The Kew Gardens Girls

by Posy Lovell

  They smiled at each other for a moment.

  “Don’t tell Louisa, will you?” Ivy said. “I think she’s lovely. She’s so clever and quick-witted, and what she doesn’t know about politics isn’t worth knowing. And she’s had enough troubles of her own to fill a book. Two books. And she’s built herself back up again . . .” She bit her lip. “I’m just not sure we agree about this, that’s all.”

  Bernie nodded. “I think you’re right, Ivy,” he said. “And could I ask you to do the same? Of course, it’s no secret that the Quakers are pacifists, but I don’t want to make a thing of it at Kew.”

  Ivy nodded. “No big deal, though, is it? Who cares if you don’t think war is the right thing to do? Won’t stop those bigwigs sending a load more boys to the trenches, will it? They’re not going to say, ‘Ooh, Bernie from Battersea thinks we should stop, so let’s call a halt, shall we?’ Are they?”

  Bernie laughed at what Ivy obviously considered a posh voice and wished with all his heart that she was right. Because he knew deep down people would care. Perhaps not at the moment, when enlisting was still voluntary, but conscription was coming; he felt it like a gathering storm. When Louisa had mentioned Greece earlier, he’d gone cold, knowing Britain had promised the Greeks they would send more troops. Where would they all come from?

  Nervously, he pushed his clear spectacles up his nose. Would pretending to be shortsighted be enough to avoid being forced to join up? He feared not. Nor, he suspected, would it be enough to convince others that he had a reason not to fight. He thought about the mothers Ivy had talked of, bowed with grief, and how they would feel seeing him—a young, healthy man with four strong limbs and a sharp mind—refusing to go to face the Germans in France or Germany, and he felt sick.

  “Bernie,” Ivy said, concern in her voice. “Are you all right?”

  He snapped out of his musings and looked at her. “Sorry, Ivy, I was miles away there.”

  She patted his hand affectionately. “Lots on your mind?”

  “Exactly.”

  She studied him carefully. “Are your thoughts bothering you?” she asked astutely. “Why not go to one of your Quaker meetings? Could you get to one this evening? Might help calm things down.”

  Touched by her concern, he smiled.

  “I think I will,” he said. “Or perhaps I shall sit quietly and write my thoughts down in my journal.”

  Ivy nodded. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to write like you?”

  He gave a small laugh. “I think you’ll be able to do whatever you want, Ivy,” he said.

  “I’m rubbish at writing, though.”

  “It’s hard to learn when you’re older; you should be kinder to yourself. It’s not easy starting again.”

  “Slow going, ain’t it?”

  “It’ll be worth it in the end.”

  Along the street, he could see the bus approaching, its engine pumping out clouds of smoke.

  “At last,” Ivy said. “I’ve been waiting longer and longer for the bus recently. Someone told me all the conductors and drivers have gone off to fight. I reckon they want to get some women in to do the jobs instead.”

  “Enjoy your meeting,” Bernie said. “I’d like to hear more about the Federation.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

  She had stood up, ready to jump on the bus when it arrived, but now she bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You’re a good man, Bernie,” she said, then she picked up her bag, swung it onto her back, and waved to the bus driver to get him to stop.

  Bernie watched as she clambered up the stairs to the top deck and lifted his hand to wave good-bye. A good man? He’d never been called that before. A foolish man, certainly. A weak man. A clever man. But never good. He rather liked it. He waited for the bus to pull away and then he stood up and made his way back home.

  Chapter 8

  March 1916

  Spring was late that year. March arrived like a lion, with blustery showers and nightly frosts. At Kew, the gardeners worked on, regardless. Louisa had been surprised by just how much there was to do during winter but had enjoyed being outside whatever the weather. The cold didn’t bother her, but the relentless rain was getting her down and she was longing for a break in the gloom.

