‘How little?’
‘When I was five and Jem was ten.’
Bertie burst out laughing. ‘Oh, come on, Hetty!’
‘I know, it sounds so silly, but he was my dear brother and so kind to me.’
‘You can’t be sweethearts with your brother.’
‘He’s not a real brother by blood, he’s my foster brother. His name’s Jem and – and we always used to play we would get married one day.’
‘Look, when I was five I wanted to marry the pretty little girl with plaits I glimpsed at church on Sundays, and the maid with the rosy cheeks who served us porridge at breakfast, and the kind old dame who sat me on her lap when she taught me my letters.’
‘Yes, but he does still care for me, Bertie. He’s started writing to me.’
‘But can he come and see you and take you out of a Sunday?’
‘No.’
‘So what would you rather do – sit at home in your scullery week after week, or come out with me and have fun?’
‘Oh, Bertie! I want to come out with you and have fun, of course I do – but I feel bad about Jem. He says he’ll wait patiently for me, even if it’s years.’
‘Come off it! How old is this Jem? He must be … nineteen now. You’re telling me a grown man of nineteen is happy to moon about, daydreaming about a little girl he’s not seen for goodness knows how many years. Is he soft in the head, this Jem?’
‘No!’
‘Is he very plain? Very thin or very stout? Is he missing a limb or two?’
‘No! He’s strong and tall and good-looking.’
‘Then don’t you think he might have half the village after him, if he’s such a catch? I bet he’s got a sweetheart at home.’
‘Jem would always be true to me,’ I said, but my voice wavered.
I remembered all Jem’s sweet-talk with little Eliza, spinning her the same stories.
‘Aha!’ said Bertie, seeing my face. ‘You’re not so sure now, are you? Come on, Hetty, stop your nonsense. Don’t spoil things. I’m taking you somewhere special today.’
‘To the river?’
‘No, that was last week. This week we’re going on a little expedition. I’ve got an even better surprise.’
We walked down into town and then hopped on a bus for a ten-minute ride. We sat squashed up together on the top, the wind in our hair, looking over a high wall into green parklands. Then, far in the distance, I saw shimmering reds and yellows and bright blues. I heard music. I sniffed savoury smells.
‘What is it? What is this place? Oh, it’s not a circus, is it?’ I asked, quivering.
‘No, it’s a fair. There are swings and merry-go-rounds with carved horses and—’
‘I know what a fair is. I’ve been to one,’ I said, remembering the children’s fair in Hyde Park on the day of the Golden Jubilee.
‘There! I thought it would be such a surprise,’ said Bertie, looking very disappointed.
‘Oh it is, it is – a lovely surprise,’ I reassured him, standing up eagerly to see better. The bus lurched and I nearly toppled over.
‘Careful!’ said Bertie, grabbing me. He stroked the gold fringing on my bodice. ‘This is very pretty. Did you really make it all yourself?’
‘Yes, every stitch,’ I said proudly.
I remembered my first darning lesson at the hospital when I was five: how I’d pricked myself with the needle a dozen times, and bunched the toes up together. Perhaps the hospital had taught me something useful, then?
I stared at the other girls all about me as I got off the bus. I was pleased to see that my dress looked almost as stylish as theirs – though some of their dresses hung a little differently, sticking out at the back. At first I thought that all the girls, though otherwise slender, simply had big fat bottoms – but surely they couldn’t all have such protruding rears?
‘Bertie, why do those girls’ dresses stick out in that way?’ I asked.
Bertie seemed to be the fount of all knowledge, but this time he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Search me, Hetty. Ask one. I can’t, I’ll get my face slapped.’
I wasn’t sure I dared – but when we were waiting in the queue to climb up inside the great red and yellow helter-skelter, we got talking to the couple in front. Bertie knew the boy, who worked in the draper’s in the next town. His girl worked there too, and clearly made use of the shop’s wares, because her dress was sewn all over with ruffles and ribbons, with little jet beads around her cuffs. I admired these, and she admired my gold fringing. She clapped her hands when I told her I’d whipped it off an old curtain.
