by Posy Lovell
“I’ll teach you from A Year in My Garden,” he said. “And you can tell me all the bits they’ve got wrong.”
Suddenly, learning how to read with Bernie sounded like the nicest thing Ivy could do with her time—apart from spending it with Jim, of course. She grinned. “You’re on.”
But Bernie looked worried. “Where should we do our lessons, though? I’d say come to my digs, but my landlady is a stickler for propriety and I don’t think she’d take kindly to me inviting a young woman in.”
Ivy made a face. “No room at ours. Not with all the littl’uns running round.”
“What about my flat?” Louisa said. “It’s not big, but there’s a table for you to use, and I won’t get in your way. You’d be very welcome.”
“Really?” Ivy wasn’t sure. “Thought you liked having your own space?”
“I do, I love it. But not all the time. It would be nice having some company a couple of times a week.”
She looked at Bernie. “I’m in Wandsworth, so it’s not far.”
“I’m in Battersea, so that’s perfect. I could even walk home if I was feeling energetic.”
“Ivy?” Louisa asked. “I know it’s much farther for you.”
Ivy wasn’t bothered by the prospect of traipsing across London to work at Kew, to find flowers for her dad’s stall, for WSPU meetings, or to spend time with these new friends. She grinned. “Suits me.”
“Then that’s settled,” said Louisa briskly. “We’ll start tomorrow after work. I’ll make tea.”
“I could bring a cake,” Bernie said.
“Even better.”
“In my experience, pupils are always more willing to listen, and lessons are always easier, when one has something sweet to nibble on.”
Ivy suddenly felt nervous at the prospect of dear Bernie realizing how little she knew.
“I’m really not clever,” she said, trying to joke but not sounding very convincing. “You’ll probably get fed up once you see just how stupid I am.”
Bernie smiled at her. “I am frightened of many things, Ivy,” he said. “But one thing I’m never afraid of is a challenge.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “Yeah?” she said. “I just hope you’re right.”
Chapter 5
Ivy was nervous before the first reading lesson.
“It’s a really good idea,” Jim said, trying to calm her nerves. “You can’t go through your whole life not being able to read or write.”
“Why not?” said Ivy. They were sneaking a half hour together under the trees in Kew. “Got you to do it for me, ain’t I?”
She leaned against the thick bark of a sycamore tree and looked at him defiantly.
“You do,” Jim said sweetly. He gave her a kiss. “But what if I’m not here?”
Ivy felt her stomach turn over in fear at the thought of his not being around. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, yet. But what if they do pass this conscription bill? I could get called up.”
“You’re too young.”
“At the moment. I’ll be eighteen next year. And people say it’s better to volunteer because you get more choice.”
Ivy thought she might vomit with the sheer horror that Jim’s words made her feel. She pushed him away from her with two hands.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t talk like that. You need to stay here, with me.”
Jim was calm. “All I mean is, it’s important for you to learn.”
Ivy knew he was right, but she was still cross about him mentioning the war. She hated any talk of his being called up or—worse—enlisting himself. She wasn’t sure she believed in God, not really, but every night when she got into the bed she shared with her sister, she prayed that the war would be over soon. The stories she heard, though, made it sound like it was actually getting worse rather than ending. Bernie’s tale about listening to the guns in France when he was at his school made her shudder.
“I have to go,” she said to Jim. “Louisa will be waiting for me.”
He grabbed her round her waist and pulled her close. “Don’t fret, Ivy,” he said. “What will be will be.”
He kissed her and, for a moment, she forgot all her fears.
They came flooding back, however, later on when she was sitting at Louisa’s little table, in her basement flat, ready to begin the lesson.
Ivy was very taken with Louisa’s home. It was small, that was true, but she’d made it so nice. She’d covered the drab settee with a pretty crocheted blanket, and even though it was below ground there was enough light that it wasn’t gloomy. She had lots of plants, too, and proudly showed Ivy and Bernie what she was growing in the pots she had.
“You’ve got green fingers, that’s for sure,” said Ivy admiringly. She rubbed the leaves of the sunflowers that were reaching up to the sky. “These will be taller than the wall in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s what I’m hoping. I want to see their glorious faces peeping out through the railings when I come home.”
“Like when the sun comes out on a cloudy day,” said Ivy. “Nice.”
“You ladies are very talented.” Bernie was looking at Louisa’s plants in awe. “I’ve no idea how you make things grow so beautifully. The knowledge you both have of flowers and plants is wonderful. I’m looking forward to sharing it.”
“Just stuff I’ve picked up over the years.” Ivy shrugged. “Like breathing.”
“Well, I think it’s very impressive.”
She smiled at him. He was such a sweet man, she thought. Gentle and kind. It occurred to her that if there were more men in the world like him perhaps the war wouldn’t have started at all. She wondered if Bernie would get called up and how he would fare if he did. Not well, she thought. She couldn’t imagine him with a gun in his hand.
“Ready?” he said, snapping her out of her horrible daydream.
She nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”
Bernie was, predictably, a patient and thoughtful teacher. Ivy had been worried he would use baby books and make her feel silly, but of course he didn’t. He’d brought along his A Year in My Garden book and had written out simple words for her to try, all plant-related. She was so interested in the words he’d chosen, and how they fit in with the story of the year in flowers that the book told, that she almost forgot she was stumbling over the letters.
When Bernie asked her to do some writing, she was nervous again.
He’d written out some simple names of flowers and plants and asked her to copy them. Worried she was going to make a fool of herself she picked up a pencil.
“That’s ivy,” she said, recognizing the first word. “I know that one.”
Bernie grinned. “Thought you would.”
Carefully, Ivy wrote the word out in her notepad, and then next to the letters, she drew a small ivy leaf.
“Lovely,” said Bernie. “That’s going to help you remember the words. Now the next one.”
Ivy carried on, writing out the botanical words he’d given her and drawing leaves or flowers next to the words.
“That’s wonderful.” Louisa had been sitting, reading quietly while Bernie gave the lesson, but now she came over and looked at what Ivy had been doing. “I didn’t know you were an artist, too.”
Ivy beamed at her. “I’ve always drawn plants,” she said. Then she looked sheepish. “Probably because I couldn’t write.”
“I hate to interrupt, but we’re going to have to get going, Ivy, if we want to make it in time.”
Bernie began clearing the books away. “Of course, ladies. I don’t want to take up too much of your evening.”
Ivy reached out and squeezed his hand. “Don’t be a silly sod,” she said. “It’s been lovely. And I’m really thankful you’re taking time out of your life to teach me.”
Bernie gave her fingers a squeez
e in return. “It’s helping me, too. And I’m looking forward to learning about the meaning of all the flowers when your Jim can spare five minutes.”
“Me, too,” said Louisa. “I’ve been doing a bit of reading about it already, actually.”
Ivy sighed. “Maybe I’ll do some reading about it one day.”
“You most certainly will.” Bernie was adamant. “I’ve never failed a pupil yet. Now, take the page you wrote the words on and read it every night before bed.”
Obediently, Ivy took the paper and put it into her bag. Then she stood up.
“I’m ready to go,” she told Louisa.
“Where are you off to?” Bernie asked.
Louisa and Ivy exchanged a look. They’d agreed not to mention their Suffragette activities to anyone at Kew because they knew how badly thought of they were at the Gardens. And rightly so, Ivy thought with a shudder. Even Jim didn’t know everything about Ivy’s involvement with the WSPU. But Bernie was their friend, wasn’t he? And they’d already told him they were Suffragettes.
“We’re just meeting some women,” Louisa said vaguely. “It’s a church thing.”
Ivy blinked at her. They were indeed meeting in a church hall, but claiming it was related to religion was a bit of a stretch.
Bernie’s face lit up, though. “Suffragettes?”
Louisa grinned. “Yes,” she admitted. “Suffragettes.”
“How nice. I have found such comfort in my meetings. I’m actually going to one myself this evening.”
“Is it a service?” Ivy asked. She’d never been one for church and wasn’t sure what the Quakers did, exactly.
“Not this evening. We’re talking about the war, actually . . .” Bernie trailed off, and Ivy was glad.
“I don’t want to hurry you, but we really should get on,” Louisa said.
Together, they all followed her out of the flat, and Bernie and Ivy stood at the top of the iron staircase to wait for her to lock the door.
“Which way are you going, Bernie?”
He pointed down the street toward the river.
“Then we’ll have to say good-bye now, because we’re off in the other direction,” said Louisa, appearing at the top of the steps.
“Thanks so much for my lesson,” Ivy said. On impulse, she stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
Bernie looked pleased. “I look forward to our next one,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
He gave them a cheery wave and headed off down the road. Ivy tucked her hand into Louisa’s arm.
“Where are we off to, then?”
Louisa had invited her to meet up with some women from the Wandsworth branch of the WSPU, as it was handy for after her lesson with Bernie, and Ivy had agreed. Ivy had been feeling rather unenthusiastic about her local Suffragette meetings recently. Since the fighting had begun, Emmeline Pankhurst had called for the women to stop their activities and instead throw themselves into supporting the war. But Ivy had mixed feelings about the war altogether. She wasn’t completely sure she understood why they were fighting in the first place, and the cries of patriotism and doing it for king and country sounded hollow as she watched boys she’d grown up with head to the trenches. She found she couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm required to encourage men to enlist, as Mrs. Pankhurst wanted, and so she’d started to avoid her local meetings. She was hoping Louisa’s branch might feel more like home.
Louisa was proudly filling her in on the women she was going to meet at the church hall close to Wandsworth Bridge.
“And there’s Ethel, who’s an absolute card,” she was saying. “She’s seventy if she’s a day, but she’s one of the fiercest women you’ll ever meet. The stories she tells of her time in Holloway will have your toes curling.”
Ivy chuckled. “I can’t believe she went to prison at her age.”
“Lots of women did,” Louisa said, her expression darkening. “We’ve all done all sorts of things we would never have thought possible once upon a time. I just hope it was worth it.”
Despite the warmth in the summer evening, Ivy cradled her arm. “I hope so, too,” she said.
