I was not sure whether I was walking eastwards or not, so I stopped one of the women and asked if she could kindly tell me which was east and which was west. She stared at me and then cupped her ear. I repeated my question.
‘Aye, that’s what I thought you said, lassie. And if I’d asked such a daft question not once but twice, I’d blush with shame. Are you simple, girl?’
‘No, ma’am – and you’re not the slightest bit civil. I’m a stranger in these parts. How do I know which way’s east?’ I said crossly.
‘Well, follow that sharp little nose of yours. You’ll soon find out,’ she said, and hobbled on her way in her broken boots.
So I followed my nose. The street petered out. I saw the harbour wall, and a muddy beach with a few old boats in various states of decay mouldering on the sand. There were rocks where girls clambered with baskets, and a vast expanse of grey sea. I stepped onto the sand and gazed out to the faraway horizon.
3
WHAT DID THE old shop woman mean? Where was my father? Mama had told me he’d run away to be a sailor. Was he still sailing now, far away in foreign climes? I remembered the old pink and yellow and green map in the classroom at the Foundling Hospital, and how I’d slid my finger around the edge of each land, imagining myself sailing the world. Perhaps Father was really living that dream. I saw him in sailor’s navy, his face tanned deep brown, his body braced as his ship rode the big waves. Tropical seabirds flew over his head and marvellous dolphins frolicked in the wake as he sailed further and further away . . . away from me.
‘Father!’ I called into the wind, without quite meaning to. The girls on the rocks all stared at me, several giggling.
I felt a fool and tried looking round too, as if also wondering who had cried out. I walked up and down the beach for a few minutes, collecting shells in a desultory fashion. Then I spotted a strange grey stone with a coiled imprint and picked it up eagerly. I stared at it in my cupped hands. I was back in my classroom again, remembering the picture of fossils in the new set of science books donated by a rich governor. Our teacher had not taught from it. She considered it the work of the devil because it dealt with evolution, suggesting we were all descended from monkeys.
‘Imagine! Do you want to think your great-great-grandmothers and -grandfathers had hideous furred faces and long tails?’ she’d said.
None of us knew our great-great-grandparents. We had no knowledge of any relative whatsoever so could not take offence on their behalf. I did not mind the idea of simian ancestors, and pictured myself happily swinging through the trees and sharing their bananas. I wanted to read the science book if it contained such interesting, controversial ideas, particularly if it upset my teacher. I cordially hated her, especially as she’d once cruelly beaten my dear friend Polly. I sneaked into the classroom when we were meant to be outside taking the air and read eagerly, though the words were not as easy and inviting as a proper storybook. I learned about fossils – ancient small rocks with petrified little creatures trapped inside, turned to stone for ever like a spell in a fairy tale. I had pored over the illustration, tracing the whorls with my finger – and here was a real fossil! I examined the stone carefully, turning it over and over in my hand. It really was a fossil, rare and wonderful. How much would it be worth? Perhaps I was holding a fortune in my hand?
One of the girls wandered towards me, dragging her pail. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ she asked.
I put my hands behind my back, scared she might snatch my treasure away. I was still used to hospital ways. If you were ever lucky enough to be given a sweet by a gawping visitor you had to hide it straight away or one of the big girls would snatch it off you.
This girl was certainly bigger than me. She towered over me in fact, and she was sturdy too – but she was smiling at me in a friendly fashion.
‘Go on, show us,’ she said. ‘Have you found a pretty shell?’ She spoke to me kindly but as if I were about five years old.
‘I have found something much more rare and valuable,’ I said, with a proud nod of my head.
‘Let’s see, then.’
I reluctantly proffered my fossil. She stared at it.
‘Oh . . . lovely,’ she said. She looked as if she were trying not to laugh.
‘You don’t know what it is,’ I said. ‘It’s thousands and thousands of years old. It might be worth a fortune.’
‘It’s a fossil,’ said the girl matter-of-factly. ‘It’s not worth any kind of fortune, not that sort. Digger Jeffries in the gem shop might give you a halfpenny for it, but nothing more. You are funny.’