I peered at the very prominent bump at the back of her dress. ‘I love the way your dress hangs at the back,’ I said, describing a curve with my hands.
‘What? Oh, you mean my bustle!’ she giggled.
‘Ah! So, this bustle – is it stitched into the dress?’
She brought her head close to mine. ‘It’s a special pad. We sell them at our shop for five shillings,’ she whispered.
Five shillings! But I didn’t need to buy one. I could surely fashion a pad out of anything. I thought of all the cushions cluttering every chair and sofa at Mr Buchanan’s. No one would notice if just one went missing …
Then we were inside the helter-skelter, climbing up and up the stairs in the dark. The draper’s couple kept pausing above us, so that I blundered right into the girl’s wretched bustle.
‘What are they playing at?’ I said to Bertie.
‘Oh, I know exactly what they’re playing at,’ said Bertie. ‘We could play that game too.’
‘You’d better not try!’ I said, and when he did indeed try to put his arms round me, I gave him a sharp poke with my elbow.
When we got to the top of the helter-skelter, I felt dizzy up so high, right above the gaudy canopies of the fair, able to see for miles across the wooded parklands. I clutched hold of Bertie in spite of myself.
‘There now, Hetty, I’ve got you tight,’ he said.
He sat down on a mat and pulled me onto his lap. Then someone gave us a shove in the back. We were suddenly whizzing round and round and round, at such a rate and with so many bumps I thought we might fly straight off the slide – but Bertie was true to his word, holding onto me tightly, his hands gripping my waist. We hurtled right down to the end of the slide and shot off onto the grass, tumbling in an undignified heap, screaming and laughing.
‘That was good, eh, Hetty?’ said Bertie, pulling me upright.
‘Yes, it was wonderful,’ I said, jumping up and down and clapping my hands.
‘You’re a marvellous girl, up for any kind of lark,’ said Bertie. ‘Right, I’m going to win you a coconut as a reward.’
We went to the coconut shy and he tried his hardest, aiming three balls at the hairy coconuts balanced on sticks. He hit one with his last throw, but he couldn’t topple it.
‘It’s a cheat. They must be stuck on!’ he said, red in the face with effort.
‘Can I have a go?’ I begged.
‘It’s a waste of time. You can’t shift the beggars,’ said Bertie.
‘Please!’
‘You’re so obstinate!’ he said, but he paid a penny for me to have a go too.
I tried my best. I missed completely with my first shot. I hit a coconut with my second ball – and it wobbled a little but stayed balanced on its stick.
‘There, what did I say?’ said Bertie.
I took aim with my last ball. I pictured Matron Pigface Peters’ head on the stick and hurled the ball with all my strength. It struck the coconut with such force that it shot straight up – and then toppled to the ground.
‘There! I did it! We’ve got a coconut, Bertie!’ I shouted triumphantly.
Bertie didn’t look too thrilled, though everyone else around laughed and clapped me.
‘So what do we do with this nut? How do we eat it?’ I asked.
‘Crack it open,’ said Bertie.
‘How do we do that?’
‘You’re such a strong g
irl I should think you could do it with your teeth,’ he snapped.
‘What? Oh, Bertie, don’t be cross with me. I thought you wanted to win a coconut. Are you cross with me for spending all your pennies?’
‘I’ve got heaps more, silly. I’m just cross because I wanted to win it for you. Bit of manly pride and all that. Come over to the darts stall. I dare say you can win us a china ornament or a goldfish in a bowl.’
‘Will you be even crosser if I do?’ I said.
‘Probably!’ said Bertie, but he was smiling now.
‘Seriously though, I feel so bad that I haven’t any money for rides. I won’t get paid for a couple of months yet.’
‘I’ve got heaps for both of us,’ said Bertie, patting his jingling pocket. ‘I saved all my tips this week, and mowed Mr Jarvis’s big garden for an extra shilling, so we’re rich. So is it darts now, Hetty?’
‘I think I’d sooner go on that wonderful merry-go-round,’ I said.
‘Excellent!’
We stood watching for a whole turn so that I could work out which horse I liked best. They were all painted different colours – black and brown and grey like real horses, with great manes and flowing tails of proper horsehair. There was one splendid white beast with a black patch on his eye, just like Madame Adeline’s Pirate from that long-ago circus. I knew he was the one.
