Clover Moon

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘How much is he?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, seeing as you two have taken to each other I’ll be generous. He’s a very special breed, with a lovely nature as you can see, and if you took it into your head to go hunting you’d find him a great retriever. I dare say some folk would fork out a fortune for him, but I’ll give you a bargain price. Ten shillings! Can’t say fairer than that, can I, lads?’

  They all nodded their heads and declared the price extremely generous. Ten shillings! I had my five shillings and Mr Dolly’s loose change. I fumbled in the purse. Count the coins as I might, I couldn’t make them add up to ten shillings.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could reduce the price a little?’ I asked.

  ‘Come on, now, miss, don’t waste my time. I could get a sovereign for him easy, not to say a guinea. Reduce from ten measly shillings? You’ve got a cheek!’

  The chorus of lads shook their heads and echoed him. I stood up and stroked Brutus’s strong back. I wished he was even bigger so I could climb on that back and let him carry me far away.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t afford ten shillings,’ I said.

  ‘There now, don’t look like that. Don’t break my heart! I’ve got my own little girls to look after. I have to make a living, sweetheart,’ he declared, shaking his head and clicking his teeth, and a couple of the lads shook and clicked too. Brutus seemed determined to join in the performance. He butted against me with his big head and looked up at me pleadingly with his soulful brown eyes.

  ‘Oh, I want him so!’ I said.

  ‘Then you must have him, my duck. You’re clearly made for each other. I can’t stand between girl and dog, not when there’s already such a bond between you. Tell you what. I’ll knock a bob off. Nine shillings! Can’t say fairer than that. I’m giving him away without a penny profit. Don’t you think it a generous offer, boys?’ he asked.

  They nodded and cheered and patted him on the back and then looked at me expectantly.

  ‘I’m sure it is a very generous offer, sir, but I’m afraid I simply haven’t got enough money,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, now, child, don’t play games with me. Look at you, with your smart little outfit. It must have cost a pretty penny,’ he said.

  ‘It was a gift, sir.’

  ‘And I’m giving you a gift, letting you have Brutus cut price. He’s got a lovely nature and will make a loyal guard dog. How can you resist? Especially when I can hear the tin clanking in that purse of yours,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve only got seven and six, and I should keep some of that for emergencies. I simply can’t afford your lovely dog,’ I said.

  ‘Then what are you doing wasting my time?’ he said, looking disgusted. ‘Be off with you. Brutus – to heel, sir!’

  Brutus took no notice, leaning against me lovingly. The man jerked his lead, yanking him so hard he choked.

  ‘You’re hurting him!’ I protested.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you. He’s not your dog,’ said the man, and he wouldn’t even let me give Brutus one more stroke to say goodbye.

  I trailed sadly away, hoping that Brutus would realize I wasn’t deliberately rejecting him. I turned down a dank little alleyway, wanting to get away from the reek and din of the birds and dogs. Two of the lads ran after me. For one mad second I thought the dog-seller had relented and was going to let me have Brutus for my pocketful of change. But then one lad pinioned my arms while the other pulled the purse from my pocket. Then they gave me a shove into the gutter and left me lying there in the filth.

  12

  I WAS SO stunned I couldn’t move. I lay there, feeling like a fool. How could I have been so stupid, flashing my purse about like that? I wasn’t some country bumpkin fresh from the pigsties. I lived in London, for goodness’ sake. I should have known better. It was my own fault I’d lost every single penny, all of it from dear, generous Mr Dolly, which somehow made it worse.

  What about Anne Boleyn and Jimmy’s shawl? Oh my Lord, both were missing. I started crying then, unable to bear the loss of my two dearest possessions, my only possessions – but when I got to my knees and stood up unsteadily I saw the sack lying crumpled in a corner. I ran over to it, but it was empty.

  I started howling, blundering about in a stupor until I stepped on something soft. I gasped, terrified it might be some animal, but then I came to my senses. It was my beautiful blue shawl, balled up and cast aside. I clutched it to me and then started searching, hoping the lads might also have thrown away a little wooden doll.

