by Posy Lovell
Jim finished Ivy’s sandwich and screwed his nose up. “That was horrible.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you ate it.”
“I was hungry.”
They smiled at each other for a moment, enjoying this time together, and then Ivy sighed.
“They don’t believe anyone has a good reason for not going to fight. They have no time for conscientious objectors, and they want them exposed and shamed for not doing their bit.”
“Well, really, everyone should be stepping up,” Jim said, frowning. “It’s not fair, is it, that some lads have to go and fight and be injured or killed, and others don’t.”
Ivy threw her head back.
“I know,” she said. “It’s not fair. But why should these boys be fighting? The people in charge aren’t doing it. They’re just making decisions in an office in London, safe and warm and dry, and sending another load of lads to Belgium to be shot at.”
“Ivy, that’s just how things work.”
“Makes me sick. That some old posh bloke can just decide what happens to you.”
Jim winced. “I don’t want to go, either, but if I get called up, then I will. I won’t say no, not when lads I know have gone before me.”
Ivy squeezed his hand. “You’re too young,” she said. “You have to be eighteen.”
“I’ll be eighteen in November. The war won’t be over by then.”
Ivy felt ill just thinking about it.
“There are some jobs that if you do them, you don’t have to fight,” she said. “Someone asked about those blokes at the meeting. It’s teachers and that. Vicars, I think. Few others.”
“Gardeners?” said Jim hopefully.
“Don’t think so.” Ivy snorted. “It is useful, though, isn’t it? What we’re doing here. We’ve got that veg patch going now, and the allotments and that. We’re helping people feed their families.”
“Guess you could argue everyone’s important in a way. Train drivers, and plumbers, and all sorts. We’re no different from them and they’ve all gone.”
“S’pose.” Ivy wasn’t enjoying this conversation at all.
“What about Bernie?” Jim sat up straighter as the thought struck him.
“What about him?”
“Mac’s married, so he won’t be called up, but just about everyone else has gone. And Bernie’s the right age, and he’s single. Why’s he not been called up yet?”
Ivy didn’t answer and Jim carried on.
“Has he said anything to you? You spend more time with him than anyone else.”
Ivy shifted on the bench. She and Bernie hadn’t really discussed the war since they’d both opened up that time last summer. It was as though they both knew they were in agreement and they didn’t need to chat about it. She occasionally told him bits and pieces about the Federation and what was happening in the East End and he’d actually given her donations of food, milk, and even toys for the children. She remembered what he’d said about Quakers being pacifists, but she knew that it didn’t matter what he thought about the war; he’d have to go anyway. No one was interested in what the Tommies’ opinions were. They were just there to kill the enemy. Kill or be killed. She shuddered again and Jim looked at her, brow furrowed.
“Chilly?”
“Goose walked over my grave,” she said. “Thinking about poor Bernie going to fight.”
Jim was thoughtful. “He’s quite posh. Nicely spoken. Maybe he’ll be an officer?”
“I can’t imagine that at all. He’s so quiet. I can’t picture him giving orders.”
“He must have done when he was teaching. He must have had control of a whole load of rowdy schoolboys.”
Ivy shook her head. “Not by shouting at them, though. He’s so interested in what he’s telling you, it’s like you can’t help but listen. You find yourself really trying hard just to impress him, and he’s so pleased when you get something right, it’s lovely.”
Jim grinned. “And yet, your writing is still awful.”
She thumped his arm. “Oi!” she said. “It’s better than it was. I couldn’t write anything at all before Bernie got hold of me. Now I’m writing names of flowers and all sorts. And reading stuff.”
“You’re doing so well,” Jim said fondly. “I never thought you’d stick at it.”
Ivy flushed with pleasure.
“I don’t want anyone thinking I’m stupid, or thinking badly of you because of me,” she admitted. “I don’t want your family thinking, ‘What’s he doing with a girl like her, that can’t read nor write?’ And I don’t want people turning up their noses at you for choosing me.”