But the meeting was a disappointment—for Ivy, at least. There was a woman speaking who was passionately in favor of conscription. She explained that more men were needed to fight and the government would be voting to force all those of a certain age to sign up. Ivy felt sick at the prospect of her brother Jack or her Jim being sent to the awful trenches in France or Belgium and coming back changed, or worse, not coming back at all.
“What about the men who won’t want to fight?” she asked. “Surely some men won’t go?”
The woman looked disgusted. “Well, they shall have to go,” she said. “This is for Britain. For the king. Why should they sit idly by while our brothers, our fathers, our husbands, are dying?”
There was a ripple of applause.
“And what if they refuse?” Ivy said, not giving up yet.
“Prison?” the woman said, her face growing red with anger. “Or, frankly, I think prison would be too good for the cowards. I think anyone who refuses to go should be shot.”
The silence that greeted her declaration reassured Ivy that she wasn’t the only one who thought that idea was going way too far. But these were the Suffragettes, who’d once been her family. Who’d cared for her when she was a young girl running wild in the streets of East London, and who’d made her feel less alone, less hungry, less scared. But they’d changed. Ivy didn’t feel like they were all part of the same fight anymore.
She said as much to Louisa as they all piled out of the church hall and Ivy prepared for the long trek to Hackney.
“I just don’t see why everything’s stopped when women still don’t have the vote,” she complained. “And everyone is already doing all they can to support the war effort, even though our boys are being sent to fight for something we don’t really understand.”
“I’m not sure that’s entirely true, Ivy,” Louisa said mildly.
“It is true.” Ivy was riled by the woman’s speech. “I don’t see how conscription can be a good thing.”
Louisa shrugged. “We have to do what’s necessary,” she said.
Ivy glared at her. “But that’s exactly it,” she said. “We don’t have to do anything, do we? It’s fine for us. Great, in fact. We’d never have been allowed to work at Kew if so many male gardeners hadn’t gone to war. But for the lads . . .” She swallowed a sob. “I’m just scared of losing Jim.”
Distraught, Louisa threw her arms round Ivy and pulled her close. “Oh, my girl,” she said. “Don’t you worry one bit. Jim’s not old enough to sign up and I’m sure this blasted war will be over before it comes to that.”
“I hope so,” Ivy said. But over Louisa’s shoulder she caught a glimpse of some bright begonias, dancing in the evening breeze in a window box of a nearby house, and suddenly she felt very scared.
Chapter 6
The lessons were a success, Louisa thought a couple of weeks later, as she was watering one of the herbaceous borders. Slow-going, admittedly, but a success nonetheless. She liked having Bernie and Ivy around her flat a couple of times a week, and though she stayed out of the way while they were working, she enjoyed hearing the murmur of their conversation in the background and seeing Ivy’s progress. She was reading better now, though she was still finding writing difficult.
“It’s harder to learn the older you get,” Bernie commented to Louisa one evening, as she made tea for everyone. Ivy had gone outside for some fresh air, needing a break from her books. “Children are like sponges and soak up everything you throw at them, but it’s more difficult when they’re older.”
“Ivy’s only sixteen,” Louisa had pointed out. It was hard to remember sometimes how young Ivy was. She seemed much older—jaded, even—and Louisa guessed it was because of looking after her family when her fath
er did his disappearing acts. Worry aged a person; Louisa knew that from her own experiences. Sometimes she looked at herself in the mirror, at the lines on her forehead and around her eyes, and the scattering of gray hairs appearing at her temples almost daily, and couldn’t believe she was the same person who’d stood next to Reg in the village church and dreamed of raising a family with him as she vowed happily to obey. If only she’d known then what she knew now.
Summer was in its last days and the women gardeners, and Bernie, had been at Kew Gardens for a whole season. Louisa’s sunflowers were blooming beautifully and she never got tired of seeing their joyful yellow faces turned to the sky as she hurried home from Kew each evening. And the Gardens themselves were heavy with blooms; you could smell the scents mingling as soon as you stepped through the iron gates. It was really something to behold. Louisa found herself sniffing the air as she walked toward work, trying to catch the scent as early as she could, and Ivy and Bernie had both confessed to doing the same.
They were an odd group, the three new recruits—Ivy, Bernie and Louisa—along with Jim, but they were getting along rather well. Ivy’s prickliness and defiant nature seemed to soften when Jim was there, and when she was digging in the earth or taking cuttings from a plant. Bernie was still clumsy and cack-handed most of the time but took correction in good spirit and was learning fast. Jim was a lovely lad, kind and patient with Bernie, gently teasing with Ivy, and sweetly respectful of Louisa.
We make a good team, Louisa thought as she drained the last of the watering can onto the flowers below. As though Ivy is the flower, Jim the earth, and Bernie the water helping her grow. And then she laughed at herself for coming up with such a ridiculous idea and went to refill the can.
Jim was by the water barrel and he greeted her warmly.
“Working hard?” he asked. It was early September but the sun was still hot and his friendly face was ruddy.
Louisa nodded. “Watering,” she said. “The ground is so dry. I’m hoping for rain soon.”
Jim paused and looked up toward the west.
“It’s coming. I can smell it.”
