‘So where do you live now, Bertie?’
‘I live at the shop – where else? I’ve got me nice little bed under the counter.’ He said it cheerily enough, but I imagined lying all night in the dark with meat dripping bloodily all around me. Perhaps I was more fortunate than I realized, living in the scullery.
‘When’s your afternoon off, then, Beautiful?’ Bertie asked.
‘I don’t think I get one.’
‘Oh, I’ll make sure of that. You watch.’ He sidled up to Mrs Briskett. He looked smaller than ever beside her huge bulk. ‘Like them lovely steaks, Mrs B? They were supposed to be going up to Letchworth Manor, but I swapped them round because you’re my favourite customer, and a lady line you appreciates quality.’
‘Hark at the lad! He’s got the patter, all right, even though he’s such a little squirt,’ said Mrs Briskett, chuckling.
‘You’ve got an extra kidney too – did you see?’
‘What are you after, lad? A slice of my steak-and-kidney pie?’
‘Well, now you’re tempting me! But I was just wondering if I could take your little maid here off your hands on Sunday, seeing as she’s a bit down in the dumps.’
‘No wonder – she’s a careless girl, and needs to be taught a lesson. And on Sunday she’ll be coming to church along with us.’
‘Of course she will, but what about after church? Can’t you spare her for an hour or two? I’ll bring her back rosy-cheeked in time for supper – how about that?’
‘How about you clear off out of my kitchen and stop distracting my little maid,’ said Mrs Briskett – but she didn’t say no.
Bertie winked at me. ‘See you Sunday, then, Beautiful. I’ll come calling,’ he mouthed.
I shrugged. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go off gallivanting with this cheeky Cockney lad, Bertie. He was clearly mocking me, calling me Beautiful. He had obviously forgotten my name.
But when he clattered over, swinging his basket, he called, ‘Bye-bye, then, Mrs B. Bye-bye, Sarah Sew-a-fine-seam. And bye-bye, Miss Hetty Feather.’
Mrs Briskett and Sarah tittered.
‘My, you’re a dark one, Hetty, setting your cap at Jarvis’s boy already!’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘I told you, I don’t want you to have no followers. It just causes trouble – and you’re not old enough anyway.’
‘I don’t want any followers,’ I said, but I found I was a little cheered all the same. I still had miles of stone flags to scrub, and my cut finger was throbbing more sorely than ever, but it didn’t seem such a terrible task any more. When I was done at long last, Mrs Briskett fried me a slice of yesterday’s currant cake in butter, dusted it with sugar and served it to me on a plate. It tasted truly delicious.
I was set to more work straight afterwards, running up and down stairs tending the fires and fetching hot water. Then Mrs Briskett got it into her head that her saucepans weren’t quite clean, and I had to boil them all for half an hour on the range, then attack the enamel pans with a rag and Monkey Brand. It nearly broke my heart when she dirtied them all again cooking Mr Buchanan’s dinner.
I was so tired and my hand throbbed so badly I could barely write that night, even though Mrs Briskett gave me another stub of candle. I fancied starting a made-up story, however, if Miss Smith thought my memoirs unpublishable. I picked up my notebook and wrote:
Lady Sapphire was a very kind and liberal mistress. If the cook spilled milk in the kitchen, Lady Sapphire commanded her pet cats to come and lick it up forthwith, a task they enjoyed exceedingly. When the saucepans became just a little bit dirty, Lady Sapphire gave them all away to grateful poor folk and bought an entire fresh set because she didn’t want to work her servants unnecessarily hard as they were preparing a special dinner that night. Mr Jarvis the Master Butcher was invited, together with his lady wife, and for a special treat, his loyal but occasionally cheeky apprentice boy, young Bertie. He was very honoured, and bowed and scraped to Lady Sapphire excessively …
I fell asleep pondering the number of Cs and Ss in excessively. I woke up with a crick in my neck and the candle burned out, and then barely slept the rest of the night because I was so worried that I wouldn’t be up at six to light the wretched kitchen range.
