‘I call it one minute to six, Mrs B,’ said Bertie.
‘I thought I told you half past five?’
‘Or six at the latest, and here we are now – six just about to chime. Punctual to the finest degree!’
‘Hmph!’ said Mrs Briskett, but she invited Bertie to stay for our oyster patty supper.
Sarah only nibbled the edge of hers, and then got up from the table determinedly. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs B, but I’m that het up I can’t eat.’
Mrs Briskett tutted at her, but let her go. ‘Take care now! Don’t get too over-excited, you know it’s not good for you,’ she said.
Bertie and I exchanged glances, while Sarah blushed.
‘Where are you going, Sarah?’ Bertie asked. ‘Are you seeing that fine policeman fellow I’ve seen eyeing you up and down appreciatively?’
Sarah snorted at him. ‘The very idea!’ she said, but she seemed too preoccupied to get properly indignant. She waved goodbye to us, tying up the drawstrings of her bag.
‘Don’t waste all your hard-earned money now,’ said Mrs Briskett.
‘Surely the gentleman is paying for you, Sarah – or by definition he ain’t a gentleman,’ said Bertie.
‘You mind your own business, you cocky little urchin,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m off now.’ She looked at Mrs Briskett. ‘Wish me luck, Mrs B!’
‘I’ll do no such thing. You’re a very foolish girl, and I don’t approve,’ said Mrs Briskett – but as Sarah went out of the back door, she called, ‘Good luck, even so!’
‘Come on, Mrs B, out with it! What’s Sarah’s secret? We’re all agog!’ said Bertie.
‘It’s nothing to do with you, lad. My lips are sealed. Now, finish your patty and be off with you.’
‘Such excellent patties too, Mrs B. Hetty’s lucky to be able to learn from you,’ said Bertie.
‘I know you’re just trying to sweet-talk me, Mr Honey-tongue. Go on – scoot!’
Bertie crammed the last of his patty in his mouth. He stood up, gave Mrs Briskett a little bow – and blew a kiss to me as he went out of the door.
‘I saw that!’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘I’m not sure I should let you near that boy, Hetty. I’ve no idea what he’ll get up to. No, correction: I’ve got plenty of ideas, and none of them good. Come along, help me clear the table. Then you can copy out a few receipts for me, seeing as you’ve got this famously excellent handwriting.’
I meekly did as I was told. Mrs Briskett was all of a fidget, fussing around the kitchen, starting to turn out her larder but losing heart halfway through. She kept sighing. I wondered if she were wishing she had a Sunday outing too.
‘Did Mr Briskett pass away a long time ago, Mrs Briskett?’ I asked.
‘What? There was never any such person! I told you, it’s a courtesy title.’
‘Did you ever have a sweetheart, Mrs B?’
‘Mrs Briskett! No, I’ve never had no time for men,’ she said. ‘You can’t trust them. You’re a case in point. It’s clear some bad lad led your poor mother astray.’
‘Mrs Briskett, is that man in the grocer’s shop Sarah’s sweetheart?’
Mrs Briskett rolled her eyes. ‘Of course not, Hetty. That gentleman happens to be respectably married.’
‘Then why is she seeing him? Where do they go?’
Mrs Briskett tapped my nose with her finger. ‘Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies,’ she said.
‘The matrons always used to say that to me at the hospital,’ I said.
‘I’m not surprised. You’re a terrible girl for questions, Hetty Feather.’
‘How else am I to find out about things?’ I said.
‘There aren’t many answers worth knowing,’ said Mrs Briskett, sorting jars of sour pickles. Her mouth was puckered, as if she were actually sucking them. I wondered what it would be like to be Mrs Briskett, with no family at all, cooking tempting and tasty dishes for one pernickety old gentleman who rarely cleared his plate.
‘Do you like working here, Mrs Briskett?’
‘Questions, questions! You can’t seem to help it! Yes, of course I do. You can’t go much higher than this – cook-housekeeper in a lovely villa. I started off as a kitchen maid when I first went into service, but the cook was a regular harridan and scared the life out of me. Then I worked for a young couple, but the missus was too flighty and didn’t give me no direction. Then I worked in another home where the missus was the exact opposite, telling me what to do all day long. I used to hear her voice nag-nag-nagging even in my dreams. And then I came to work for the master here, and what a joy it is to have no missus whatsoever.’
