Sapphire Battersea

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘What do you mean, we’re not going anywhere?’ I said, my voice cracking because my throat was so tight.

  Bertie looked down at his boots. ‘I haven’t got any money, Hetty,’ he mumbled, pulling out his empty pockets to show me. ‘I had such plans. I was aiming to take you up to London today.’

  ‘Yes, to show me the historic buildings.’

  ‘No – to show you the Western Gardens up at Earl’s Court. Folk say it’s wonderful there, even better than the fair. There’s a band, and it’s all decked out in fairy lights, ever so pretty. I knew I’d need quite a lot of cash for two train fares and all the amusements, so I volunteered for more gardening jobs. I started a nice little sideline with my meat customers. If I saw their garden looked a tad untidy, I’d ask if they needed anyone to mow their lawn. It all seemed to be working out excellently …’ His voice tailed away.

  ‘But then?’ I said.

  ‘The parlourmaid from Whiteacres, a big house over in Berryland – she said her mistress was fretting. Her gardener’s hurt his back and the weeds were getting on her nerves – so I says, like an idiot, “Well, I’ll do your weeding, ma’am.” ’

  ‘You’re many things, Bertie, but you’re not an idiot.’

  ‘Wait till you hear me out, Hetty. So after work yesterday I go round to Whiteacres, and I reckoned I had a good hour before the light started to fade, so I kneel down and set to weeding. I worked real hard, pulling and pulling – and then gathers them all up neatly and puts them in a sack, leaving everything spick and span, thinking the mistress might give me an extra tip for tidiness. Then the parlourmaid comes out, looks at my nice tidy bare bed and starts shrieking her head off. It turns out I’d uprooted all her prize shrubs along with the wretched weeds. I thought everything green had to be a weed. I didn’t realize they were waiting to flower later. Only now they’re not. They’re all dead, in the sack. And to stop her missus telling tales to Jarvis the butcher and then him giving me the sack, I’ve had to hand over all my savings towards new plants – and I have to pay her a shilling a week till she reckons I’ve paid for the lot. You’re not laughing, are you, Hetty?’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ I said, spluttering. ‘Oh, poor Bertie. You were trying so hard too. But you have to admit, it’s just a little bit funny.’

  ‘It’s not funny in the slightest, because I can’t take you out now, on account of the fact I ain’t got no spare cash – and I won’t have for weeks and weeks according to that mean old maid.’

  ‘We can still walk out together, silly.’

  ‘But that’s all we can do, walk. I haven’t got the cash for a rowing boat, or even a hokey-pokey – don’t you understand?’

  ‘Of course I do. But we can still walk – and talk. And next week I’ll bake us a pie and we’ll have a little picnic – how about that?’

  ‘Oh, Hetty! I thought you’d be cross with me and want to go out walking with some other lad with a pocketful of cash who’d treat you properly,’ said Bertie. ‘You’re a diamond girl, did you know that?’

  ‘I’m a sapphire girl,’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk in the park. We can always pretend it’s those gardens. I was always picturing when I was young.’

  ‘When you were at the hospital?’

  ‘No, before that. I doubt anyone could picture at the hospital – it was too dreadful. I meant when I was little, in the country. I used to have this special tree. We called it our squirrel house …’ My voice trailed away when I saw Bertie’s expression.

  ‘You and that Jem?’ he said.

  ‘All of us children,’ I said, though of course I’d meant just Jem and me. I didn’t want to think of Jem. I’d had another letter from him yesterday. He had told me all about Mother and Father and the farm, and how Rosie was engaged to be married, and Nat was doing very well in the army, and he hoped he’d maybe meet up with Gideon one day. It was a letter just like Jem himself, strong and straightforward, tender and concerned. It ended: I am thinking of the future, Hetty. Our future, together. With love from Jem.

  I had tried hard to picture Jem himself, but somehow I could only see him as a child, with a boy’s voice, not as the man I knew he was. And it was impossible to picture him now, when I was walking along with Bertie, doing my best to console him.

  ‘You’re thinking of that Jem, aren’t you?’ said Bertie suspiciously.

