Flower (6 page)

I don’t know how you’d have put up with the quiet, but it was lovely, like living in a park. Trees and flowers and lawns all around the Home, and the girls lived in little cottages. When I first saw them, I thought they looked
like the doll’s house you told me Miss Sadie played with.

All the cottages were named after flowers. Mine was called Rose. There were sixteen girls in our house. We made sure that we kept the rooms bright, shiny, and beautiful, like the hair ribbons we wore to church on Sundays. The ribbons were the colors of flowers. Mine was white. I brought it with me to wear for special occasions in Canada.

There was a housemother to take care of the girls and she was always an unmarried lady. We slept four to a room, and we each had our own bed. We did all the housework–I wish you could have seen how spotless we kept that little cottage.

I liked being one of the older girls who looked after the little ones. We had lessons and went to church and Sunday school, and learned to wash and cook and iron and sew, ready to earn a living. Girls were always coming and going–some fostered out in the village, some left to work as scullery maids in big houses, others were shipped off to Canada.

I was lucky at first because our housemother, Miss Bruce, took a liking to me and treated me nicely. She chose me to serve her meals in the parlor. Our food was sent over from the big kitchen in the main house, but the housemother didn’t eat with us. She ate meat almost every day, and little pies. Once Miss Bruce gave me a slice of beef from the roast she kept on her pantry shelf.
We hardly ever had meat so I shared it with Maria, who was always hungry.

I felt sorry when Miss Bruce left us to go and look after her sister in Scotland, who’d had a fall. That’s what they told us, but some of the girls said she’d got a sweetheart, and was going to get married.

Then, last year, there were changes. Right from the first day, I got on the wrong side of Miss Dodds. I had gone into her parlor to do the dusting. I did knock, but she didn’t hear me. I saw her drinking from a bottle of medicine. She smelled the way Mrs. Riley did on a Friday night, or on payday. Miss Dodds screamed at me: “Get out, get out!” She never let me set foot in her parlor again. Susanna became her favorite–a pretty little blonde girl, meek as a mouse, and afraid of her own shadow.

There was nothing I could do to please Miss Dodds. She shouted at me right in front of the little girls, and they started to disobey me, and I’d get in more trouble.

I don’t think girls should be pinched and slapped for something that they can’t help, do you, Helen? One day Miss Dodds tied my left arm behind my back because she saw me favoring my left hand over my right. Another time she noticed that Maria smiled at me in church, and that I smiled back. We weren’t talking, but she punished us both–we had to go without pudding for Sunday supper for the rest of the month.

One day a lady came to talk to us about Canada. It sounded lovely. I thought about all those nice people waiting for us to be part of their family, and the fresh air and good food and having time to pick berries and flowers. You always said we should aim for something better, so I put up my hand to go, like most of the girls. I expected we’d have to work hard, but I didn’t mind that. I wanted to be treated fair.

I don’t even know what it’s like, being part of a family. I’ve only watched families from the outside, going to church, or walking together.

I sang in the Barnardo choir. I love to sing–learned that from you, didn’t I? Last year, they took us up to London to perform at a concert in aid of Dr. Barnardo’s children. Imagine me singing at the Royal Albert Hall, in front of thousands of people. The king and his beautiful queen, Alexandra, sat in the royal box, listening to us. It was a lovely night–just like magic.

The boys went onstage first, showing all the work they’d do when they got to Canada. They cut logs, shoveled snow, fed the animals, loaded hay, and baked bread. Then it was the girls’ turn. We mimed washing, hanging up clothes, and ironing.

It sent shivers up my spine when those ladies and gentlemen, in their fine clothes, stood up to sing the national anthem with us:

The money people paid that night was to send the Waifs and Strays to Canada. That’s what they called us, Waifs and Strays. Makes us sound like dogs, doesn’t it?

I’m going so far away, Helen. I hope good times start soon because there’s rats running over our feet where we sleep, down below in steerage, and the smell is awful there.
Never mind
, I tell myself,
we’re almost halfway.
I think about going to a nice family, like they promised us. Would you believe I have my own trunk, with clothes for work and a dress for Sundays? I’ve got the picture postcard and my flower safe, so I’m all set, Helen. It’s just that my stomach feels funny, the way it did the day you first showed me Stepney Causeway. Of course, I didn’t know then it was an orphanage.

