The Flower Seller. Linda Finlay

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      ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she replied, breaking off a sizable chunk and popping it into her mouth. A whistle sounded, then with another hiss of brakes the train lurched and they were on their way again.

      Whilst the woman munched contentedly, Isabella stared out of the window. Before long the buildings gave way to open country and she widened her eyes in surprise.

      ‘Goodness, those fields are red,’ she gasped.

      ‘That be the Demshur dirt. You’ll have to mind not to get any on those fine threads of yours,’ Mrs Brown sighed, eyeing Isabella’s travelling clothes covetously. Then, seemingly pulling herself together, she added: ‘And over there be the Exe.’ Isabella turned to where the woman was gesturing and, sure enough, the train was rattling alongside a river teeming with sailing and rowing boats. Further along, a ferry belching black smoke was disgorging its cargo of people and animals onto the foreshore. They were so close that when the train listed as it rounded a bend, Isabella feared they might tip over and land on top of them.

      ‘You should see the sunsets round here. Best in all the world,’ Mrs Brown told her, oblivious to her concern. ‘And there be the sea,’ she added as Isabella gasped at the vast expanse of white-tipped water shimmering in the afternoon sun. ‘You never seen the sea before?’ the woman guessed. Isabella shook her head.

      ‘No, I haven’t. I was meant to be travelling to Italy later this week, though,’ she replied with a pang. If she’d thought Italy far away then, surely it was nothing compared to the miles she’d travelled today. Away from everyone and everything she knew and loved.

      ‘Ah well, I guess you’ll find Demshur just as good,’ the woman replied, interrupting her thoughts. Isabella was about to ask where Demshur was when the woman gestured to the other side of the carriage. ‘There’s the Earl’s deer park. Leads right up to his castle, it does.’ Isabella peered out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the building, but Mrs Brown was still chatting. ‘And them dark forests yonder house wild black cats the size of panthers. One snatched up a baby and ran off with it,’ she shuddered.

      ‘Really, Mrs Brown,’ Isabella tutted. Not wishing to hear any more of the woman’s outrageous tales, she turned her attention back to the brightness of the sea only to find they were now passing through dark tunnels which appeared to hang over the water. Then the train slowed before shuddering to a halt.

      ‘Doulis, Doulis, ever’one for Doulis,’ a voice called.

      ‘Here you are, dearie,’ Mrs Brown announced as the door opened and the guard stood smiling up at them. Isabella frowned.

      ‘But I’m to alight at Dawlish,’ she began. The woman pointed to a sign on the platform.

      ‘That’s right, Doulis. That’s how they says it here.’

      ‘How very strange,’ Isabella frowned, getting to her feet.

      ‘Good luck, dearie,’ Mrs Brown said. ‘You’ll have a fine time, I’m sure.’

      ‘Goodbye, Mrs Brown, I’m obliged for your company.’

      ‘Porter’s unloading your luggage now, Miss Carrington,’ the stationmaster said, hurrying towards her as she alighted.

      ‘How do you know who I am?’ she asked, surprise overtaking her trepidation.

      ‘You be expected,’ he chuckled. ‘’Appen your uncle’ll be here drekly.’ The rest of his words were lost in another deafening hiss as the brakes were released and the train chugged its way out of the station, enveloping them in a cloud of steam. As Isabella swatted away smuts of soot in annoyance, the man gave another chuckle. ‘You soon gets used to that. Ah, here be Mr Northcott coming now.’

      Isabella’s eyes widened in disbelief. Hurrying towards them was a man of middle years wearing an ill-fitted coat with violets sprouting incongruously from his buttonhole. A large straw hat was pulled down over his head, almost obscuring his dark bushy brows. Surely this peculiar man couldn’t be her mother’s brother?

      ‘Had to get the day’s flowers onto the upbound train, Bert, else they’d never reach Covent Garden in time,’ he explained. Then he turned to Isabella and smiled. ‘You must be my sister’s girl. Welcome to Doulis,’ he said, proffering a huge and somewhat grubby hand.

      ‘You are Uncle Frederick?’ she asked, unable to equate this bear of a man with her ladylike mama. And yet those chocolate-brown eyes seemed strangely familiar.

      ‘The same,’ he confirmed, frowning down at the pile of luggage by her side. ‘Looks like you’ve fetched half of London with you. Good job I didn’t bring the boy or we’d have no room for it all.’

      ‘Where is your conveyance?’ she asked, peering around for sight of a carriage.

      ‘My, er, conveyance is over there,’ he grinned, pointing to a battered old trap. ‘And that be Silver,’ he added.

      ‘Silver? ’she replied, frowning at the donkey with its shaggy grey coat.

      ‘I’d better ’elp ye with this lot,’ the stationmaster said, bending down to pick up her travelling trunk. ‘Blimey, what you got in ’ere, Miss, the crown jewels?’ he asked, staggering under the weight.

      ‘I really don’t know, my chaperone packed whilst I was out shopping,’ Isabella explained. The two men exchanged a look before heaving her luggage up onto the trap. Then her uncle swung himself into the seat, patting the tiny space beside him.

      ‘Up yer come,’ he called. Isabella stared at the grime-encrusted wooden plank and shuddered. Her uncle laughed. ‘You’ll have to get used to a bit of soil if you’re to live with us. ’Tis flower growers we be.’ Gingerly she clambered up beside him, but as the donkey plodded down the lane, her uncertainty turned to surprise. Ahead of them tall, elegant houses seemed to rise into the sky, and colourful shops fronted a wide green with a sparkling stream cascading down one side. Ducks swam merrily before disappearing under a bridge but before she had time to wonder where, the trap was heading away from the town and travelling alongside the sea. She could hear the shooshing sound of waves being sucked in and out of the pebbles.

      ‘It’s really pretty and the air has the clarity of crystal,’ she exclaimed, breathing in deeply. ‘Why, it smells of salt.’

      ‘That be the ozone,’ her uncle chuckled. ‘Come spring, those pale cheeks of yours will be as rosy as the cherry blossom.’

      ‘Oh, I’ll not be staying that long,’ she replied, staring at him in horror. He shot her a look but said nothing and they plodded on in silence. In the distance, she could see the rolling green of the hills Mrs Brown had spoken about. Suddenly the cart lurched as they turned into another much narrower lane.

      ‘Nearly there,’ he told her. She stared at the crooked huddle of tiny cottages, their thatched roofs almost touching. Surely he didn’t live here? To her relief, they kept going until the lane opened out again and she saw mauve buds peeping from velvety leaves in the sloping hedge banks.

      ‘They be the Devon violets,’ her uncle explained, seeing her surprise.

      ‘What a strange time of year for delicate flowers like that to be coming out,’ she replied.

      ‘Them blooms best between September and April, СКАЧАТЬ