Clover Moon

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Well, you finish off your boot while I set to work on your clothes. Dear Lord, did those nasty boys roll you in the gutter? They’re in a right state!’ said Thelma, clicking her tongue. ‘But your saucy beret is as good as new.’ She tried it on, tipping it to one side at a jaunty angle. ‘Very French,’ she said, admiring herself in the mirror.

  ‘It suits you,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ she said complacently. Then she looked at me. ‘You’re shivering, poor little mite. You’d better have my jacket.’

  ‘No thank you, I have a shawl,’ I said, proudly producing it from my sack.

  ‘Oh my, very fancy.’ Thelma sifted through my clothes. ‘Oh dear Lord, I’m going to get that muck all over my own outfit if I’m not careful!’ she declared.

  ‘Then please let me do it,’ I said.

  ‘No, little rabbit, I’ll manage,’ she said. ‘I’ll just have to strip off too.’

  She was nowhere near as shy as me. She had her jacket and dress off in a trice, her fingers undoing each button, hook and eye so speedily that I couldn’t help staring.

  ‘We have three costume changes in the show,’ she said. ‘You have to be quick about it or you find yourself going onstage in your drawers. And how the crowd would love that!’

  Her underwear was extraordinary. I had no idea that grown-up ladies wore such amazing laced corsets. I’d seen Mildred without her dress but she simply wore her old threadbare shift, plus a petticoat on Sundays. Her large chest flopped loosely like a pillow down her bodice. Thelma’s chest was firmly pushed into place by her corset, beautifully arranged like two peaches on a plate. Her petticoat was frilled and trimmed with pink lace to match the little rosebud sewn at the top of her corset.

  I wondered if I would ever be able to wear such beautiful clothes.

  ‘Do you earn lots of money as a dancer, Thelma?’ I asked her as she fetched lavatory paper, more rags, the violet soap and a bucket of water.

  ‘Not really, dear, not for all the hard work we do. But I get by. I do a turn at midday at a dining club – a little solo act that goes down well with the gentleman, and they pay a bit better,’ said Thelma, spreading my clothes out on the floor and then setting to work, scraping and rubbing and scrubbing.

  ‘Oh, Thelma, you’re doing such a good job!’

  ‘Well, I know what I’m doing, dear. I worked in a laundry when I was fourteen, and they teach you all the tricks. Couldn’t stand the work though. My hands were always scarlet, the colour of me fancy boots, and in the winter when I had chilblains I was near screaming,’ she said.

  ‘So you left?’

  ‘Yes. Though it was a case of out of the frying pan into the fire,’ said Thelma.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I went into service, didn’t I, forging me own reference. It was hard work too, but I didn’t feel boiled to death like a lobster every day, and the missus seemed nice enough. And the master. Too blooming nice, he was. He quite turned my head and then I was a little fool.’ She gave me a sideways glance. ‘Do you get my meaning?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes, well, I won’t dwell on what happened next. They weren’t good times, I tell you, but I tried to keep my spirits up. One day I was dancing in the street when the barrel organ was playing, and this gentleman stopped me and said I had natural talent and was quite a looker and why didn’t I try my luck on the stage? Of course I thought he was having me on, but he was actually a producer, would you believe.’

  ‘So now you’re a famous dancer!’ I said.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far, dear. I’m not a solo act, just one of a line of dancing girls. But I earn my keep and you can’t say fairer than that.’

  ‘Do you think I could ever be a dancer too?’ I asked. I’d done my own share of twirling round to barrel-organ music and taught Megs and Jenny and little Mary several fancy steps.

  I wondered if I dared show Thelma – but she was shaking her head at me.

  ‘You’re not really the right type, dear. The management like dancing girls big in all senses of the word. You’re always going to be the small, scrawny type, little rabbit,’ she said, rubbing away at my coat.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, sighing.

  ‘Don’t look so down-hearted. You seem like a clever girl to me, if a bit naïve. Are you good at your lessons?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, as I’ve never been to school. I’ve always been kept at home to look after the little ones. But I can read and write and I know quite a lot, I suppose, because Mr Dolly’s forever telling me things.’

  ‘Mr Dolly?’

