Sapphire Battersea

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘I lost my dear mama when I was ten, and already a foot taller than her,’ she said. ‘None of my family are similarly afflicted. My father and brothers are normal height and my mother was tiny like you – but she loved me dearly and never reproached me for growing to such a size.’

  ‘Oh, Freda! Of course she didn’t! How could you help growing?’

  ‘My father was ashamed of me. He kept me in a dark cupboard for months after Mama died, hoping it might restrict my growth.’

  ‘How terrible!’

  ‘And then, when I was fourteen, he sold me to a travelling fair, to be displayed as a freak of nature.’ Freda sighed and the whole bed trembled. ‘It was very hard at first, but now I am used to it. Mr Clarendon is kinder than most and treats me fairly enough. It is a little lonely at times, living with so many strange men – but now I have you for company, Emerald! You must not be frightened of me, even though I am so very big and queer-looking.’

  ‘I am not the slightest bit frightened of you, Freda dear – and I am charmed to share a room with such a kind, gentle lady,’ I said, and I meant every word.

  As the weeks went by we grew as close as sisters. We breakfasted together while the men were still fast asleep. Freda did not care to stroll along the promenade because people would stare so and shout after her, but she liked to sit in the garden at the back of the lodgings and get a little fresh air that way. I’d sit with her and we’d chat while I sewed.

  I embroidered little pink roses around the neck and cuffs and hem of Freda’s large nightgown, which utterly delighted her. I was making a lot of money from tips, so I decided to make Freda a proper present. I went back to the draper’s shop and bought several yards of blue silk and set about fashioning her a proper lady’s costume. She had only her bathing dress and her nightgown and a shabby man’s coat to keep her warm in winter. She cried with joy when she held the lengths of silk and felt their softness.

  ‘But they are far too fine for me, Emerald. I will tear them to shreds.’

  ‘Not if I make you a costume that fits you properly. I will sew it very carefully, with tiny strong stitches. Just be patient, Freda. You are going to have such a beautiful dress, I promise.’

  I did my very best to keep my word. I had to stand on a borrowed ladder to measure Freda from her shoulders to her ankles, and we both blushed painfully when I had to stretch the tape to measure her chest and waist and hips, but once these indignities were out of the way and I could start sewing, we had an extremely companionable time together.

  Freda offered to read aloud to me from the little fairy-tale books Mama had given me. I had never let anyone else even touch them before, but I found it curiously soothing for Freda to read in her soft husky voice, holding the tiny tales reverently in her huge hands. I became agitated when she started reading the tale of Jack the Giant Killer – but Freda was fascinated, astonished to discover a story about distant relatives. She didn’t mind that the giants were all treated as villains by the anonymous author. She seemed to like it that they were very fierce and tried to catch little people and feed them to their ogre children.

  When she’d read her way through all the tales, I did my best to make up a few fairy stories myself featuring Fearless Freda and tiny Emerald Mermaid. She loved these stories so much that I wrote them down for her when I’d finished her costume at last.

  Oh, how she loved her blue silk costume! She trembled all over when I made the final fitting, stroking her own arms, marvelling at the softness of the silk. I detached the mirror from the wall and held it up for her so that she could see herself in sections, and she gave little squeals of joy.

  I could not fashion her real kid or leather boots to set off her dress because I did not have the right skills – nor indeed, tools – but I managed to make her matching blue silk gaiters that came up to her calves. I reinforced the soles with thickest cardboard, stuck on with my glue.

  ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to walk very far in them, Freda,’ I said regretfully, but she still seemed delighted.

  She wore her new costume very proudly while on display at the curiosity tent. Mr Clarendon made her a new painted background of the promenade, with tiny figures all pointing and exclaiming at the very fine figure of Fantastic Freda, the Fashionable Female Giant.

  He had made me a backdrop too – of blue sea and yellow sand – and he displayed me on a pile of real sand stolen from the beach. Folk marvelled at Freda, but I knew I was now the main attraction. I think it was only the very little children who believed I was a real mermaid – but all the lads and gentlemen clustered around me eagerly, and even their ladies clapped their hands and declared I was as pretty as a picture.

