Читать книгу The Flower Seller - Linda Finlay - Страница 13

Chapter 6

‘Come on, dear, no good us staying any longer. She’s lost in her own world again, bless her,’ her aunt explained. With a last despairing look at the old lady, Isabella allowed herself to be led from the room. ‘’Tis sad, but there we are,’ the woman added, carefully closing the door behind them.

‘How long has she been that way?’ Isabella asked, blinking back tears of disappointment and frustration as they made their way back to the adjoining cottage.

‘Since before I came here. Never known her much different, though she does have the odd good day. There, you’s all shook up,’ she murmured, her eyes darkening with concern. ‘Sit yourself down and I’ll set the kettle to boil. A strong cup of tea, that’s what you need. I did warn you Mother drifted in and out of life.’

‘But she said that I’d come back, yet I’ve never been here before,’ Isabella whispered, sinking into the chair closest to the range.

‘I’m thinking she mistook you for her daughter. Father said you has the daps.’

‘Pardon?’ Isabella frowned.

‘It means you has the look of yer mother at that age.’

‘But Mama had dark hair.’

‘It sounded as if Mother thought she’d lightened it? Oh, I don’t know, I’m only guessing.’

‘What was my mama like? I was only tiny when she died and I don’t remember much about her.’

‘That’s sad,’ her aunt sighed. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, though, for it was backalong and she’d already moved away by the time I met your uncle.’

‘But he must have told you something about her?’ Isabella persisted, wiping away the tears of frustration that were now coursing down her cheeks. Her aunt patted her hand then looked relieved as the kettle began to whistle.

‘You’ll have to ask your uncle, ’twer his sister,’ she added, jumping to her feet and pouring water into the pot. ‘Besides, ’tis not my place to be scandalmongering.’

‘Scandalmongering?’ Isabella repeated, staring at her in surprise. ‘You make it sound as though Mama had skeletons in the cupboard.’

‘Skeletons? That’s a funny thing to be talking about over afternoon tea,’ her uncle said, appearing in the doorway. ‘Just came in for my hat before taking the flowers to Starcross station. Running late today,’ he added staring pointedly at Isabella. ‘You all right, girl?’ he asked, his voice softening when he saw her damp cheeks.

‘We’ve been in to see Mother but she was away with the fairies,’ her aunt explained. ‘Isabella was asking me about your sister.’

‘Ah, I see. Well girl, how’s about coming with me to the station and we can have a chat?’ he asked Isabella, snatching his hat from the hook and placing it firmly on his head.

‘Oh, yes please,’ Isabella replied, brightening at the thought of getting answers about her mama.

‘Best get your shawl and bonnet, it gets nippy when the sea breeze blows in.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, jumping to her feet and going up to the room she was sharing with Dotty and Alice.

Taking out her things from the closet, she grimaced down at the smock and shapeless dress she was wearing. Hoping the mantle would cover most of it, she threw it around her shoulders before squinting into the fly-spotted mirror to tie the ribbons on her bonnet. The murmur of voices rose from downstairs, but she couldn’t make out what was being said.

It was evident she’d been the topic of conversation for as soon as she came back into the kitchen, they fell silent.

‘Ready then?’ he asked, seizing the violets from the jug on the table and thrusting them through the hole in his lapel.

‘Why do you do that?’ she asked.

‘What, wear these flowers?’ he asked.

‘And that funny hat?’ she added, then clamped her hand over her mouth.

‘I should think you would look embarrassed, girl,’ he rebuked, the twinkle in his eyes belying his stern manner.

‘’Tis the mark of Father’s trade,’ her aunt told her. ‘Diehard the undertaker wears a black topper, Bunty the baker his tall white one, and your uncle wears his straw hat. Everyone recognizes them then, see?’

‘And the violets let them know what you sell?’ Isabella smiled, gesturing towards his buttonhole.

‘That’s it, girl. And if we don’t hurry we’ll miss the train then no flowers will get sold. Come on.’

She followed her uncle outside where William was loading the last of the boxes onto the trap.

‘Why you all dolled up like a dog’s dinner?’ he scowled.

‘Isabella’s coming to the station with me today so you can get on with the hoeing while we’re gone,’ her uncle told him in a voice that brooked no argument. Clearly put out, William shot Isabella another glare.

‘See you later, William,’ she said, smiling sweetly at him. ‘Don’t forget to watch out for those blue mice.’

‘Come along, girl,’ her uncle called. Mindful of the stacked boxes, she gingerly climbed up onto the cart. ‘Right, Silver, get a move on, we’re running behind time,’ he called. As the old donkey plodded placidly out into the lane, Isabella turned towards him.