Jim put his arm round her and pulled her close and she snuggled into his chest for a moment.
“Ivy Adams, I don’t think anyone who spent more than two minutes in your company could ever think you were stupid,” he said. “Some people just have trouble with letters. I knew a couple of boys at school like that. Doesn’t mean nothing at all. Not when your brain’s as sharp as yours is and you’re as talented an artist as you are.”
Ivy sat up. “Bugger, I was going to draw those daffs this lunchtime while they’re at their best. You’ve distracted me, Jim.”
Jim grinned. “Do it now. I won’t bother you.”
Ivy stood up and dropped a kiss onto his forehead. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She ran off to find her sketchbook, waving at Louisa and Bernie as she passed. They were deep in conversation about something. It was nice that they were such good friends. Ivy had wondered if there might be a hint of romance there, at first, but Louisa was a good bit older than Bernie and he seemed to have sworn off women. He’d not told Ivy much about what had happened, but she’d gathered he’d got involved with a woman at the school he taught in—she was a musician who took choir rehearsals. Ivy got the impression she was rather glamorous and thought herself above the normal teachers. From what Bernie had said, it seemed he had fallen in love with this Vivienne, but she’d used him. She’d asked for favors and borrowed money. When he’d given in to his passion and proposed to her, she’d first laughed, then turned him down flat and then—worst of all—told everyone at school what had happened. The other staff had thought it hilarious and even the boys got wind of it and teased him mercilessly. Poor Bernie. Ivy couldn’t bear the thought of anyone being mean to him; he was such a sweet, good-hearted, kind man.
She grabbed her sketchbook and pencils from the locker and raced back to Jim, out of breath slightly.
“Might be his glasses,” she said, as she opened her book to a fresh, clean page.
Jim blinked at her. “What’s that?”
“Bernie,” she said. “I just saw him and I thought it might be his glasses, why he’s not been called up.”
Jim nodded. “I’d agree with you there if it wasn’t for one thing.”
“Go on.” Ivy was only half listening as she drew the outline of the daffodil bloom.
“I don’t reckon they’re real specs.”
“What?” Ivy scoffed. “Course they’re real specs. Why wouldn’t they be?”
“My little brothers both wear glasses, right?”
Jim had twin brothers who were twelve years old and blind as bats without their specs.
“Right.”
“And when they put them on, their eyes look different because of the lenses. They go big, don’t they? Like they’re magnified.”
Ivy thought about the boys. Jim was right, their eyes looked funny behind their specs.
“Like little frogs.”
“Exactly. Bernie’s eyes stay exactly the same. His specs have clear lenses.”
“Really?” Ivy was still not convinced.
“I’m sure of it.”
“Even if you’re right, why would he do that? Wear specs if he doesn’t need to?”
&nb
sp; Jim shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “But whatever the reason is for him not being called up, it’s not his eyesight. Trust me.”
Ivy didn’t answer for a moment, as she shaded the daffodil flower in shades of yellow in her book.
“Well, there must be a reason and I suppose it’s none of our business.”
Jim gave her a sharp look. “You’re not on board with this white feather thing, then?”
“Definitely not. We don’t know anything about people, do we? We shouldn’t be judging them. Maybe Bernie’s got a disease. Or perhaps his legs don’t work properly. Or he’s got a dicky heart.”
Jim looked dubious, but Ivy glowered at him.
“The point is, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “It doesn’t matter because it’s none of our business. He’ll tell us when he’s ready. Just like all the men who’ve not gone to fight. Maybe they’re too young, or too old, or they’re married or ill or something. How would we know just from seeing them in the street? It doesn’t matter what Mrs. Pankhurst says, I ain’t putting white feathers in no one’s pockets.”
She sat back on the bench, satisfied she’d made her point, and examined her sketch. She was rather pleased with it. She had wanted to draw the whole bunch of daffodils, nestling for space among one another, and she thought she’d captured it quite well.
