A Memory of Violets by Hazel Gaynor Page A

y’know—send them barmy. She’ll end up in Bedlam with the rest of ’em, no doubt.
    After Da was buried, I made Auntie promise not to send us to the workhouse. She says she won’t, so long as we keep selling our flowers and earning some pennies, so I’ve been trying to sell as many bunches as I can.
    At least we’ve the warmer days now and the start of summer. There’s always something nicer about the summer. People are more friendly, and ye’ll never get a lady or gen’leman refusing a posy on a fine summer’s day, sure you won’t. And them ginger-beer fountains that pop up all over the city—Lord! The best and fanciest I ever seen was in Petticoat Lane. Dark shining wood and gleaming brass on the pump handles, the glasses all shining in the sun, two handsome ponies to pull the machine—like something from Buckingham Palace it was. Oh, I wished I had a ha’penny to spare so as me and Rosie could have a taste of it.
    All the sweetest flowers are in bloom this time of year, so we should have a decent trade, if the rains hold off. It’s the violets and roses I like selling best. They look so pretty all tied up, and the violets with their leaves shaped like love hearts and the rose petals what feel so soft in my fingers I imagine I’m touching the ladies’ velvet skirts. Smell good, too. It’s nice to put them roses to your nose and forget about the stink of that busted drain at the Court. “God gave us roses in June so that we can have memories in December.” That’s what Mammy used to say. Loved the roses the best, so she did. Reckon that’s why she named Little Sister after them. Dear little Rosie. Sweet little thing. All I have in the world, so she is. All I have in the world.

Chapter 13
Violet House, London
    March 25, 1912
    N ow, girls, let’s not forget our manners,” Mrs. Pearce nagged. “I’m sure Miss Harper is keen to get to know you all. While Mrs. Harris is recuperating, Miss Harper will be in charge of the running of the house. Queenie, I suppose we should start with you, seeing as how you’ve been here the longest.”
    Moving around the room, Tilly was introduced to eleven residents of Violet House—Buttons had slunk off again while everyone else was fussing around the Mr. Shaws. Mrs. Pearce reeled off the names at an alarming rate: Doris, Lorraine, Betty, Hilda, Queenie, Alice, Edna, Bridget, Ivy, Maud, and Eileen. “And, of course, there’s also Primrose. The budgie.”
    Tilly stared at the bewildering mass of faces. She guessed that the youngest girl, Hilda, was around sixteen, and theeldest, Queenie, around forty. She found herself relating each girl to her handicap, hoping that it would help her remember all the names. Doris—blind. Lorraine—wheelchair. Betty—one arm. Hilda—crutch (one leg ). Queenie—midget. Alice—wheelchair. Edna—blind. Bridget—wheelchair. Ivy—one hand. Maud—midget. Eileen—one hand. Like a list of groceries, she mentally marked them all down.
    Despite her reservations, everyone was perfectly polite. Only Queenie seemed to bristle a little at her arrival, paying less attention to her than the others and yet observing her far more intently than anyone else. Tilly tried to appear calm on the outside, even if her heart was pounding and her knees were shaking. She spoke briefly to each of them, telling them how much she’d admired the wonderful displays outside and how clever she thought them to be able to make such lifelike replicas. She was relieved to find that she wasn’t too unsettled by the cumbersome wheelchairs and useless limbs that hung limply beneath cotton pinafores. Even the awkward stumps that some of the girls offered in place of a hand to shake didn’t trouble her.
    If anything, she felt a strange affinity with the girls. Although she had no physical limitations, she did