Читать книгу The Flower Seller - Linda Finlay - Страница 12

Chapter 5

‘You never seen a corset box before?’ William snorted.

‘Well, I . . . ,’ Isabella began. Feeling her cheeks growing hot, she quickly averted her gaze.

‘Stop goading your cousin and snap to it, boy,’ Frederick interrupted. ‘We’ve to get the rest of them boxes over to Bill’s so he can pack his flowers.’ He turned to go then frowned down at the pails. ‘’Tis high time you women were bunching these flowers an’ all.’

‘You’re right there, Father,’ Aunt Mary agreed. With another smirk in Isabella’s direction, William followed his father outside.

‘Shall I begin taking the labels off?’ Isabella asked, eager to be of use.

‘Why ever would you do that?’ her aunt exclaimed. ‘Everyone knows them corset boxes contain our violets, so it saves time addressing them. They be the perfect size for packing the flowers into an’ all. Right useful it’s been, old Mrs Pudge stocking them ready-made foundations in her shop.’ Isabella stared at her aunt incredulously. Ready-made foundations? ‘Cors they can be a bit hit and miss sometimes,’ the woman conceded, mistaking her look.

‘Do you wear them?’ Dotty asked. Isabella thought of the modish Madame Mai who would stand and scrutinize her curves through half-closed eyes before producing a template cincture from her velvet-lined valise. Carefully she would fashion the garment into shape before encasing Isabella’s midriff and lacing it up tightly. Isabella would then have to turn around slowly in front of her and only when Madame was satisfied, would she nod and declare her client’s form feminine par excellence.

‘Actually, my corsetière fits me in the privacy of my bed chamber,’ she explained.

‘Coo, how the other half live,’ Dotty drooled. ‘You wait til you have to resort to Pudge’s. The changing-room curtains don’t reach so you has to keep an eye out for nosy neighbours, and all while you’re trying to wriggle into the darned thing,’ Dotty grimaced, rolling her eyes dramatically.

‘Right that’s enough, Dotty,’ her mother interrupted. ‘If we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss the train and Father’ll go mad. I’ve counted out the first few bunches so you can show Isabella how we arrange and pack them.’ Dotty pouted but duly did as she’d been told.

Isabella watched as she picked up one bunch of the flowers and deftly enclosed them in velvety green leaves.

‘They protect the flowers as well as making them smell sweeter, you see,’ she explained. ‘Then you tie the bunch neatly with raffia to keep the stems straight and place them carefully in one of those boxes Mother has lined. It’s important to make sure the first row of heads go on this little pillow like this, see?’ Isabella nodded.

‘Now you try,’ Dotty invited. Isabella began wrapping the foliage round the violets but it wasn’t as easy as it looked and her cousin shook her head.

‘You have to make sure the flower heads are facing the same way.’

‘Oh,’ Isabella replied, trying again.

‘That’s it, now pack the bunch firmly beside the others so they don’t get shaken about on the train. They have to look as neat and fresh when they arrive as they do when they leave here,’ Dotty told her.

‘That’s right, Father’s built up a good reputation in Covent Garden and it wouldn’t do to let him down,’ Mary explained. ‘We pick, pack and dispatch the same day for freshness, and it’s essential that when the men in London open the boxes all they see is the mauve heads of the posies. Good selling, that is.’

‘But why do you transport them all the way to London?’ Isabella asked the question that had been niggling her.

‘’Cos of the demand, dear. High demand means better prices. Your uncle can sell them for six pence a bunch up there,’ she exclaimed.

‘Is that good?’ Isabella frowned.

‘Good?’ her aunt exclaimed. ‘’Tis a princely sum compared to the penny ha’penny he was getting around here.’

‘But if the demand is so great in London, why don’t they grow them there?’ Isabella asked. Her aunt finished counting her flowers then laid them on the table.

‘Violets need good soil and a mild, moist climate, so conditions round here are perfect. The air in London is laden with smoke from the manufactories. And of course, the land there’s being taken up with the building of houses and yet more factories. Don’t know how people can live crowded together like that,’ she sniffed.

‘Not all London is like that,’ Isabella protested loyally.

‘Begging your pardon,’ Aunt Mary murmured.

‘Coo, you ain’t done many, Izzie,’ Dotty tutted, setting her full box down on the floor and lifting another onto the table beside her.

‘Sorry,’ she replied, turning her attention back to the flowers. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, though, even when she managed to get the heads facing the same way, her bunches were nothing like as neat as her cousin’s. How she wished Maxwell would arrive and take her back to civilization. Remembering the fragrant posy that he’d purchased from the flower seller, she lifted the blooms to her nose.

