A DAY WITH THE FLOWER-GIRLS.
“VIOLETS, sweet violets! A penny a bunch!” From ten o’clock in the morning until the first hour of midnight this cry of the flower-sellers may be heard in the London streets. It usually issues from female throats, although occasionally the clamour is reinforced by a masculine voice, which, however, could scarcely be more unpleasant or less musical than the voices of the women ; for they are not a prepossessing set of women in any respect, these London retailers of Flora’s treasures. Dirty, coarse-featured, harsh-spoken, with draggled skirts, ragged shawls and befeathered hats of the latest coster style, they seem ill-suited to be the vendors of velvety violets and waxen lilies. Travellers who have seen the Continental flower-girls in their bright, picturesque costumes that, in point of attractiveness, vie with the blossoms they offer to passers-by, cannot help but wish that the street-corners and circuses of gloomy London might also be thus enlivened. In accordance with the law of the eternal fitness of things, it is proper enough that those who brush our streets and sweep our chimneys should be muddy and grimy, but there is something incongruous in the sight of an unkempt, vicious-looking female, handling and selling beautiful flowers, while in shrill, clarion tones she tells us that she has “Lubly biolets, English biolets. No furrin biolets without a smell, is these, mum !” I am convinced that smiles and fame and a fortune await the dainty dealer in boutonnieres, who, attractive herself, and attractively attired, will take her stand for a few weeks at Oxford, Piccadilly, or Ludgate Circus.
To discover something of the ins and outs and the ups and downs of flower-selling, and to investigate into the ways of living and the aims and ambitions of the London flower-girls, I spent a Saturday in February among them. Had my object been the establishment of a new dynasty of flower-sellers, I should only too gladly have attired myself after the manner of the Italian girls, and have turned into a living London reality my notion of the ideal flower-girl. But under the circumstances I thought it better to leave the introduction of the new order to some other daring spirit, while taking for myself the much more difficult and unpleasant task of searching after the merits and demerits of the present race.
I chose Saturday for my exploit, thinking that matinée afternoon must naturally be the harvest time of the week. At eight o’clock in the morning, arrayed in black dress, black shawl, and brown straw hat trimmed with pink roses, I visited the Covent Garden Flower Market to make my purchases at wholesale rates. Having, in the privacy of my own house, tried the effect of a great, heavy, cumbersome basket, such as is commonly used, dangling from my neck, I decided that it was far too ugly and weighty for me to handle; so I carried in its stead a light round basket, and tied it about my neck with a ribbon. When I arrived, the proprietors of the various stalls in the market were doing a thriving business. Scores of coster-women, with the appearance of having been neither washed nor combed since they got out of bed, were rushing about from stall to stall, bent on discovering where they could buy the most flowers for the least money. “How much ?” they would ask, snatching a cluster of lilies or hyacinths from a box and holding it in the face of the dealer. On being told the price, their faces would contort into a fiendish scowl, as they answered, “Go ‘long ! What yer sayin’ ? Don’t ye want me to make no pruffit ?”
The flower market usually closes shortly after nine o’clock, and it is between eight and nine—in order to have their wares as fresh as possible—that the girls make their daily purchases. I followed several of them about the place while they were in pursuit of their bargains. Their manners and language were something of a revelation to me. I had expected to find them coarse and rough, but I was not prepared for such obscene and profane talk as I heard. With many, all semblance of womanly modesty seemed to be a thing of the long-gone past. They swore at each other and coquetted with the market men. While holding out their aprons to receive the flowers for which they had paid, they would slyly pass their hands into boxes in their vicinity and take possession of many a bunch for which they had not paid. I afterwards learned that this habit of petty thievery among them is one of their greatest sources of profit, for the sales of flowers thus obtained are, of course, all gain.
On the morning in question violets sold wholesale at the rate of sixpence and eightpence a dozen bunches ; lilies of the valley were tenpence a dozen sprays.
