Clover Moon

by Jacqueline Wilson

20

  I DIDN’T FEEL like the grimy, ragged girl from Cripps Alley any more. I was this new neat Clover who wore a pretty blue frock and taught the nursery girls.

  ‘You’ve blossomed, Clover,’ said Miss Smith when I encountered her on the stairs. ‘I haven’t seen you for a little while. You haven’t needed to come to my office to look at Mr Rivers’s picture recently.’

  ‘I’ve done my own drawing of Megs,’ I admitted shyly.

  ‘I’m sure it’s very like her. You’re talented, dear. But I hope you still admire Mr Rivers’s work?’

  ‘Oh yes, very much!’ I said.

  ‘That’s just as well because he’s coming here later this morning. He’s bringing his portfolio with him, and we’ll be discussing his illustrations for my new book. I thought you might like to say hello to him,’ said Miss Smith.

  ‘Oh, yes please!’ I said eagerly.

  ‘I should show him your sketchbook if I were you. I think you’ll find he’ll be very impressed.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, blushing.

  ‘Run off to your morning classes now. I’ll send for you when Mr Rivers is here,’ she said.

  I skipped off to the classroom. ‘Good morning, Miss Ainsley. I’m sorry I’m a little late,’ I said politely.

  She shook her head at me but didn’t chastise me. I couldn’t say she really liked me any better and I didn’t care for her either, but we’d learned how to get along together. I settled down to copying from the board an extremely dull passage about the conduct of young ladies. It was so tedious that we were all soon fidgeting, and Miss Ainsley found it necessary to add at the bottom of the blackboard: Young ladies should never yawn in public or scratch their heads!

  Then we switched to a deadly Arithmetic lesson, adding and subtracting pounds, shilling and pence. I could calculate sums in my head in an instant because I’d been doing the family shopping down the market for years, but writing all the figures in columns muddled me and I had to count on my fingers to check I’d got it right.

  I kept stealing glances at the clock. It was nearly half past eleven. Surely that was ‘later this morning’. Where was Mr Rivers? Was he here already? I waited and waited and waited, watching the thin black hand of the clock creep slowly round to the top. When the two black hands overlapped at exactly twelve noon Miss Ainsley gave us a nod.

  ‘Gather your books together, girls, and go and have your lunch.’

  The morning was over! Perhaps Mr Rivers hadn’t turned up. Or perhaps he’d been to see Miss Smith and was now gone.

  I’d so wanted to show him my sketchbook. Perhaps Miss Smith had suggested it, and he’d said he couldn’t be bothered to peer at a child’s scribbles. No, he wouldn’t be cruel and scornful. He was a lovely kind man. That daughter of his was so lucky, having her father search all over London for the perfect doll. If my pa had all the money in the world I knew he would never take the trouble to buy me a present, even though once I’d been his pet.

  I wondered if he were missing me now. It must be so strange for him to lose two daughters in quick succession. How were Jenny and Richie and Pete and Mary and little Bert? And dear Jimmy Wheels?

  They didn’t seem quite real now, more like characters I’d read about in one of Mr Dolly’s story books.

  ‘Clover? Clover, stop your daydreaming!’ Miss Ainsley gave me a little shake. ‘Did you not hear me, child? You are not to go to luncheon with the other girls as usual. You are to join Miss Smith and her visitor in her office. She’s just sent word.’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful! Thank you, Miss Ainsley!’

  I went flying to the dormitory and saw that Mary-Ann was there, lying on her bed. ‘Oh dear, are you poorly again?’ I whispered.

  ‘No, this time I have a stomach ache,’ she said. ‘It’s a girls’ thing. You’re too little to understand.’

  I understood perfectly. You couldn’t grow up doing the weekly washing in Cripps Alley without knowing.

  ‘Oh well, I hope you feel better soon,’ I said.

  I bent down by my bedside cupboard and took out my pillowcase of special possessions. Mary-Ann was watching me intently. I wasn’t sure what to do. If I simply took my sketchbook and stowed my pillowcase back inside she might just creep over and investigate the contents when I was gone. I’d tried to keep Anne Boleyn a secret from all the girls in my dormitory. I didn’t know if I could trust Mary-Ann now. We weren’t bitter enemies any more, but neither were we bosom friends. If she discovered my doll she might tease me. And then there was my special packet of crayons. Mary-Ann had commented on them sourly, saying she supposed I was Miss Smith’s special pet now. Might she be tempted to try them out herself, deliberately breaking the carefully sharpened points?