‘Oh, these ones are no good, they have no smell,’ she cried. A chuckle behind her made her jump.

‘’Tis you that’s lost your smell girl, not the flowers,’ her uncle said. ‘Dainty they might be, but they produce ionine which dulls the senses. I have a theory that . . . ’

‘Oh, you and your theories, Father,’ her aunt interrupted, shaking her head. ‘I told you that would happen, didn’t I, dear?’ her aunt laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon come back when you go outside and breathe in the fresh air.’

‘Talking of fresh air, Mother, I’ve been out in it all morning and I’m starving hungry and dying for a brew,’ said Uncle Frederick.

‘Just let me finish these then I’ll go get us something to eat,’ her aunt told him, resuming her counting. As her uncle grumped and stomped out of the barn, Isabella turned to her aunt.

‘Would you like me to prepare luncheon?’ she offered, knowing she’d been slowing their progress.

‘That’d be a right help. There’s bread, butter and cheese in the back’ouze behind the kitchen. Tomatoes and cucumbers as well.’

Not knowing what the back’ouze was but determined to do something to assist, Isabella hurried indoors. She set the kettle to boil then noticed a little door beside the dresser. Opening it gingerly, she smiled when she saw a scullery similar to one behind their kitchen at home. She’d found it quite by chance when, as a young girl, she’d dared to explore downstairs. This one was much smaller though it also housed a pantry. The upper shelves were neatly lined with jars of pickled vegetables and bottles of preserved fruits, while on the marble slab below, dishes of butter and cheese glistened gold. On the lower shelf, a basket similar to the ones used for gathering flowers held tomatoes and cucumbers along with potatoes still caked with the red soil she now knew was typical of the area. Her aunt was obviously a good housekeeper, she thought, quickly gathering up the items she needed and going back to the kitchen.

As she carefully cut and buttered the bread, the tabby cat snaked itself around her legs.

‘Out of my way, puss,’ she chided. She couldn’t understand why a pet was allowed in the kitchen. It wasn’t hygienic, with all those long hairs. Cook wouldn’t stand for it, she knew. Yet, as it stared hopefully up at her with bright amber eyes, she felt her heart soften and couldn’t resist letting a sliver of cheese drop to the floor. The animal snapped it up then purred contentedly at her feet while she finished preparing their meal. Scooping up the crumbs in her smock, she went to the doorstep and threw them out for the birds. How she wished Maxwell would arrive now, for if they were to be married it would be good for him to see how proficient she was at running a household. The thought sent her hurrying to the front gate.

There was no sign of his carriage, though, and she wondered what could be delaying him. Perhaps he’d stopped off at her home and would have news of her papa. Dear Papa, she hoped he was getting his business sorted. Retracing her steps, she spotted a cluster of little mauve heads peering out of the grass. Impulsively, she bent and picked a few of the violets to decorate the table. As their musky scent engulfed her, she couldn’t help smiling. Her aunt was right, their desensitizing effect hadn’t lasted long. Hurrying back indoors, she arranged them in a jug and placed it in the centre of the table. She’d just made the tea when her uncle came in followed by the others.

‘It’s not Sunday, you know,’ he exclaimed, frowning at the cloth on the table. Her aunt gave him a nudge, then smiled.

‘You’ve made everything look lovely, Izzie.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, proffering the plate of sandwiches.

‘What’s these fancy bites?’ William snorted. ‘And since when do we have bread without crusts?’

‘Don’t worry William, they weren’t wasted,’ she assured him. ‘I scattered them outside for the birds. And I made finger sandwiches because the bread was too crumbly to cut into quarters.’

‘What on earth . . . ,’ her uncle spluttered, lifting the top layer of bread. ‘’Tis only measly bits of cucumber. Where’s me cheese?’

‘Here, Uncle,’ Isabella replied, pointing to another plate where golden cubes decorated with slivers of red tomato nestled on crackers. ‘And here’s your tea,’ she added, passing him a china cup.

‘Pah, this thing holds no more than a thimble. Where’s me mug? And what’s this doing in me drink?’ he spluttered, fishing out a slice of fruit with his fingers.

‘You said you were parched, Uncle, so I made lemon tea. It’s more refreshing than milk, I find.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ he muttered as William gave another snort.

‘I’ll take Grandmother’s in to her,’ Dotty said, hastily setting plates and cups onto a tray. ‘And I’ll have mine in there with her.’

