by Emma Carroll
It was a coloured plate torn from an old book. A stag beetle with wings spread wide flew above a plant with flowering white bells. On the leaves were a plump cream larva and a black weevil, and below them hung two green fruit, one hosting a caterpillar, the other attracting a bee.
“Her pictures are so famous that the Tsar of Russia and King George III of England bought them. The reason she is such an important lady is because she started collecting caterpillars at the age of thirteen and was so fascinated by how they changed into butterflies that she learned to paint, to tell their story. She was the first scientist to capture the metamorphosis of insects and she published a book about it, which changed how people looked at invertebrates.” She took a deep breath and continued.
“But also, because all other scientists and artists were men, she wasn’t taken seriously. She sold all her possessions and took her daughter on an expedition to Suriname, to collect and draw the flora and fauna she found there. She was very brave to do this in a time when only men did these things, and people thought her interest in insects strange.” Beatrice looked at Sofia. “She was an adventurer and I think she is wonderful. She is my favourite artist.” She smiled. “Back then, hundreds of years ago, people thought insects weren’t important and that girls weren’t important either, and that girls definitely should not like insects and be studying them or painting them.” Beatrice turned her head and looked Cassidy straight in the eye. “Thank goodness times have changed and we all know what a stupid way of thinking that is.” She turned back to the picture she’d brought with her. “When I grow up I want to be an artist, so I spend as much time as I can painting outside and looking at nature, to get really good, like Maria Merian.” She paused and said in a loud clear voice, “And I think if we want to discover the secrets of life and make something important, we shouldn’t listen to people that tell us what we are supposed or not supposed to do.” Beatrice did a funny bow. “The end.”
Miss Magister clapped and stood up. “Well, that was very interesting, Beatrice, and quite profound.”
Everyone in the classroom applauded, but Sofia most of all.
“Now, Sofia, would you like to come up and tell the class about your hobby.”
“Oh!” Sofia’s hands dropped.
“Is it OK if I help her?” Beatrice asked, bending down and lifting Sofia’s plastic terrarium out of her large cloth bag.
“My bugs!” Sofia was so surprised that she rose from her seat and moved to the front of the class without a thought for the eyes on her. She peered into the terrarium. All her friends were in there – the cricket, the caterpillar munching on the nettle leaf, the woodlice and her babies on a rotting bit of bark, and the violet ground beetle scrambling around in the corner. She was pleased to see them.
“Miss Magister, when I first saw Sofia, she was collecting caterpillars just like Maria Merian,” Beatrice said. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
Sofia turned to face the classroom. “My hobby is that I like to explore the countryside, hunting for different types of invertebrates, and study them to learn about them. Invertebrate means a creature that doesn’t have a spine. Instead they have an exoskeleton – a skeleton on the outside of their body – but they get called bugs, creepy-crawlies or mini-beasts by most people.”
The classroom was silent. Everybody’s eyes were fixed on the terrarium.
“Where I used to live, at the weekends me and my best friend Jess would go out on bug hunts with our butterfly nets, collecting jars, and magnifying glasses. We’d catch different types of insects, bring them home to look at and add into our nature diaries, then set them free. My favourite type of creatures are moths, because they are the funkiest-looking caterpillars. People think moths are ugly, but if you look at them under a microscope they have amazing patterns. They look like tiny hairy muppets with crazy long curly tongues.”
A ripple of laughter disturbed the quiet classroom. Sofia smiled at Beatrice, who smiled back.
“Some people think it’s weird for a girl to like bugs, but there shouldn’t be rules about what girls or boys can like. I hope by looking at insects and learning about nature, I will be able to do good things for the environment when I grow up.”
“In here are lots of invertebrates that Sofia’s captured on bug hunts,” Beatrice said, pointing at Sofia’s terrarium. “Who wants to see?”
And suddenly everyone was out of their desks and crowding round the tank.
“Look, a cricket.”
“Oh, look, teeny-tiny baby woodlice, and they’re white!”
“What’s that on the lavender?”