  I wandered along the alleyway, feeling the loss of Anne Boleyn almost as keenly as that of my sister, and then at last I spotted a scrap of red and green in the gutter. I darted forward and snatched her up, my own dear doll. Her face was still smiling, her little wooden limbs intact, her cloak and dress still spotless.

  That was more than I could say for my own clothes. I was shocked when I came out of the dark alley into the sunlight. I had smears all over my coat, my stockings were torn and one of my felt boots was ripped at the side. I leaned against the wall, feeling sick. Oh, how I longed for Megs to come along and comfort me, winding her thin arms round my neck, rubbing her soft cheek against mine.

  What would Miss Sarah Smith think of me now, filthy and torn? Perhaps she’d take one look at me and send me packing, not wanting a dirty ragamuffin besmirching her establishment. After all Mr Dolly’s care and time and patience my beautiful outfit was ruined.

  I wanted to go and search for those two boys in the crowd and punch them hard, but what little common sense I had left prevented me. No matter how well I fought, two big boys were much stronger than me, and they’d likely have friends who would join in. I’d be left worse off than ever – this time they might trail my shawl in the filthy gutter or stamp on Anne Boleyn out of spite.

  So I made my way wearily away from the market, not even giving beautiful Brutus a second look. I imagined him padding along beside me on his big soft paws, teeth bared, ready to sort out any ruffian who so much as glanced at me, but it was hard work picturing him when I was so cast down. Every step I took made the rip in my boot a little bigger, and I wanted to weep at the sight of my coat. My dress was stained too, with the hem hanging unevenly below my knees.

  Now that I was in a much bigger street I looked around for a horse trough, wondering if I could find a rag and dab at the stains, but I couldn’t see one anywhere, though there was a constant stream of horses pulling cabs and carriages and huge omnibuses. I saw a boy holding a big broom and sweeping a clean path for the ladies when they made their way over the crossing. He wore a filthy shirt and ragged trousers, and no boots at all. When he ran, the soles of his feet showed hard and black, and the palm held out for a penny payment was black too from handling all the coppers. He didn’t risk putting his money in his torn pocket. He had a worn leather purse hanging on a string about his neck. The purse looked very full.

  Whenever a horse paused to lift its tail he dashed out into the street, busily sweep-sweep-sweeping with the big broom, though his arms were not much thicker than Anne Boleyn’s stick limbs and seemed just as likely to snap. I judged him to be a year or two younger than me, and maybe a little simple – because his mouth hung open as he toiled and his eyes were dull.

  I had always got on splendidly with simple children. Daft Mo treated me like a second mother and always came to me if he were troubled. Perhaps I could befriend this poor boy, and then maybe he’d spare me a penny.

  I stood at the edge of the pavement and he came up to me.

  ‘Was you wanting to cross, little lady?’ he asked, bobbing his head at me.

  ‘No thank you,’ I said, smiling at him.

  He could tell from my accent that I was no lady, just another London child like him.

  ‘Then what you staring at?’ He eyed me up and down. ‘You look a real guy in them clothes.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Some hateful boys pushed me over and stole all my money. I was wondering, could you possibly spare me just one penny so I could fin
d a public washroom and clean myself up a little?’

  ‘Not blooming likely! Them pennies are my earnings,’ said the boy, putting one grimy hand protectively over his purse.

  ‘Just one penny? Please?’ I begged.

  ‘If I don’t take every single coin back to my master he’ll beat me,’ he said. ‘And if you don’t quit plaguing me I’ll beat you!’ He raised his filthy broom in a threatening manner.

  ‘Hey, hey, you little varmint, are you threatening this young lady?’ It was a lady herself speaking – a beautiful lady with shining auburn hair, amazing blue eyes, pink cheeks and a crimson mouth. All the women I knew were pale, with lank hair, dressed in muted shades of grey or brown or blue, whereas this lady wore a tartan silk dress with checks of emerald and scarlet, and a green jacket that fitted snugly over her chest. Her boots were equally astonishing – bright red leather laced with black ribbon, very pointed, with little heels.

  Perhaps she wasn’t quite a lady, given that she was wearing such a bold outfit. She didn’t sound like a lady either, because when she saw the state of my dress she started swearing at the crossing sweeper, thinking he’d whacked me with his filthy broom. He dropped his broom, hung his head and started to cry. Perhaps he was simple after all.

