Free A Memory of Violets by Hazel Gaynor

the posies than I ever was at listening in the schoolroom. “Born to be a flower girl, so ye were, Florrie Flynn.” That’s what Mammy’d say to me. “Born and bred to be among the flowers, sure ye were.”
    We’d head out selling, whatever the weather—snows, rain, thick pea soupers, made no difference to the likes of us. Gen’lemen make the best customers—they often buy a posy to give to their lady friends. “Please, gen’leman, do buy my flowers! Poor little girl! Roses for love. Violets for faithfulness. Lavender for devotion.” That’s what I’d cry as the gen’lemen walked past or stood about chatting and smoking outside the theaters.
    A kind lady once touched my face with her gloved hand—touched me, she did—while her gen’leman friend was buying a posy from me. Said I would be a “pretty little thing” if she could “scrub all that filth away.” Then the gen’leman scolded her for talking to catchpennies and pulled her away as if I were nothing better than a mangy dog about to bite her.
    Sometimes I’d forget I was supposed to be selling and would stand and gawp at the ladies’ dresses, those green and purple silks, shimmerin’ like the Thames when the sun pokes throughthe fog. Then Mammy’d give me a sharp dig in the ribs with her elbow. “Stop y’r gawping and start hawking,” she’d snap and I’d get back to work, quick as you like ’cause Mammy had the sharpest elbows you ever felt.
    It was always just me and Mammy, until she got the swellin’ in her belly and I knew another baby was coming. It was hard for her then, and some days, toward the end, she couldn’t go to market and I knew we would all go hungry if I didn’t go on my own. So, I did.
    I’ll never forget the day Little Sister was born. Nearly killed Mammy, so she did, what with her coming out arse-ways first. If it wasn’t for old Mrs. Quinn at the front of the house having delivered thirty-four babies in her time, they’d both have died then and there, sure they would. That’s what Mrs. Quinn said. Seems like little Rosie Flynn was keen to have her life—and Mammy weren’t ready to give up her own time on God’s good earth neither. Not then, anyway. Not until the summer come along with all its disease. Then her time came all right.
    Mammy knew she was dying. She made Da promise not to send me and Rosie into the workhouse (’cause there’s nothing worse than the House, sure there’s not) and she made me promise to look after Little Sister and not to be stealin’ nor visiting the penny gaffs nor gin palaces. “And you’re not to be falling in with them girls who sell other things to the gentlemen, as well as their flowers. Ye know the girls I’m talking of, don’t ye, Florrie.” I did know the type of girls she was talking about, and I swore on my life I’d never be fallin’ in with them type, nor would Rosie, neither, when she was all grown up.
    Before she died, Mammy gave me and Rosie a lace handkerchief each, what had been made by our granny back in Ireland. “Blessed with holy water, so they are,” she said, “and with theshamrocks sewn on, for good luck.” One of the nicest things I ever seen, that lace handkerchief was. Mammy told us we’d always be safe and have food in our bellies and flowers for the sellin’ if we kept those handkerchiefs with us.
    â€œYou’re to mind Little Sister now, Florrie,” she said to me. “You’ll be her mammy now. You mind her good ’n’ proper, d’ye hear? Promise me ye’ll mind her.”
    â€œYes, Mammy. I promise. I promise I’ll mind her.”
    â€œAh, ye’re a grand good girl, Florrie Flynn,” she said. “A grand good girl, so ye are.”
    Those were the last words she spoke.
    â€œM A ’ S DEAD ,” D A SAID