  ‘No I’m not,’ I lied. ‘I’m thinking of the pleasure gardens – these pleasure gardens,’ I continued as we walked through the gates into the plain green park. ‘Oh, see the fairy lights on the trees, Bertie, and little coloured lanterns – look!’ I waved my hand at the ordinary plane trees, then pointed to a scrubby patch of grass. ‘See, there’s a rose bower for sweethearts – and little boys are walking around with trays of gingerbread and we can simply help ourselves—’

  ‘This sounds better than the Western Gardens!’

  ‘Much better. And over there’ – I pointed vaguely into thin air – ‘is a pleasure dome, like in “Kubla Khan”.’

  ‘What’s Kubla Watsit when it’s at home?’

  ‘It’s a strange poem. I’m not sure I understand it, but I love the way it’s written. Nurse Winnie lent me this book of poetry once. I wish I still had it.’

  ‘Hasn’t that weird old stick Buchanan any poetry books? I don’t suppose he could lend you one?’ said Bertie.

  ‘He’s barely speaking to me since I got cross with him for taking my memoirs. He still has them, Bertie, but he doesn’t mention them. Sarah says she’ll give me what for if I bring it up again. She says it’s not my place to make demands on the master. Oh, Bertie, don’t you just hate having to know your place?’

  ‘Well, I can picture too, Hetty. I can picture right into the future, when I’ll be …’

  ‘A master butcher like Mr Jarvis?’

  ‘Definitely not a butcher. I live, breathe and eat meat, and it’s started to turn my stomach. No, I’ll live on your apple pies, Hetty – and I won’t be no butcher.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think you’d better be a gardener,’ I said, giggling.

  He gave me a look, but then he laughed too.

  ‘So what do you see yourself as, Bertie?’

  He suddenly looked shy. ‘You’ll laugh at me!’

  ‘No I won’t. Well, I’ll try not to. Go on, tell. It doesn’t matter if it can’t come true, it’s only picturing. I have all manner of madcap fantasies. I see myself as a famous author, Sapphire Battersea, writing a few pages every day, living in a house even bigger than Mr Buchanan’s, keeping my mama in luxury. Or – or I could be Sapphire the circus lady in pink, with spangly tights, riding my troupe of rosin-backed horses, while hundreds gasp and clap. Or perhaps I might even be Sapphire the sailor, crossing the seven seas with the wind in my hair, gulls screaming overhead, dolphins swimming along beside the ship. There! Now you can laugh at me!’

  ‘Well, I picture myself on stage in a fancy toff suit, with a little straw hat to tilt at a jaunty angle.’

  ‘An actor?’

  ‘Not a Shakespearean actor, spouting all sorts of stuff you can’t understand. No, comedy’s more my line. Or maybe a music-hall turn – comical, with a saucy song, maybe even a little dance.’ He did a little tap dance on the grass, his feet flashing. He landed elegantly with a ‘Ta-da!’ his arms held high.

  ‘Bravo!’ I said, and clapped him. ‘You’re good at it, Bertie, really good.’

  ‘I thought I might act like a bit of a charmer with the ladies. I could call my act Flirty Bertie – and as I’m so small, it would work really well if I shared the routine with a very tall girl, to make it more comic like, but still touching. A pity you’re not tall, Hetty – it would be grand to do a double act with you. Have you ever fancied treading the boards yourself?’

  ‘I’m not sure! The vicar said that music halls were very bad places – but I think they sound like fun,’ I said.

  ‘They’re great fun. I think you’d love them. I’ll take you there some day – when I’ve got some cas
h! Maybe it will inspire you, seeing as you’re a bit of a writer. You could write a play yourself and then star in it,’ said Bertie. ‘I could have a part too, couldn’t I?’

  ‘You could play the leading man, definitely,’ I said. ‘And my brother could act in it too.’

  ‘That Jem?’ said Bertie, frowning.

  ‘No! Not Jem. I’m sure he’d hate the very idea. Jem wouldn’t ever be anything but a farmer, I’m sure of it. No, my brother Gideon. He was at the hospital with me, though we scarcely ever saw each other. Poor Gideon, he’s not at all like other boys. He’s always so timid and fearful. But one Christmas he was chosen to be the angel in our nativity tableau in chapel. There he was, right up high, arms in the air, and this look of utter radiance.’ I thought of Gideon now, and shivered.