  I picked up my pillowcase and took it with me, just to be on the safe side.

  ‘Where on earth are you going with that pillowcase?’ Mary-Ann asked. ‘And why is it all lumpy? What’s it got inside it?’

  ‘It’s just old bedding for the laundry basket,’ I said.

  ‘Aha! It wouldn’t be wet bedding, by any chance?’ she said.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t! It just needs to be changed. It’s your girls’ thing,’ I said, and I clutched the pillowcase and hurried out of the dormitory, running to Miss Smith’s office.

  ‘Ah, Clover dear, come in,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Come and say how do you do to Mr Rivers. I believe you two are old friends.’

  He stood up and held out his hand as if I were a true lady. I dropped a little curtsy and then shook his hand solemnly. Miss Ainsley would have been proud of me for once!

  ‘Sit down, Clover. Bring that chair nearer to my desk. Mr Rivers and I are having a picnic lunch here while we discuss work. Would you like to join us?’ asked Miss Smith.

  ‘Oh yes please!’ I said.

  I knew from the thick smell wafting up the stairs that the girls were having onion soup, my least favourite meal. It reminded me of Mildred, who had served it up frequently.

  Miss Smith, Mr Rivers and I had dainty little pork pies, salmon patties, a selection of cheeses, a bunch of hothouse grapes, a plate of iced sponge cakes and a glass jug of lemon cordial.

  ‘What a feast!’ I said enthusiastically.

  ‘Indeed it is!’ said Mr Rivers, tucking his big spotted handkerchief in over his waistcoat.

  He was looking much smarter, with no paint smears on his jacket or trousers, and properly polished boots. His suit was a maroon cord, his waistcoat a deep midnight blue with a red floral design, and his boots were pointed with silver caps. He looked like a dandy!

  He was eyeing me up and down too. ‘My, my, Clover, I scarcely recognize you! You look ravishing,’ he said.

  ‘I could say the same for you, sir,’ I said.

  I meant to be polite, but it made him burst out laughing. ‘Oh, I have to make a big effort with my appearance when I come to see Miss Smith. She’s a highly influential lady. I need her approval for all my little sketches, or her esteemed publishers won’t pay me a penny!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Smith. ‘I’m extremely lucky to have such an important artist prepared to illustrate my humble story books. I’m sure Clover will agree with me. She particularly admires your drawings, Mr Rivers.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Smith says you used to come to look at the sketch in her inner sanctum practically every day when you first came to the home,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘But I expect that was simply for comfort. Miss Smith has explained that you’ve suffered a most terrible loss.’

  I nodded. ‘My sister Megs died,’ I murmured.

  ‘The frail little girl with the big eyes? This one?’ Mr Rivers reached into his large pocket, found his own sketchbook and flicked through the pages. ‘Here.’

  I looked at the picture he showed me. I suddenly couldn’t swallow my mouthful of salmon. I stared at the drawing. I thought I’d caught Megs’s likeness well enough, but this was her true portrait. I’d been such a fool to think I could draw well. My picture of Megs was just a nursery scribble compared to
Mr Rivers’s living likeness.

  ‘It’s her. It’s truly her,’ I whispered. I remembered Mr Dolly’s book of great painters. ‘Oh, Mr Rivers, you’re an Old Master!’

  ‘Hardly, Miss Moon, but I’m delighted with the comparison. I wish other people felt the same, and then it wouldn’t be so hard to get portrait commissions,’ said Mr Rivers.

  ‘I think you’d get plenty of commissions if your patrons wanted to be painted warts and all, like Oliver Cromwell,’ said Miss Smith. ‘That’s why I’m wary of commissioning a portrait myself. A lady of my advanced years welcomes a little flattery. I wouldn’t like your paintbrush to emphasize my wrinkles and wattles. And I shall certainly never require a portrait from you, Clover, as you see me as an old horse in a bonnet.’

  Mr Rivers burst out laughing, and then apologized profusely.

  ‘I don’t, Miss Smith, not at all!’ I protested. ‘You asked me which animal you reminded me of, did you not?’

