Brightling

by Rebecca Lisle

  ‘Love? Don’t know what that word means.’ Glori shrugged and stared at the ground, embarrassed. ‘She’s the only ma I ever knew. She might not be the ma I’d choose, like, but she’s the one I got. Better than no ma at all.’

  ‘I think she’s a bit scary,’ Sparrow said tentatively. ‘Up and down, hard to get to grips with.’

  Glori laughed. ‘She might be. I’m used to her, I s’pose. We’ve been together years. She wouldn’t ever let me go!’

  They stopped in Middle Square. Ancient stone pillars supporting a low, sloping roof encircled it. Under its cover, stallholders had set up their tables and counters to sell their produce – eggs, massive cheeses, salamis, fresh fruit and flowers. Behind the stalls there were shops too – bookshops, tool shops, shoe and boot shops and fabric shops. Sparrow’s heart began to beat faster; she could feel it thumping in her throat: all these shops, any one of them could be Sampson’s; all these people and any one of them could be a Sampson.

  ‘We’ll go over there,’ Kate said, pointing to the far side. ‘Outside Billington’s Boots and Shoes.’ She gave Glori a wry smile and a wink. ‘Good luck, girl.’

  ‘You’re the one needs it,’ Glori said. ‘Take care.’

  ‘Isn’t Kate very good at selling then?’ Sparrow asked her as they walked off.

  ‘Ah, well, you know, not as good as me,’ Glori said vaguely.

  Glori and Sparrow settled by a colourful flower stall in front of a bookshop.

  ‘This is our pitch. Now take the covering off your tray,’ Glori told Sparrow. ‘Sort it out so it’s neat. That’s it. We’ll stay until the tray’s empty. All the pennies go in the purse. Ready?’

  Sparrow nodded. ‘It’s not, you know, illegal, is it?’ she asked quickly.

  Glori shook her head. ‘Would I do it if it was?’

  People were streaming past them; sometimes they bumped into Sparrow, as if she wasn’t even there. At first Sparrow said sorry when it happened and when it continued she started to make faces at them behind their backs. Match-girls, she soon realised, were very low in the pecking order of Stollenback society.

  ‘Those matches are pretty, my dear,’ said a woman, looking at Sparrow’s tray. ‘But I can’t afford them. We use a tinderbox at home … Oh go on, I’ll take a box as a special treat. They’re so quick and easy, aren’t they?’

  Sparrow handed over the matches and slipped the penny into her purse. ‘I’ve made my first sale!’ she whispered to Glori.

  ‘Well done.’ Glori smiled back at her. ‘Yes sir, that’s right, a penny a box, very fine matches. Extra long! Every single matchstick guaranteed to light,’ Glori rattled off beside her. ‘Matches! Matches!’

  The hours went by slowly. Selling matches was a dull job once the novelty of being out in town had worn off. Thank goodness she wasn’t expected to do this every day, Sparrow thought. The cold seemed to strike up from the cobbles and through the soles of her feet. