Jill: A Flower Girl

“No, lad, you can’t serve me,” she replied. “I want the owner of this stall, Dan Murphy. He’s an old crony o’ mine.”

“You haven’t heard then, ma’am, that Murphy has sold his business to me. This stall is mine now.”

“My word, but that’s a blow.” Poll was turning away.

“Can’t I serve you, ma’am?” called the new owner of the stall after her.

“No, lad, no; that you can’t.”

She walked across the market, stepping daintily between long rows of flowering plants and great piles of strawberries, currants, raspberries, and other summer fruits. The air was redolent with the sweet, fresh smell of fruit and flowers; the hawkers were pressing their wares, and customers were rapidly filling their baskets.

Poll thrust her hands deep into the big pockets of her gay apron, and gazed around her.

A vendor with whom she often dealt held up some bunches of pink and white peonies for her inspection. She knew how Jill’s face would darken and glow with pleasure over the peonies. What a sight her basket would look filled with these exquisite flowers.

The man had poppies of various colours, too, and any amount of green for decoration.

“Come, missis,” he called to Poll. “You won’t see flowers like these yere in a hurry, and they’re cheap – dirt cheap. You see these poppies; ain’t they prime?”

Poll shook her head.

“Don’t tempt me,” she said. “I ain’t got a cent with me, and the only man as ’ud give me flowers on tick has just gone and sold his business. I do call it ’ard.”

“So do I,” said the owner of the poppies. He was a good-humoured, rosy-faced young farmer.

“You look a tidy sort,” he said; “not like any o’ they – ” He pointed with his thumb in a certain direction where a group of slatternly flower girls of the true Drury Lane type were standing. “You don’t belong to ’em,” he said.

“No, that I don’t. Worse luck for me. They ha’ got flowers to sell, and I han’t any.”

“I wouldn’t trust the likes o’ them with even a penn’orth of flowers on tick,” said the farmer.

“And right you are, young man. You keep what you has got and trust no one with goods until you gets money for ’em. Good morning to you.”

“But, I say, look you here, missis.”

“What is it?”

“You look a tidy sort. Maybe I’ll give you some of these poppies. You’re safe to sell ’em, and you can pay me to-morrow. Here’s a shilling’s worth – these pink ones, and some white, and a bunch of green. You bring me the money to-morrow, won’t you?”

The young fellow picked up a great bunch of the flowers, thrust them into Poll’s hands, and turned to attend to another customer.

She stood still for a moment too surprised to move. Then, with a fierce colour in her cheeks, strode across the market to the corner where she had asked Betsy Peters to wait for her.

“Yere, Betsy,” she said, thrusting all the flowers into the woman’s basket, “ef there is a thing as sells, it’s a white or a pink poppy. Seems as if the very of the stingiest of the ladies couldn’t stan’ up agin’ a pink poppy. You’ll owe me a shilling for these, Betsy, and you’ll pay me when yer can. Good morning to yer; I’m off back to Jill.”

Chapter Four

When Poll returned home and showed her empty basket, Jill could not help uttering an exclamation of surprise.

“Why, mother, you han’t brought in no flowers!” she said, “and I made sure you had gone to fetch ’em.”

“Let me set down, Jill. That pain in my side, it do seem to bite orful hard this morning.”

“Oh, poor mother! Set down and never mind the flowers. You shouldn’t have gone out so early, you know you shouldn’t. Here’s a cup of coffee. Drink it, do.”

The little kitchen was a picture of brightness and neatness; the small stove was polished like a looking-glass. Jill placed a coarse white cloth on the table, drew it up to her mother’s side, placed the breakfast cups and saucers in order, laid bread and a piece of salt butter on the board, and, sitting down herself, filled two large breakfast cups with coffee, which was really good and fragrant.

Mrs Robinson drank off a cupful thirstily. She laid it down with a sigh of relief.

“You’re a real good gel, Jill,” she said. “And now I’ll tell you what happened to me.”

“Never mind, mother. You take your breakfast, and set quiet; I’ll go and fetch some flowers myself, as soon as we ha’ done.”

“You can’t, child; there ain’t no money.”

“No money? But there was plenty in the drawer last night.”

“Look for yourself, Jill.”

Jill paused in her occupation of cutting thick bread and butter. The boys had already eaten their breakfasts, and gone away.

She gave a quick glance round the cosy little room. The sun shone in at the window. The influence of the pleasant summer day was reflected all over Jill’s young face.

“There’s time enough,” she said, with a slow, satisfied smile. “You eat your breakfast, mother, and I’ll fetch the flowers arter.”

“But you can’t, when there ain’t no money. I tell yer somebody crep’ in yere yesterday, most like when I wor – when I wor – ”

“Never mind about that, mother. You had the pain bad, and you were drowsy, and you left the door on the latch. That were how the thief got in, worn’t it, mother?”

“Ef you like to have it so, child. Seems to me – ”

“Yes, I like to have it that way,” repeated Jill. “You were drowsy, and some one come in and took the money out of the drawer. Give me yer cup, mother, and I’ll fill it again.”

Mrs Robinson pushed her cup away from her, and stood up.

“Do you know what it is?” she said. “That there are times over and over again when I’d a sight rayther you struck me than took things as you do.”

“But I couldn’t take ’em any other way, mother, you know I couldn’t. I – I love you too much.” Jill’s lips trembled. There was a fierce passion in the way she said “I love you too much.”

“And I put shame on you larst night, child. And now we are beggars. All our little savings is gone, and it’s owing to me.”

“No, we ain’t beggars – I ha’ a stocking put away in another drawer. It’s for Nat and me ’gainst we set up housekeeping. I never spoke of it ’cause I ’arned every cent of it arter hours; but I’ll take some to-day to stock our baskets, and then we’ll be off to work.”

Mrs Robinson strode noisily across the floor. She took Jill’s face between her two hands, and kissed her on each blooming cheek. Then she sat down with a profound sigh of relief.

“Ain’t you a good ’un?” she said. “Any mother ’ud be proud of yer. You hurry and buy the flowers, dawtie dear, and then we’ll be off.”

Breakfast was speedily finished, the breakfast things put away, and then Jill, drawing a ribbon from inside her dress, produced a small key. With this key she opened a small drawer, took some money out of an old stocking, locked the drawer again, slipped the key into its hiding-place, and went out.