrapped in my shawl on the floor in the corner. I get up and rock the baby in the night when she wails. “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay,” I sing to her, and think of Helen–how we laughed that time, and the blood on her handkerchief. I wish I still had my boots.

One night, when Mrs. Riley has gone to bed, I put my shawl over my head, tuck my Lillie Langtry picture–the flower glued to the back of it–inside my dress, and run off.

Helen said to go to the big gray house, and I remember the way. I hurry down the alley, past the King’s Head pub glowing warm and bright in the dark. The door is open and I see the sawdust on the floor, hear the piano playing, smell the beer. As I run by, a man stumbles out and pushes against me. I fall down. A Gypsy woman selling trinkets from her wooden tray puts her hand out to help me. The children waiting for their parents to come out of the pub call out: “Gypsy girl, tea leaf (thief), go to jail, won’t get bail.”

And then suddenly Bert is here–he must’ve followed me. He grabs my arm and says, “Ma’ll kill you for running away.” That’s when I cry. He is pinching my arm; it hurts. I know I’ll never see Helen again, and I have no one in the world to tell my troubles to.

All at once Bert lets go and starts howling, “Ow, get off me, you big bully. I never did nothing.” I look up at a gentleman, not much taller than Bert, who is holding him by the collar so he can’t get at me. I rub my sore arm, glad to be safe from Bert’s cruel fingers.

“On your way, sharp, before I call the police,” the gentleman says to Bert, who runs off as fast as a whippet.

“Thank you, sir,” I whisper, wanting to get away.

“You’re not very old to be out alone. Is your mother in there?” he asks, looking towards the pub door.

That’s when I start to cry again. He seems so kind. I tell him about Helen and Mrs. Riley and Bert. I explain how Helen said I was to go to the big gray house, and how the people there look after children like me.

The man takes my hand and says, “I am Dr. Barnardo. Stepney Causeway is the place you are looking for. Come along with me; the home is only a short walk away. I am sure Matron can find some supper for you.”

Well, he has nice eyes, but I don’t go nowhere with strangers, so I ask him to make sure, “Are there words written over the door, sir?”

He looks at me very solemnly and says, “Indeed there are, and they are true because I wrote them:
NO DESTITUTE CHILD EVER REFUSED ADMISSION.”

So I go with him, and that’s how I become a Barnardo’s girl.

G
randfather’s waiting at the airport. He hurries forward to give me a big hug. Every time I see him I think how alike he and Dad are, add or subtract a few wrinkles and gray hair.

“Is this all you’ve brought, Katie? I do admire a woman who travels light.” He insists on carrying my case, even though it’s on wheels. I refuse to let him take my backpack though.

“Here we are,” he says, beaming proudly.

“You’ve bought a van? What happened to the this-will-last-forever station wagon? You worshipped it. That wagon was older than me.”

“It was indeed, but much less beautiful.” I roll my eyes at him.

Grandfather opens the door. “In you get, madam. This is our brand-new Dodge minivan, a more suitable vehicle for picking up guests. After all, the proprietor of an upscale bed-and-breakfast needs to drive something of distinction, don’t you think?”

“It’s great. New leather always smells so nice,” I say. I lean my head back and close my eyes. I couldn’t get to sleep last night. I didn’t even finish packing until after midnight. This morning Step was throwing up–morning sickness, I guess–and Dad was fussing over her. By the time we got to the airport, there was a huge lineup. The plane was overbooked and I was switched from the window seat to a middle one and had elbows sticking into me the whole trip.

Dad and Step had to rush off to a different terminal, so there was really no time to say good-bye. “I’ll call you, Katie, have fun. Give our love to the grandparents,” Dad said. Naturally, love to everyone but me.

“We’re almost there,” Grandfather says.

“Sorry. You know how I always get sleepy in cars. Tell me about the house.”

“It’s an old Victorian mansion that was built in 1899 for a local sea captain, who drowned a few years later. It was bought by a merchant, a Mr. Macready, for his family. His daughter, Miss Elisabeth, lived there till quite recently. I met her when we signed the deeds, just before
she moved into a nursing home nearby. She wagged her finger at me and said, ‘Now be sure to take good care of my house, sir. And don’t let the captain worry you. He does like to wander around the place on stormy nights, just to make sure that everything’s shipshape.’”

“And does he?”

“Gran and I don’t take any notice of rattles and creaks. Still, you never know, perhaps there is a resident ghost. I might put it on our website, to entice more visitors. What do you think?”

“A ghost? Awesome.”

We pull up in front of a turreted house with freshly painted blue-and-white trim. “Here we are, Carpenter’s Rest. Out you get.”

Gran is waiting at the open door of the glassed-in storm porch. I run up the side steps and she puts her arms round me. “Welcome, Katie, come on in. Let me look at you. I promised myself I wouldn’t say how much you’ve grown, but you have. Edward, look at this child–she’s as tall as me. Was the flight awful? You look a bit wan. Starving, I expect. Air travel isn’t the fun it used to be.”

“I’m fine, Gran. Dad sends his love.” I look around. There’s a smell of lemon polish and lots of paneled wood and pretty wallpaper. “This is neat.” Grandfather shuts the front door, making the crystal pendants on the chandelier chime gently.

“I’ll give you a very quick tour, Katie, and then you can get settled in. Lunch will be ready in about half an hour, if you two can hold out that long,” Gran says.

“I’m okay. They served a breakfast snack on the plane–a stale bun with some kind of pressed meat.” Suddenly there’s a lump in my throat. I’m thinking about what Dad would have said if I’d produced that on one of our stirfry nights. I can actually hear his “I don’t think so.” The last couple of weeks have not been the greatest….

Gran links her arm through mine. “This is the library. We’ve finally had the piano tuned. There are board games and lots of books, so our guests can have old-fashioned entertainment when they get through sightseeing. Isn’t the brick fireplace wonderful? Our own sitting room is next door. We can close the sliding doors if we don’t want to be disturbed.” We walk down the hall to the kitchen.

“Your grandfather and I eat in here usually. The dining room is too formal for the two of us. I plan to serve elegant breakfasts there when we open for business. All we need now is a little servant girl in a mobcap to make it really authentic.”

Gran can be a bit overwhelming if you haven’t seen her for a while.

“You’re very quiet, Katie. Are you feeling jet-lagged? Come and take a peek at the garden. It almost makes you forget the busy world outside. I have to concentrate on
the roses. Miss Macready let them get a bit wild. They need pruning.”