Diamond

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Would we have been friends then, if I’d been at the hospital too? Would you have liked me almost as much as Polly?’ I asked.

  ‘I’d have liked you more,’ she said.

  ‘Tell me the games you played together. And tell me about the fierce matrons. And tell me about what happened when you were really naughty,’ I begged.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll simply read you little extracts from my memoirs.’ Hetty went to her leather suitcase and opened it up carefully. I saw a bundle of letters tied up with blue ribbon. She cradled them gently in cupped hands.

  ‘Who wrote the letters, Hetty?’ I asked. ‘Are they from a sweetheart?’

  ‘They are from Mama. They’re far more precious to me than any sweetheart’s love letters.’ She laid them carefully back in place and picked up a silver necklace.

  ‘That’s pretty,’ I said.

  Hetty held it up so that I could see it was a little sixpenny piece on a chain. ‘This is from a sweetheart,’ she said.

  I was sure this was Jem.

  ‘But you don’t wear it?’ I asked.

  ‘No, because I’m not anyone’s sweetheart now,’ she said, a little sadly.

  ‘And what’s this?’ I picked up a little black and white china dog. ‘Oh, I like him!’

  ‘Bertie won it for me at a fair,’ said Hetty.

  ‘Bertie? Another sweetheart?’ I said, a little crossly.

  Hetty laughed. ‘I dare say you will have sweethearts of your own when you’re a bit older,’ she said. ‘In fact I have a feeling young Tag is keen on you, Diamond.’

  ‘Tag?’ I exclaimed. ‘He hates me! He’s forever tormenting me.’

  ‘He’s just trying to get your attention,’ said Hetty. ‘He’s not a bad boy really. You could do worse than him.’

  ‘No I couldn’t! He’s the worstest worse,’ I said with feeling.

  I looked at the notebooks in the case. There were three thick volumes, one red, one blue, and one green, each page crisscrossed with Hetty’s tiny scribbly writing. ‘I can’t read it all,’ I said.

  ‘I will read a few pages aloud,’ said Hetty, flipping through the first volume. ‘Now, where shall I start?’

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ I said.

  So she did – and I wouldn’t let her stop. She read to me most of the day – and the next and the next. When she came to the first passage about Madame Adeline, I squeaked with excitement.

  ‘You must read it to Madame Addie too, Hetty!’

  ‘I think I am a little too candid about her at times,’ said Hetty. ‘I would not hurt her for the world.’

  I was even more excited when she came to the last quarter of the third book – and met me!

  ‘Are you going to be extra candid about me, Hetty? Are you going to write about this terrible, wretched girl who trails around after you and drives you mad?’ I asked.

  If Hetty had written any such thing, she didn’t read it aloud. She said lovely things about me!

  ‘Oh, you are such a special friend, Hetty! If I were ever clever enough to write a memoir, I’d fill page after page with all the things you say and do.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you some more reading and writing lessons, and we’ll buy you a notebook and get you started,’ said Hetty.

  She was as good as her word. She bought a new notebook from a stationer’s in town, with a leather spine and edges, and a swirly violet pattern that reminded me a little uncomfortably of angels’ wings.

  ‘I haven’t always been a very good girl,’ I said. ‘Must I write down all the bad things I have done?’

  ‘You don’t have to, but it makes it a more truthful account,’ said Hetty.

  ‘But won’t I get into trouble and be punished?’

  ‘No one will be reading your memoir, Diamond, except me – and if you’ve been bad, I’m sure I’ll find it understandable, especially as I’ve been a very bad girl myself. I used to think folk might read my memoirs one day. I thought they might be good enough to be published as a special book, but I can see that was a ridiculous idea.’ Hetty sighed wistfully. ‘I don’t know why I’m bothering to write so much. No one will ever want to read about a foundling girl – or a kitchen maid or a fisher girl, or even a circus girl for that matter. Can you see Polly’s parents rushing to the bookseller’s to buy their precious daughter such an account?’

  ‘Yes!’ I insisted, though I could see she had a point. Then I suddenly remembered one of the fairy stories I had coloured. There were two contrasting illustrations: one of a girl in a sooty apron and ragged dress, weeping in a kitchen before a meagre fire, and another of the same girl in a magnificent evening dress hurrying in her sparkly slippers from a grand ball as a clock struck twelve . . . a number I now dreaded.