  ‘So you’re another little George Washington, are you?’ said Mr Rivers, chuckling. ‘He was an American president who chopped down a cherry tree.’

  ‘Yes, he chopped it down with his hatchet, and then admitted he’d done it and said he couldn’t tell a lie!’ I finished triumphantly. ‘Mr Dolly told me all about him.’

  I hadn’t been particularly impressed with the story. I thought George Washington a little simple. If he’d grown up in Cripps Alley he’d have learned that you save yourself an awful lot of beatings if you lie until your tongue turns black.

  ‘Is Mr Dolly your name for the splendid chap who runs the doll shop? He’s been like a private tutor to you, Miss Moon,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘So did he teach you how to draw too? Miss Smith has been singing your praises to me.’

  ‘No, Mr Dolly didn’t teach me. No one did. I just found I could do it,’ I said. ‘But nowhere near as well as you, Mr Rivers.’

  ‘Have you got your sketchbook in that great big bundle?’ he asked. ‘Let me see!’

  I delved into the pillowcase, feeling amongst my mourning clothes, stroking Anne Boleyn as she slumbered in the shawl, and at last found the sketchbook right at the bottom.

  ‘There’s no need to carry all your possessions around with you, Clover. You look like Father Christmas with his sack of toys,’ said Miss Smith, shaking her head.

  ‘Here’s my sketchbook, Mr Rivers,’ I said. ‘My drawings are truly very bad. Please don’t feel you have to compliment them.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at them, then!’ He took my book and started flicking through the pages. Then he slowed down and looked more carefully. ‘Oh, Clover Moon!’ he said.

  I hung my head. ‘They’re terrible, aren’t they?’

  ‘Terribly good! Well, you could do with a little instruction. Your perspective is a trifle odd, and you don’t know much about shading, but your figures are full of life and show great promise,’ he said.

  If he’d told me they were perfect I’d have known he was lying, but he seemed to think I really did have promise.

  ‘Do you think I might be an artist like you one day, Mr Rivers?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, there are certainly many ladies who love to paint and draw, but not many who are professional artists. However, Lady Butler exhibits at the Royal Academy and is especially feted. I believe the Queen has purchased one of her paintings,’ said Mr Rivers.

  ‘Did she have any instruction?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, she was a pupil of the famous Italian painter Bellucci,’ said Mr Rivers.

  This gave me an extraordinary idea. ‘Oh, Mr Rivers, could I be your pupil?’ I begged.

  ‘Come now, Clover!’ said Miss Smith, shaking her head. ‘Of course Mr Rivers can’t agree to any such thing.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see why I can’t pop along to the home occasionally and give Clover a little lesson. If that’s all right with you, Sarah?’

  ‘I’m not sure about just one of my girls being singled out in such a way. I don’t think that would go down well. Perhaps you could give a general drawing lesson to everyone?’ she suggested.

  ‘Oh dear Lord, that will be a bit of a challenge! I can’t keep my own daughters in order. I’ll be hopeless with a huge class of girls. The little ones will bawl, the middle ones will tease and the older ones will run rings around me,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘I only want to teach Clover!’

  ‘Well, Clover herself will help you keep them all in order, especially the little ones. She has a true knack with small children,’ said Miss Smith.

  ‘You’re a formidable woman, Sarah Smith. You always end up getting your way,’ said Mr Rivers, eating a pork pie in three big bites. ‘Very well, very well! Count me in as the home’s new drawing master if you really must. Do I get any payment?’

  ‘How about five pork pies per session?’ said Miss Smith, smiling.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ he said.

  They continued to tease each other in affectionate fashion throughout our picnic lunch. I stopped listening. I even stopped eating, though the food was truly delicious. I just sat with Mr Rivers’s sketchbook on my knee, communing silently with Megs.

  ‘You may have the picture if you’d like it,’ Mr Rivers said gently. ‘I will have to send it to the publishers, but when they’ve reproduced it in Miss Smith’s new book I shall claim the sketch back and bring it to you immediately. Would you like that?’

  ‘Oh, I would absolutely love it. So Megs’s picture will actually be in a book?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘I will give you your own copy when it is published,’ said Miss Smith. ‘I can see it means a great deal to you, so perhaps you’d like me to dedicate the book to Megs? It could read, In Memory of Megs Moon.’