When the-girls had completed their purchases, some of those who lived near went home to arrange their baskets, while others sat down on stones and stools outside the market, and proceeded to get ready for the day’s work. I became intensely interested in watching them assort their flowers. In the majority of cases I noticed that from two market bunches they very deftly and quickly manufactured three. Then sticks and strings were brought into requisition, and in less than half an hour all was in readiness. I approached one of these girls in a meek, bashful way, and asked her if she would show me how to arrange my basket. Her refusal to help me was particularly emphatic—so much so that I thought it discreet to leave her—for in the most pronounced Cockney she informed me that I had best move on and away, else she would give me a “jab in the eye.” I held no further converse with her, feeling that, although under ordinary circumstances I was capable of holding my own in a war of words, I was more than likely to come out only second best in a fist encounter.
In a group just outside the market were three generations of flower-sellers. The oldest woman was about fifty years of age. Her daughter and granddaughter stood near sorting flowers, and afterwards each took her way to different parts of London. I have been told that the business of flower-selling is hereditary, and that nearly all of the London flower-girls have, or had, mothers, grandmothers, and even great-grandmothers, engaged in the same line. The trade is handed down from mother to daughter, and the girls have often given to them a little hoard of money laid aside by their ancestors.
After I had purchased two dozen bunches of violets at eightpence a dozen, two clusters of lilies at tenpence each, and a bundle of moss for a penny, I obtained the permission of a woman in the market to sit down on an up-turned basket in her stall and complete the arrangement of my outfit for the day. My ideas on this subject had been more theoretical than practical; for, with all my preparations for making an artistic-looking basket, I had neglected to provide myself with a very important item — a shingle, with small holes, in which to place my flowers, to make them stand upright. The marketwoman came to my assistance with a bit of pasteboard, and with my pocket-knife I bored holes the proper size to hold the stems of my bunches. After the violets were fitted in, I divided the lilies into clusters of three sprays each and put them in odd corners. Then between the rows of violets I sprinkled the green moss. Once finished, my basket was certainly a dainty-looking affair, and I felt no doubt that I should carry on a good trade.
As I left Covent Garden, and hurried along the Strand, I think I must have had the air of a rather superior sort of flower-girl, for several persons eyed me rather curiously. When, at last, having reached Piccadilly Circus and taken my stand under a lamppost, I opened my mouth to inform the passers-by that I had ” Violets, sweet violets, at a penny a bunch,” I started at the sound of my own voice.
I had not been there many minutes before I heard someone say, “Oh, what a beautiful basket!”
Turning to the speaker, I picked out one of the bunches and repeated the price of my wares. The admirer of my basket was a young lady accompanied by a gentleman, who immediately purchased one bunch of lilies and two of violets.
He looked at me kindly and said, “Selling many flowers to-day ?”
“Not yet,” I answered; ” I’m just out. This is my first day in business.”
The young lady smiled encouragingly, and said, “You’ll surely sell a good many. You look so nice and neat, and your basket is so pretty ! “
As the gentleman was handing me fivepence, his fair companion suggested that he give me an extra penny for luck, so from that deal I received sixpence.
My artistic-looking basket attracted many customers who, I felt sure, would not otherwise have thought of buying flowers.
“My, what a fine spread you have !” observed a young man to whom I sold a boutonnière.
In a little cushion at the side I carried some pins, so I fastened the violets on his coat-lapel, and he, too, smiled benignly upon me and gave me twopence instead of a penny.
Noticing a grey-haired, benevolent-looking lady standing at a shop window, and thinking she might be a possible customer, I went towards her.
“Violets, lady, violets ?” I asked, looking at her in a pitifully appealing way.
“No, no, child,” she replied, almost savagely; and, after that repulse, I made no further advances to benevolent-looking ladies. It did not take me long to discover that the men were my best customers, and that those accompanied by ladies were always the most generous. Were I a permanent flower-girl, I should devote my attention almost exclusively to such men. He would be a man of particularly stony heart who could refuse to buy a bouquet after the fair creature at his side had said —” Oh, what beautiful violets ! How artistically they are arranged!”
