by Posy Lovell
* * *
Louisa was brooding, too. She felt so awful about Bernie that she couldn’t get him out of her mind. She had been so certain, so sure, that she was doing the right thing when she left the feathers in his coat and in his bag that she never once stopped to question if it truly was the best way to act.
And now it was too late.
She was working alone today. She worked alone most days now. She wasn’t sure if the other women knew what she’d done, or understood that she’d been responsible for Bernie being sacked and—she presumed—being called up. She didn’t know if Ivy had said something to them, or if Mac had spread the word. But however it had happened, no one really spoke to Louisa now. No one was outright nasty, but no one shared small talk or chatted about their weekend. If Lou tried to ask questions about a fiancé, who was serving abroad, or an ill mother, or even trivialities like what they were having for lunch, she was shut down. So she’d stopped asking. She came to work each day, did what Mac asked her to do, and then she went home again.
It was a lonely existence. And with so much time on her hands she’d thought long and hard about Bernie and his insistence that war was wrong, that the German soldiers were just men and boys in different uniforms, and she’d come to see that he had a point. She still wasn’t completely comfortable about some people fighting while others stayed safe at home, but she had changed her mind altogether about the white feather campaign.
“It’s not right,” she’d told some like-minded Suffragettes last week. “And I won’t be a part of it.”
The other women had nodded.
“I agree. It’s not sitting right with me,” said one, whose name was Effie and who was around Louisa’s age. “My husband got one. My own bloody husband. He’s a teacher, so he’s not fighting, thank the Lord. And I heard Mrs. Parkinson’s son got one when he was home because he’d had his hand shot off.”
There was a murmur of discontent as the women all made it clear what they thought of that.
“We could still support the war effort,” Louisa suggested tentatively. “Form our own group, and concentrate on helping in other ways?”
Effie frowned. “Like how?”
Louisa thought of Ivy, spending her spare time at the Federation in East London.
“A friend is working with Sylvia Pankhurst, giving milk and food to children whose fathers have been called up. Maybe we could do something like that. Something on the ground, as it were?”
“We could help soldiers, perhaps?” Effie said thoughtfully. “Support their families? Visit them in hospital?”
“I’d like to work on promoting peaceful solutions to conflict,” said a young woman sitting across from Louisa. She was tiny, like a bird, but had a flinty, determined look in her eye. “I’m not sure war is ever the right thing to do. I’ve heard there’s an organization called the League of Peace. I thought I’d go along and see if I can do anything to help them.”
“Could I come?” Louisa said, surprising herself. “I’d like to know more about them.”
The woman smiled. “Of course,” she said.
Effie had nodded. “And let’s not forget that we still do not have the vote,” she said. “Women are keeping this country going while the men are away, and I am hopeful those in power remember that when the time is right.”
The women had all cheered and Louisa had felt hopeful for the first time in months. It was a relief to have found some friends when work was so difficult. And it was difficult, she thought now, resting on her haunches as she weeded. Spending days alone with her thoughts wasn’t much fun. But one good thing had come out of this whole horrible business—something unexpected: She’d gotten back in touch with her parents.
Louisa had realized over several sleepless nights that, just as she’d made a mistake with Bernie, perhaps there were bridges to be built with her mother, too. So the next time her mother wrote, she opened the letter and read the snippets of news from the village eagerly. Her mother hadn’t mentioned Reg, and when Louisa replied, she didn’t mention him, either. Instead she’d written her a chatty letter, asking about the farm and sharing stories of Kew. Her mother had replied swiftly, equally jovially, and enclosing a note from Louisa’s brother, Matthew, who’d taken on most of the day-to-day running of the business. And since then there had been a few notes and letters. It was nice, Louisa thought, to feel part of a family again. Especially as her Kew family had fallen apart. And her misgivings about Reg coming to find her were clearly groundless. Perhaps he wasn’t even in Kent anymore and he certainly wasn’t worth worrying about.
She glanced up as Ivy walked by, carrying a basket full of carrots, lettuces and plums. The younger woman had hardly said more than a few words to Louisa since Bernie had gone. On more than one occasion, Louisa had wanted to ask her if she knew where he was, if he’d been called up, but she knew Ivy wouldn’t tell her.
Recently, though, Louisa had been intrigued by some of Ivy and Jim’s behavior. They were always together—that wasn’t odd—but there seemed to be more whispering than normal. More tacit glances and tiny nods or shakes of the head. As though they were always making plans that others weren’t allowed to be a part of.
And Louisa was pretty sure Ivy was taking produce from the Gardens. She knew things weren’t always easy at home for the young woman, but she also knew Ivy’s mother was a formidable housekeeper and a very proud woman and she’d never entertain the idea of her daughter stealing for her. So where was Ivy taking that food?
* * *
Louisa bent down over her weeding, but from under the brim of her hat, she watched Ivy tip the contents of her basket into a soft fabric bag and hook it over her arm. She said something to the woman she was working with, who nodded and smiled, and then headed off, walking at a brisk pace toward the gate.