“It’s a leaf beetle,” Sofia replied. “Sometimes called a rosemary beetle. Isn’t it pretty?” Glancing over the heads of her excited classmates, Sofia saw that the only people still sitting at their desks were Cassidy, Mark and Amanda.
At the end of the day, Sofia waited for Beatrice and they walked home together, one girl carrying a terrarium full of bugs and the other with a cloth bag slung over her shoulder.
“Thanks for saving my terrarium,” Sofia said. “It must have been heavy to bring to school.”
“My mum helped me,” Bea said. “I knew you couldn’t really want to throw it away.”
“Do you think, maybe, you might like to go on a bug hunt with me one weekend?” Sofia asked.
“Oh!” Beatrice flushed pink. “I’d love to. I know this great place by the river where there’s dragonflies, big red ones.”
“There’s a river?”
“Yes, at the other end of Brackenberry Road the footpath at the back of the houses leads to a glade of willow trees beside a river. I’m building a den there. You could help me, if you like?”
Sofia beamed. “I’d like that a lot.”
Angel’s hair was full of spiders. That’s the first thing I remember about that day. I’d thought they were ants, but I should have known. I’d dug out enough ants’ nests in the dry earth down by the canal. These were what Nanna called penny spiders, tiny things, running down Angel’s forehead and cheeks in a quick, grey stream, dodging my hands as I tried to sweep them off her. But I didn’t want to squash them. It wasn’t their fault that they’d made their home in the wrong place. Nanna’s bonnet must have looked so tempting and it had been empty for months.
“Take it off, Angel!”
My sister was sitting on our bed, hunched against the damp wall, her arms hanging by her sides. Her mouth was a little bit open and I was frightened that the spiders would run inside. She was two years older than me but was always smaller. Nanna said they never expected her to live. She’d got measles and diphtheria but she’d beaten them both. She’d been stronger than they’d thought.
“Angel?”
Her eyes were closed and she was shaking. I lifted the bonnet off her head and checked inside. I brushed away a few wisps of web, but all the spiders were gone. If they really wanted to escape, it was easy. They could hide in the cracks that spread across the wall, or scuttle out of the missing windowpane, or race into the cold fireplace and up the chimney. They could even go out the way we did, through the door-shaped hole into the hallway.
“You have to check your clothes, Angel!”
She opened her eyes and looked at me as if she was going to say something, then she slid down on to the bed, scrunching herself up like newspaper.
“This is no place for the idle!”
Mrs Vickery was standing where the door should be. She was so big she could have been the door, blocking out the dark hallway behind her. She wrinkled her face at the stink. I should have emptied the chamberpot first thing, but I’d been too worried about Angel. Though the smell from the privy in the yard outside was blasting through the room anyway.
“Angel isn’t lazy,” I said. “She’s still sick.”
Mrs Vickery’s face wrinkled even more. “She isn’t sick. She’s idle. I told you, I got a respectable family ready for this room. They paid me up front.”
I glanced over at Angel. Her face was turned to the
wall. I bit down on my lip. Respectable? I wanted to yell. Your last “respectable” family ran out after chopping up the door for firewood. They didn’t even leave us any.
I said, “You’ll have our rent tomorrow.”
Mrs Vickery’s mouth twitched. “You said that yesterday.”
“I know. But Angel’s sick.”
“Sick in the head. Just like your mother.”
My teeth dug deeper. Soon there’d be blood. “We’ll have your money tomorrow, Mrs Vickery.”
“And how do I know she isn’t going to be sick tomorrow?”
Mrs Vickery looked around the room, at the bottles with the candle wax dribbling down the sides, past the small blue globe that was Nanna’s and then Mama’s. I’d found some apples in the market yesterday and tried to coax Angel to eat one. She’d taken a small bite and stuck it back in the bowl. The flesh had gone all brown.
Mrs Vickery shook her head. Her black bonnet shuffled. I hoped the spiders had sneaked along the thick folds of her neck and up into her hair.