  ‘He’s the loveliest gentleman ever, and so very kind to me. He gave me Anne Boleyn.’ I nodded to her, sitting on the floor beside me. ‘He makes wonderful dolls and he’s very learned and extremely kind, especially to children, but just because he’s a little crooked in his person, with a poorly back, folk laugh at him and say dreadful things. Why do people have to be so horrid?’ I asked passionately.

  ‘Who knows? They just are,’ said Thelma.

  ‘But some people are very kind. You’re very kind, Thelma. I’m so grateful to you.’

  ‘Bless you, sweetheart, all I’m doing is cleaning up your clothes, and that’s no trouble. You got that boot stitched yet? Better try it on to make sure it still fits.’

  It was a little too snug at first, squeezing my ankles, but the felt was so soft it stretched as I wandered around the dressing room, examining all the paints and powders and fingering the bright clothes hanging from the racks. My boot was almost as good as new, though now it had a jagged line of stitches on one side. Thelma went on soaking and scrubbing and smoothing my clothes until she shook them out and spread them before me on the floor.

  She bobbed a curtsy to me. ‘Well, ma’am, cast an eye on your pretty outfit and see if I’ve made a difference,’ she said, pretending I was a lady and she my maid.

  ‘Oh my goodness, you’ve made all the difference in the world!’ I said. ‘You’re magic, Thelma!’

  ‘There now, I’ve just cleaned them up a bit, that’s all. They’re still a bit damp. Leave them to dry a little,’ she said, arranging the coat and dress over the backs of chairs. ‘Here, we’ll do a bit of dancing now to keep you warm. I’ll teach you our opening number.’

  It was the funniest dancing ever, all wiggles and bold moves and high kicks. Mildred would have died to see me showing my drawers but I was too out of breath laughing to care about being immodest.

  Wait till I show Megs! I thought for an instant – before I remembered.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Thelma. ‘Have you got a pain?’

  ‘It’s Megs,’ I said. ‘My sister Megs. Oh, I miss her so.’

  ‘What did she die of?’

  ‘Scarlet fever,’ I said.

  ‘Oh!’ said Thelma, and took a step backwards.

  ‘But I haven’t got it, I swear I haven’t. Megs caught it from a shawl.’

  Thelma’s eyes widened as she stared at my present from Jimmy.

  ‘Not this shawl, I promise,’ I said hastily.

  ‘Dear God, you know how to startle a girl,’ said Thelma, fanning her face. ‘So none of your family caught the fever too?’

  ‘No. Mildred shut me in the cupboard, just to make sure.’

  ‘She shut you in a cupboard?’

  I didn’t point out that it was the reasonably big cupboard under the stairs. I enjoyed seeing Thelma outraged on my behalf.

  ‘She didn’t let me out for days,’ I said.

  ‘Oh my, what a witch! Didn’t your pa say anything?’

  ‘He just does what Mildred says, mostly.’

  ‘Then you’re better off without them. You don’t need family, Clover, not when you’ve got friends,’ Thelma declared.

  13

  ‘ARE YOU REALLY my friend, Thelma?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I’m your friend, you ninny,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea, eh? And there’s a baker’s two doors alo
ng from the theatre. Fancy a muffin?’

  ‘Oh yes!’

  My dress was still pretty damp and my stockings wringing wet, but my coat was dry on the inside so I slipped it on and found my way back to the stage door. Ronnie and I gave each other another wink, and then I ran along to the baker’s shop with two pennies from Thelma clutched in my palm.

  She’d told me to say they were for her, and as soon as I said her name the rosy-cheeked baker slipped a cherry tart into the paper bag on top of the muffins.

  ‘Oh dear, I’ve only got two pennies,’ I said.

  ‘That’s all right, love. A little treat, seeing as it’s for Miss Thelma,’ he said.

  I went back to the theatre triumphantly, winked yet again at Ronnie and ran up the stairs. I got lost at the top and wandered along several corridors without finding the dressing room. I thought I’d found the right door at last, but found myself looking at a stout gentleman in a striped dressing gown applying powder to his large purple nose. We stared at each other in horror.

  ‘Oh my Lord, a peeper!’ he said. ‘Be off with you, you nasty little urchin!’

  I ran away, mortified. Thank goodness I ran the right way this time, though I only dared open the door when I heard Thelma singing away to herself.

