A Memory of Violets: A Novel of London's Flower Sellers by Hazel Gaynor

Author:Hazel Gaynor [Gaynor, Hazel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction - Historical, England/Great Britain, 1910s, 20th Century, Family & Relationships
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-12-15T23:00:00+00:00

October 1883

I’m back in London now, living in Violet House, where I first came when Mr. Shaw found me. It’s in the middle of the street, with Rosebud on one side and Bluebell on the other. I share a room with Lily Brennan at the top of the house. The room is nice—there’s a big wardrobe at one end, where we keep our dresses and pinafores and boots, and there’s a window, which lets in some light when the fog’s not lurking. It’s like a palace compared to that room we had in Rosemary Court.

The girls here are friendly and there’s a few of us have come from the orphanage. Some of the other girls have been here years already. Queenie Lyons thinks she’s in charge, telling us all what to do like a sergeant major. I don’t mind her so much, though. I’ve met worse people than Queenie Lyons.

It’s strange to be back in London, back among the streets we called home for so long. I miss the Flower Village—the sound of the sea and the blue skies. It’s funny to think how sad I was to leave London all those years ago, not sure what life would be like at the orphanage. And now, here I am, sad to have left there.

London seems darker than I remember. Maybe it’s because I got so used to the colors of Clacton. The sun shines so brightly there. I suppose it doesn’t help that it hasn’t stopped raining all day, and the yellow fog still hangs about, choking the sky and everyone beneath. Lily says she’s worried about Mr. Shaw. Says she hears him coughing all the time.

I went back to the markets today, Rosie. It was so cold even in my nice boots and warm clothes—an east wind was blowing and a frost had settled in the night. Nothing’s changed. Lots of the costers and sellers are still the same and the smells in the flower markets are as lovely as ever. It was strange to hear the cries of the sellers. “Lavender, sweet lavender.” It felt so familiar.

I stood for a while, watching the catchpenny sellers down at Drury Lane and on the corner of Tottenham Court Road. I can hardly believe I used to live and work among them. If they could only see the waves crashing onto the beach—just once feel the sand between their toes.

I looked at all their faces for as long as I could, wondering if any of them was you, Rosie. I stared the longest at anyone with red hair. You’d be eleven year old now—I wonder what you look like. Do you look the same? I still can’t believe you’re not here with me, Rosie. I think about you every day, wondering where you are, wondering what became of you and what your life is like now—because I know you still live. I know you are here in London—somewhere—I am sure of it.

I went back to the room we had in Rosemary Court to see if you was still there, but it is taken by a family from Dublin.

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