Violet Tarr hated her name. Everyone at school teased her because her pa was one of the many violet growers in the Dawlish area, and he has chosen to name her after his favourite flower.
The other children, whose fathers also grew the tiny sweet-scented blue viola odorata, said it was stupid to call a child after their parent's business. Colin Comer the butcher's son declared that he would have run away from home had he been named "Beefsteak". Joe Wills, the cobbler's son added that he would have joined Colin had he been christened "Boots". Everyone laughed. Violet ran all the way home with tears running down her cheeks, but she dried her face at the top of the lane, and by the time she reached home she was calm, more or less.
"What ails you today, maidy?" her mother demanded crossly.
Violet sniffed and wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.
"Nothing, Ma. I got a bit of grit in my eye." Violet sighed. Ma was always irritable these days, especially when Pa's bad back prevented him from working in the market garden where he grew his treasured blooms. Trade was good with the direct train service to Covent Garden, but the small market gardeners faced fierce competition from local farmers, all of whom devoted some of their land to growing violets in order to supply the ever growing demand.
"I've packed two boxes of flowers ready to take to Dawlish Station. You'll have to do it, Violet. Your pa is too poorly to do it himself." "Yes, Ma." Violet knew it was useless to argue.
"They say that Queen Mary loves Devon violets." Violet was suddenly interested.
"Do you think she ever buys our flowers, Ma?"
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