  ‘I know a story about a kitchen maid!’ I said, and described the illustrations to Hetty. I remembered them well: I had laboured hard to get the right shade of pale gold for the heroine’s hair and I’d patiently painted tiny jewels all over her Chinese-white ball dress. I’d talked to the girl all the while in my head, pretending that I was going to the ball too.

  ‘I think that’s the story of Cinderella,’ said Hetty.

  ‘Does it have a happy ending?’ I asked.

  ‘I suppose so. Cinderella marries a handsome prince.’

  ‘Then you might marry a handsome prince too,’ I said.

  ‘No, thank you very much,’ said Hetty. ‘You can have the handsome prince if he comes galloping up on his white horse.’

  I thought about it. I’d never met a handsome prince, of course, but I’d known quite a few handsome boys – my three big brothers, and Marvo, Julip and Tag. ‘I don’t think I want one either,’ I said.

  ‘Then we’ll be old maids together, and I dare say very happy ones too,’ said Hetty. ‘Here we are, Diamond. Here’s your memoir book. Get writing. I’ll help you with any hard words you don’t know how to spell.’

  I struggled hard for an hour or more, clutching my pen so tightly that it grew sticky with sweat. I had all the words in my head, but it took so long to get them out on the paper. Try as I might, my letters danced crazily up and down and were large and unwieldy, no matter how I struggled to keep them small and neat.

  My nam is Dimon. I use to be caled Ellen-Jane Potts, I wrote, filling a whole page with this uninspiring sentence – and then I burst into tears because I was so ashamed.

  I could not understand how I could paint so neatly when quite a little girl and yet could not even manage one proper sentence of writing now.

  ‘Don’t cry so, Diamond. You just need more practice, that’s all,’ said Hetty.

  ‘I hate practising!’ I wailed.

  ‘Well, tell you what: why don’t you tell me what you want to say and I’ll write it all down for you,’ Hetty suggested.

  ‘But you have your own memoir to write.’

  ‘I think maybe three great fat volumes are enough – for the moment, anyway. It is your turn now, Diamond.’ She took the notebook away from me and sat, pen poised. ‘Start talking!’

  ‘From the very beginning, as far back as I can remember?’

  ‘Yes!’

  So I started – and Hetty wrote it all down for me. She wrote and wrote and wrote, and said I’d had a very full life for such a young person.

  ‘So many things have happened, many of them dreadful,’ I said. ‘But now I have started a peaceful time where nothing much is happening at all, and that is quite heavenly. I wish we could stay in winter quarters for ever. Don’t you, Hetty?’

  ‘I don’t! I guess I’m more of a showgirl than you, Diamond, for all you’re so talented. I find I miss performing terribly. Don’t you feel cooped up here? I long to be on the road again.’

  Hetty was growing increasingly restless. She went on long walks every day, sometimes taking me with her, and carrying me piggyback when I couldn’t keep up. She had a fancy to take me back to London to show me the sights. Reading her memoirs aloud had made her dwell on the past and she wanted to show me the Found
ling Hospital.

  ‘Will we go in it and see the fierce matrons?’ I said anxiously.

  ‘I should think not! They’d likely prod me with their rulers and prick me with their darning needles. I was their least favourite child by far. But I would like to see my little foster sister Eliza, who is still there, poor mite. I ran away when I was about her age. I should love to show you Hyde Park, Diamond, and the restaurant where I had lunch with Miss Smith and . . . Oh dear, she would be very shocked if she could see me now. I don’t think the Religious Tract Society could possibly approve of circuses.’ Hetty took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps it’s not wise to go back and try and revisit places or people. I think one should just go forwards. Yes, that’s right, Diamond. Don’t let either of us think about the past. Let’s just think of our future and our family – you and me and dear Madame Adeline.’

  ‘And Mr Marvel and Mavis and the rest of the monkeys,’ I said, giggling.

  We had no idea that everything was going to change. Mr Tanglefield shut himself up in his wagon for most of January, fussing with his accounts and poring over maps, plotting where we would be going when the new season started at Easter.