  ‘What is it?’ said Bertie.

  ‘He’s gone to be a soldier, and I fear he will very much dislike a soldier’s life. He was terribly teased at the hospital. It’s such a worry, having brothers. Do you have any, Bertie?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Nor sisters either. It’s easier that way. I can just look after myself.’

  ‘Did the other boys ever pick on you when you were at the workhouse?’ I asked, my voice lowered.

  ‘Of course they did,’ said Bertie cheerfully enough.

  ‘Because you were small?’

  ‘We was all small, seeing as we didn’t get enough to eat and worked a twelve-hour day from when we were ten. But the older ones picked on the younger ones. I learned to dodge and duck, and then I built myself up a bit. I did a drill every morning, pumping myself up like a little strongman, hanging off the tops of doors to increase my arm muscles. In time I could take on even the biggest boys and get the better of them all. Hanging like this, Hetty!’

  Bertie leaped right up and caught hold of the branch of a tree at the edge of the park. He hung on, swinging his legs vigorously, then pulled himself up until his chin was on the branch. He stayed wobbling there, his face purple with effort, obviously expecting applause.

  ‘Ah, now you’re picturing you’re Bertie the monkey. Shall I offer you a banana?’ I said.

  He laughed and tumbled down, then capered about me, making silly chattering monkey noises.

  ‘I shall take you to the Zoological Gardens where you belong,’ I said. ‘Look, they’re just over here. Shall I put you in your cage?’

  ‘I’ll have a ride on Jumbo the elephant first,’ said Bertie.

  ‘I’ve had a ride on that elephant, truly!’ I said proudly.

  We sat down under the trees and I told him how I’d run away on the day of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee.

  ‘But you never saw the old lady herself?’ said Bertie. ‘Well, we must rectify that. I spy the palace shining in the sunshine just over there. Let’s join Her Majesty for afternoon tea.’

  ‘What a good idea! Well, I’ll very quickly fashion myself a new dress – not one of Mrs Briskett’s castoffs. I’ll select a subtle sky-blue, with lace at the neck, and lace mittens to match, and I’ll have pale-grey kid boots with little pearl buttons.’

  ‘I’ll have them kid boots and all,’ said Bertie, examining the loose sole of his old brown boot. ‘And a toff’s suit, please, with one of them starched shirts with the high collars.’

  ‘Yes, it will be so starched you’ll feel as if you’re wearing a suit of armour. This might get you into trouble when we’re ushered into Her Majesty’s drawing room. You will be expected to bow down low, but of course your starched shirt will keep you resolutely upright. There is a grave danger Her Majesty will take offence and summon her guards, and they will march you off to her dungeons.’

  ‘Buckingham Palace doesn’t have dungeons!’

  ‘These are secret dungeons down in the sewers, and they will shut you in a rat-infested cage and you will cast yourself down in the mire and moan piteously.’

  ‘This is a really cheery story!’

  ‘Ssh, I’m coming to the best part. Meanwhile I am imploring the Queen to forgive you, confessing that I’ve over-starched your shirt, and she will laugh heartily and instruct her guards to release you immediately.’

  ‘All cowering and covered in rat muck – even my starched shirt!’

  ‘So the Queen commands that you be taken to her private bathroom and you luxuriate in her very own bathtub. The taps have little gold crowns and the royal crest is printed on the porcelain. Here, did you know Mr Buchanan has his own water closet and we’re not ever allowed to use it – but I do secretly sometimes.’

  Bertie roared with laughter. ‘I bet you do, Hetty. And I use the Queen’s very own personal facility while I’m washing off all the sewer slime.’

  ‘And then a maid gives you a whole new outfit – toff gentleman’s clothes with a fancy waistcoat and everything, but they all belonged to Prince Albert so they’re miles too big for you. The maid has to pad you out with big cushions.’

  ‘Oh yes, turn me into a figure of fun now.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s to a purpose! You come waddling back, clean again, but positively spherical. Her Majesty starts chortling away, because you look so comical, so you take advantage of this, see, and do a funny dance, waddling even more, and bowing low and then bouncing back again. She laughs and laughs and says you should be on the stage – and guess what, Bertie, there’s a special Royal Command Performance at the theatre, and you are top of the bill: Great Big Bertie, the talk of all London – how about that?’

