nothin’ to do with it.”
“Why was it permitted to go to such ruin?”
Joe shrugged. “Dr. E stopped anyone from tendin’ it after ’is wife died. Reminded him of ’er, I s’pose. Was ’er garden, an’ all. But it’s not like ’e was gonna do the work ’imself. Coulda hired a gardener to keep it trimmed and tidied. I woulda done the work meself,” he stated, dropping the saw beneath the sickly tree and wandering off to retrieve a ladder propped against the rear wall.
Dr. Edmunds’s wife’s garden. Her death must have pained him deeply, for him to have ignored the garden so as not to be reminded of her.
“It is a shame, even for that reason,” she said when Joe returned.
“That it is,” he replied, setting up the ladder. “I coulda got those lilacs bloomin’ again.”
“You really would like to be a gardener.” She tried to imagine Joe, scrappy and streetwise, hunkered down among pansies and ladies’ slipper.
“I grew up in the stews, but I still remember the first time I saw Hyde Park. So green it made your eyes ’urt.”
“You would like Ireland, Joe. It is a green like you might never imagine here in London.” Here, the colors were muted by the soot and fog, like clothing that had been washed one too many times. “The sky overhead can be soft and blue like ducks’ eggs or ruffled with scudding clouds. Andwhen the heather blooms purple, there is nothing sweeter on this earth than to lie down among its scented flowers. My little sisters love to bury their faces in the blossoms and breathe deep . . .” Oh, this was making her heart hurt worse than thoughts of church services. She had to stop.
“So ya see why I like bein’ out ’ere. It were pretty, when I first got ’ere, a few months after the missus died. Not anymore.” He shook his head and started climbing the ladder.
“Why not go ahead and tend to the garden yourself?” Rachel asked. “I doubt anyone would stop you.”
“I’m the boy, Miss Dunne. I know my place and my place knows me. I don’ aspire to better than what I got.”
“Is it so wrong to aspire to greater? I always wanted . . .” Rachel stopped before she voiced her wants. Any dreams she’d once owned had died in a cramped and filthy room back in Carlow.
“Wanted what, miss?” Joe asked, sawing away at a dead branch.
At one time she’d intended to write a book on everything she had learned about herbs and medicines and nursing. Too many women had to rely on word-of-mouth and unreliable recipes handed down by family members. A straightforward book written in plain words would be helpful to many. But no one would seek to purchase medicinal recipes written by someone accused of killing a patient. Unless they anticipated such a treatise would teach them about poisons.
“Nothing, Joe. I have had to put my lofty dreams away in favor of a more practical reality. I came to England to find a position as a teacher.” I shall be good at it, and teaching will not require nursing skills . “To me, there is no work more fulfilling than helping children.”
“Teacher, eh? That sounds right good, miss. I’ve never ’ad learnin’ meself.”
“Maybe I could tutor you a little while I am here.”
“Naw. Books an’ all scare me.” Joe grunted as the saw blade stuck in the branch.
“But a gardener who can read would be very valuable. It would make it easier to reach your dream, Joe.” Her dream might be dead, but his needn’t be.
“Me mum always said not to give up until God shows us our end an’ they’re shovelin’ dirt on top our coffins.” Joe worked the blade back and forth on the branch, trying to free it. He glanced over at Rachel. “But look what good dreamin’ done for ’er. Died of the pox.” He suddenly groaned and let fly a curse as the blade whipped loose, throwing him off balance. Arms wheeling, he fell from the ladder and thudded to the ground. The saw skidded across the gravel.
“Joe!” Rachel ran over to him,
“Why was it permitted to go to such ruin?”
Joe shrugged. “Dr. E stopped anyone from tendin’ it after ’is wife died. Reminded him of ’er, I s’pose. Was ’er garden, an’ all. But it’s not like ’e was gonna do the work ’imself. Coulda hired a gardener to keep it trimmed and tidied. I woulda done the work meself,” he stated, dropping the saw beneath the sickly tree and wandering off to retrieve a ladder propped against the rear wall.
Dr. Edmunds’s wife’s garden. Her death must have pained him deeply, for him to have ignored the garden so as not to be reminded of her.
“It is a shame, even for that reason,” she said when Joe returned.
“That it is,” he replied, setting up the ladder. “I coulda got those lilacs bloomin’ again.”
“You really would like to be a gardener.” She tried to imagine Joe, scrappy and streetwise, hunkered down among pansies and ladies’ slipper.
“I grew up in the stews, but I still remember the first time I saw Hyde Park. So green it made your eyes ’urt.”
“You would like Ireland, Joe. It is a green like you might never imagine here in London.” Here, the colors were muted by the soot and fog, like clothing that had been washed one too many times. “The sky overhead can be soft and blue like ducks’ eggs or ruffled with scudding clouds. Andwhen the heather blooms purple, there is nothing sweeter on this earth than to lie down among its scented flowers. My little sisters love to bury their faces in the blossoms and breathe deep . . .” Oh, this was making her heart hurt worse than thoughts of church services. She had to stop.
“So ya see why I like bein’ out ’ere. It were pretty, when I first got ’ere, a few months after the missus died. Not anymore.” He shook his head and started climbing the ladder.
“Why not go ahead and tend to the garden yourself?” Rachel asked. “I doubt anyone would stop you.”
“I’m the boy, Miss Dunne. I know my place and my place knows me. I don’ aspire to better than what I got.”
“Is it so wrong to aspire to greater? I always wanted . . .” Rachel stopped before she voiced her wants. Any dreams she’d once owned had died in a cramped and filthy room back in Carlow.
“Wanted what, miss?” Joe asked, sawing away at a dead branch.
At one time she’d intended to write a book on everything she had learned about herbs and medicines and nursing. Too many women had to rely on word-of-mouth and unreliable recipes handed down by family members. A straightforward book written in plain words would be helpful to many. But no one would seek to purchase medicinal recipes written by someone accused of killing a patient. Unless they anticipated such a treatise would teach them about poisons.
“Nothing, Joe. I have had to put my lofty dreams away in favor of a more practical reality. I came to England to find a position as a teacher.” I shall be good at it, and teaching will not require nursing skills . “To me, there is no work more fulfilling than helping children.”
“Teacher, eh? That sounds right good, miss. I’ve never ’ad learnin’ meself.”
“Maybe I could tutor you a little while I am here.”
“Naw. Books an’ all scare me.” Joe grunted as the saw blade stuck in the branch.
“But a gardener who can read would be very valuable. It would make it easier to reach your dream, Joe.” Her dream might be dead, but his needn’t be.
“Me mum always said not to give up until God shows us our end an’ they’re shovelin’ dirt on top our coffins.” Joe worked the blade back and forth on the branch, trying to free it. He glanced over at Rachel. “But look what good dreamin’ done for ’er. Died of the pox.” He suddenly groaned and let fly a curse as the blade whipped loose, throwing him off balance. Arms wheeling, he fell from the ladder and thudded to the ground. The saw skidded across the gravel.
“Joe!” Rachel ran over to him,
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