  News from the Front didn’t help. The conflict was spreading to more countries and it seemed for every gain the British troops made, there were more losses. Sometimes Louisa wondered if Reg had joined up. She couldn’t imagine him in the army, but it was possible. Of course, now that the conscription act had passed, things were different. Reg was still young enough—just—to be forced to enlist. Farming could be one of the scheduled occupations, but Louisa had read that applying to be exempt took some work and she doubted Reg would put in the effort. Mind you, she thought, legally she and Reg were still married and at the moment it was only single men who were being drafted. How ironic if it was their marriage, which had almost destroyed her, was the thing that saved Reg.

  Lost in thought, she stared out the window of the small break room at Kew, watching the rain running down the glass. She was the only one there for now, as she’d arrived early today. The buses were running better now that women were allowed to drive and Louisa had made it to work in no time. She was enjoying the silence and the time alone with her thoughts and, to be quite honest, she didn’t really want to have to head outside into the wet.

  Bernie will be here soon, she thought. He was an early bird normally. She smiled fondly as she thought of him with his disheveled hair and the specs perched on the end of his nose. He’d learned so much in their months at Kew, working hard to listen and understand everything Jim or Mac taught them, and reading everything he could about flowers and plants when he wasn’t in the Gardens. He was really rather knowledgeable about botany now, which had impressed Louisa.

  It was astonishing how quickly these people had become so important to her. They’d not even been at Kew for a year—hadn’t seen how all four seasons changed the Gardens—and yet, Bernie, Ivy, Jim, and even Mac were like her family now. And, she thought, they’d arrived just at the right time. Since she’d moved to London it was her Suffragette family who’d bolstered her and welcomed her, and she’d missed the regular meetings and actions when the war started. But now she had her Kew family and the occasional WSPU meeting, too. There was one this evening, in fact.

  “Penny for them?”

  Louisa turned, startled out of her thoughts by Ivy’s arrival.

  “It’s horrible out there. I’ve only walked from the bus stop and I’m soaked through.” Ivy started peeling off her wet outer layers and hanging them up.

  Louisa smiled at her. “Good morning,” she said. “I was just having a moment to myself before the day begins.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Ivy said, but Louisa waved her apology away.

  “Nonsense, now we can have a moment together. Do you have new pictures to show me?”

  “I do,” said Ivy. She opened her locker and pulled out the sketchbook Bernie had bought her. It was looking a bit battered now and was bulging so much Ivy kept it fastened with string. Now she pulled the string off and passed the book to Louisa, who sat down on one of the wooden chairs in the break room so she could open the book carefully.

  Ivy had excelled with this book. Bernie had been so right to give her the tools she needed for her project, because it was something wonderful. She’d charted the changing scenery of Kew as the months passed. She’d collected cuttings from plants, pressed flowers, picked up seedpods and pasted them into the pages. In her childlike handwriting she had carefully copied out the names of the months and written the names of the plants, too. Alongside the cuttings, she’d also drawn the whole plant. A wonderful, detailed sketch of a conifer, delicately drawn in shades of green, took up a whole page, next to a pressed cutting from its branches. A glorious black-and
-white drawing of a snowdrop, breaking through the icy ground, was next to the pasted-in flower from the same plant. Snowdrop Febrary 1916 was printed carefully in Ivy’s handwriting. Louisa didn’t point out the spelling mistake. Why would she, when Ivy was working so hard?

  “Look at the new stuff,” Ivy said eagerly. She was always keen to get Louisa’s opinion on her work. “I found some cyclamen in among the snowdrops. They’re such a gorgeous color.”

  Louisa flicked to the end of the book and discovered vivid pink drawings of the small plants, next to another pressed flower and a small drawing of an ant.

  “These are lovely, Ivy,” she said. “Why the ant?”

  “Ants carry the cyclamen seeds on their backs,” she explained. “I thought I should include them.”

  Delighted, Louisa gazed at the pages. “What does cyclamen mean?” she asked. “I can’t remember.”

  Ivy winced. “It’s not nice,” she said. “I almost thought about not drawing it because of its meaning.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “It means resignation and good-bye,” she said, her voice catching. Immediately, Louisa got up and went to the younger woman, wrapping her arms round her.