Two or three times I left my post and wandered along the middle of the sidewalk, where I did quite a flourishing business.
“Get out of this! Can’t ye see ye block the way?” said a policeman, taking me by the shoulders and pushing me towards the edge of the walk.
It was wonderful what that change of costume had done for me! With the clothes I had donned, and the basket I carried, I seemed to have put on a new character and a different temperament. That day I felt like a flower-girl — not, certainly, like my coarse voiced associates who were gathered across the way about the fountain, but like a meek and lowly dealer in blossoms, with a strange sort of impression that, in some way, my daily bread depended on my selling those flowers.
Had I been my natural self when that policeman spoke to me, Piccadilly Circus would have been enlivened by a combat between an officer of the law and an angry maiden ; but I was not myself — I was somebody else — and I received his rebuke mildly as a lamb, and returned to my position under the lamp-post.
As matinée time came on, my flowers sold even more readily, and my basket was soon more than half empty. Just then I noticed one of the flower-girls from the fountain coming over towards me. When she reached my stand she shook her fist angrily at me.
“Yer hundersellin’ us! What d’yer mean by it?” she demanded.
“Why, what have I done to you?” I asked, wonderingly.
“Yer sellin’ violets for a penny a bunch the same as we’s selling for tuppence. Wait till I catch ye! A laidy just said we wus cheatin’ her.”
In the short time I had sold flowers I had become a marvel of meekness and gentleness, and I did not stop to argue the point out with her. “Violets, sweet violets, a penny a bunch! ” I sang out as a dashing young man passed me, and my discomfited opponent left me, muttering threats of dreadful vengeance to be visited upon me in future.
“Violets, sir?” I said to a kind-looking, red-whiskered man. He shook his head, whereupon I gave him a sorrowful, melancholy look. The man turned back. “I think I’ll have a couple of bunches,” he said, fumbling in his pocket for change. My look of woe-begoneness had its effect. While I stood there, three men of clerical dress and mien passed me, but they did not purchase violets.
“Yes, we must take a bunch to Auntie,” I heard someone say, and then, “Why, she’s got just enough for us.”
“How much?” asked a pretty little boy in a sailor suit, taking up a bunch of lilies.
“Threepence,” I answered.
The important-looking man who held the little boy’s hand gave me a sixpence for the lilies and two bunches of violets.
“Keep the change,” said he; “now you’re sold out, and you’ll have to fill your basket again.”
So many people spoke kindly to me that afternoon that I began to think that the world was not so hard, after all, even for a flower-girl.
It was four o’clock, and my basket was empty. I tried to refill it by jetting flowers from some of my companions in trade, but they demanded such exorbitant prices for their wares that I decided to return to Covent Garden and buy another dozen bunches from the general dealers there. I could not procure them as cheaply as I had done in the morning, and was obliged to pay the regular price, a penny a bunch. However, they were large, and I thought ought to retail for twopence a bunch.
When I passed again through the Strand people were going home from the matinees, and I stopped in front of two of the theatres hoping to make some sales. It was a bad time. Those who wanted flowers had been supplied before going to the theatre, and I did not sell any.
A poorly-clad little girl of eleven or twelve years old, carrying a few sprays of drooping hyacinths, stopped me with ” How much for violets, missus? “
“Twopence a bunch,” I answered.
“Make ’em cheaper,” she pleaded ; “that’s all I can sell ’em for.”
Then I realised that she was one of my kind, and when I knew this mite of humanity was in the “profession,” I sold her three bunches for twopence, the price of one. What was my loss was her gain. If she sold them, she made fourpence on the bargain.
I returned to Piccadilly Circus with nine bunches of violets.
“I’ll take a bunch,” said a young woman, handing me a penny.”