On a whim, Louisa put down her trowel and followed at a safe distance, hoping Mac wouldn’t spot her abandoning her work.
Ivy trotted down the path and out onto Kew Green. Once she’d disappeared, Louisa upped her pace, almost running. She peeked out of the gate and saw Ivy dashing across the green to the church. Was she in need of spiritual guidance? It seemed unlikely.
Louisa loitered for a while, hoping Ivy would return straightaway, but when she didn’t, she returned to her weeding. When Ivy eventually came back, Louisa couldn’t help but notice that the bag she’d been carrying was now empty. Either Ivy had eaten a lot of fruit and veg, or she’d given it to someone.
With a rush of hope, Louisa realized it could be Bernie. He could be hiding out in the church, Louisa thought. They were places of sanctuary, after all. He could be hiding out, and Ivy and Jim could be slipping him food. The idea that Bernie wasn’t huddled in a trench somewhere, facing death every day, because of her, made her weak with relief.
“I hope it’s him,” she said under her breath. “I do hope it’s him.”
She spent another sleepless night tossing and turning as she wondered what to do. Should she follow Ivy again and burst in? What if it wasn’t Bernie? What if Ivy was helping the churchwardens or the vicar? Should she confront Ivy and ask her straight out? She’d surely just say no.
Eventually, as the birds began calling and dawn grew light round her drapes, Louisa made a decision. She got out of bed and went to her tiny kitchen, and she made some bread. She wasn’t a great baker, but her mother had taught her the basics and her loaves were tasty. She kneaded and pounded the dough and by the time she was ready to leave for Kew, it was baked and smelling delicious. Louisa wrapped the loaf in paper and added a note that simply read: Please forgive me.
At work, she left the bread in her locker until they stopped for lunch and then took the loaf in its wrapper and she approached Ivy, who was sitting—as always—with Jim, under the shade of a large oak tree.
Steeling herself for rejection or rudeness—both of which would be rightly deserved—Louisa took a breath.
“Ivy,” she said. “Can I have a quick word?”
Ivy looked up and exchanged a glance with Jim. “Needs to be quick because I’ve got somewhere to be,” she said curtly.
Louisa nodded. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” she said. She’d been practicing what to say all the way to work this morning, until one of the other passengers on the bus had told her to be quiet. “But I wanted to give you this.” She held out the loaf of bread and Ivy and Jim both stared at it. Neither of them took it. Louisa made a face. She wasn’t doing very well.
“If you’re going to see Bernie and you think he might need something to eat, I’d like you to give him this,” she said in a hurry, her words falling over themselves as she spoke. “There’s a note in there, but if you’d rather not give it to him, or if I’ve got this all wrong, then please don’t worry.”
Ivy and Jim were still looking bewildered, so Louisa bent down and put the bread on the grass beside them.
“Do what you want with it,” she said. Then she turned and walked as fast as she could away from them.
She’d not got very far when Ivy caught up with her. She was ever so quick on her feet, that girl.
“Lou,” she was saying. “Bloody hell, Lou, slow down.”
Louisa stopped walking and turned to face her former friend. Ivy was red in the face and out of breath but her expression was kind.
“Was I right?” Louisa said hopefully.
Ivy glanced round to check there was no one in earshot and then she gave the smallest of nods. “You were right.”
“Is he doing well?”
Ivy shrugged. “As you’d expect, really. I thought I’d come up with a plan to get him somewhere else, but so far Jim and me have drawn a blank.”
“I feel awful,” Louisa said. “I was so caught up with Mrs. Pankhurst’s message, and I really believed I was doing the right thing. But I didn’t think about the damage I would cause.”
Ivy’s expression softened even more. “Yeah, well you’re not the first,” she said. She rubbed her left arm and grinned at Louisa. The sight of that smile made Louisa’s heart lift.
“Will you take him the bread?” she said. “And tell him I’m sorry.”
Ivy nodded. “Course I will.”
“And will you let me help?”
“Help?”
“I’m sure there must be a way for Bernie to avoid being called up,” Louisa said. “What about teaching?”
“He won’t do it. You should have seen the state of him when I suggested it.”
“Then I’ll find something else,” Louisa said. “I’m going to put this right, Ivy. Just you wait.”
Chapter 15
Louisa meant what she’d said to Ivy. She was determined to find a way to help Bernie. She just had to find out more about the legalities surrounding conscientious objectors—and she thought tagging along to the League of Peace might be the thing to do. But when she got in touch with the tiny woman from the Suffragette meeting—her name was Caro, which struck Louisa as being thrillingly bohemian—she was disappointed to discover that there wasn’t to be a gathering for another week.
And she had another disappointment when Ivy came back from delivering the bread to Bernie.
“How was he?” Louisa said. She was worried about what Bernie thought of her and had decided if he wanted nothing to do with her that was his right. She wouldn’t blame him in the slightest.
“He’s hurt,” Ivy said, choosing her words carefully. Louisa felt shame flood her again. Why had she acted so harshly?
“But he says to tell you of course he forgives you.”