‘But, Mrs Briskett, wouldn’t you like to be a missus one day?’
Mrs Briskett stared at me as if I’d suggested she become an Indian Princess or an opera singer. ‘Of course not, Hetty. I hope you’re not going to turn out to be one of those girls with ideas above their station.’
I went to bed that night, determined to keep all my ideas above my station. I wrote a long letter to Mama, telling her that I’d been to church and had a jolly boat trip with a new chum. I did not specify exactly who this new chum was. I wrote to Jem too, and I described the boat trip – but I thought it best not to mention any chum at all.
I GOT INTO the habit of copying Mr Buchanan’s writing every day. At first it was hard work deciphering all his curlicues and squiggles, but after a few days I grew used to his style and could copy quickly and easily. I could not say his work read quickly and easily. He used such long convoluted sentences that you lost all sense of what he was saying. He spent page after page laboriously describing every little detail. His characters rarely talked to each other, and when they did, it was with the stiff erudition of elderly clergymen, even though they were children. They were quite the most tedious children too, forever quoting the Bible to each other and pointing out morals.
I had read Miss Smith’s stories with huge enjoyment, but Mr Buchanan’s tales were so turgid that I yawned as I copied them.
‘Did you not get enough sleep, Hetty? That was a fearsome yawn!’ said Mr Buchanan sharply.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I – I’m just a little tired today,’ I said, pressing my lips together.
‘You’re making good progress with your copying. You will have the manuscript ready for the publisher by the end of the month. Now, I have to cast my mind about and find a subject for a new story …’ He paused. I realized he was expecting me to show some interest in this project.
‘You’re very industrious, sir,’ I said dutifully.
‘I have to work hard because, alas, my stories do not sell particularly well,’ he said.
‘Oh goodness, sir, I wonder why,’ I said – though I knew very well!
‘I think they are written in too fine a literary style,’ said Mr Buchanan. ‘And my characters are well-brought-up young ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps I should copy your friend Miss Smith and write about street waifs. Her stories are immensely popular.’
‘Miss Smith goes out into the London streets, sir, and interviews the children there,’ I said.
‘I dare say. And very admirable too. But you are surely not suggesting I do likewise?’
I tried to picture Mr Buchanan picking his way fastidiously across muddy pavements, summoning street children imperiously. They’d simply jeer at him. They might even throw stones.
‘Perhaps not, sir,’ I said.
‘I believe that was how Miss Smith met you, Hetty,’ said Mr Buchanan.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
‘Well, child, perhaps you can tell me a few tales from the past? He was looking at me hopefully, his nose twitching.
‘What, right this minute, sir?’
‘Can you not remember clearly enough?’
‘Oh, I can remember every single detail, sir. Besides, I wrote it all down in my memoirs.’
‘Ah yes. Your memoirs. Do you still have them, Hetty?’
‘Yes I do. I was hoping Miss Smith might help me to get them published – but when she rea
d them, she said it wasn’t possible because they sounded too harsh and ungrateful. It would upset the Board of Governors.’
‘I see, I see. Yes, you should show immense respect and gratitude, child. If the hospital had not taken you back, you might well be in the gutter now, living a life of wretched depravity. Instead of which you are safe and warm and well fed in a good Christian home, with not a care in the world.’
I had many, many, many cares – up at dawn, scrubbing my fingers raw, emptying his horrid chamber pot, working like a dog all day long, copying his stilted stories just to earn stamps to keep in touch with my dear mama … My eyes filled with angry tears.
‘Ah yes! I can see you are ashamed of your ingratitude, Hetty. But never mind, I dare say your childish literary efforts at least helped you to learn the lessons of application and discipline – and after so much practice you now write in a quick clear hand. Well, continue with your good work.’