I was so tired I spent the next day yawning my head off, and when I sat down for my bacon breakfast, I fell fast asleep at the table. But when Sarah went to sort the post I woke up with a start, because there was not one but two letters for me!
I knew there would not be a letter back from Gideon. He very probably had not been given my letter, and at the Foundling Hospital we were only allowed to reply on Sunday afternoons. But I had a letter back from dear Mama!
My own Hetty,
I am so glad and releeved you have a good posishon, deary, and that theyre being quite kind and sweet to my own gurl. I daresay you will find the work hard, but you’re a sensible quik lerner and it makes my hert swell with pride to think of my gurl out in the world, erning her own living. How I wish I culd see you and give you a grate big hug.
All love from your very very afectshonit mother.
P.S. Excuse speling, it’s my week point.
I held Mama’s letter to my chest, I rubbed it against my cheek, I ran my finger along every line, oblivious to Mrs Briskett and Sarah.
‘Ah, bless the child,’ said Sarah, sniffing. ‘How I wish my own dear mama were here to write to me.’ She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.
‘Now don’t you start, Sarah, you’ll set me off – you know I turn to jelly at the sight of tears,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Who’s your other letter from, Hetty?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Briskett,’ I said – although there was something faintly familiar about the firm bold print. I saw the postmark and gave a little gasp. I opened it up, and my eyes skimmed down the page to the signature at the bottom: Your ever-loving Jem.
‘Oh, my Lord!’
‘Well?’ said Mrs Briskett.
‘It’s from – from my foster brother!’ I said. ‘Do you not remember the young man waiting outside the hospital, Mrs Briskett? I didn’t recognize him at first, but it was really him! Oh, if only I had stopped for a few words! I did beg you, remember?’
‘You don’t consort with family and friends when you’re off to start in your first position, Hetty Feather,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Now, put your letters away till later, and go and help Sarah turn out the bedrooms – and no dawdling neither, because there’s the potatoes and the carrots to peel, and two pounds of peas to pod, and all the Bramleys for my apple pie. He’s very fond of my apple pie, is the master.’
I had to tuck Jem’s letter away under my apron, where it crackled unread all the long morning. I had to wait until after luncheon. Mrs Briskett found she was running short of sugar and needed cloves for her apple pie, so she sent me off to Dedman’s, the grocer’s.
‘Just find your way back into town and it’s the big shop on the corner. You can’t miss it,’ she said. ‘Mind you hurry back though, missy. No daydreaming!’
She wound a shawl round me and watched me from the back door. I ran up the area steps and set off smartly, swinging my arms in a business-like fashion.
‘You’re going the wrong way, Hetty Feather! Featherbrain, that’s what you are! Go left for the town. Dear Lord, what shall I do with you?’
I turned on my heel and walked back the other way, feeling foolish. Mrs Briskett watched me, shaking her head. I hurried to get out of her sight. It felt so very odd to be out alone after all those years of being cooped up in the hospital. It reminded me of the time I ran away, when Queen Victoria had her Golden Jubilee. I supposed I could run away now. Run away where though? Run away … home?
I took the unread letter from under my apron, leaned against the park railings, and read it through.
Dear Hetty,
Yes, it WAS me at the hospital gates. I could not believe it when you walked straight past me. I had pictured our meeting for so long and I had always seen us running into each other’s arms. I was
so dumbfounded I couldn’t move. I just stood there dithering until it was too late. I wondered if you felt too grand to speak to me now, walking along with the lady in her red town gown. I feared you had forgotten me altogether, though you swore you’d remember me for ever!
When Mother received notification from the hospital, saying you were leaving to go into service on 14th May, I decided I would come all the way to London to wish you well. I so hoped we might be able to spend a little time together. I’ve longed to know how you are faring. You looked quite the grown-up young lady, but still my little Hetty too.
Do you not remember those rare times we had together when you were little? Do you remember our secret squirrel tree? We had so many dear funny little games. They were such happy times.
Please write and tell me how you are doing, and reassure me that you still keep a place in your heart for
Your affectionate foster brother,
Jem
I seemed to have been holding my breath the whole time I was reading the letter. I breathed out, my head throbbing, having to cling to the railings to stay upright.