  ‘That’s just fine and dandy, Hetty. You’re a grand girl for telling stories!’ he said.

  When we set off for home at five to six, Bertie squeezed my hand as we walked along the road. ‘I thought this afternoon was going to be a disaster, but it’s been the best ever, and it’s all down to you, Hetty. You’re a girl in a million.’

  I felt myself glowing. It was so lovely to be appreciated, the centre of attention. I had always felt so crushed at the hospital. It had often scared me when I looked at all the hundreds of other girls in their identical brown uniforms and white caps and tippets. It was hard to hang onto the fact that I was me, Hetty, different from all the others.

  ‘You’re a boy in a million, Bertie,’ I said. As no one seemed to be passing, I threw my arms around his neck and gave him a quick hug.

  ‘Hetty!’ he said, going crimson – but he looked tremendously pleased.

  He delivered me back to number eight Lady’s Ride on the very dot of six – but I discovered Sarah and Mrs Briskett in the midst of such a to-do I don’t think they even noticed. Sarah was in her Sunday purple, bonnet on, trying to get out of the door, but Mrs Briskett was hanging onto her arm, imploring her not to go.

  ‘You must stay home safe, Sarah. I’m ordering you!’

  ‘You can’t give me orders, Mrs B, and you know it. I’m free to do what I want – and I know what that is!’

  ‘Very well then, girl, I’m not ordering, I’m imploring. Heaven help us, I’m begging you to stay at home,’ said Mrs Briskett.

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Mrs B. How could I possibly keep away! I’m going to pay for another materialization. I can’t wait to see Mother again.’

  ‘Yes, and you’ll swoon again too, and Mr Brown made it plain he didn’t feel it was fitting for him to look after you in such a state.’

  ‘Then come with me, Mrs B!’ said Sarah. ‘If you’ll only come too, you’ll see why it’s so important to me. It could be important to you too. You could be reunited with all your loved ones who have passed over.’

  ‘As if I’d go along with such an idea! I think the dead should stay shut up in their graves, where they belong. It’s not decent, stirring them up like this. It’s downright blasphemous!’

  ‘How dare you! I’ve never blasphemed in my life! And it’s the sweetest, most holy experience, communicating with my own mother. I lost her when I was only fourteen, and she was all the world to me. I missed her so when I was sent away into service. I never dreamed I’d not see her sweet face again.’

  I shivered, thinking about
my own mama. ‘I’ll go with you, Sarah,’ I said, taking hold of her hand.

  They both looked at me, astonished, as if the table had started talking.

  ‘Don’t be so foolish, Hetty!’ said Mrs Briskett.

  ‘Why is that foolish, Mrs B? It’s the most beautiful experience, going to one of Madame Berenice’s seances.’

  ‘You can’t take a child!’

  ‘Hetty’s old enough to be sensible,’ said Sarah.

  ‘You’re a lot older, and yet I can’t make you see sense,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Oh, very well, go then, and take Hetty too, even though she’ll likely scream herself senseless.’

  ‘I won’t scream, I promise,’ I said. I was starting to feel very excited. I had no real idea of what happened at a seance, but it certainly sounded interesting. I was a little frightened at the thought of Sarah’s mother emanating out of thin air, but I was sure she’d be paying more attention to Sarah than to me.

  It would be a wonderful story to tell Bertie next time I saw him – and an extra outing seemed much more attractive than staying home in the scullery, writing dutiful letters to Mama and Jem. I wanted to write to Mama, but I still didn’t know whether to tell her all about Bertie or not, so my letters were shorter and more stilted than usual. I knew absolutely that I shouldn’t tell Jem about Bertie, so my letters to him were shorter still – though his were getting longer.

  ‘I will go with Sarah and behave very sensibly, and if she swoons again I will take care of her and find us a cab home,’ I said.

  Mrs Briskett shook her head and sighed, but Sarah put her arms around me.

  ‘There, you’re a dear little girl. Come along then. My, you cut a fine figure in that dress.’

  ‘I still don’t hold with such shenanigans,’ said Mrs Briskett, but she went to the money jar she kept in the larder, right at the back on the top shelf, took out half a crown, tied it up in a handkerchief, and gave it to me.