We passed several little hamlets, and I stared at the small cottages and pictured Father and me living there together, with roses round our door, a cabbage patch amongst a tangle of red and purple flowers, and a fat pig grunting in a sty.
I elaborated on this in my head, marrying Mina off to her horrible Stevens boy and grudgingly allowing Ezra to be brought up by us. I pondered over Katherine. I was in such a sunny mood to match the weather that I decided to be merciful. I wouldn’t conjure up a horrible death for her. No, she could become more and more fervently religious and shut herself up in a convent, married to Jesus instead of my father.
I sighed happily and Father sighed back.
‘It’s lovely up here on the moors, isn’t it, Father?’ I said. ‘Imagine if we lived in a little house like that one over there!’
‘It must be so sad for these folk though,’ he said. ‘To live so near the sea and yet not even snatch a glimpse of it.’
‘But the sea is so cruel, Father. Your own father drowned, and your brothers too. I hate it that you have to go fishing every night. It’s so dangerous and cold and wet. People say I have a talent for writing. Perhaps one day I will come into my own and get my memoirs published, or some story, and make a fortune. Then you will never have to set out to sea again.’
Father laughed, clearly not taking me seriously. ‘The sea is in my blood, Hetty!’ he said.
‘Well, the country is in mine,’ I said firmly. I knew my blood was red but I pictured it running green as grass in my veins, pumped by a heather-purple heart.
I ran up and down, climbing little hills and jumping becks, while Father plodded on steadily.
‘Don’t use up all your energy, Hetty. We’ve a way to go yet, and then we have to turn round and trudge all the way home again,’ he warned.
I would not heed him. I felt so buoyed up I could not control myself. I simply had to run and gambol and jump, until at last Father paused, his hand shading his eyes as he squinted into the sunlight.
‘That’s Benfleet Farm, over yonder,’ he said.
I peered in the direction he pointed. I couldn’t see very much – a few fields in the midst of the moorland, a sprawl of ramshackle buildings, several tumbledown huts. Where was the farmhouse, the cow meadows, the dairy, the donkey?
‘Is this the farm where Mama lived?’
‘That’s right. Her folks didn’t own the farm. Her father was a farm hand there and her mother worked in the dairy, same as Evie, churning the milk into butter and making cheese. Benfleet cheese used to win all the awards at the County Show.’
‘But not any more?’
‘There’s only old Mrs Benfleet left now. Their only son was a simpleton, so there’s no one to run the farm. I believe old Samuel, your mam’s father – well, your grandfather – he does what he can, but he’s crooked with arthritis and can’t manage much.’
‘Oh, poor Grandfather,’ I said, picturing a frail, crippled old man limping his way to work. I imagined sitting him down in an easy chair, wrapping a shawl (knitted by me!) around his stooped shoulders, and then feeding gruel into his toothless old mouth . . . I could be such a comfort to him in his old age, a doting little nurse, a tender little helper. I sprang forward, eager to find him, even ready to forgive him for his terrible treatment of Mama. He must surely regret it now. He’d be haunted by the horror of casting his own daughter from his household. Surely he’d see me as a chance to make amends, to cherish his own flesh and blood.
I vaulted over the five-barred gate. It was half hanging from its hinges. There were old milk churns lying on their sides and a rusted plough. A few scrawny chickens picked their way around the putrid slurry heap, and a tethered calf in an old shed mooed piteously. Poor old Grandfather – it was clear he could no longer manage—
‘Get off this land!’
A terrifying scarecrow of a man came stumbling out of the shed, a pitchfork in his hand. He glared at me, his weathered old face turning purple with rage. His stringy grey hair grew down to his shoulders and his beard hung greasily to his chest. He wore corduroy trousers and jacket that were so old, the colour was scarcely distinguishable, a filthy grey-brown, his trousers hitched up below the knee with string.
‘Be off with you, you red-haired sprite of Satan!’ he shouted, flecks of spittle flying, and he started jabbing at me with his pitchfork, tearing at my dress.
‘Leave her be, Samuel! Stop that!’ Father shouted, rushing over to me.
The old man spat in the mud at the sight of him. ‘You get away too, Bob Waters, or I’ll skewer you on this fork and roast you alive,’ he yelled.