‘No I’m not,’ I said. ‘I might start collecting fossils.’ I looked in her bucket. ‘So what are you collecting? Are they shells?’
‘They’re flithers,’ she said.
‘They’re not pretty at all,’ I said.
‘Of course they’re not pretty,’ she said, giggling.
‘So why are you collecting them?’ I stared at them in disgust. I had seen cockles and whelks at Bignor. ‘You don’t eat them, do you?’
‘They’re bait, silly, for the fishermen. Don’t you know nothing?’ she said.
‘I don’t know these sorts of things,’ I said. ‘I’m a stranger here. I’m visiting from London.’
She stared at me, actually looking impressed. ‘You come all the way from London town?’ she said, as if it were Timbuktu.
‘Yes, by myself, on two trains,’ I said nonchalantly.
‘My! I’ve never even been across the moors,’ she said. ‘What’s London like, then? Have you ever met the old Queen?’
‘I did once – well, nearly,’ I said. ‘On the day of her Golden Jubilee.’
‘Did you see her palace? Folk say all the houses in London are like palaces, built really big, with nine rooms, ten rooms, sometimes more,’ she said.
‘There were many more rooms than that in the place I grew up,’ I said, truthfully enough.
‘So what are you doing here then?’ she asked.
‘My mama came from this village. Did you ever hear of an Ida Battersea?’ I asked eagerly – but the girl shook her head.
‘I’ve never heard that name before,’ she said.
‘Then have you perhaps heard of Bobbie Waters?’ I said.
She stared at me. ‘Of course I have. We all know big Bobbie. What do you want with Bobbie Waters?’
I pulled Lizzie’s shawl more firmly around my head. ‘I – I just need to have a word with him. But I believe he’s away on a sea voyage . . .’
‘What? Oh yes, I’m with you. But he’ll be back before noon,’ she said.
‘Really? Before noon today! You’re sure?’
She looked at me queerly and then crossed herself. ‘Please God, yes,’ she said, and ran over to join her friends, prising more flithers from the rocks.
I couldn’t believe the timeliness of my visit to Monksby. It seemed as if Fate itself had thrust a hand forward and propelled me like a chess piece into the right place at the right time. Of course, I did not know for sure that this Bobbie Waters was the right man. I only had that old shop woman’s word for it. And it was so strange and depressing that not a soul in this small, tight-knit community remembered poor Mama. I felt her inside me, wound about my heart, and I could tell by the fierce beat that she was pleased I was back.
I peered out across the grey waves for the mast of a tall sailing ship. I stared until my eyes watered, but no vessel appeared on the horizon. I wandered up and down the beach, sand spreading in my boots at every step. There were no seaside amusements at all, not even a solitary bathing machine. A few very little boys were dashing in and out of the waves in their under-drawers – a couple were completely naked. They saw me watching, and jeered and gestured in a very rude and unfriendly fashion. I gestured back and stomped up the steeply sloping path to the clifftop. I had to sit on the tufty grass to recover, gasping for breath. It was windier than ever up there, and my eyes watered as I gazed over the sloping rooftops of the village.
/> It was a fine lookout spot. I wondered if Mama had ever sat up here with her Bobbie. Had she once clambered over the rocks and gathered flithers like the girls on the beach? They were all such stout, sturdy lasses. Mama was always so slight and slender. When she got ill she looked as if she could snap in two. My eyes were already watering, but now I shed a few real tears at the memory of Mama dying slowly of consumption during the summer. At least I had been able to pay for her to have a decent funeral, thanks to my dear friend Freda.
I decided to save again to pay for a beautiful carved headstone – no, a wonderful white marble angel to stand above her and keep her safe for ever.
There was a little church high up on the clifftop. I walked along to inspect the graves there, but I couldn’t find any angels. There were just moss-covered old stones tipped to precarious angles by the fierce wind off the sea. I squinted at the names carved in the stone but I couldn’t find any Batterseas.