  Then, in February, he started going on mysterious trips, sometimes staying away for three or four days at a time. Everyone relaxed at first, and there were several parties – but after a while folk grew uneasy.

  ‘He’s up to something,’ said Mister, frowning. ‘Why is he chasing off like this? Who is he seeing? I reckon he’s on the lookout for a new act.’

  ‘So do you think he wants to expand and make Tanglefield’s a bigger circus?’ asked Hetty.

  ‘Nope, he’s got to keep it tight. He’d need proper transport if he expanded too much – his own specially adapted train like the ones in America – and that ain’t going to happen,’ he replied.

  ‘But you said he was looking for new acts.’

  ‘Replacement acts,’ said Mister. He nodded curtly at Hetty. ‘Yes, you’ve a right to look shocked. I dare say he’s looking for a brand-new ringmaster – or ring-mistress, I should say. He’s seen that having a female announce the show is something of a novelty that draws the crowds, but he’ll be on the lookout for a glamorous young lady, saucy but sweet – not some shrill-voiced, whey-faced gingernob who knows nothing of circus tradition.’

  He was trying to scare Hetty, but I knew she wasn’t concerned about her own position. She was thinking anxiously about Madame Adeline.

  Mr Tanglefield remained tight-lipped when he returned from his various mystery visits, but he started watching everyone closely while they practised. There was no show scheduled for weeks. We didn’t even have a proper big top, just a large sawdust-strewn yard in the freezing cold – but suddenly everyone performed as if the old Queen and all her courtiers were sitting watching.

  I found it so nerve-racking that I fluffed the easiest back-flip and landed on my behind. I didn’t look where I was going and blundered straight into Tag, nearly making him topple too.

  ‘You call her a little fairy? She’s more like a fairy elephant today,’ said Mr Tanglefield, laughing at me.

  ‘Ha ha, poor darling. I don’t think she’s quite herself,’ said Mister, but his own laughter was anything but jovial.

  He managed to stay smiling at me until Mr Tanglefield strolled off to have his lunch. Then his face hardened. ‘How dare you mess up such a simple routine?’ he thundered.

  ‘I’m sorry! I don’t like it when he watches me. Please don’t be cross,’ I begged.

  ‘You’re there to be watched. You’re a performer, aren’t you? Well, you’ve got to sharpen up your act and no mistake. And it’s time you learned something new, my little fairy.’ He practically spat the word. ‘You’re going to have to spread those silly little wings.’ He grasped me by the elbow and led me over to the springboard.

  ‘Oh no! Please no! I can’t do it. You know I can’t!’ I said, dissolving into tears.

  ‘Can’t – or won’t,’ said Mister. ‘I don’t want any of your hysterics, young missy. You’ll learn. If the others can do it, so can you.’

  ‘But it’s so scary!’ I protested feebly.

  ‘Which is scarier, a simple little somersault or two, or a royal beating?’ he asked. ‘Now, line up with the others and concentrate hard. You’re doing it, and there’s an end to it. We’ve got to improve the act or we’ll all be thrown on the scrapheap.’

  Marvo ran to get soft mats and bedding and spread them out. ‘There now! If you do fall, it won’t hurt too much,’ he whispered comfortingly.

  ‘She’ll try harder to do it right if we don’t have the safety matting,’ said Mister – but he let them stay in place.

  I tried. I tried so hard. I didn’t want to do it. I felt bile rise in my throat at the thought of the springboard. Each time, I hurtled up and spun round and round, trying desperately to land on my feet – or indeed any part of me that wasn’t my head. I was sick afterwards, whether I landed well or not. Even then Mister wouldn’t let me off.

  ‘Bring a bucket. She’ll be fine,’ he said heartlessly.

  When Hetty saw what was happening, she marched up to Mister and stood right in front of him, chin up, arms folded.

  ‘Stop torturing that poor child! You know perfectly well she’s not old enough or strong enough to somersault through the air like that,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do! She’s mine. I can do what I like with her,’ he shouted.

  ‘I’ll – I’ll report you!’ said Hetty furiously.

  ‘Oh yes? And who will you report me to, exactly?’ said Mister.

  ‘I could go and fetch a policeman and report you for being cruel to a child,’ said Hetty, wavering a little.