  ‘Hello, ducks,’ she said. ‘Kettle’s boiling away on the spirit stove. I’ll make the tea.’

  ‘Thelma, I went into the wrong room and saw a strange man in his dressing gown!’ I said.

  ‘You saucebox!’ said Thelma. ‘Don’t look so worried. I expect it was only Arnie, our operatic singer. Did he have a big nozzle?’

  ‘Yes, and he was powdering it!’ I said, amazed that a man should do such a thing.

  ‘He was simply getting ready for the show. He comes in hours early so that the other fellows don’t rag him. Arnie looks like a comic turn, so he primps for hours to make himself appear more dignified. He gets through tubs of green powder to make his nose less red, bless him, and it’s rumoured that he squeezes that great belly of his into a lady’s corset. Perhaps that accounts for his strangulated tone when he starts up all that Italian trilling.’ Thelma put her hands on her chest and started singing falsetto as she made the tea.

  I couldn’t see any plates, so I tore the paper bag in two and set a muffin on my half and the other muffin and the cherry tart on Thelma’s.

  ‘We’re sharing it, silly,’ she said, dividing up the tart.

  ‘But the baker put it in the bag specially for you,’ I told her.

  ‘Yes, he’s a little gone on me,’ said Thelma complacently.

  ‘Is he your sweetheart?’

  ‘Hardly! He’s a dear soul but I’m setting my cap at someone a little grander,’ said Thelma, waving my beret in the air with a flourish. ‘I’ve got several gentlemen vying with each other to take me out to dine after the show, all proper toffs.’

  As we tucked into our muffins and tart she told me about each one. One was called Sam, one Arthur and one Geoffrey, and they often sent bunches of roses to the dressing room and waited for her at the stage door.

  ‘And which do you like best?’ I asked, wondering what it would be like to have three gentlemen vying for my attention.

  ‘Oh, they’re all much of a muchness,’ said Thelma. ‘They seem sweet enough lads, but they’ve got no real style or breeding. No, there’s this other fellow who sometimes comes to see the show. We don’t know his name but us girls call him Lord Handsome, and he certainly is. Lovely clothes, very dashing, with truly gentlemanly airs. He always wears a cloak and carries a cane. He’s got dark curly hair, beautiful aristocratic features and dark eyes – oh, such dark eyes. He sits in a box, and when we come on stage he leans forward as if to single me out, looking just at me with those dark eyes of his. They say he really is a lord. I do hope he is! Imagine if I was to be Lady Thelma one fine day!’

  I was a vivid imaginer myself and I thought Thelma might be telling a fairy tale, but I smiled politely all the same and pretended to be very impressed.

  Thelma nibbled her half of the cherry tart with her sharp little teeth, biting into the syrupy black fruit with such enthusiasm that a little syrup trickled down her chin. ‘Dear, dear, look at me, dribbling like a baby,’ she said, giggling. ‘Never mind! When Lord Handsome makes me his bride I shall have my maidservant come running with a fine lace handkerchief so I can mop myself up in a moment.’ She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. ‘Do you want to see the show tonight, little rabbit? I dare say I can slip you in somewhere. You can see me dance my little tootsies off and peer up at the box to see if Lord Handsome is there.’

  ‘I’d love to see the show, but perhaps I’d better find Miss Sarah Smith’s place first or I won’t have anywhere to sleep tonight,’ I said. ‘Unless . . .’ I paused hopefully, wondering if Thelma might actually invite me to share her digs as she’d already been so friendly to me.

  ‘I wish you could stay with me,’ she said, understanding. ‘But I don’t actually have my own place. I’m staying with some of the other dancing girls – there are actually three of us in the bed and one on the couch, so it’s uncomfortably crowded as it is.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s quite all right,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Do you have any idea what the time is, Thelma?’

  ‘Well, it’s nowhere near show time or some of the other girls would be drifting in. Run down and ask Ronnie. He has a clock in his office. It’s his job to sign us all in, and if anyone’s late he’s meant to report us to the management – but he’s not a snitch,’ said Thelma, licking away the last of her cherry tart.

  I did as she suggested, counting the doors this time and taking note of each twist and turn and flight of stairs, not wanting to risk another encounter with Arnie and his powdered nose.