I carried on copying his dire tale, my eyes crossing with boredom as little Miss Mimsie Marie and young Master Twaddle Tommy gave a penny to a starving, shivering beggar child and then went home to toast their toes in front of a roaring fire and stuff their smug little faces with buttered muffins.
When Mr Buchanan’s clock chimed five, I put down my pen and picked up his tea tray, ready to return to the kitchen.
‘That’s a good girl, Hetty. Run along now,’ said Mr Buchanan – but then, as I was going out of the door, he called me back.
‘I feel you should be encouraged, child. Show me these memoirs of yours. I will see if I can help you with your literary style. Perhaps you can rewrite a few passages. It will be an invaluable lesson for you, Hetty.’
‘So – so you think there might be a chance of getting my memoirs published after all?’ I said, my heart beating fast.
‘Now you’re being ridiculous, child.’ He saw my face fall, and checked himself. ‘But perhaps, if we reworked some part together, it might be possible to publish a small extract. I could perhaps write an article about foundlings for a newspaper or journal, with a paragraph from you – the first-hand account, as it were.’
I pondered. This wasn’t at all what I wanted. It certainly wouldn’t make my fortune so that I could free Mama from service and buy a fine home where we might live happily ever after, just the two of us. But a small extract in a newspaper was better than no publication at all … and perhaps some forward-thinking, truth-discerning radical publishing person might be so taken aback by the extract that they sought me out and offered me a publishing contract for the entire work.
‘Well, child, stop gawping, and go and get these little memoirs. I will see if I can find time to glance at it tonight,’ said Mr Buchanan.
I scuttled off downstairs with his tea tray, so excited I didn’t even finish his half-eaten cherry cake and shortbread. I slammed the tray down on the kitchen table and rushed to the scullery.
‘What’s up with you, girl? You’re not just leaving the tray there, are you, right where I want to roll out my pastry for tonight’s steak-and-kidney pie? And deal with the dirty crockery! It’s not going to wash itself now, is it?’
‘In a minute, Mrs Briskett. I’m just running an errand for the master,’ I said, taking my memoirs out of my shabby box. The red cover was faded now, and the spine broken. I had got into a fight with Sheila in the dormitory, and she had seized my precious manuscript book and thrown it the length of the room, the spiteful girl.
‘What’s that scrappy book, then?’ asked Sarah, following me.
‘My memoirs,’ I said, holding it tight against my chest as if it were my own dear child.
‘Your mem-what?’ said Sarah. ‘You’re such a tiresome girl for saying fancy stuff no ordinary folk can understand.’
‘It’s like a journal. It contains the story of my life,’ I said grandly, my chin in the air.
I hoped Sarah would be suitably impressed, but she burst out laughing – and when she told Mrs Briskett, she started chuckling too.
‘The story of your life, young Hetty!’ she said. ‘You’re a caution! You haven’t even had a life yet – you’re still knee-high to a grasshopper, and you’ve been stuck in that hospital all the time.’
‘I have experienced many momentous things,’ I said indignantly.
This made them splutter more.
‘Oh yes? What exactly have you experienced, eh?’ said Sarah. ‘Met the Queen, have you? Sailed all round the world? Flown up in the sky to say how d’ye do to the Man in the Moon?’
‘I have met the Queen, as a matter of fact – or very nearly – on the day of her Golden Jubilee,’ I said haughtily. ‘That was certainly a momentous day for me, in more ways than one. So you can both stop tee-hee-heeing. I am going to see the master.’
I swept out of the scullery in what I hoped was a dignified manner, but I tripped over the bucket in the corner, which somewhat spoiled the effect. Mrs Briskett and Sarah laughed so hard they had to hold each other to stay standing.
I went up the stairs clutching my memoirs, starting to have qualms. I badly wanted to see my work published. Imagine hundreds, maybe thousands, of people reading it! That thought made me thrill with pride – but I felt very shy and shivery at the thought of one person in particular perusing every line. I suddenly did not want Mr Buchanan reading my memoirs. It would be like taking off all my clothes before him while he blinked at me beadily through his spectacles.