‘Like as not she’ll throw it back at you when she sees what’s on offer,’ William scoffed.

‘I don’t understand what’s wrong, Uncle,’ Isabella said, frowning down at the table. ‘This is how they serve it at Claridge’s.’ As William rocked with mirth, her aunt shot him a reproving look.

‘You’ll have to forgive these filling-stines, Isabella,’ she said, patting her hand. ‘You’ve made it all look very nice, dear. It’s a fine treat for me to have my meal prepared, and I for one am grateful.’ She took a sip of her tea and sighed. ‘And you’re right, this lemon is reviving. ’Tis a long time since I sat down to such a pretty table. Those flowers set my best cloth off a treat.’

‘Flowers is for selling not prettying up the meal table,’ her uncle grunted, helping himself to a handful of sandwiches.

As silence descended, so did Isabella’s spirits. Not wishing to enrage her uncle further, she nibbled on a cracker. The sooner she went home the better, for it appeared she could do nothing right, she thought, blinking back the tears that threatened. There was no way she was letting them see how much they’d upset her.

‘Grandmother said that was the best food she’s eaten in ages,’ Dotty announced, breezing back into the room. ‘And she would appreciate more elegant morsels like that in future, please,’ she added, giving Isabella a conspiratorial smile.

‘Pah,’ her uncle snorted, getting to his feet. ‘Come on, boy. Some of us have work to do, money to earn.’

‘Yeah, some of us understand the value of money,’ William snorted, following after him.

‘What did I do wrong?’ Isabella asked, turning to her aunt. The woman smiled.

‘Nothing, dear. Absolutely nothing.’

‘But Uncle was really worked up,’ she frowned.

‘I don’t think it was just because you gave him sandwiches without crusts or lemon tea in a dainty cup. Something else is bothering him. Don’t know what, but like as not he’ll spill the seeds in his own time.’

‘But what about William?’

‘Coo, take no notice of him,’ Dotty told her. ‘He’s so anxious for Father’s approval he copies everything he says and does. Grandmother really tucked into her food, you know. She ate more than usual, too. Quite perky she was when I left her.’

‘Then perhaps now would be a good time for me to be introduced? I really do want to meet her before I leave,’ Isabella asked, brightening at the thought of seeing her mama’s own mama. Her aunt gave her a level look.

‘Very well, but be warned, she drifts in and out of the present world very quickly. Dotty, you’ve just got time to clear the dishes before collecting Thomas and Alice from school.’

‘Dotty dishes, that’s me,’ the girl sighed good-naturedly as she began gathering up their plates.

Butterflies of excitement fluttered in Isabella’s stomach as, smoothing down her smock, she followed her aunt outside. A wooden gate led from one back yard into the other, beyond which a sea of violets rippled in the breeze.

‘Goodness, more flowers,’ she exclaimed. ‘Who looks after all these?’

‘We do, dear. Father and William will be picking those first thing tomorrow ready for market. It’s a never-ending job but it keeps a roof over our heads and pays the bills.’

Recalling how she’d told her uncle that picking a few flowers couldn’t possibly take all day, Isabella groaned. Only now was she beginning to understand the extent of their business.

Unaware of Isabella’s thoughts, her aunt opened the back door and beckoned her inside.

‘Cooee, only me, Mother,’ she called, but there was no answer. ‘Might be asleep,’ she added, leading the way through the kitchen and into the room behind. Curious, Isabella peered around. As in her aunt’s home, although the furniture had definitely seen better days, everywhere was spotlessly clean. Orange flames flickered in the grate, brightening the gloom, but curiously the hearth was enclosed by an iron guard fixed to the wall on either side. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she spotted the old woman curled up in a comfy chair. She had a rug over her knees and was staring fixedly into the fire, her halo of white curls bobbing up and down as if she was talking to someone.

‘Hello, Mother. I’ve brought Isabella to see you,’ her aunt said cheerily.

‘How do you do, Grandmama. I’m so pleased to meet you.’ Excitement bubbled up inside Isabella’s chest as she waited. Slowly, the woman turned her head and stared at her through dark, rheumy eyes.

‘So, you’ve come back then?’ she murmured.

‘Pardon?’ Isabella frowned. ‘I’ve never been here before, Grandmama.’

‘Knew no good would come of all that gallivanting,’ the woman continued regardless. ‘And what you done to your hair? Looks like you’ve rinsed it in clotted cream.’

‘But I . . . ,’ she began.

‘Lovely dark curls you was blessed with. Never happy with what you had, though, was you?’ she muttered. Then her eyes closed and she began to snore.