“Really?” Delighted, Louisa clapped her hands. “So I can go and visit him? In the church?”
“Shh.” Ivy put her finger to Louisa’s lips. “No, I don’t think so. I think we need to keep this as quiet as we can. He’s not in the church, so don’t go thinking you can wander over there and find him.”
That was so completely what Louisa had been thinking that she blinked in surprise.
“Well,” she began, but Ivy shut her off again.
“The fewer people who know where he is, the better. That way it’s more likely to stay secret, and it’s only Jim and me who are taking the risk.”
Louisa wanted to argue, but she knew Ivy was speaking sense. “But he’s not angry with me?”
“Have you ever known Bernie to be angry with anyone?”
Louisa laughed. It felt like ages since she’d laughed and it was nice. “Never.”
“Are you coming to Mac’s thing this evening?” Ivy said.
“At the pub?” Louisa had been quite shocked when Mac suggested taking all of “his” gardeners out for a drink to celebrate their first year at Kew. Back home in Kent, the pub had been the place for the men to gather, and since she’d been in London she’d never set foot in any of the many inns around town.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Ivy said, tucking her hand into the crook of Louisa’s arm, the way she always used to. “We deserve some of that.”
“We really do,” agreed Louisa. “Yes, I’ll come along. It’ll be a hoot.”
And it really was. Mac was like a new man since the disappointment of discovering his hearing problem and not being allowed to enlist. He’d been asked to oversee the growing of food at Kew and was doing it so well, he kept being given pats on the back from men in high places. And though he was still upset about his hearing, with everyone in the know, life was much easier for him because all the gardeners simply made sure to face him when they were talking and he could read their lips.
He was less grumpy, much more jovial, and generally lots of fun to be around. And his initial reservations about the women gardeners had been replaced with a fierce, protective pride. He loved his “girls,” as he called them, and spoke warmly of them to anyone who asked (and to many people who didn’t ask, too).
At the pub, he bought beer and cider for everyone and toasted the success of their first year.
“I’m not afraid to admit, I was too stubborn to think this could work,” he said.
“And pigheaded,” heckled Ivy. Mac made a face at her and everyone laughed.
“And pigheaded,” he conceded. “But I am very glad to have been proved wrong. You’re all part of Kew Gardens now, girls. And that lasts forever.”
He raised his glass. “To the Kew Gardens Girls,” he said.
“The Kew Gardens Girls,” everyone echoed. Louisa copied what the others did and drank a huge sip of her cider. It reminded her of home and made her eyes water a bit. She already felt slightly light-headed. It was warm in the pub and with all the gardeners gathered, she suddenly needed some air.
“Just going outside for a mo’,” she told Ivy. She weaved through the groups of gardeners chatting and laughing and made it to the tiny front yard of the inn, where she took three large gulps of the cool summer evening air and looked up at the stars. Who’d have thought she’d end up here?
She stayed outside for five minutes or so, sitting on the low wall at the edge of the yard, just taking time to enjoy the quiet and the fresh breeze. But as she turned to go back into the pub, someone put their hand on her shoulder and made her jump.
She whirled round, expecting to see Mac or Dennis or one of the women and reeled in shock as she recognized the man standing in front of her.
“Hello, Lou,” he said.
He hadn’t changed at all. His smile was still sarcastic and his eyes were still cold. And the hand on her arm was still squeezing that bit too tight.
“R-R-Reg,” she stammered. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s not the kind of welcome a man wants from his missus after so many months apart,” he said. He pulled Louisa toward him and squashed his lips against hers. She could smell whisky on his breath and feel his beard prickling her skin.
“Stop it,” she said, pushing him away. He let go, stumbling a little, and she realized he was very drunk. The thought scared her—he was always more aggressive, more prone to using his fists, more reckless, when he had a drink inside him.
“Reg,” she said, trying to keep him calm. “It’s nice to see you. I was just surprised, that’s all. How did you know where I was?”
He gave her a nasty smile. “Your birdbrained brother.”
“Matthew told you?”
“Nah, of course he didn’t tell me. Your family are all as bloody tight-lipped as each other.”
Louisa closed her eyes briefly, inwardly thanking her mother that no matter what she thought of Lou’s decision to run away, she’d not revealed her whereabouts to Reg. Her new life would never have got started if he’d followed her straightaway.
“So what’s Matthew got to do with you showing up?” She was trying very hard not to sound panicked.
“He was in the Three Crowns, wetting the head of another of his brats, and I heard him telling that idiot friend of his that he’d been in touch with you. So when he went to the lav, I checked the pocket of his jacket and found a letter.”
He lurched toward her and Louisa backed away, putting the low wall between her and him. It wouldn’t offer much protection, but it could slow him down if she needed to run.
“Why didn’t you come to my house?” she said, cold fear dripping down her spine at the thought of his turning up on her doorstep. At least here she was in public, with Mac, Jim, Dennis, and the others just inside should she need them. Her eyes darted from side to side, planning an escape route if he went for her. It was astonishing how fast you could slip back into old habits.