  I simpered and smiled for all I was worth, even when some of the louder lads made extremely uncouth remarks about me, because I wanted them to stuff my housekeeping jar with tips. I kept it by my side, painted with sea anemones and decorative fish, and by the end of each evening it was crammed to the brim. Every time someone dropped another coin into the jar with a satisfying clink I thought of Mama and how it meant I could stay close to her.

  I bought her little delicacies every day, and bribed a kind ward orderly at the infirmary to take them in to her: little jars of custard cream, small bottles of fortified wine, a perfect bunch of hothouse grapes. Mama always smiled and nodded and mouthed her thanks to me when I looked at her through the window – but she seemed to be getting thinner and thinner, and even when she lay as still as a statue in bed, the coughing tore her apart.

  Then, one terrible evening, she started haemorrhaging as she coughed, blood seeping through her fingers as she clutched her mouth. I heaved the heavy glass window upwards with sudden desperate strength, climbed right through, and ran to her bed. As she coughed and bled, I held her tight and stroked her, and told her that I loved her over and over again, until she was still at last. I held her poor lifeless body and would not let her go. The nurses let me stay there on the bed with Mama, knowing they could not prise me away.

  I went on whispering to her, even though I knew she could no longer hear me. I told her that she was the best mother in the whole world. I went through all the tender kindnesses she’d shown me through the years at the hospital, until the ward grew dark.

  Then a nurse came and whispered softly, ‘We must tidy your dear mother, child.’

  I helped wash her and comb her tousled hair. The nurse snipped me off a lock to keep for ever. We gave Mama a clean nightgown and folded her poor thin arms neatly over her sunken chest. I tucked the satin pouch containing my letters under her fingers so that she might read them in Heaven and remember just how much I loved her.

  ‘We will have to make the funeral arrangements,’ said the nurse. ‘I expect it will have to be a pauper’s funeral …’

  ‘No! No, I will pay for Mama to have a proper decent funeral,’ I said firmly.

  I went to the undertaker’s with my jar of tip money – to find it still wasn’t nearly enough. Dear Freda insisted on giving me the rest. It wasn’t a grand funeral. At the undertaker’s they outlined various options: beautiful ornate oak caskets with golden handles, black carriages drawn by a matching pair of black horses with plumes, professional mourners in top hats and tails … I selected the simplest funeral possible: a plain coffin, a horse and cart to carry it to the graveyard, and no paid mourners at all – only me.

  I didn’t have any money left for a length of black material to make a decent funeral dress. I had to content myself with a black velvet ribbon tied round my sleeve. But I promise you no professional mourner grieved more profoundly. I murmured the responses with heartfelt concentration, I threw a posy of wild flowers down on Mama’s coffin, and when the ceremony was over, I knelt by the raw earth and wept for hours.

  Eventually the vicar came over to me, bent down, and rested his hand on my shoulder. ‘Try not to grieve so, child. Your mother is at peace now,’ he said gently.

  I could not imagine Mama at peace. I saw her twitching restlessly, racked wit
h that terrible cough. ‘Mama suffered so dreadfully,’ I sobbed.

  ‘She is free of earthly pain now,’ said the vicar. ‘Go home now, child.’

  Where was my home? I was only here because of Mama. I did not belong anywhere without her.

  I stayed for another few weeks, working for Mr Clarendon at his curiosity tent. I went through all the motions required of me – combing my hair, making eye contact with the customers, arching my back to look my best, twitching my velvet tail, smiling all the while. Tips were plentiful, and I smiled again as I carried my full jar back to the lodgings – but I cried every night cradled in Freda’s great gentle arms. I smiled until I had enough to pay Freda back for her loan, and then I told her I must leave.

  ‘I shall miss you so, Freda. You are my dearest friend in all the world. But I cannot stay here now. It is too miserable without Mama,’ I told her.

  ‘I understand, Emerald, but oh, I shall miss you so. I have never had a friend before,’ Freda said.