‘Why do you call him that? I mean he’s grey and moth-eaten . . . ,’ her voice trailed away as she realized that once again, she was in danger of appearing rude.

‘Full of questions, aren’t ye, girl? ’Tis like this. When farming went into decline, I had to sell me horses to pay the bills. Now, you can’t bring up a family on fresh air, so I decided to have a go at growing and selling them violets. Did it locally at first but then heard I could get a better price in London.’

‘Auntie was telling me about that earlier,’ Isabella nodded.

‘Right,’ he nodded. ‘So, I needed a means of getting them to the station. By chance, I bumped into a man taking this poor creature to the knacker’s yard. Did a deal, and for a few coppers I got myself a donkey and he got himself a new life. Reckoned it was our silver-lining day, didn’t we, old boy?’ he chuckled, leaning forward and patting the donkey’s flanks, prompting a loud bray.

‘He sounds like he’s responding to you,’ she laughed.

‘That’s ’cos he is. Understand each other perfectly, Silver and me, which is more than can be said for some humans round these parts,’ he muttered, lapsing into silence.

As they rumbled along, Isabella glanced at her uncle from under the brim of her bonnet. Clearly appearances were deceptive, for beneath his bluff exterior beat a soft heart. Could that be why her father had asked him to look after her whilst he was sorting out his business affairs? She wondered how he was getting on, for already she missed him dreadfully, Maxwell too.

The trap lurched, breaking into her thoughts and she grabbed at the wooden strut as the donkey turned left and began descending a steep hill. To one side was an orchard underplanted with the little mauve flowers that were so abundant around these parts. The branches were devoid of fruit, the leaves the golden hue of autumn.

‘Best plums in Devon come from they trees,’ her uncle declared, tapping into her thoughts. ‘Mother makes a fair few tarts with them, not to mention jars of jam.’ Thinking he was referring to her grandmother, Isabella stared at him in surprise then she remembered that was what he called his wife. They certainly had strange ways in this part of the world, she thought, blinking in surprise as a church rose majestically before them. Then she glimpsed a row of headstones to one side and, although she knew her mama wasn’t buried there, she shivered.

‘Someone treading on yer grave?’ her uncle chuckled, as she pulled her mantle tighter round her. ‘Be back in the sunshine again soon,’ he added. Sure enough, moments later they were out of the shade, passing pretty pink cottages that were spaced further apart than those she’d seen the previous day.

‘How do they get the walls that hue?’ she asked, thinking how lovely it would be to paint them.

‘Gives it a wash of lime mixed with pig’s blood,’ her uncle told her, laughing as she wrinkled her nose. Then she noticed ornamental birds staring down at her from their thatch.

‘Goodness,’ she gasped.

‘Clever, eh?’ her uncle said, seeing her fascination. ‘Started when a thatcher decided to put his mark, a biddle – that’s beetle to you – on a roof he’d finished. Before long, others were asking him to fashion birds to denote their dwellings. Some think it pretentious but each to their own,’ he shrugged.

‘Perhaps you should have some blue mice on yours,’ she joked.

‘Ah, the boy been teasing you, has he? Don’t you let him niddle you, girl, it’ll do him good to have someone stand up to him. The Sod.’

‘Pardon?’ Isabella gasped, staring at him in surprise. Certainly, William had been a pain but he hadn’t really been that bad. Then she realized her uncle was gesturing ahead.

‘That’s what they call this harbour. ’Tis the only one in the whole of the country to be on the inside of a railway line,’ her uncle told her, grinning knowingly at her expression. Clearly, he’d sensed the atmosphere between William and herself, but before she could pass comment, he was speaking again. ‘Now breathe in some more of that ozone, girl, you’ve got a fair pallor about you this afternoon.’

Isabella gazed out over the expanse of shimmering bluegreen water which was flowing out through a tunnel under the railway. Nearby, weatherbeaten fishermen were unloading the day’s catch from their boats and stacking the boxes onto the sea wall while gulls swooped and squawked hopefully overhead. It was a world away from the hustle and bustle of the city and for the first time since she’d arrived, she felt herself relax. She watched as a group of small children, string dangling from sticks, wading in the shallow waters, and wondered if her mama had played here. Just as she turned to ask her uncle, she heard voices calling to him.

‘Artnoon, Fred.’ Two older men who were sitting on the wall outside an inn raised their jugs of ale in greeting.

‘Jim, Ern,’ her uncle called, drawing to a halt. ‘This is my niece, Isabella.’