I stepped inside the church and breathed in the quiet stillness, the dusty damp smell of old building, the fresh fragrance of flowers and candles and beeswax. There were rose petals scattered on the floor, curling and crushed. There must have been a wedding here recently.
I tiptoed up the aisle between the quaint pews, wondering if Mama had wished to be a bride here. How different our lives would have been if that wedding had taken place. I stood before the altar and wondered if I would ever marry. I’d rehearsed my wedding a hundred times over in the country meadows long ago, dressed up in a white sheet with daisies in my hair. In those days I was so sure I was going to marry Jem.
I felt a pang now as I remembered that tall figure in brown waiting for me the day I left the Foundling Hospital. He’d been the dearest person in all the world to me when I was a small girl. It seemed so sad that I’d stepped straight past without recognizing him when I was fourteen. I had written to him when I’d realized – and he had written back to me. I still had all his letters carefully folded and tied with ribbon, but when Mama became ill I had stopped writing. I couldn’t think of Jem any more. I could only care for Mama.
I didn’t write to my other sweetheart either – dear funny Bertie the butcher’s boy, who had stepped out with me each week when I was in service at Mr Buchanan’s. In some ways I’d grown even closer to him. I seemed to have lost touch with all the dearest people from my past. But I had to think of the future now.
I unlatched one of the boxed pews and knelt there, trembling. ‘Please, please, please let me find my father,’ I prayed. ‘Let him be this Bobbie Waters. Make him realize I am his own true daughter, Ida’s little girl. Have him welcome me with open arms and clasp me to his breast for ever. Oh please make this happen. If you do, I promise I will be a good obedient girl and know my place and never lose my temper ever again . . .’ My voice tailed away. I knew I wasn’t capable of keeping that promise, no matter how much I meant it.
I tried talking to Mama instead. ‘I’ve done exactly what you told me to do, Mama. I’m here in Monksby. I think I’m going to see my father. His ship’s expected at noon today! Can you make him like me, Mama – maybe even love me a little? I swear I will try to be a good daughter to him, even though I might be a little wild at times.’
I waited, my eyes shut, to hear Mama’s voice.
You’re a good daughter to me, Hetty.
‘Oh, Mama – I am Sapphire now, Sapphire Battersea,’ I whispered.
Make up your mind, girl – I heard you calling yourself Emerald Star last night!
‘That was just to be cautious!’
Well, looks like you’ve thrown caution to the wind now, talking to old women and fisher-girls, bandying my name about.
‘Why don’t they know you, Mama?’
Oh, they know me all right – but not by that name.
I clutched the rail in front of me. ‘They don’t know you by that name?’ I repeated, my voice sounding overly loud in the still church.
You’re not the only girl who’s needed to change her name.
‘Hello? Were you calling me, child?’ A parson in a long robe had emerged from a side room and was shuffling towards me.
‘Oh! I’m sorry. I was just . . . praying,’ I said.
‘Well, I’m sure God hears your prayers,’ he said, giving my shoulder an awkward pat. He stood over me. ‘If there’s anything I can do . . .?’
All I wanted was for him to go away so I could carry on talking to Mama, but it seemed rude to tell him that in his own church. I bowed my head as if praying some more. He sat down near me and started praying himself, his head in his hands, mumbling holy words. I glared at him because Mama had gone silent now – and eventually crept away, leaving him praying alone.
Outside, cowering in the biting wind, I tried to speak to Mama again but she seemed to have finished her speech. She’d made her point.
You’re not the only girl who’s needed to change her name.
Of course! When Mama had taken me to the Foundling Hospital she had given them her real name. She’d have wanted it there on the records so that I could trace her one day. She lived in the workhouse for the next few years, got a job as a kitchen maid – and then had the wondrous idea of applying to the hospital for work so that she could watch me grow up. She couldn’t apply under her own name. They’d have surely checked the records. I’m sure many women had the same idea. So she gave them a new name – Ida Battersea. Of course, I had my new foundling name now, but Mama had no difficulty picking me out. I had been a tiny baby with bright blue eyes and flaming tufts of hair. She had only to look for the smallest, scrawniest five-year-old with sapphire eyes and red hair. She knew I was her daughter for five bittersweet years, but I didn’t suspect a thing until I ran away when I was ten.
