‘That’s ham?’ she asked in surprise for it bore little resemblance to the delicate pink slices she was used to. Her aunt nodded.
‘’Tis meat we cured from the pig. Bayliss the butcher came and did the necessary, then we all helped joint it. Took ages to clear up the mess after.’ Isabella stared down at her plate where red juice from the tomatoes was seeping into the eggs. Stomach churning, she pushed it aside and got to her feet.
‘Can I help, Aunt Mary?’ she asked.
‘Bless you, dear, I can make poverty pie with my eyes closed, we have it that many times,’ her aunt smiled as she placed a large dish on the pastry and ran a knife deftly round it.
‘What is poverty pie exactly?’ Isabella ventured.
‘Suppose you could call it leftover pie, really. Anything and everything we can get our hands on gets put into the pie crust. Them swallows had better fly off soon or they’ll be going in too,’ the woman chuckled.
‘Swallows?’ Isabella frowned.
‘Those birds you heard. They’re gathering ready to depart for warmer climes.’
‘You mean you eat them?’ she asked, staring at the woman incredulously.
‘Why, bless you, no. That was just my little joke. Cors, we do bake the odd woodcock or rook but never the swallows or martins. That would bring bad luck for sure. Ah William, picked the flowers already, have you?’ she asked, looking up as the boy appeared in the doorway.
‘Yep. They’re waiting to be bunched. Sleeping Beauty decided to join us, has she?’ he asked, scowling at Isabella. Then he noticed the remains of her breakfast. ‘And wasting more food, I see. Mother’s got enough to do without waiting on you, and Father works hard to . . . ’
‘Now William, what did I tell you about making Isabella welcome?’ her aunt interrupted. ‘Why don’t you show her round the violet gardens whilst I find something to go in this pie?’ There was a moment’s silence then he shrugged.
‘Come on then.’
‘You will call me when Maxwell arrives, won’t you?’ Isabella asked. Her aunt gave her a level look.
‘Should any visitor come calling for you, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Hurry up then, if you’re coming,’ William grunted. ‘There’s work to be done.’
‘What else do you do, apart from growing violets?’ Isabella asked, making an effort to be pleasant as she followed him across the yard.
‘Pick, posy and pack ’em. Today’s lot are in there having their drink of water,’ he said, pointing to the big barn. She gave him a look, certain he was jesting but he continued walking down the path towards the gardens. ‘Good job you’re wearing decent clothing, ’cos it can get muxy bunching them up ready to take to the station this afternoon.’
‘Then what happens tomorrow?’ Isabella asked.
‘Same again.’
‘You mean you do that every day?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Yep, every single one,’ he nodded.
‘Surely not at the weekends, though?’
‘Yep. ’Tis our livelihood. Flowers don’t stop growing ’cos we fancies a day off,’ he added, giving her a look that reminded her of his father. ‘Cors they need to be perfect so we have to check for signs of disease or pests.’
‘Oh, but of course,’ she laughed, certain he was teasing this time. She shivered, wishing she’d brought her mantle. Although the sun was shining, there was no warmth in it for it was ridiculously early. Why, there was still dew on the grass. At home, she’d be breaking her fast in bed, although Papa would already have departed for his offices. Poor Papa, how wan he’d looked. She closed her eyes and wished for him to get his affairs sorted soon, so their lives would return to normal.
‘Not interesting enough for a vurriner like you, I suppose?’ Started from her musing, she realized William was sneering.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured.
‘It don’t matter,’ he sighed.
‘But it does,’ she insisted.
‘I was saying there’s mildew, violet rust and smut to look out for. Not to mention slugs, snails, woodlice, aphids or more likely caterpillars and millipedes this time of year.’
‘Goodness,’ she murmured, her stomach churning again.
‘Not squeamish, are you?’ he asked, a gleam sparking in his eye.
‘Good heavens, no,’ she cried airily.
‘Still, it’s the blue mice we need to watch for.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Place is covered in them but the trouble is it’s time-consuming looking out for them,’ he said, hunkering down and lifting the leaves of the nearest plant.
‘Can I help?’ Isabella asked.
‘Not from up there, you can’t. Little blighters are the same colour as the flowers so you has to get right up close to spot them. And you wouldn’t want to get your hands muxy now, would you?’ he scoffed. Muxy? That was the second time he’d used that word, so it must mean mucky, she thought. Determined to prove him wrong, she squatted down beside him and began peering beneath the plants. The leaves felt velvety against her skin as she inhaled the heady fragrance. Suddenly something scampered over her hand and, letting out a scream, she sprang to her feet.
‘What’s up?’ William asked, frowning up at her.
‘I think one of those mice was about to attack me,’ she gasped.
‘Really?’ he asked, his mouth twitching as he turned to where she’d been searching. With a loud snort, he got to his feet, hands cupped in front of him.
‘It’s only a spider, silly, and a black one at that. It’s the red ones you have to look out for. They devour the flowers, see.’ Feeling stupid, she resumed her search.
‘I never knew you could get blue mice,’ she told him.
‘They be a speciality around here, like the red soil.’ Hearing a shout, he jumped to his feet. ‘Father’s waiting. I’ll have to come back later. Just hope the blighters don’t eat too many afore then,’ he sighed.
‘I can stay and look for them,’ she offered, eager to atone for her faux pas of the previous day.
‘That’d be a right help,’ he replied, grinning at her for the first time since she’d arrived.
Feeling happier, Isabella resumed her search. She might not be staying long, but she wanted to get along with her mother’s family whilst she was here. Breathing in the sweet, musky fragrance of the violets, she felt that faint memory stir, hover then vanish. Instinctively she knew it had something to do with her mama and this place.
‘What on earth are you doing, Izzie?’ Startled out of her reverie, she saw Dotty frowning down at her.
‘Searching for blue mice,’ she replied. ‘William had to help Uncle so I offered to look for them. I haven’t seen any, though.’
‘But Izzie, these are the blue mice,’ she laughed, her sweeping gesture encompassing the plants. ‘That’s what violets are known as round here.’
‘But why?’ Isabella asked, feeling somewhat foolish.
‘When the sea breeze ripples the flower heads, some say they look like little blue mice scampering across the fields. In other parts, they’re called shoes and stockings.’