That boy standing further down the deck is staring at me. I can see him out of the corner of my eye. I’ve seen him before. He’s coming over. I pretend not to notice.

“What are you looking at?” he asks me. “Be careful you don’t get washed overboard.”

I’d know him anywhere–he’s thin and his face is all bones. If they let his hair grow longer, it’d be fair and flop
over his forehead. Last year, when he was running offstage at the Royal Albert Hall, he dropped his cap. The choir was waiting to file on, and I was in the front. I picked it up and gave it to him. He flushed red, and said, “Thanks, miss.” It’s not often they let us even near a boy.

“What’s it to you, then?” I say, looking up at him.

“I can’t swim, and there’s no one near to fish you out.” He has a nice smile. “I spoke to you at the Royal Albert Hall, remember? You handed me my cap on concert night.”

“So I did. Are you glad to be going off to Canada?”

“I am. I hated the home. Everything about it–the rules, the food, the way they made us watch the beatings, if someone tried to run away. Beat them half to death. It’s not right. There was never a minute to think your own thoughts. I hated sharing a dormitory with a hundred and fifty boys, and I miss my brother, Frankie. He’s been adopted.” He looks away. I don’t think he meant to tell me that much. He hardly knows me. I like talking to him.

“Do you want to know why I’m looking at the ocean?” I say. “It is because I can’t abide those waves, taking us away from everything we know. Don’t they have orphans of their own in Canada?”

“Not like us, they don’t. We’re the best there is. Didn’t you hear we’re ‘the flower of the flock’?”

I laugh with him then, and a great big wave slops over the deck, drenching us both. I try to stand up and
almost fall, but the boy grabs my elbow and steadies me. I can see my friend Maria waving to me, circling her arms. She’s on the far side of the ship, playing with the other girls.

“I’d better go. They want me to turn the skipping rope for them.”

“Good-bye, Flower,” he says.

I toss my head, the way you used to, Helen, and try to walk gracefully across the slippery deck because I know he’s watching me.

Twenty-four hours after seeing our first icebergs, we get ready to set foot on Canadian soil. They tell us we are entering Halifax harbor. Everyone is on deck waiting, dressed in clean clothes, washed and brushed and looking as good as we can manage after almost two weeks at sea. All we can see is fog. It’s just like London, only it doesn’t smell full of dirt and smoke. It smells of sea and salt.

Sometimes at the home in Essex, after days of rain, the sun would break through the clouds, a watery sun followed by a rainbow. I wish for the sun now and, just as the ship comes close to the shore, the fog lifts. I can see the top of hills and, below, a scattering of houses. It’s a magic city floating in the sky.

This would be a lovely place to live. I watch the seabirds swoop so free out of the mist. They call to each other.
One day I’ll come back here
, I promise myself.

Our ship, the
Sardinia
, docks and we walk two by two down the gangway behind Miss Mackay, the superintendent who has looked after us on the journey.

“Doesn’t this make you think of that story about Noah and his ark–the one they read us in Sunday school?” I ask Maria.

“Do you mean, we’re like animals?” Maria and I love a joke. Our legs are so wobbly we have to hold on to each other to stay upright. The wind makes our cloaks billow round us, and we try to hold them down. Eileen, Maria’s little sister, is in front of us, clutching hands with another small girl.

Waiting in line to be admitted to our new country, we shiver in the cold of the immigration shed. I dread the inspection by the doctor. I know it will hurt when he rolls back my eyelid to check for disease, but I’m determined not to make a sound.

Eileen is next. Her eyes are infected. We hear the doctor say “trachoma” to the nurse. Eileen sobs, clinging to Maria, and hides her face in her sister’s skirt. The nurse pulls the girl away, and leads her off. She’ll be sent back to England.

“I can’t let her go alone. What shall I do, Lillie?” Maria implores me.

“Rub your knuckles in your eyes to make them red. Tell the doctor your eyes itch. Hurry, it’s your turn after me.”

I smile at the doctor, even when he pulls both eyelids almost inside out. I’m waved through. I hear Maria tell him her eyes feel as though they’re full of grit and itch constantly. He keeps her back, and she joins her sister.