I pointed him out to Bertie, and as soon as the music slowed, he leaped onto the boards, dodging round other eager boys, and claimed the white horse as ours. He helped me up so that I could cling to the mane, while he sat at the back, holding the twisting golden pole.
The lad came for his pennies, the music started, and we were off, whirling round and round. It was almost as good as cantering about the ring on that real horse with Madame Adeline. I dug my heels into Pirate’s painted flanks and threw my head back. My clumsily arranged hair lost half its pins and came tumbling down past my shoulders.
When we stumbled off the merry-go-round at last, deliciously dizzy, I tried to pin my hair back into place.
‘Leave it, Hetty, it looks lovely loose like that,’ said Bertie.
‘It makes me look younger than ever,’ I said, sticking pins in willy-nilly.
‘What’s the matter with looking young? You don’t want to look like a wrinkled old lady, do you? You look all right to me. Better than all right.’ He touched a stray lock of hair, stroking it gently. I was very glad I’d taken the trouble to lather it thoroughly with Pears soap last night, even though it meant going to bed with sopping wet hair.
‘You’ve got lovely hair, Hetty,’ said Bertie.
‘It’s red, though. Everyone hates red hair,’ I said.
‘I think it suits you. It’s grand – so bright it dazzles your eyes.’
‘I think my eyes are my best feature. They’re sapphire-blue, do you see? My mama called me Sapphire before she had to give me away …’ I hesitated. ‘You can call me Sapphire, if you like.’
‘Sapphire. Mmm. Sapphire, Sapphire, Sapphire. Do you know what? I think Hetty suits you better.’ Bertie jingled the change in his pocket. ‘What next, eh? We can have another go on the merry-go-round – or try the swing boats – or I could buy us a poke of fried potatoes?’
I thought hard. ‘How about the darts stall? You win us something this time,’ I suggested.
So we tried our luck. With his second dart Bertie scored a bull’s-eye and we could choose any prize on the stand. I circled round and round, in an agony of indecision.
‘Have a goldfish. It matches your hair exactly, dearie,’ said the man running the stall.
‘Don’t you cast aspersions on my sweetheart’s hair,’ said Bertie.
This time I didn’t contradict him.
‘Why don’t you pick an ornament, Hetty?’ Bertie suggested.
‘Good idea,’ I said – but I still had to deliberate long and hard.
Eventually I chose a little black-and-white dog with floppy ears and an earnest expression. ‘He’s lovely, Bertie. Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘Well, if I’ve got a present, you must have my coconut.’
‘No, you take it home and share it with Mrs B and Sarah. That’ll please them – and that way Mrs B will let you out next Sunday without any argle-bargle, so long as you behave! What were you doing, shouting at your master? If I tried that trick with Jarvis he’d box my ears. Here, Hetty, this notebook of yours – do you record everything in it?’
‘Things that take my fancy,’ I said.
‘Will you write about me in it?’ Bertie asked eagerly.
‘Perhaps,’ I told him.
WE WERE A little late getting home, and I got severely ticked off by Mrs Briskett. Sarah had already gone out for her mysterious Sunday evening engagement. I felt a little sorry for Mrs Briskett all the same, stuck indoors all afternoon and evening, so I produced my coconut.
‘Here’s a little present, Mrs B,’ I said.
‘Mrs Briskett to you! You’re just trying to get round me, you bad girl,’ she said, but she took it all the same.
She made a hole in it and poured out strange watery ‘milk’. I didn’t care for it at all, but Mrs Briskett drank it up eagerly.
‘It works wonders for the complexion, coconut milk,’ she said.
I stared at Mrs Briskett’s big red face, wondering if she was about to sprout bristly brown whiskers like the coconut, but nothing untoward happened.
She took her rolling pin, put the coconut on the floor, and attacked it vigorously. It smashed into small pieces, exposing the white inside. I gingerly tried the white meat.
‘Ah! I like this part!’ I said, crunching happily.
Mrs Briskett tucked in too.