  ‘You fool,’ he sneered. ‘I’m her guardian now. I’ve taken her father’s place. I can beat her black and blue if I care to. But just supposing you call a Peeler and he starts reading me the riot act, what do you think will happen to the little fairy here?’

  ‘I’ll look after her,’ said Hetty.

  ‘You’re just a silly little girl yourself, not long out of that Foundling Hospital. As if they’d ever let you! No, they’d ship Diamond off to the workhouse, and I don’t think even you would wish that on her.’

  ‘Please don’t put me in the workhouse!’ I cried.

  ‘It’s all right, Diamond. Of course you’re not going in the workhouse. Beppo’s just trying to frighten both of us,’ said Hetty, putting her arm round me.

  He was succeeding too, because we were both trembling.

  I had to continue my springboard work, and even Hetty could not help me. I gradually learned to control my body in the air and could just about do a double somersault and then land on the ground, but try as I might I couldn’t manage to land on Tag’s shoulders. I frequently hurtled into the three boys and sent them all sprawling – or if I did land accurately, I simply couldn’t keep my balance and always took a tumble.

  Then, one day that was no different from any other – I was just as tired, just as scared, just as despairing – I took off from the springboard, soared through the air, head tucked neatly between my knees, swivelled twice and landed lightly on Tag. I don’t know how or why – it just happened! I stood there, keeping my balance, utterly astonished, wondering if I was actually dreaming, because most nights I dreamed of nothing else. But no, this was real, and it had actually worked. I had done the trick perfectly!

  ‘Bravo!’ Mister shouted. ‘That’s it! That’s the way! Oh, what a crowd-pleaser! Again! Do it again before you forget how.’

  So I tried again. We were all convinced it had been some magic fluke – me most of all. But I did it again, timing it perfectly, swooping up and up and up, then round and round again, and landing spot on, holding the position. I even managed to stretch out my arms to milk the applause.

  ‘Good girl!’ said Mister, and he actually clapped for all he was worth.

  I expected Tag to be annoyed with me and give me a quick punch or a sly kick, but instead he thumpe
d me on the back in congratulation. ‘Not bad at all, Diamond,’ he said.

  ‘It was blooming brilliant,’ said Marvo, tossing me in the air.

  ‘Well done, Diamond. You truly are a little star now,’ said Julip.

  I couldn’t wait to show Hetty my new trick, but she wouldn’t watch properly. The moment I ran onto the springboard, she put her hands over her face and could not look until I’d landed safely.

  ‘It’s all right, Hetty! Look, I’m fine. I can do it now, see!’ I shouted.

  ‘But what if you slip?’ Hetty asked.

  ‘She won’t slip. She’s got it now,’ said Mister.

  ‘She could slip. She’s springing up much too high. I can’t bear to look,’ she cried.

  I couldn’t reassure her, even though I did the trick perfectly again and again.

  ‘I know it. It’s in my head. I won’t forget how to do it. It’s like you riding Mister’s penny-farthing. You kept falling off at first, but now you’ve mastered it you can ride it round and round every time.’

  ‘But if I do fall I’m not likely to break my neck,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Try not to worry, dear,’ I said, like a grown-up, because I wanted to reassure her. It made her burst out laughing, which wasn’t quite the effect I’d hoped for.

  ‘Anyway, Mister almost likes me now. He’s stopped worrying about us being replaced,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s going to be replaced,’ Hetty said firmly – but she was wrong.

  During our last week in winter quarters there was a flurry of activity – folk painting their wagons, polishing up the horse brasses, testing equipment. Mr Tanglefield ordered everyone to have their wagons ready to be off at crack of dawn the next morning.

  ‘And make more room in the yard,’ he said. ‘We have some new friends joining us today.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Beppo.

  ‘But we’ll be all right now I’ve learned how to fly,’ I said, taking hold of Marvo’s big hand.

  ‘I don’t think Beppo’s worried about our act,’ Marvo whispered. ‘Maybe he’s anxious about his own.’

  ‘But Beppo and Chino always make everyone laugh.’

  ‘Chino does,’ said Julip. ‘But not Beppo. He’s getting old. He looks all wrong when he gambols around the ring. You can see he’s really stiff. No matter how comical his make-up, he never looks funny. He can’t disguise his eyes.’