  ‘He didn’t do it!’ I said quickly. ‘He just didn’t like me begging.’

  ‘You was begging off him?’ said the lady, looking astonished.

  ‘I just wanted him to spare me a penny so I could go and wash off all this filth,’ I said, shaking my skirts. ‘It was two thieving lads up in that songbird lane. They pushed me over and stole my purse with all my money.’

  ‘Oh, you poor mite. Stop your bawling, varmint. There’s still no call to go threatening a little lady, even if she’s after your money. You want to be popular with all the girls, don’t you?’

  He nodded, scrubbing at his eyes.

  ‘So you’ve got to learn to treat them nice, see. If they ask for money and you ain’t got it or don’t want to give it them, you don’t try to whack ’em with your broom. You say, “So sorry, my dear, but I’m a bit short of tin at the moment,” and then there’s no hard feelings. You remember!’ she insisted.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Now, if you will kindly sweep a clear path for us, seeing as that poor old nag has just gone and relieved herself, I will see about rewarding you myself,’ she said.

  The boy scurried about his business, and as we passed him the lady gave him two pennies for his trouble.

  She saw me looking wistfully. ‘Don’t fret, I’m taking you somewhere you can clean up for free, Miss Woeful. What’s your real name then?’

  ‘Clover. Clover Moon,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, dear. Us girls have to help each other out, don’t we? I’m Miss Thelma, dancer by profession.’

  ‘A dancer!’ I said, impressed. ‘I haven’t got any profession yet. Mildred was all set to make me start work at the sauce factory but I didn’t want to.’

  ‘You start work? You’re just a baby! And you don’t want to work in any factory either, toiling twelve hours a day with your back breaking. Who’s this Mildred then?’

  ‘My stepmother.’

  ‘Oh. I had one of those,’ said Thelma. ‘We’ve got a lot in common, you and me. My stepmother made my life a misery. I couldn’t stand her.’

  ‘I can’t stand Mildred,’ I said. ‘That’s why . . .’

  ‘Why you’re running away?’ Thelma guessed anyway.

  ‘Well, she’s one of the reasons. And also it’s because of my sister,’ I said, my voice starting to wobble. ‘We only buried her today and I can’t bear the thought of being at home without her.’

  ‘You poor little kid,’ said Thelma, and she put her arm round me a little gingerly so that her own clothes wouldn’t get stained. ‘So these are your funeral clothes, eh? Nice styling and such neat little stitches. Don’t you worry, we’ll get you mopped up in no time. Here we are!’

  She’d been hurrying me along the pavement, and now stopped outside a gigantic building with a red carpet up the steps and gold doors.

  ‘Oh my! Is this a palace?’ I gasped.

  ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it? But it’s just a theatre, dear. The Gaiety. My theatre. We’ll give you a little wash and brush up inside,’ said Thelma.

  ‘Are you sure I’m allowed?’ I said anxiously.

  ‘Course you are. You’re with me.’

  ‘But it looks all shut up.’ I looked up the stairs. The gold doors seemed securely locked and bolted.

  ‘We don’t go up those stairs. They’re just for the crowd. The artistes have their own door,’ she said proudly. ‘Follow me.’

  We went round the side of the theatre. I expected an even better door for the artistes, gold again but possibly studded with crystals. The peeling green paint of the wooden stage door was a disappointment.

  There was an old man sitting in a small office whittling a stick with his knife. He grinned broadly when he saw Thelma. ‘You’re very early today, Miss Thelma! And who’s this with you? A little sister?’

  ‘She’s a new little pal, Ronnie. And you’re my old pal, aren’t you? You won’t object to my bringing her backstage for a little wash and brush up?’

  ‘You can bring in a whole orphanage so long as you keep me as a pal,’ said Ronnie, winking at her.

  Thelma winked back. I wondered if this was a special theatrical greeting and did my best to wink too, which made old Ronnie chuckle.