Maria smiles at me and mouths her thanks. I’m sad to lose a friend, but we’d be unlikely to be sent to the same place anyway. Miss Mackay says they’ll have another chance to come over when they’re better as British orphans are in great demand. Then she counts us, and we hurry to the train that’s waiting to take us to Dr. Barnardo’s Home for Girls in Peterborough.

The train is part of the Grand Trunk rail line. I don’t know what’s grand about it, Helen. The seats are wooden, and so hard I’d be surprised if they don’t leave ridges across our backs. You wouldn’t like them one bit.

The journey goes on and on. I’m too tired to sleep. Instead I decide to pay attention to the country I’ve come to live in. I want to like it here.

Through the window I see a huge world of sky and fields and lakes. Houses are built far away from each other, surrounded by a few outbuildings. Horses, cows, and sheep graze peacefully. I think you could walk here forever without ever meeting another human being. If only you were with me….

*

After the first day and night on the train, I don’t care whether we end up in China or Africa, just so long as we stop moving.

The train comes to a halt at last. The guard calls out, “Peterborough.” We’ve arrived, and almost tumble down the high steps, we are so eager to be on firm ground. Porters push carts piled high with luggage; gentlemen smoking fat cigars accompany ladies wearing elegant hats. Children and nursemaids, errand boys and merchants crowd the platform.

We line up neatly behind Miss Mackay and I pretend not to notice the curious stares. Outside the station entrance, horse-drawn carriages are waiting to take us to the Girls’ Home.

The road is muddy, and there are wooden boardwalks. Not like the cobblestones we walked on in the village at home. I’m not complaining, Helen, I’m just taking notice of what’s different here. A streetcar rattles by and the gas lamps are bright enough for me to read some of the signs over the shops:
GILMOUR’S BAKED GOODS
(wouldn’t I just love to go in there this very minute and buy a meat pie for us to share?);
HOOPER’S CONFECTIONERY
(so tempting–not that I’ve any money to spend!);
FOWLER’S ICE-CREAM PARLOR
(did you and Mr. Charles ever eat ice cream? I’ve never tasted it, but when I do I’ll tell you about it).

The horses turn into a wide drive–we have arrived at last. Miss Mackay says Dr. Barnardo’s Home for Girls used to be called Hazelbrae, which I think is a much prettier name. The grounds are beautiful, with fine trees, lawns, and shrubberies. The rose brick house is three stories high, with a porch running along the front. Wide pillars are set at intervals, and make the house look very imposing. I have never liked big houses; they make me afraid. Well, we are not here for long as I shall be going to my new family soon. I wish Maria had stayed. I would feel less strange with an old friend from the Village Home beside me.

Two girls show us up to a long dormitory, with rows and rows of narrow beds. We are told to wash and then go to the dining hall. I never cry, Helen, well, hardly ever, but it’s all I can do to suppress my tears and swallow my supper of soup, bread, and cocoa. Then we are sent to bed. No one feels like talking. For all its grand looks, it’s just another orphanage.

I lie down between clean sheets, my head on a soft white pillow, but I am unable to sleep. I pretend it is Sunday, a Sunday long ago, Helen. You have come to take me for a walk along the Thames. We sit on the bench overlooking the river. I am so tired and I put my head on your lap. I fall asleep, feeling your hand softly stroking my cheek.

Morning arrives too quickly. After prayers, we make our beds before eating a breakfast of tea and oatmeal, which is the Canadian name for porridge.

We do chores. I’ve just finished sweeping the dining hall floor, and my hands are still damp from wiping down the wooden tables, when my name is called to go to Matron’s office. A girl shows me the way. Luckily my apron is clean. I smooth my hair and follow her. She points to a door. I knock nervously.
Can my new family be here already to take me home?

A voice calls, “Enter.”

Miss Humphrey, the matron, is seated at her desk. Through the tall windows behind her, I see the sweep of lawns and the great elm trees that shade the porch. A bright fire burns in the hearth. Standing on one side of the fireplace is Miss Mackay, and seated in a high-backed chair facing Matron is a lady wearing a black dress, with lace trim around the neck and sleeves. She wears a large black-and-purple hat, and stares at me appraisingly, her light blue eyes cold. Her gray hair is scraped back under her hat. Two deep lines run from her nose to her thin pale lips. I don’t think we’re going to take to each other, Helen, though it is not my place to “venture an opinion,” as Miss Mackay would say if she could read my thoughts.