Your affectionate brother Jem. My own dear Jem, the sweet boy who had once meant all the world to me. But he still hadn’t mentioned Eliza, though I had specifically quizzed him in my letter. Had he not made her his own special darling after I’d left home? He’d filled her little head with nonsense too – our nonsense, all my own imaginary games.
It had felt like such a betrayal that I’d resolved never to think of Jem again. I thought he must long ago have forgotten me – and yet he had journeyed all the way from the country to see me. He must have got up before dawn, travelling on the milk train, and then somehow found his way through the busy streets of London to the hospital. He had waited there. I had walked straight past.
Oh Lordy, how could I have been so stupid? I was the one standing dithering now, wondering what to do. I could beg on the streets until I had enough for the train fare, and then rush back home to my dear Jem … But what then? I still had to earn my living. My foster sisters Rosie and Big Eliza had had to go into service. If I walked out of my position with Mr Buchanan, I would never get a character reference. And what would Mama say to that?
I sighed and leaned against the park railings – and then shrieked when a very wet tongue licked the back of my hand through the bars. I whirled round, shrieking, and waved my arms in fear and horror at the huge slavering beast attempting to swallow my hand for breakfast. Was it a small bear? A black panther? A wolf?
‘Help! Help!’ I shrieked.
‘Hey, hey, don’t take fright! Tommy wouldn’t hurt a flea, little miss,’ an old man cried.
‘Are you sure?’ I said, still backing away rapidly and wiping my assaulted hand. ‘What kind of an animal is it?’
The old man looked at me as if I were completely mad. ‘’Tis only a Labrador, miss.’
When I failed to look reassured he shook his head sorrowfully. ‘A dog, miss,’ he said, in the clear loud tone you’d use for a lunatic.
Oh dear, a dog! I could not believe I had reacted so ridiculously. I had seen pictures of dogs in books. I remembered Rover in one of the elementary readers in the Infants at the hospital, but Rover had been a scrappy little creature, not a great fiend with enormous jaws. Had there not been dogs on the farm, then? I thought hard and remembered something running like the wind, barking at all the sheep. I had run too, rolling around in the grass, oblivious to his snapping jaws. What was the matter with me? How had I been fearless at four when I was so cowed now, barely able to say boo to a goose?
I reached through the park railings and very gingerly patted Tommy’s big black head. He panted happily, drooling in delight. ‘Good boy,’ I murmured faintly.
Then I tucked Jem’s letter away beside Mama’s, bade the old man goodbye, and set off into town. It still felt as if I were trekking through steamy jungles, trudging over arid deserts, wading through crocodile-infested rivers as I made my way down the quiet suburban streets. I wondered if I’d ever get used to life outside the hospital. I didn’t seem to have any sense of direction whatsoever, and had to ask twice before I found my way to the main shops – and then ask a third time before I got to Dedman’s, the luxury grocer’s.
This was such a delightful emporium that I forgot all my fear and trepidation and tiptoed around the dark interior, gazing in awe at the shining jars of jam and fruit and pickles, the sugar loaves, the great wheels of cheese, the glazed sides of bacon, the huge sacks of rice and sultanas and prunes. A little boy had run away from his nursemaid and was kneeling in front of these sacks, delightedly scooping up great handfuls of dried fruit. I had to clench my fists to stop myself joining him. I remembered stealing just two or three sultanas when I was helping in the hospital kitchen – and the stinging punishment inflicted by Matron Stinking Bottomly when she caught me red-handed and sticky-fingered.
‘How can I help you, young missy?’ said a tall man with a drooping moustache and a white apron right down to his boots.
I murmured a request for cloves and sugar, and he weighed them out and handed them to me in a brown paper parcel. ‘That’ll be sixpence halfpenny, please.’
I stared at him. Of course, I had to pay for them – but I didn’t have any money! I felt myself blushing crimson. The tall man stroked his moustache expectantly while I shifted from one foot to the other. Was I going to have to trail home and ask for the money from Mrs Briskett and then come all the way back again?
‘Which account shall I charge, missy?’ the man asked.