She said, “I only let you stay so long because your grandmother was a respectable woman. Such a pity your mother brought her so low.”
I moved back towards Angel. I wanted my body to block out the words that I knew were coming.
Mrs Vickery leaned back against the crooked doorframe. “She did her best, your grandmother. But your mother…”
I dug my nails into my leg but the words burst out. “Nanna loved us!”
Mrs Vickery’s eyebrows shot up. Her bonnet jerked back. “She was a decent woman. She did her best.” She shook her head again. “And do you know what I told her?”
“Stop it!” I glanced back at Angel. The words usually hit her hard, because she remembered our father. For me, he was like a ghost, almost real, but just out of my sight.
Mrs Vickery laughed. She sounded like the night cats that squawked beneath our windows.
“I told her that the best thing your father could have done was take you with him back to whatever country he came from!”
Trinidad, I wanted to whisper. Grandma had drawn a tiny little circle round it on the globe.
Mrs Vickery rubbed her hands. “For your grandmother’s sake, I’ll give you until six o’clock tonight. It won’t be me coming for the money. It will be Bernard. He’s not as kind as I am.”
She turned and swished away.
Bernard, with his twisted nose and his eyes that were always half closed and swollen. Sometimes he’d appear as Angel and I left our room in the morning. He’d never speak to us. He’d just stand there, filling the hallway. He’d crack his knuckles and grin, showing the jagged teeth in his big, dark mouth. His nails were rimmed with dirt and blood from working in the slaughterhouse. We’d squeeze past, holding our breath so we didn’t breathe in the smell of dying animals.
I crouched next to Angel and shook her. “Can you get up today? We’re going to be out on the street!”
Angel crumpled herself together even more.
“Angel?”
“Vicky. I’m so sorry. I just can’t… I should be with Mama. Please let me go.”
“No, Angel. You have to stay with me.”
She was crying again. I dabbed away the tears with the corner of my skirt. “We’ll be all right. I promise.”
I pulled our blanket over her. She didn’t move. I poured some water into a bowl, dipped in a rag and rubbed my face. It probably didn’t make much difference. I needed a proper wash. I should borrow Mrs Sweeting’s bath and try and find some coal to boil the water. But not now. Because I had made a promise and I had until six o’clock to keep it.
I kissed Angel’s forehead. “I’ll be back soon.”
Her eyes flicked open and she grabbed my arm. “Don’t leave me, Vicky.”
“I have to.”
“No.” She clung on tighter.
I stroked her hand and lay down on the bed next to her. When Mama was ill, there was only one way Nanna could calm her down. I closed my eyes and tried to push the dark things out of mind and fill it with birds singing and flowers opening and icicles hanging from winter branches.
I took a deep breath and started to sing:
“All things bright and beautiful…”
Slowly, her hand relaxed. I touched her cheek. Her breath was slow and shallow. She sighed. I hoped she was dreaming about sunsets and mountains.
I sat on the edge of the bed and squeezed my feet into Angel’s boots. They didn’t leak as much as mine. I pulled on Nanna’s old coat and crept downstairs and out of the front door.
Monday was washday. Lines were looped across our narrow street from window to window, clothes and sheets flapping in the wind. Mrs Sweeting was outside prodding a mound of laundry in her tin bath. Laura, her oldest, was sitting on the step singing to a tiny baby tucked into an old fruit crate next to her. I smiled at them; Laura made a face back.
“Do you need any help?” I asked.
“Nothing for you today, darling.” Mrs Sweeting nodded towards the bundle in the crate. “I need every penny now. Sorry.”
I forced out another smile but tears prickled behind. She was the only one who’d give me a few pennies to help her. None of the other women would meet my eyes. They knew how close they were to being like us.
I’d have to try Mrs Kastner. I cut through the alleyways, skirting round the back of the goods yard, passing through St Leonard’s churchyard into Hackney Road. The fog was hanging heavy; I could taste it.