‘Hold your breath, you mad old fool. You know very well I could knock you over with one blow,’ said Father, and he seized the pitchfork and threw it rattling across the yard. ‘Now calm down and listen to me.’
‘I’ll not listen to a single word from your forked tongue – I’ll tear it out first. You’re a fiend from Hell. You ruined my girl, you turned her mother mad, you blighted my life,’ the old man wheezed, shaking with fury.
‘I know you feel that way. I don’t blame you. I let poor Evie down, but I’m trying to make amends. See this girl, Samuel – she’s my child. Evie’s child. Your own granddaughter. She’s come all the way from London to find us. Won’t you calm down and greet her properly?’
Samuel stopped in his tracks. He stared at me, his mouth opening and shutting, though no sound came out. He blinked his rheumy old eyes and looked right into my face while I tried not to flinch. ‘Evie’s child?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, I am Evie’s child. Hello, Grandfather,’ I said, smoothing my torn skirt.
‘Evie’s child,’ he repeated. He sucked in his breath – and then suddenly spat right in my face.
I sprang back, shuddering, wiping the spittle from my cheek.
‘Don’t you dare spit at my girl,’ said Father.
‘Get her out of my sight then! I don’t want to look at the red-haired brat. She’s the cause of all our misery. She should never have been born,’ he hissed.
‘You are a cruel wicked man to say such a thing!’ I shouted. ‘And even more cruel and wicked to cast my poor mama out. I don’t think you can have a heart inside that wheezing old chest. No wonder it rattles so. You don’t have to worry. I wouldn’t have you for my grandfather for all the world.’
I turned and ran. I was in such a hurry to get away that I lost my footing on the rickety gate and tumbled down, twisting my ankle most painfully. Father climbed after me and picked me up in his arms as easily as if I were a little babe.
‘I’m not crying because of him,’ I sobbed. ‘I’ve hurt my leg!’
‘I know, I know,’ said Father, patting me comfortingly.
‘You can put me down now. You will exhaust yourself, Father.’
‘Silly girl, you’re as light as a feather.’
‘Well, I’m Hetty Feather, am I not?’ I said, struggling to make a joke, though the tears were still pouring down my cheeks. ‘I am Hetty Feather – or Sapphire Battersea – or Emerald Star – or perhaps Hetty Waters now. But I know one thing. I will never ever count myself an Edenshaw, kin of Samuel. He might be Mama’s father but I would not deign to claim him as kinfolk.’
‘Well spoken, Hetty,’ said Father. ‘I should never have brought you here. I know Samuel has always hated me. But he has become sadly demented now. You must take no notice of the evil things he said. He has clearly lost his mind. Any other old man would welcome a lovely girl like you with open arms, Hetty, dear.’
‘As you did, Father,’ I said.
It was a very long trail home. Father was very strong, but it was clear he was struggling after ten or fifteen minutes. I insisted that he put me down, but my twisted ankle was already swelling, sore in my hard old boot, and I could scarcely put it to the ground. I limped along, Father supporting me under my arm, but it was such a painful effort I was damp with sweat, though the wind was blowing harshly now and the sun was hidden by clouds.
The direct route
back to Monksby was straight over the moors, the way we had come, but Father steered us over to the west, where there was a cart track. I sat on the sandy stones, wiping my cheeks compulsively, because they still seemed to burn with Samuel’s spittle. At long last we saw a horse and cart in the distance.
Father begged a lift and lifted me into the cart, where I sprawled uncomfortably amid grain sacks and cattle feed. I think I fainted, or perhaps I simply fell asleep with exhaustion. I was roused by the scream of seagulls overhead, and knew we were back in Monksby.
There was a clamour in the little house when Father carried me indoors and up the stairs. He laid me on Mina’s bed and very gently eased my boot off, though it set my whole leg throbbing violently. I clamped my lips together so that I would not scream.
‘You’re a brave little lass, Hetty,’ he said, and he gave my damp forehead a kiss.
I hoped he would cleanse and bind my ankle, but he sent Katherine to do it. I braced myself, certain she would hurt me – but she bathed it carefully and then bound it up with strips of clean linen, her hands deft and businesslike.
