‘It should,’ said Violet. ‘I used to read it to you.’
Mirren thought about it.
‘It had big pictures of flowers?’ she said eventually.
‘Well, your edition did,’ said Violet. ‘My dad’s edition ... the one I had. There are lots of different ones. But the one he gave me was special. It had hand-drawn plates. He used to read it to me and my best friend, June. June was very cheeky and funny and naughty, but he used to read it to her anyway. Her dad was dead. I used to feel so sorry for her, and very glad I still had a daddy.’
She looked so very sad then, and Mirren tried to keep her focused.
‘What happened to it?’
‘I don’t know. After we lost Daddy ... we moved away. I never saw June again. I suppose my mother must have sold it; we certainly needed the money, and she sold everything else we had. Crockery, silverware – everything really, practically almost down to his bloody kit bag. My life changed so much.’
Her eyes and voice were cross now, and still generations away, buried in tweed and pipe smoke and horse-drawn coal deliveries and cobblestones. Then her tone changed.
‘The moon has a face like the clock in the hall; She shines on thieves on the garden wall, On streets and fields and harbour quays, And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.’
Mirren patted her gently on the shoulder.
‘I wonder,’ Violet said. ‘I wonder if it’s still out there somewhere. My dad always said it was special.’
Mirren pulled out her phone.
‘We could have a look,’ she said. ‘If it will stop you asking me for heroin.’
Chapter 3
Fortunately, Mirren had her laptop in her bag and could show Violet the internet properly, phones being truly too small, even with the big glasses. They looked through every variation and edition they could find. They went up to thousands of pounds –thousands– for beautiful, ornate editions, but Violet didn’t recognise any of them.
‘Are you sure it was hand-illustrated?’ Mirren asked finally. ‘I mean, you were very little.’
Violet nodded.
‘June and I weren’t allowed to touch the pictures in case we made the ink run. I remember very vividly.’
‘What were they like?’
‘Amazing. Black-and-white line drawings with a fountain pen, full of elaborate flowers and beautiful women in great headdresses, and stars and great moons ...’
Mirren frowned and typed in ‘A Child’s Garden of Verses hand illustrated’ and peered through the thicket of results.
‘Huh,’ she said. ‘Ooh.’
Mirren pulled up an old story from a literary magazine about the rumour that Aubrey Beardsley had drawn a version, which had never been published. Aubrey Beardsley was an incredibly famous artist even Mirren, who was bookish rather than arty, had heard of; his elegant black-and-white linedrawings had illustrated famous 1920s and 30s books and plays, his art nouveau style often hanging up in university dorm rooms. This edition was only mentioned in passing, though; nobody had ever seen it.
‘Might it have been this guy?’ Mirren said, passing over some samples of his work – elongated women in incredibly elaborate hats and gowns, under starry skies.
‘Yes!’ Violet said, clutching at the laptop. ‘Yes! That’s it. They were just like that!’
She touched the laptop with her fingers, as if it were paper.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I would ... I would so love to see it one more time. The last time ... everything was ...’
A woman came bustling in, bosom first.
‘Time for your doctor’s appointment, Mrs Neale! Let’s be having you! Come on, I’ll take you to the toilet first.’
Violet looked at Mirren, and in her face Mirren saw the misery, the sheer embarrassment of every indignity she was going through at this stage of her life – this clever, interesting woman.