“What do you think?” she said, showing Jim. “I’ll cut one, too, and press it.”
Jim looked at the picture in admiration and then at Ivy.
“I think, Ivy Adams, that you’re the most incredible girl I’ve ever met.”
Ivy gave him a shove. “Shut up.”
“It’s true. I think you’re wonderful and I think one day, you’re going to be my wife.”
Ivy felt her cheeks flame. “Well, maybe I will,” she said. “But you’re going to have to talk me into it.”
Jim laughed out loud. “Maybe I will,” he echoed.
They kissed, quickly, before Mac saw. Everyone knew about Ivy and Jim—their romance was impossible to keep secret and, really, why should they? They were doing nothing wrong. But they felt Mac wouldn’t be impressed to see them kissing at work or gazing into each other’s eyes when they should be digging over a flower bed or planting bulbs, so they kept things professional at Kew. Most of the time.
Ivy slid off the bench and bent down to pick one of the daffodils to press later.
“Do you know what they mean?” Jim asked, and she looked up at him, wanting to know the answer.
“It’s not something awful, like casualties of war, is it?”
Jim smiled, looking right at her. “Not even close,” he said. “They mean the sun is always shining when I’m with you.”
Ivy was delighted. “That’s the loveliest meaning yet,” she said. “Will you help me write it in my sketchbook?”
Jim smiled. “Course I will,” he said. “I’ll do anything for you, Ivy Adams. Anything at all.”
Chapter 10
Bernie was nervous. Constantly on edge. He wasn’t sleeping properly, or eating really. He was making silly mistakes at work—the sort of mistakes he’d made in his early days at Kew. Mac had been tolerant then, but now he was less willing to overlook Bernie’s mishaps.
“For crying out loud, Bernie,” he kept saying, which wasn’t helping Bernie’s anxiety in the slightest.
The conscription act was in full force now. Bernie had been called up but had burned the papers, feeling rebellious and terrified at the same time. He knew he wasn’t alone; there were a few men at his Quaker meeting who’d done as he’d done, but that didn’t make him feel less nervous. Nothing had happened so far. He’d not had another letter. He was sure another would arrive, though. Sooner rather than later.
The rain had stopped, which was good. Spring was on the way. The spirits of the other gardeners had all improved with the weather, but Bernie’s had not. He had a sense of impending doom and he knew it was only a matter of time until someone found out he should be on his way to the Front but wasn’t.
Despite the fears of being found out, Bernie was, oddly, entirely at peace with his decision. He had never wavered in his conviction that this war—like all wars—was wrong. He did not want to kill German men, who were the same as he was under their uniforms. He did not want to kill anyone, ever. He did not want to kill and he would not kill. Not for the king, not for his country, not for anyone.
The rain had given all the spring plants at Kew a boost and the herbaceous border was overgrown with weeds.
“Bernie, get cracking on that patch, can you?” Mac said. “I know it’s dull, but the girls are all busy deadheading the daffs.” Mac may have been becoming prouder of his female gardeners with each day that passed, but that didn’t stop him apologizing when he gave Bernie what he considered a “girlie” task to do, even though Louisa, Ivy, and the rest were far more skilled than Bernie.
Bernie waved to let Mac know he was on it, and got to work. As he knelt on the grass, he let the smell of the earth and the spring blooms soothe his worried mind. Ivy swore that being close—physically close—to nature made her feel better and Bernie believed she might be on to something there. He dug out some stubborn weeds with his trowel and plucked others with his long fingers and felt the soft spring air on his face.
The sound of voices made him look up. Along the path a little way, Louisa was standing talking to a visitor to the Gardens. She was a well-dressed woman wearing a bonnet, which the wind was tugging. Frustrated with the breeze, she untied her ribbon and pulled the hat from her head, laughing as she did so. But Bernie wasn’t laughing. He looked in surprise at the woman he recognized as one of Vivienne’s friends. He couldn’t remember her name. Adele? Ada? Something like that.