I paused halfway up the stairs, clutching my book to my chest. I couldn’t do it. I’d tell Mr Buchanan that I’d lost it somehow. I had to protect it. But then he suddenly poked his head out of the study door and peered down at me.
‘There you are, Hetty! I was wondering where you’d got to. Bring me these memoirs, child.’
‘I – I couldn’t find them, sir,’ I said.
‘What? Nonsense – there they are, you’re holding the book right there! Bring it to me immediately.’
‘But – but it’s a poor thing, sir – written years ago when I was a small girl. You will find it very tedious.’
‘I dare say, but I want to help you, child. Hand it over.’
I wanted to fling it far down the stairs, out of harm’s way, but instead I handed it over like an automaton. Mr Buchanan bobbed back inside his study, pocketing my memoirs.
I felt very queer and strange all evening, thinking of him turning the pages, reading every little detail about my life. I asked Sarah what mood the master seemed to be in when she served him supper.
‘A funny mood – very vague, almost vacant. He read as he ate, picking up his cutlery without concentrating, so that he tried to cut into his pie with his fork.’
‘Yes, but vague in a good way or bad? Was he frowning?’
‘How can I tell, when the master has such a wrinkled forehead?’
‘You’re worrying that he doesn’t like these precious memoirs of yours, aren’t you, Hetty?’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘What sort of things did you write in them, eh?’
‘All sorts of things,’ I said miserably.
‘Well, I hope you haven’t confessed to anything too dreadful, or the master will be obliged to dismiss you forthwith, and I’d have to start all over again with a new girl just as you’re starting to train up nicely,’ said Mrs Briskett.
I couldn’t concentrate on my letter-writing when I went to bed that night. I blew out my stub of candle and lay twitching in the dark, imagining Mr Buchanan two floors up, his nose in my notebook, glasses glinting as he read his way through my life.
I tossed and turned all night, and got up long before Mrs Briskett and Sarah. When they came down, I had the fire lit, the tea piping hot in the pot, and fried eggs and bacon sizzling in the pan.
They patted me on the head and told me I was a good girl.
‘A good girl who’s had very momentous experiences,’ Sarah couldn’t resist adding.
When she came back from serving Mr Buchanan his breakfast, I fell upon her.
‘What was the master doing, Sarah?’
&
nbsp; ‘What? Eating his breakfast, silly.’
‘Is he reading?’
‘Mm? Yes, and a very bad habit it is. He gets so absorbed he’ll likely drop egg and bacon all down his front, and I shall be the poor soul who has to try to get the stains out.’
‘What was he reading, Sarah?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not in the habit of snatching his book up so as I can see the title.’
‘It was a book, then? It wasn’t …?’
‘Your illustrious memoirs? Yes, I believe it was – and of course … it’s coming back to me now … he held it up solemnly and said to me, “Sarah, this is a veritable masterpiece. I’m going to have it bound in finest leather with gold-embossed lettering.” ’
I was sure she was teasing me, but I couldn’t help hoping that she might just be telling the truth.
‘He really seemed to like it?’ I asked tremulously.
Sarah and Mrs Briskett laughed their silly fat heads off. I tossed my own head and stomped off to clean the bedrooms. Mr Buchanan was in his study with the door closed. I longed to peep in and see for myself if my memoirs intrigued or irritated him. Perhaps he had already cast them aside on one of his cluttered tables. They would be entirely forgotten and I would lose even this extremely slim chance of publication …
I was in such a fever about my wretched memoirs I couldn’t settle to anything. I think Sarah was a little sorry she had mocked me so, because she let me work on my Sunday dress after lunch instead of helping her sides-to-middle a pile of worn sheets. Mrs Briskett had donated her Sunday outfit of several years ago. It was emerald-green velvet, startlingly bright, but Mrs Briskett and Sarah said it set off my red hair a treat. The velvet had gone shiny at the back, worn smooth by Mrs Briskett’s formidable bottom, but there was so much material that Sarah helped me cut the pieces for a frock from the unsullied front.
She fashioned me a pattern too, but she based it on my work dresses and they seemed very plain to me. I had looked very carefully at the girls in the street on Sunday. I wanted a fitted bodice and a waist.
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