  ‘Really and truly?’ I said, so overwhelmed my voice was a squeak.

  ‘Really and truly,’ said Miss Smith.

  This was far better than a headstone in a churchyard. My Megs would be in her own book, thousands of copies of the same book, to be read all over the country. Children far and wide would see Megs’s portrait, read her name and think of her. And I would hold her book every day and look at her portrait and feel she was truly with me.

  ‘Don’t cry, Miss Moon!’ said Mr Rivers.

  ‘I’m crying because I’m so happy!’ I sniffled.

  At that exact moment there was an urgent knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Miss Smith called, sighing.

  Sissy put her head round the door. She looked pink and agitated. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Smith, but there’s a telegram boy come to the door,’ she said.

  ‘Oh dear goodness,’ said Miss Smith. ‘Bring him up to my office at once, please, Sissy.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Smith. But – but it’s not for you.’ Sissy nodded at me. ‘He says he’s got a telegram for Clover here.’

  ‘For Clover?’ said Miss Smith. She looked at me. ‘Who would be sending you a telegram, Clover?’

  I shook my head, baffled. ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  I’d seen telegram boys speeding along the road, but none had ever come calling down Cripps Alley, where folk found it hard enough to find the price of a stamp, let alone a telegram.

  ‘We’d better have him brought up here straight away,’ said Miss Smith.

  We waited, my heart beating so fast I had to put my hand on my bodice to try to calm it down.

  ‘Telegrams can sometimes bring good news, not bad,’ said Mr Rivers, trying to be comforting.

  ‘I think it’s probably a simple mistake,’ said Miss Smith. ‘Try not to get too anxious, Clover.’

  It seemed as if an age went by before Sissy returned with a red-faced boy in navy uniform.

  ‘Here he is, Miss Smith,’ she said, nodding at the boy. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Telegram for Miss Clover Moon!’ the boy bellowed, as if he were in the street.

  ‘Quieter, boy!’ said Miss Smith. ‘This is Clover Moon. Please read her the telegram straight away.’

  ‘BEWARE! MILDRED CAME LOOKING AND SNATCHED YOUR LETTER! SO SORRY. MR DOLLY
.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Miss Smith.

  The telegram boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t ask me, miss. My job is just to deliver telegrams, not tell you what they mean.’

  ‘Hey, hey, don’t take that tone with the lady,’ said Mr Rivers.

  ‘Pardon me, sir, but I’m just telling it straight. Will there be a reply?’ The boy looked at me and I shook my head weakly. ‘Then I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘I’ll see him out,’ said Sissy, glaring at him.

  I was left in the room with Miss Smith and Mr Rivers. I shut my eyes, my hands over my mouth. I thought of the address I’d written clearly at the top of my letter to Mr Dolly. Mildred couldn’t read properly herself, but for a small price she could easily find someone at the market to decipher it for her. Then she’d come and drag me back. My forehead throbbed.

  ‘Clover?’ Miss Smith said softly.

  I opened my eyes. She was leaning towards me, her long face kind and concerned.

  ‘Clover, who is Mildred?’

  I couldn’t speak.

  ‘I think I know. She’s the brute of a woman who scarred your forehead, isn’t she?’ said Mr Rivers.

  I managed a tiny nod.

  ‘There’s no need to be frightened, Clover,’ said Miss Smith. ‘You are safe here. No one can hurt you.’

  ‘Mildred might,’ I murmured. ‘She’s my stepmother and she hates me. I have to go right now, before she finds me!’

  ‘Calm down, Clover. You’re not going anywhere. We will look after you.’

  ‘But she’ll come here!’

  ‘Then I will deal with her, and if necessary call a police constable to take her away,’ said Miss Smith.

  ‘And I will protect you too,’ said Mr Rivers, though he looked a little anxious.

  ‘She’ll make me go back to Cripps Alley!’

  ‘No, she won’t, not if she’s already washed her hands of you. You told Miss Ainsley you were turned out of your house by your father and this woman,’ said Miss Smith calmly.

  ‘Yes, but I wasn’t exactly telling the truth,’ I said, in agony. ‘I ran away! I’m not really destitute. They wanted me to stay – but Mildred was going to cane me to teach me a lesson. I can’t go back, not now. I couldn’t bear it!’