  The theatre was surprisingly shabby inside, with lino on the floor and narrow bare stairs, but I loved the dancers’ dressing room. There were mirrors on all the walls and little shelves scattered with glorious potions and powders, and racks and racks of costumes in exotic colours: short swishy tulle skirts in buttercup yellow and crimson and turquoise blue; little black satin bloomers with matching skimpy bodices edged with gold fringing; and long flounced scarlet dresses plus white petticoats with scarlet ribbons. There were fancy pairs of shoes scattered all over the floor as if engaged in a complicated two-step: pink satin ballet shoes; black patent laced boots; and scarlet boots with black ribbon like the ones Thelma was wearing.

  I knelt down, marvelling at them all. I wished Megs could see them too. She had always ached for pretty clothes, especially a pair of fine new boots. She’d always had to inherit my worn-out ones, and they were second-hand when I got them, so they were falling to pieces, the heels worn right down and the soles flapping. Even after all that wearing the leather stayed hard, and Megs’s feet were especially tender so she always had angry blisters.

  I stuck my hands in a pair of the scarlet boots. They were as soft as gloves.

  ‘Dancers’ boots,’ said Thelma. ‘Especially light, with soft soles. They wear out fast, but the management always coughs up for replacements. They like us girls to look smart.’ She smiled at herself in the wall of mirrors, striking an attitude, and a dozen sister Thelmas struck simultaneous poses too.

  My own reflection appalled me. I looked so thin and pale, with livid weals on my forehead. My cap was lopsided and my beautiful black clothes were ruined.

  ‘Don’t look so tragic,’ said Thelma. ‘Strip down to your shift in the water closet through there and have a good wash in the basin. Then I’ll give your clothes a quick scrub.’

  I hesitated. I was used to whipping my clothes on and off in front of my brothers and sisters, but I felt very shy in front of Thelma. I stood still, clutching Anne Boleyn and the sack.

  ‘Here,’ said Thelma, taking them from me, shaking her head fondly. ‘So you still play with dolls, do you?’

  ‘She’s a special gift. I don’t exactly play with her,’ I insisted.

  ‘Well, Dolly here looks as good as new. Which is more than I can say for her mother,’ said Thelma. ‘Come on, let’s skin a rabbit.’

  She undid all my buttons, unlaced the boots, and had me shivering in my grubby shift in seconds.

  ‘There now! My, you look lik
e a little rabbit – though you certainly wouldn’t feed a family of four. Go and wash yourself quick. There’s plenty of soap. The management looks after us girls well. There’s some theatres that herd you all into one room the size of a cupboard with no washing facilities whatsoever, yet they dock your pay if you don’t look fresh as a daisy.’ She chattered on as she took a damp rag and sponged both my boots.

  I went into the water closet. I stared around the little room in awe. There was a white china sink with shining taps and a cake of pink soap in a little dish. A large white towel hung on a brass hook and there was a pile of small clean face cloths on a little table, with a big raffia basket containing a few used ones. Best of all there was a large lavatory with a hanging chain and wooden handle and a polished mahogany seat. There was even a blue-and-white pattern down inside the pan – tiny figures crossing odd little bridges in an oriental country.

  We didn’t have a china sink at home, only a tap, and Mildred rarely bothered with soap. We didn’t have towels or face cloths, just old rags. We certainly didn’t have a magnificent indoor lavatory with a decorative pattern, we had the outside privy, and it always smelled and looked disgusting.

  I filled the sink and washed myself all over, even though I’d had a proper wash that morning. It already seemed weeks ago. The soap was soft on my skin. Then I used the lavatory, though it seemed dreadful to pee all over the pattern. There was even a roll of paper to wipe myself with.

  When I came out of the water closet Thelma was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her sleeves rolled up and her jacket unbuttoned, stitching away at my torn boot like a tailor.

  ‘Oh, Thelma, can you mend it?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I’m giving it a go. The stitches will make the felt pucker but it should hold for a while. They’re flimsy little boots, though very pretty, only really good for indoor wear. The soles are nearly worn through already. You’ll have to patch them with cardboard. Can you sew?’

  ‘A little bit.’ I’d turned up dresses for Megs because she was so small, using hasty tacking stitches until Mr Dolly showed me how to hem neatly.