  “Don’t fret,” she said into Ivy’s hair. “Jim’s too young to be enlisted.”

  “He’s too young for now, but he’ll be eighteen at the end of the year. And what if they change the ages?”

  Louisa soothed her friend, stroking her hair.

  “We’ll worry about that if it happens,” she said. “For now, it’s not worth the mental toil.”

  Ivy nodded, but she didn’t look too sure.

  “What about Bernie?” she whispered. “He’s such a peaceful bloke, but he’s only twenty-eight. He’ll be snapped up.”

  Louisa frowned. She’d not thought about Bernie.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “He’s shortsighted, isn’t he? Perhaps that’s why he’s not been called up? Or perhaps it’s to do with his teaching? Maybe he’ll be told he has to go back to a school.”

  “I hope not,” said Ivy. “I like having him here.”

  “So do I, but we all have to do our bit, Ivy.”

  Ivy grimaced and Louisa decided it was best to change the subject.

  “You need to keep busy,” she said, releasing Ivy from her embrace. “There’s a meeting tonight. In Caxton Hall.”

  “A central meeting?” Ivy said, looking interested. “There haven’t been many of those lately.”

  “No, indeed. I’m looking forward to it. Will you come along? You’ve not been to the few meetings we’ve had in Wandsworth.”

  “I’ve mostly been doing some things with Suffragettes locally,” Ivy said vaguely. “East London way.”

  Louisa frowned. She had a feeling that Ivy had been avoiding the usual WSPU meetings recently, but she wasn’t sure why. She’d wondered if she was spending every minute she had with Jim, given that he could soon be off to the Front, but now she was claiming to have been going to local meetings. Were there even any? Things had been very quiet for months, with Mrs. Pankhurst urging the women to instead focus on what they could do for the country. Louisa wasn’t quite as ardent as their leader, but she did believe her approach was correct. After all, the question of women’s suffrage wasn’t going to be addressed while the war was going on—there simply wasn’t enough time for parliament to consider it with all the other things happening. And Louisa had a hope that while women were stepping up to fill the shoes of the men who’d gone to war, they were showing the lawmakers and parliamentarians just how capable they were. How could they deny them the vote, she thought, when they’d proved they could make weapons, drive buses, keep the factories running, and even play football, as well as the men?

  “So will you come?” she asked Ivy. “Mrs. Pankhurst is going to be speaking.”

  The younger woman nodded. “Yes, I’ll come,” she said. “I’d like to hear what she’s got to say.”

  Ivy sounded slightly defiant, to Louisa’s surprise. Perhaps she’d just misheard. She was going to ask what she meant, but the break room began filling up with other gardeners ready to start their day and the moment was lost.

  After work, the two women met at the same spot.

  “I’m so fed up with this rain,” Louisa said, beginning the slow process of taking off her gardening clothes and putting on her wet-weather gear. “I am longing for summer.”

  “And then it will be a year since we came to Kew,” Ivy said. “I can’t believe how fast these last few months have gone.”

  “Time always goes quickly when you’re absorbed in a task. I think we’ve all been learning so much, the hours have flown. Especially you, Ivy, with your writing and reading.”

  Ivy made a sound like a sigh mixed with a grunt. “I’m not getting on very well,” she said. “Bernie’s so patient with me, bless him, but all I can really do is copy letters. And my reading still isn’t good. I think I’m better off sticking with drawing.”

  “You do it beautifully,” Louisa said. She offered her arm to Ivy and together they walked out of the Gardens toward the train station.

  It only took them an hour or so to get to Caxton Hall, where the meeting was being held. There were many women hurrying inside out of the rain, and then milling around chatting and catching up with friends. As always the atmosphere was friendly and welcoming and Louisa and Ivy were soon enveloped into the throng of smiling women.

  “It’s nice to see everyone,” Louisa said, shaking the rain off her mac. “Hello, Beatrice, how’s your mother doing?”