Mrs Kastner and her daughter, Rebecca, owned a sweet shop. The windows were so clean I could almost touch the jars of liquorice and pear drops. Sometimes I’d help Rebecca polish the glass panes and she’d give me a couple of pennies. Even better were the toffees, as hard as bones, wrapped in a twist of paper. I could make one last nearly an hour. But the shop door was still locked. That was unusual.
Mr Kastner’s furniture shop was next door. He and his two brothers made tables and chairs in the workshop out the back. It was dusty, messy work and if they were really busy, they’d let me and Angel sweep up. We’d get enough for bread and tea, and wood shavings for our fire. But their shop was locked too. I glanced down the road. Only a few shops were open.
I crossed over to Mr Mackenzie’s butcher’s. Strings of fat sausages hung from hooks behind the counter. Thick joints of meat sat on trays waiting for customers to take them away – customers with money. Mrs Mackenzie gave me her usual sour look, the one that Angel said could fry the meat by itself.
I pulled Nanna’s coat around me. “I was wondering…”
She said, “We can’t give no charity today.”
“I wasn’t wanting none.” Though if she’d handed me a link of those sausages, I wouldn’t have said no. “I just wondered why the sweet shop was closed.”
“It’s one of their religion days. None of ’em are around.” She crossed her arms and glared at me. “If that’s all you wanted, you’d best be going then.”
I almost wished I was brave enough to grab the sausages and run off down the street with them, but Nanna had always been strict about not stealing. Other folks worked hard for what they had, she’d said. We had no right to take it. And anyway, people always remembered us.
I backed out, making sure I stared her in the eye. She looked away first.
The clock in Mrs Kastner’s window said it was already past nine. I had to get money. But where from?
A greengrocer’s cart was parked on the corner of Columbia Road and Hackney Road. Anthony and Sons, Purveyors of Excellent Fruit and Veg. Top Quality. The tailboard was down and Mr Anthony was weighing out carrots. Women were crowding around him, calling to be served next.
Fruit and veg. Of course. There’s where I should have gone first!
I picked up my skirts and started running, Angel’s boots squeezing my feet like claws.
Covent Garden Market. Nanna’s family used to run a vegetable stall there. Her brother, my great-uncle Ned, would drop us round bags of potatoes and parsnips, but he’d packed up and mo
ved out to Woodford just before Nanna died. He’d paid for her funeral, but he didn’t want much to do with us. Nanna always said we didn’t need anyone else. But we did. I did today.
I stood on the cobbled square outside the enormous market hall. It had taken me more than an hour to get there. My legs were wobbly from running and my breath felt like broken glass scraping up and down my throat. There were so many people, so many stalls, it was hard to know where to look. I tried to imagine pushing my way through, asking every single costermonger if they needed help.
I took one step, but all my strength had leaked out. I could smell the market – cabbages, hot pies from the barrow boys, horse dung from the trams and the cabs lined up in the side streets. I could hear the costermongers calling and the housekeepers and flower girls shouting for bargains. My feet still refused to move.
But I had to. I had to. My Angel was curled up like a scrap of burnt paper in the corner of our bed. What if the spiders were creeping back? She hadn’t eaten anything proper for more than a week. She didn’t have enough strength to brush them away. And as soon as the clock chimed six, Bernard would come. It was so clear in my head. He’d climb the stairs, bend over the bed and sling my sister over his shoulder. Her hair would be draping down the back of his filthy waistcoat, her forehead bouncing against his shoulder as he stomped back down. He’d drop her in the gutter. I’d seen him do it to Mrs Astley, who used to be in the room above. Mrs Astley was kicking and punching at him every step of the way but it didn’t make any difference. She’d still been left sitting on the street outside.
Nanna had pulled us away from the window to stop us looking.
And all I was doing now was standing there.
A cart rolled by. As I watched, a sack tipped and a cabbage thumped to the ground and rolled towards me. I hated cabbage but maybe I could trade it with Mrs Sweeting for some bread and maybe a little bit of bacon. I ran towards it, but as I bent down a small dirty hand scooped it up and hurtled away through the crowds.