‘Thank you, Katherine,’ I said humbly.
‘You don’t listen, do you? Nagging on and on to go and see that evil old man, pushing yourself in where you’re not wanted. You’re lucky he didn’t spear you with that pitchfork. He’s certainly made a mess of your dress. Not that that will deter you, seeing as you’re such a little genius at mending.’
‘I think he did want to stick his pitchfork into me – and he spat at me – did Father tell you that?’ I said, shuddering. ‘He acted like he really hated me.’
‘Well, I reckon he does,’ said Katherine briskly, pinning the last strip of material into place.
‘But it’s so silly. It wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t help being born. Katherine, I can’t help being Evie’s daughter. Do you really hate me too?’
Katherine leaned back on her big haunches, clearly thinking it over. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
I felt the tears start dripping down my cheeks again.
‘And you can turn off the waterworks. Crying won’t work with me, Hetty Feather. Look, I don’t suppose I truly hate you. I hate the fact that you’re here. You don’t belong here. Look at you – you stick out like a sore thumb. You’re not a bit like any of the other lassies, you’re so little and scrawny. You’re useless at any kind of work and you can’t even knit – a five-year-old drops fewer stitches than you. Why would you want to stay here? You’re a London lass, with your clean fingernails and your snooty voice and your book-learning and your fancy airs and graces.’
‘I’m not fancy. You know I’m a foundling. I only seem like a London girl because I was locked up in that hospital all those years. I’m a country girl at heart, like my mother.’
‘I didn’t know your mother very well, but from what I can remember she hated life on that farm with those strict Baptist parents. She couldn’t wait to get away. She set her cap at Bobbie quick as a wink.’
‘They were true sweethearts,’ I said.
Katherine got to her feet, smoothing her coarse apron. ‘For a matter of weeks, that’s all. Maybe Evie fell for him, but I think he found her too intense. He panicked and ran away to sea.’
‘He didn’t know about me, I’m sure he didn’t,’ I protested.
‘He didn’t want to know. But whatever he knew, he didn’t stay to marry your mother.’
‘He loved her though. He loved her with all his heart, he’s as good as told me that,’ I said, crying hard.
‘Stop that crying – you’ll give yourself a sore head as well as a sore foot. Oh, Bobbie goes dreamy every now and then and thinks wistfully of what might have been – but that’s the very nature of the man. He’s a sentimental sap, for all he seems so tough and manly. That’s why he’s taken you in without a by-your-leave.’
‘He’s taken me in because I’m his daughter and he loves me,’ I declared.
‘Love! He’s only known you five minutes. He’s taken you in because he’s sorry for you, and he feels bad about the past. It helps him feel good about himself now – but he’s forgotten he’s got a real daughter, and a son, and a wife who’s stuck by him thirteen long years.’
‘He loves me, I know he does. And I love him,’ I said stoutly.
‘You’d have loved any man in Monksby if you were told they were your father.’
‘Well, blood is thicker than water, and Father is my kin.’
‘So is mad old Samuel Edenshaw. Do you love him too?’
She had me there and I knew it. My ankle throbbed so badly that I had to stay in bed. Poor Mina had to sleep in Ezra’s bed that night, because every movement made me gasp with pain. My leg swelled right up to the calf overnight and I developed a fever. I was terrified my ankle was broken and would never mend, so that I’d be left a cripple like my foster brother Saul. He was long dead but I always felt a guilty tremor when I remembered him. I knew I had not been a good sister to him – and alone in my bed during the day I cried for him. I cried for my whole foster family, especially Jem.
I read the letters he had written to me again and again. I even curled my hand and moved it along the lines, imagining Jem’s strong brown hand executing each clear loop and flourish. I had not heard from him even though I had written more than a week ago. Perhaps he was vexed with me because I had not written to him throughout the long sad summer. Perhaps he had simply tired of me. This thought made me cry harder. I pulled the thin covers over my head and wept in fear and self-pity. Was Katherine right? Was Father simply sorry for me?
‘Oh, no one loves me truly, no one at all,’ I wailed.
Shush now, my sweet silly girl. I love you – and I always will.