‘We’ll leave some for Sarah when she comes back, won’t we?’
‘Of course we will,’ said Mrs Briskett, setting a fair portion aside on a saucer. ‘But I don’t think she’ll be back till late.’
‘Mrs Briskett, do tell me – are Sarah and that strange man with the moustache … sweethearts?’
Mrs Briskett snorted. ‘Oh, Hetty Feather, whatever will you come out with next? The very idea! And I don’t know what Mrs Arthur Brown would say if she thought her hubby was stepping out with our Sarah.’
‘Then why does she see him every Sunday?’
‘She doesn’t just see Mr Brown, she’s with a lot of other like-minded folk. But they don’t go to see each other. They’re there to meet up with something very queer. Oh, it gives me the shivers just to think of it.’
‘What is it? Tell me, Mrs Briskett! Who do they meet?’
‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘But I don’t approve. I don’t approve at all.’ She gave a genteel shudder.
I was more bewildered than ever. Was she seriously suggesting that Sarah and Mr Brown, two rigidly respectable people, were somehow behaving in a reprehensible manner? I thought back to the vicar’s sermon in church. He had spoken out against the music hall, suggesting that it was not a suitable place for serious God-fearing folk – not quite a den of iniquity like a public house, but disturbing all the same. I wasn’t sure what happened in this mysterious music hall. I pictured Sarah gaudily made-up and provocatively dressed, singing a saucy song as she strutted across the stage, pursued by Mr Brown, waggling his eyebrows and twirling his moustache. This fancy was so comical I couldn’t help snorting with laughter.
‘It’s not funny, Hetty. I’m seriously worried about Sarah. It’s taken hold of her and she won’t listen to reason,’ said Mrs Briskett.
Then perhaps Sarah went to a public house after all? Again, I had only a very hazy idea of what they were like inside. I pictured Sarah slumped on a bench, downing a tankard of gin, while Mr Brown drank straight from the bottle, dribbling all down his droopy moustache. I snorted again – and then hurried off to the scullery to avoid another scolding. I made up my tiny bed and sat with half a candle, writing letters.
I wrote several pages to Mama, telling her about my new dress in some detail, and my plans for the pad at the back to turn
myself into a fashion plate. I also told her about my trip to the fairground with Bertie – but don’t worry, Mama, he is just a friend. I know I am much too young for sweethearts, but he is fun to be with and he seems to like me.
I reassured her that I was in perfect health. She was always asking if I was eating properly, wondering if I had even the slightest cough. The doctor at the hospital had once said I had a weak chest, so Mama still worried terribly.
I wrote to Jem too, but this letter was considerably shorter. I knew he probably wouldn’t be interested in my new dress, and whether it should have a pad at the back or not. I did tell him briefly about my trip to the fair, but I did not mention Bertie as such. I said I went to the fair with a friend, and carefully did not specify the sex.
This only took a paragraph. I did not know what else to write. I kept trying to conjure up Jem’s adult face – but although I could picture that tall figure in brown corduroy, his features were a blur. It seemed safer to think of the long-ago Jem, so I filled my page asking if he ever strolled past the special tree where we’d played endless games of house together? Did he still fish in the stream where I’d paddled? Did he plough with Saxon and Sam, the two Shire horses I’d once taken such delight in feeding chunks of carrot?
I was wide awake and still had some candle left. I wished I could write a letter to Gideon, but I didn’t know where he was. He would have left the hospital by now and would be shut up in some faraway barracks, learning how to be a soldier. I ached for him, wishing I had some way of protecting him.
The letter to Jem had reminded me too much of the past. I thought of that little dark country cottage with all of us children tumbling around inside. Gideon had always come off worst in any free-for-all. He came last in our running races, though he had long legs like a colt. Our brother Saul could beat him, even though he was on crutches. I fingered my ribs automatically when I thought of Saul. He had had a terrible trick of poking me with the sharp end of his stick, leaving me all over bruises. Mother always insisted we be kind to Saul, but she forgot to tell him to be kind to us.
I knew it was a sin, but I had thoroughly disliked my brother Saul. Still, I had been very sad when he died of the influenza at the hospital.
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