  “Better, thank you so much,” said Beatrice as she passed. “Oh, there’s Helen. I must catch her, but let’s talk later. I want to speak to you about the white feather campaign.”

  Louisa watched her bustle away, amused. Beatrice was nothing if not passionate, about Suffrage, about the war, about everything, really.

  “Ivy, we’ve not seen you for a while,” another woman said, kissing Ivy on both cheeks and then doing the same to Louisa. “Hello, Lou.”

  “Hello, Mary,” Louisa said. Mary Clark was one of the leaders of the Wandsworth branch of the WSPU. She’d been so good to Louisa when she first moved to London, holding out the hand of friendship, offering support and a shoulder to cry on, helping Louisa find work and encouraging her to apply for the job at Kew, that Louisa sometimes thought she’d never be able to repay her debt. “Ivy’s been mostly going to meetings locally, in East London.”

  Mary gave Ivy a sharp look, curiosity gleaming in her sharp eyes.

  “Is that right,” she said. “Federation?”

  Ivy looked at her feet, which were wet from the rain. “Sometimes,” she muttered.

  “Hmm.”

  Louisa watched the two women with interest: Mary, gray-haired and with the weight of experience on her shoulders—and Ivy, fresh-faced and eager, yet being coy and evasive. What was going on here?

  Ivy lifted her gaze and met Mary’s stare and relaxed as she saw her smile.

  “My mum’s working at the toy factory,” Ivy said, and Mary’s grin widened.

  “Wonderful stuff,” she said.

  “Sylvia’s toy factory,” Louisa said. “Sylvia Pankhurst?” She’d read about the Federation, of course, and heard talk of it. It seemed the women in the East End were doing some marvelous things, giving food to children and employment to mothers. But she hadn’t known Ivy was involved. With a slight feeling of discomfort she realized Ivy probably hadn’t told her in case she didn’t approve. She knew some Suffragettes didn’t like Sylvia’s focus on working-class issues and her left-wing leanings, but while Louisa was in full agreement with Emmeline’s opinions on the war, she also found it impossible to find anything wrong with what her daughter was doing. Perhaps, she thought, in the future, she should listen to others and talk about issues before being so strident with her own views. She did have a t
endency to assume everyone agreed with her without even asking.

  Feeling mildly ashamed, she followed Mary and Ivy to a row of empty chairs and sat down, just as Mrs. Pankhurst got up onstage.

  “Today I want to talk to you about something new that is damaging the British war effort,” Mrs. Pankhurst began. “Conscientious objectors.”

  Chapter 9

  It all sounds a bit much, if you ask me,” Jim said to Ivy the following day. The rain had finally stopped and so they’d sneaked away from the others to share their lunch on a bench by a crowd of daffodils, their golden heads bobbing in the breeze.

  Ivy made a face. “It’s definitely too much.”

  She opened up her sandwich and peered inside at the unappetizing gray meat on dry bread.

  “Not hungry?” Jim asked.

  “Not for this.”

  Jim shrugged. “I’ll have it.”

  He took a huge bite and Ivy grinned.

  “So tell me more about these feathers. Like I say, it’s a bit much,” he said through a mouthful of stale crumbs.

  Ivy sighed. “Mrs. Pankhurst and some of her hangers-on have been doing it for a while, giving white feathers to any lads they see not in uniform.”

  “Because they think they’re cowards?”

  She nodded, grim-faced. She wasn’t impressed with this approach at all. “They keep a load in their pockets and give them to anyone and everyone.”

  “But they could be home on leave or injured or doing a job that’s vital to the war effort here,” Jim pointed out.

  “Exactly. But they just brand them all as cowards, without stopping to think about it.”

  “Nasty.”

  “It is. I don’t like it at all.”

  “Will they stop now? Now there’s conscription?”

  Ivy shuddered at the word and laced her fingers into Jim’s. “Well, that’s the thing. No, they’re not going to stop. In fact, they want us all to get involved. Because obviously now there’s these conscientious objectors.”