  ‘I shall be your friend even if we are apart. I shall come back to Bignor every summer, I promise – and each time I’ll make you a new silk dress.’

  ‘But where will you go, Emerald?’

  I had thought about it long and hard while lying on my mound of sand performing my mermaid mime. I had various options. I could go to Miss Smith in London and beg her to help me. I knew this was the most sensible idea, but I was not sure I could bear to do this. I did not want to apologize for my behaviour at Mr Buchanan’s. I did not want to grovel until she took pity on me and found me a similar position. I was especially frightened that she would make me return to the hospital while she was seeking this position for me.

  I could seek out the Greenwood family in Arundel and see if their offer still held – but somehow I shrank from this too. Our fortnight together already had a strange dream-like quality, as if it hadn’t really happened. Even if they welcomed me into their home, I wasn’t sure it was what I wanted now. Too much had happened to me this summer. I was not sure I could be a child again with Charlotte and Maisie. I felt too old and too sad to play games any more.

  I could go back to see Bertie – dear valiant Bertie, who said I was his sweetheart. But we weren’t real sweethearts. We certainly weren’t old enough to set up home together. We could picture for all we were worth on our Sunday afternoons together, but he was still stuck in that reeking butcher’s shop every day, up to his elbows in gore. It would be years and years before we had saved up enough money for a little house of our own – and did I really want that with Bertie? I’d wanted to share a house with Mama. I did not want to live in any house without her.

  I’d had a real home once, long ago – that dear cottage in the country. I had a mother there too. She had been fierce with me sometimes, and paddled me royally, but I knew she loved me in her own way. I felt a real longing for her warm strong arms. I had been part of that family once. Jem had written to me again and again. He had made it plain that he wanted me back. I had doubted him, but he had stayed constant in his love. He longed for me – even though he did not really know me any more. He only knew that fierce, funny little five-year-old who had played at his side.

  I was not sure I wanted to go back now. I wanted to go forward.

  ‘Oh, Mama, what shall I do?’ I asked the empty air. ‘If only I could ask you.’

  And then I knew where I had to go.

  THE TRAIN JOURNEY on Sunday seemed endless. I had bought myself a cheese roll and an apple at the station, but they were poor substitutes for Mrs Briskett’s picnic. I was exhausted and very hungry and thirsty by the time I got to Waterloo Station. I stared longingly at all the food stalls, but I did not want to spend so much as another penny now. I was not sure how much my evening might cost. It might take all my money.

  I negotiated my way around the station and found a train bound for Kingtown. I remembered making the journey with Mrs Briskett when I left the hospital. It seemed many years ago, and yet it was only a matter of months. I’d been so young and innocent then, so full of hope. Everything had seemed so bizarre and new and puzzling, but I’d had the thought of Mama sustaining me. She had seemed so far away then – but it was so much worse now, when she’d gone away for ever.

  I shut my eyes and pressed my lips together. I would not let myself think that. I had to believe that Mama was still here – soon I might even be talking to her …

  It seemed so strange stepping out of Kingtown station early that evening. I thought of Bertie and longed to see him. Did he still care for me – or had he forgotten about me already? Was he out walking with some other girl today? I thought of Kitty and Ivy in the draper’s shop. Had Bertie taken Kitty out in the rowing boat, along the river to our secret island? Was he strolling in the park with Ivy, picturing for all he was worth?

  No, surely Kitty would squeal and fidget and capsize the boat – and dim Ivy could not conjure up any fancies worth a farthing. I tossed my head. Bertie might well find it difficult to find a girl to replace me.

  But I was not here to try to find Bertie. I walked along the familiar roads until I reached Lady’s Ride. I passed Mr Buchanan’s splendid big house, peering up at his study window. I was ready to thumb my nose at him, but there was no sign of little Monkey Man. I looked at the area steps and wondered whether to slip in to see dear old Mrs Briskett – but it was getting late and I didn’t think there was time. I was sure I would see Sarah shortly.

  I walked on, trying hard to remember the way, once anxiously tracing my steps when I took a wrong turning. At last I found myself in the little street of cottages with bright flowers in the gardens. I counted along to the right one and walked up the garden path. I saw that the blinds at the windows were closely drawn.