When I guessed the truth, I vowed that Mama and I would never be parted again. I suffered agonies when we were found out and Mama was sent away from the hospital in disgrace. I vowed that I would work hard and earn a fortune so that one day she and I could live together in our own house. But then Mama got ill – and all my dazzling dreams faded to grey mist.
I felt totally alone in the world until Mama spoke within my heart, reminding me that I didn’t just have one parent. I had two.
I paced backwards and forwards across the clifftop as the church bell chimed the quarters through the morning. How could that girl on the rocks predict when Bobbie Waters would be sailing home so accurately?
I kept scanning the sea, and at last I saw a tiny blob on the horizon. Then another blob, and another and another. I wasn’t looking at one big ship. I was seeing a little fleet . . . of fishing boats.
I breathed out, dizzy with disappointment. So my father wasn’t a storybook sailor, coming home from a long voyage with an earring in his ear, a parrot on his shoulder, a purse of gold in his pocket. He was an ordinary fisherman, setting out to sea every eve, and coming home late morning with the night’s catch.
I made my way down the winding path from the clifftop to the village below and stood waiting in the harbour. I wasn’t alone. A little crowd gathered: men to help unload and sell the fish; women in big aprons with rolled-up sleeves, ready to clean and gut the fish; little children running about barefoot, watching the fishermen come home just for the fun of it. One very little boy wore a tiny fisherman’s gansey and carried a toy boat.
‘See Pa, see Pa!’ he kept clamouring, tugging at his mother’s apron insistently until she picked him up and swung him onto her shoulders.
I stood a little to one side, Lizzie’s shawl pulled low on my head. People stared at me and murmured amongst themselves, wondering who I was. But I took no notice of them. I stared out to sea as the boats came nearer. Now I could make out dark figures working in them, sorting through the fish and throwing debris over the side as greedy gulls screamed and swooped.
The first boat drew nearer still, until I could see the fishermen clearly, burly in thick jerseys and coarse trousers, some with cork waistcoats strained about their chests. They all wore strange hats at jaunty angles. I
narrowed my eyes, looking for the biggest man, the one with bright red hair.
I edged towards one of the waiting women. ‘Excuse me, ma’am – is Bobbie Waters on that boat?’
She seemed confused by my London accent, or maybe she was a little deaf, because I had to repeat myself three times.
‘Nay, lass, that’s not his coble. Big Bobbie works the blue one yonder.’ She pointed at the third boat. I had to wait impatiently as the first and then the second boat reached the harbour and the men started unloading their catch of cod. There were weird blue lobsters too, twitching their claws in their pots. I shuddered at the sight of them.
Everyone grew busy with barrels and baskets, but I only had eyes for the third boat. There was a man standing at the front, steering it into the harbour – and even before I could make out the wild red curls beneath his hat, I knew he was the one.
I watched, my mouth dry, my heart banging in my chest. I was trembling all over, though the wind had dropped a little now. My legs were buckling beneath me and I had to take two steps backwards in case I fainted and toppled from the wall.
I waited until his crew’s fish were all unloaded and he stepped along the harbour road, his boots ringing on the cobbles. Then I ran after him.
‘Please, sir, might I ask . . . are you Bobbie Waters?’
He looked at me, his eyes very blue in his weathered face. He was the most handsome of all the men, fine and upstanding, without a big belly filling his jersey. He was clean shaven and had good white teeth when he smiled. Oh, he had such a dazzling smile.
‘Yes, I’m Bobbie. How can I help you?’ he said pleasantly.
I swallowed, trying to think of the right words. I saw the woman I’d spoken to staring at us curiously. ‘Could – could we perhaps go somewhere private?’ I said.
He tilted his head to one side, frowning a little. ‘Well, I’m needed here at the fish auction, but I suppose I can spare you two minutes, little lass.’
Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Page 3