Mama spoke inside my heart. I lay curled up small, my arms tight around myself, trying to clutch her close. Father came and sat awkwardly on the end of my bed. He tried hard to think of things to say to amuse me. He told me fishing tales, he told me about his own folk, he told me about his sea voyage – but his head kept nodding and I could see he was exhausted. He had had little sleep on Sunday and now he struggled to keep his eyes open.
‘Go to bed, Father,’ I begged, and at last he listened to me and dragged himself off to his own bedroom. Within a minute I heard his steady snores.
I lay listening to him, trying to puzzle out in my head our feelings for each other. I tried to write it down in my book of memoirs, but for once I could barely write a line.
I longed to read, but I had read my precious volumes of fairy tales so many times I could recite them without reference to the page. There was Father’s set of Dickens, but it was downstairs and I couldn’t face hauling myself all the way down and then up again. I had my knitting beside me. Mina had given me my wool and needles, raising her eyebrows at the uneven rows. She could knit five times faster than me. She was in the midst of making Father a new gansey, coping with complicated cable patterning while I still struggled with plain and purl.
I longed to make something for Father myself. I sat up properly in bed and started knitting away, knowing that practice made perfect, but after a whole hour my neck and shoulders hurt, my elbows ached, and my poorly ankle was throbbing. I spotted a dropped stitch a good ten rows back and was so frustrated I threw the wretched wool across the room. All the stitches slid straight off the needle. I said something very rude and burst out crying again.
I heard footsteps downstairs, which came tapping up to my room. I clenched my fists, ready for another scolding from Katherine – but dear Lizzie put her head round my bedroom door.
‘Hello, naughty girl! I heard that bad word!’ she said.
‘Oh, Lizzie, how lovely to see you. Have you come to see Father? I’m afraid he’s sleeping – and Katherine’s out at the fish stall,’ I said.
‘I know that, silly. I’ve come to see you! I hear you’ve got a bad leg – and you’ve certainly got a bad temper!’ said Lizzie, picking up my knitting. ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’
‘I just can’t seem to get the k
nack, Lizzie, no matter how hard I try.’
‘I can see it’s going to be six years before I get my own shawl back,’ she said, sitting down on the end of my bed and starting to unravel the rows back to the dropped stitches.
‘You must take your own shawl back now, Lizzie!’
‘No, no, I’m only teasing. Look, see what I’m wearing – I have this one. You can keep the grey shawl, dear. But with a little patience’ – she deftly slid all the stitches back onto the needle – ‘you can make your own shawl too!’
‘I very much doubt it, Lizzie. I can’t seem to do anything right here. I don’t seem to belong at all,’ I said, fighting not to break down in tears in front of her.
‘There now, cheer up, my dear.’
‘Oh, Lizzie,’ I said, hurling myself at her, not even mindful of my painful ankle.
She held me close and rocked me while I howled all over again. When I reached the terrible snuffling, snorting stage, she gave me her own handkerchief and mopped me up tenderly.
‘I’m so sorry. You must think me such a baby. I’m crying because you’re so kind to me!’
‘Well, I’ll start being very unkind and unpleasant if it will make you stop crying,’ said Lizzie. ‘Don’t fret, now, Emerald Star.’
‘No one else will call me anything but plain Hetty, not even Father,’ I said.
‘Folk here don’t see the need to reinvent themselves, that’s all,’ she said. ‘We’re all very set in our ways.’
‘Yes, I know – and I can’t seem to learn those ways no matter how hard I try,’ I said mournfully.
‘Give it time,’ said Lizzie, but she sounded a little uncertain.
I pictured time passing. I saw myself knitting patterns, my hands flying across the wool. I saw myself gathering flithers, sorting driftwood, chatting with Big May and the children, week after week, month after month, year after year. I saw myself out courting with a lad like Matthew Stevens, settling down, rearing my own family. Would I ever feel like I really belonged here in Monksby? Did I want to belong? I didn’t care for the cruel sea and the icy wind and the everlasting shoals of fish, dead or alive. I loved Father and Lizzie, I could tolerate Ezra and Mina, might even grow to like Katherine a little – but I didn’t really care for Monksby folk.
Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Page 9