  I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. After a few moments the same tall dark woman, Emily, opened it and gazed at me enquiringly.

  ‘Good evening. Is Madame Berenice holding a seance tonight?’

  ‘Yes, she is. Please come in.’ Emily looked at me closely in the dimly lit hall. ‘I think you have visited us before …’

  ‘Yes, with Sarah.’

  ‘Ah! You are the little girl who ran away! I believe your brother made contact from the spirit world and it frightened you a little.’

  ‘It frightened me a great deal! I never cared for that brother.’

  ‘But you wish to communicate with him again?’

  ‘No! No, I’m here because – my dear mama has died and I’m desperate to make contact with her again.’

  ‘Oh, you poor child. Well, I’m sure Madame Berenice will do her very best. Would you care to leave your remuneration on the silver plate on the hallstand? It will be five shillings to hear her voice, and ten for an actual materialization. I’m afraid there are no guarantees, though. The spirits are contrary creatures and won’t always come when they are bidden.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said, counting my coins. ‘There!’ I let a handful of threepennies, sixpennies and shillings clatter down on the plate.

  Emily’s dark eyes flickered over the coins, clearly counting. ‘Yes, that will be sufficient,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’

  She led me into the darkened room. Just like last time, I could barely distinguish anything. I sensed, rather than saw, my fellow clients.

  ‘Come and join us, child,’ said the deep, thrilling voice of Madame Berenice.

  I felt my way to the chairs around the table.

  ‘Hetty! Is that you?’ Sarah whispered. She reached out and took my hand. ‘Oh, Hetty, how we’ve worried over you! How are you, dear? Did you come here specially to find me?’

  ‘I – I came here to find … someone else,’ I said. ‘Oh, Sarah, my mama …’ I couldn’t continue, but she understood, and gripped my hand harder.

  ‘Oh, you poor child! I am so sorry. But you have come to the right place. You will be wondrously comforted,’ she said.

  Emily was whispering to Madame Berenice.

  ‘I believe you have requested a materialization, Hetty?�
�� said Madame Berenice. ‘I’m afraid Sarah has requested one too, but there can only be one each night. There is no greater wonder in all nature, but it takes immense effort to summon up psycho-plastic matter. I cannot possibly manage two such projections in quick succession.’

  ‘Let it be Hetty’s materialization, Madame Berenice,’ said Sarah. ‘I have experienced this wonder many times.’

  ‘That is very generous of you, Sarah,’ said Madame Berenice.

  ‘Thank you! Thank you so much!’ I said, giving Sarah a hug.

  ‘Now now, settle down, child. Let us all concentrate. The spirits are restless tonight, eager to communicate. We will join hands anew and see who visits us first.’

  I sat between Sarah and an old lady who clung to me with her dry little mittened hand. I could dimly see the old lady on her other side, and the drooping figure of Mr Brown. There were three other women. It was going to be a very long evening. My heart pounded in my chest. Would Mama come? Would she speak to me? Would I see her dear face again?

  ‘Is there anybody there?’ Madame Berenice asked throatily. ‘Yes! Yes, there is a child here, an eager young chap.’ Her own voice became little and piping. ‘Hello, Father dear!’

  ‘It’s my Cedric!’ said Mr Brown, choking with emotion.

  We sat in our circle while little Cedric chatted inconsequentially and Mr Brown shed happy tears. Then long-lost sweethearts and cherished companions took it in turns to commune. They talked of heavenly peace and shining light and cosmic harmony, but they didn’t say anything specific about their spirit world. They were all very loving, but their messages seemed unbearably tedious as time ticked slowly by in the dark, stifling room. They enquired genteelly about someone’s cough or bad back. One of the old ladies in the spirit world explained to her friend in the room exactly how to make a beneficial peppermint tisane.

  I fidgeted desperately, willing her to hurry up. My mama might be waiting to get a word in while we were being solemnly instructed to add a teaspoon of sugar to each pint of peppermint.