“Twopence, please, lady,” I answered sadly, but firmly. I was becoming a thorough business woman, and was determined to sell my goods at a profit or not sell them at all. The young woman walked away without buying. It grew darker and colder, and I still had nine bunches of violets to dispose of. My bare hands were getting purple, and I was hungry, having had no luncheon. The Circus began to get deserted, so I decided to move my stand of operations westward. Walking leisurely towards Oxford Circus, I repeated, at stated intervals, my very subdued cry of ” Violets ! violets ! twopence a bunch !” but there seemed to be no magic in the words. No buyers came to my call. Half-way between the Circuses a swagger-looking man rushed past me, threw two pennies into my basket, refused to take the flowers I held out to him, and left me bewildered, wondering whether he was a sinner trying to ease his conscience by doing a good deed in a wicked world, a lunatic, or a philanthropist. I was sorry he did not take his due, for I was as anxious to dispose of my flowers as to take in money. I wanted to go home, but I had a certain pride which forbade my returning home with such a quantity of unsold goods on my hands.
At six o’clock I was still standing at a corner of Oxford Circus, when I suddenly remembered that a literary acquaintance of mine (a well-known author), who was a recent convert to the “newer journalism,” had a dinner-party on that evening, and it occurred to me that my violets would make very appropriate favours for his guests. My tired feet bore me in the direction of Regent’s Park, where, after sundry explanations of myself and my business, I induced the great man to purchase my violets. He very generously gave me two shillings for the lot, an advance of fourpence on the price asked. Thus it was that the bread I cast upon the waters when I sold the little flower-girl three bunches for twopence brought me immediate results.
Returning home, I settled up my day-book, and this is how the page stood :—
| PAID OUT. | |||||
| s. | d. | ||||
| 2 Dozen violets at 8d. | … | … | … | 1 | 4 |
| 1 Dozen violets at 1s. | … | … | … | 1 | 0 |
| 2 Clusters lilies at 10d. | … | … | … | 1 | 8 |
| 1 Bundle moss | … | … | … | 0 | 1 |
| 4 | 1 | ||||
| TOOK IN. | |||||
| s. | d. | ||||
| 24 Sprays lilies at 1d. | … | … | … | 2 | 0 |
| 1 Dozen violets at 2d. | … | … | … | 2 | 0 |
| 2 Dozen violets at 1d. | … | … | … | 2 | 0 |
| Had given me | … | … | … | 0 | 5 |
| 6 | 5 | ||||
| Profit | … | … | … | 2 | 4 |
When my accounts were settled, I was not over-whelmed with the amount of my profits. Two shillings and fourpence a day was not a large wage, to be sure! However, I took into consideration the fact that it was my first day, that I was new to the business, and I felt that, if I continued to work at the trade, I might reasonably expect to sell more flowers and make greater profits. Perhaps by selling flowers in the evening, as well as during the day, I might be able to make three shillings a day after I got fairly started, but that was as high as my ambition allowed me to soar. That would only be eighteen shillings a week. Yet I have been told that the majority of the London flower-girls usually take in more than twice, and sometimes three times, that amount of money during the week, and I am in a quandary as to how the thing is done.
But there are certain tricks of the trade, such as the dividing of the market bunches, taking possession of more flowers than they pay for, selling ten bunches for a dozen, and other similar schemes.
Although I have not, perhaps, spent as much time in investigating into the condition of the flower-girls as some may think necessary before passing an opinion, I am bound to say that, from what I have seen and learned of them, I cannot look upon them as a particularly deserving class of individuals. They are unprepossessing in appearance, loud and rude in their manners, and I am inclined to think that the morals of many of them would not bear a close scrutiny. Some charitable ladies who have attempted to work among them say that they are a difficult class to reach, and that sympathy and kindness are usually wasted upon them. Not having tried the work of reformation, I am not able to speak authoritatively on that point; and I should not care to go as a missionary amongst them. They impress me as being of a too combative disposition to make pleasant companions.