‘Oh ah,’ they chorused, giving her an appreciative look.

‘Fancy name for a fancy lady. Heard you’d come to live in the village,’ Ern replied, his grey beard bobbing up and down as he spoke.

‘Actually, I’m just visiting,’ she replied. As the two men raised their brows sceptically, her uncle cleared his throat.

‘And it’s a pleasure to have my niece here, for however long she decides to stay.’

‘She be the spit of your Ells apart from her blonde hair and blue eyes, of course. Suppose that came from ’im,’ Jim said, giving a toothless grin. Isabella blinked, trying to associate the appellation with her glamorous mother, Eleanora. Apart from anything else, her father had hazel eyes. Maybe the man’s memory was failing. He was old, after all.

‘Ah, now Ellie were some looker. No wonder she had all the lads . . . ,’ Ern began, keen to continue the tale.

‘Time we were on our way or we’ll miss the train,’ her uncle cut in quickly.

‘Heard Furneaux’s turned his land over to the flower growing now,’ Jim grinned.

‘Be competition for you, eh Fred?’ Ern added, his eyes bright with mischief. Isabella saw her uncle’s lips tighten but he wasn’t about to be drawn.

‘Enjoy your drink, gentlemen,’ he said, raising his hat.

‘Oh ah,’ they chorused and promptly returned their attention to their ale.

Her uncle was silent as they resumed their journey, but Isabella was bursting with curiosity.

‘How come everyone round here knows who I am?’ she asked. He shrugged.

‘That’s country living for you. News flies quicker than the pigeons.’

‘But they thought I was staying,’ she persisted.

‘Thinks they knows everything that goes on around here. And what they don’t, they make up. Gives them something to chat about. Look, there’s the open sea over there,’ he said, gesturing to their right. ‘Be on t’other side of the railway line now.’ Realizing he was trying to divert her attention but determined to get some answers to her questions, she turned to face him.

‘What was Mama like?’

‘Well now,’ he murmured. ‘She were lively and inquisitive, like yourself.’

‘But do I look like her? Grandmother said the strangest thing earlier,’ she began.

‘Ah, she often do,’ he agreed.

‘She said I must have rinsed my hair in clotted cream. Auntie thought she’d mistaken me for Mama and it got me wondering. Don’t you think it’s strange she had dark colouring when I’m fair and have blue eyes?’ she asked. He gave her a considering look then shrugged.

‘Offspring can take on the colouring of either parent.’

‘Yes but . . . ,’ she began, about to pursue the subject when she saw a carriage heading their way. Maxwell’s was similar, she thought, her heart flipping happily. But even as she leaned forward in her seat, it veered off to the right.

‘Oh,’ she gasped. Her uncle drew his brows together.

‘Something wrong, girl?’

‘That carriage, if it’s Maxwell, he’s gone the wrong way,’ she cried.

‘Driver’s bound to know where he’d be going. Anyhow, that’s the visitant route to Powderham Castle,’ he replied.

‘Oh, I see,’ she said despondently.

‘If the Earl of Devon is entertaining, it might be an idea to see if his guests want posies for their ladies’ fancy frocks,’ he muttered, oblivious to her frazzled emotions. ‘Got to up the stakes if Furneaux’s muscling in on my business.’

Isabella hardly heard him for she was peering along the lane where the carriage had turned off. Already it was just a speck in the distance and her heart sank. Obviously it wasn’t Maxwell. Why was he taking so long? Perhaps she should pen him another letter. She could write to dear Papa too. He’d be pleased to know she’d arrived safely.

‘Nearly there,’ her uncle said, breaking into her thoughts. As the trap slowed, she noticed a peculiar-looking red building towering above them. She was about to ask what it was, when the blast of a whistle sounded. ‘Come on, Silver,’ he urged, tugging on the rein. As they juddered to a halt in front of the station, two men, smart in their railway uniforms, ran over and began unloading the trap.

‘You’re late today, Fred. Train’s almost here.’

‘Been one of them days, Den,’ he replied, jumping down to help.

‘Bill’s flowers are already on the platform. Said you should drop by later. Got something important to tell you, apparently. Probably be about Furneaux and his new venture.’

‘Carry on like this and we’ll have to put on a train specially for the violets,’ the other man chuckled as he lifted the last of the boxes onto his trolley.

The rumble of the approaching engine galvanized them into action and they pushed their loads towards the platform. There was a hiss of brakes and once more Isabella found herself enveloped in a cloud of steam. When it had cleared, she saw all three men had disappeared, leaving her alone in the trap.