‘Oh! Well, I work for a Mr Buchanan—’
‘Then it’ll be Mrs Briskett’s account,’ he said, nodding his head as if I were a very lucky girl. ‘Mrs Briskett will train you up nicely. She’s an excellent woman. As indeed is Miss Sarah. She’s a very fine parlourmaid. You tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her at our Sunday evening soiree.’
Yes, sir,’ I said, and backed out of the shop, after one more longing glance at the dried fruit sacks.
Good Lord, was Sarah courting? And if so, why was it right for her to see the moustache man on a Sunday, and wrong for me to see Bertie the butcher’s boy? Not that I wanted to go for a stroll with Bertie. I was not interested in boys.
I felt the bib of my apron so that my letters crackled inside. What about Jem? Was I ‘interested’ in him? I thought back yet again to those moments at the hospital gates. I wished I could step back in time and have another go at leaving the hospital.
Yes, I’m coming out the gates with Mrs Briskett in her meaty red attire, and there is this tall, good-looking young man in rustic corduroy. Our eyes meet.
‘Oh my goodness, it’s Jem! My dear long-lost brother Jem!’ I say, so that Mrs Briskett cannot possibly object.
‘My dear little Hetty, I knew you wouldn’t forget me,’ Jem breathes.
‘Bless you, dearies,’ says Mrs Briskett. ‘Here, let us repair to a tea room – we can all have a bite to eat, and you two can catch up with each other, and then … and then …’
And then indeed! As if Mrs Briskett would permit such a meeting in any case. I resolved to write a longer, more regretful letter to Jem that night – and one to Mama too, of course.
I actually managed to find my way home without having to ask for directions even once. Tommy was still careering around the park, the old man throwing sticks for him. The dog bounded over in my direction, and I couldn’t help prickling with alarm all over again, but I managed to wave at him nonchalantly enough.
I reached Mr Buchanan’s house feeling reasonably proud of myself, but Mrs Briskett was frowning.
‘Dear goodness, girl, did you travel to Timbuktu for the cloves and sugar? I’ve had my pastry ready for hours!’
‘Don’t be cross with me, Mrs Briskett,’ I said. ‘Oh, isn’t Dedman’s a wondrous shop!’
‘What’s that you’ve got all over your dress, young lady?’ Sarah asked, brushing at me. I was covered with rust from leaning against the park railings. ‘Dear goodness,
can’t you keep clean for two minutes? You’ve got to wear that dress till you make yourself another one, so think on and try to keep it spotless.’
‘Mr Dedman sent you a special message, Sarah,’ I said softly, not sure she’d want Mrs Briskett to overhear.
Mrs Briskett snorted all the same. ‘Mr Dedman sent her a message?’ she said. ‘I very much doubt it, seeing as, true to his name, he’s been a dead man these past ten years.’
‘Well, someone sent you a message. A tall man with a funny moustache. He said he thought you an excellent woman and was looking forward to seeing you at your Sunday soiree.’
Mrs Briskett snorted so loudly this time that stuff came out of her nose and she had to grab her pocket handkerchief and mop it up hastily.
‘Really, Mrs B,’ said Sarah, looking offended. ‘I hope you’re not laughing at me.’
‘Perhaps you’ll hear a message from a real dead man!’ said Mrs Briskett, tapping Sarah over the knuckles with her wooden spoon.
‘Do not mock things you don’t understand,’ said Sarah huffily, and swept from the room.
‘Hoity-toity!’ Mrs Briskett called after her, but she looked a little worried now. ‘Dear Lord, that girl needs her head examined. I don’t hold with that sort of caper. It’s not right, and no one can convince me otherwise.’
‘What sort of caper? What did the message mean? What’s going on?’ I asked, all agog.
‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,’ said Mrs Briskett, and wouldn’t say another word.
When I tried asking Sarah later, she shook her head at me too. ‘It’s private, Hetty. You wouldn’t understand,’ she said. ‘Now button your lip and get on with your work.’
I certainly didn’t understand. I didn’t understand so many things about this strange outside world. It felt as if I’d stepped out of the hospital onto another planet.
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