  I found Ronnie again, my head on one side and my eye already shut.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Ronnie, but I wonder if you could tell me the time?’

  ‘Certainly, little miss.’ He craned his neck, looking up at a clock in the corner, hidden from my view. ‘It’s five past the hour.’

  ‘Five past which hour?’ I asked. Five past three? Five past four?

  ‘Five minutes past five,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘Oh my Lord!’ I gasped. I thanked him and then flew back to Thelma. ‘It’s five past five! I had no idea it was so late. I meant to find Miss Sarah Smith long before now. What shall I do if her establishment is closed?’

  ‘Hey, hey, calm down. No need to get in such a state. She’ll keep her doors open at all times if she’s rescuing girls off the street – stands to reason. Here, your dress is barely damp now. Let’s pop it on you and make you all spick and span,’ she said.

  I folded my shawl and put it in my sack. I tucked Anne Boleyn in too. Thelma had been so kind to me that I wondered about giving her one of my precious possessions as a present. But they were so dear to me, given by such special friends. Besides, the shawl was plain wool, and blue. My new friend clearly preferred a fancier style of dress. Anne Boleyn was bright and fancy, but Thelma was many years past playing with dolls. And I couldn’t give away the parting gift of the man who meant more to me than my own father.

  Thelma was busy brushing my hair and then setting my black beret on at the right angle.

  ‘I know!’ I said. ‘Would you like my hat, Thelma? I don’t really need it now and I think it suits you more than me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, dear. I can’t take your beret!’ said Thelma, though she looked tempted.

  ‘Please take it. You’ve been so very kind to me,’ I said.

  ‘Well, that’s very sweet of you, little rabbit.’ Thelma put the floppy beret back on her auburn hair and smiled at herself in the looking glass. ‘Yes, it does suit me, even though I say so myself. I’ll have to get myself a striped blazer to go with it. It’ll look very dashing.’

  ‘Perfect for when Lord Handsome takes you out walking of a Sunday,’ I suggested.

  ‘Are you teasing me, saucebox?’ said Thelma, laughing. ‘Now, I
’ve got half an hour to spare. I’ll come and help you find this Miss Smith’s establishment.’

  ‘Will you really? Oh, you’re an angel, Thelma!’ I said.

  So we set off together to find Miss Sarah Smith’s Home for Destitute Girls.

  ‘What number is it in the Strand?’ Thelma asked.

  ‘I don’t have the number, I’m afraid,’ I told her.

  ‘But it is definitely on the Strand?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s on the Strand,’ I said. ‘I was told it was just off it.’

  ‘Yes, but off it where? A lane that actually runs off the Strand?’ Thelma asked yet again.

  ‘Probably,’ I said.

  ‘Or simply in the surrounding area?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said.

  ‘And you don’t even know which side of the Strand – south towards the river or north towards Covent Garden?’

  I shook my head hopelessly.

  ‘Oh my, little rabbit, you don’t make life easy, do you?’ said Thelma, but she didn’t give up on me.

  We went out of the theatre and on to the Strand. The crossing-sweeper boy stared at us, and I stuck my nose in the air. We walked the length of the Strand from Waterloo Bridge to Charing Cross, darting up and down the maze of narrow streets that bordered the Thames, peering hard at every nameplate and asking almost every soul who passed if they happened to know where Miss Sarah Smith’s establishment might be.

  Thelma asked for me at first, but her request caused comments and quips from the gentlemen: ‘Destitute, are we, my dear? Don’t despair, I’ll happily share my lodgings with you.’ I soon took over and gabbled out my question. But whichever one of us asked, there was always the same answer. No one seemed to have heard of Miss Smith or her institution.

  At Charing Cross we crossed the Strand and started walking back again on the other side of the road. There were more little lanes to explore, but it still seemed a hopeless task. We heard clocks chiming the quarters, and Thelma speeded up until she was almost running.

  ‘Oh Lordy, I’ll have to go back to the theatre soon or I won’t have time to change,’ she said at last. ‘Ronnie will fill in the attendance book for me, but if I’m not on stage in the right outfit when the curtain goes up then I’ll lose my job. They sacked a girl on the spot last week when she was only a few minutes late. Her ma had been taken bad with her heart and she’d simply been trying to help, but the management wouldn’t listen.’