He hoped she wouldn’t see him; his nerves were so frayed at the moment that he couldn’t bear the thought of having to replay everything that had happened at St. Richard’s and with Vivienne. Like a cat watching a mouse, he crouched down behind a shrub and pretended to be deeply involved with his weeding.
“Bernie?” Oh Lord, she’d seen him. “Is that you? Bernie Yorke?”
Reluctantly, Bernie stood up and she clapped her hands delightedly.
“Do you remember me?” she sang. “It’s Adelaide. Adelaide Marks. Friend of Vivi’s.”
Bernie took a deep breath. “I do remember,” he said. “Hello, Adelaide. How nice to see you.”
Adelaide rushed over to greet him, kissing him on both cheeks.
“Love the specs,” she said. “Bookworm like you was always going to end up losing his eyesight.”
Bernie smiled half-heartedly. This was painful.
“So sorry to hear what happened with Vivi,” Adelaide said. “She’s always been a handful.”
Bernie felt sick. He hated remembering how Vivienne had used him and mocked him. The way Adelaide was talking made it sound like it had just been a big old lark. It certainly hadn’t felt like it.
Adelaide was looking around her at Bernie’s overalls, his trowel, the pile of weeds by his feet.
“Do you work here?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“But you’re a teacher. Classics, wasn’t it?”
Bernie winced.
“Not anymore,” he said. Vivi put an end to all that, he wanted to add, but didn’t.
“So why aren’t you . . . ?”
In uniform, she meant. Bernie froze, not knowing what to say. This was the first time he’d been asked outright.
“Ah, well,” he began, desperately thinking of an excuse. “The thing is . . .”
But Adelaide was already moving on.
“The war is all-consuming, isn’t it? It is simply taking up my every waking moment. In fact, that’s how I know your colleague Louisa,” she said. “We’ve met through mutual friends at some Red Cross meetings.”
“Lovely,” muttered Bernie.
“Must dash,” Adelaide said, realizing she wasn’t going to get much response from him on anything. “I’m due to wind bandages this afternoon. It’s all-consuming, Bernie.”
She waved gaily at him and bounced across the lawn to say her good-byes to Louisa. After a quick but earnest chat, Adelaide walked away. Louisa watched her go and then turned and stared at Bernie. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes bored into him and he felt a flicker of unease. He didn’t like his two lives colliding in this way.
“Old friend,” he called. Louisa didn’t speak, simply nodded and bent down to her daffodils again.
“Come on, Bernie,” he murmured to himself as he knelt back down at the border. “Come on, old chap. Keep going. It’s all going to be fine.”
As he picked up his trowel he noticed he’d laid it on the grass next to a patch of daisies. The symbolism of the cheerful little flowers had never seemed so apt.
“Keep my secret,” he whispered. “Keep my secret.”
* * *
Louisa looked at where Adelaide was virtually skipping down the path. She’d met her once or twice before at fund-raising events for the war and had always been astonished by her energy and vigor. Today had been no different, though this time she’d left Louisa feeling as though the stuffing had been knocked out of her. Because she knew Bernie.
“Lovely chap,” she’d told Louisa when she’d been to say hello to her old friend. “Always felt bad about the way Vivi treated him. She’s got a cruel streak, that one. Mind you, he seems to be over it now.”
Louisa hadn’t responded, hadn’t wanted to betray Bernie’s confidence by saying he’d given up teaching and come to work at Kew, all because of his humiliation at Vivienne’s hands.
Adelaide had eyed Bernie across the plants and then lowered her voice.
“I had heard he’d joined the church,” she said. “But clearly I was wrong.”
“I think he is fairly religious. Quaker, I believe,” Louisa said. She was keen to get back to the daffodils, and having suffered through idle gossip when she was married, she didn’t like discussing other people’s business.
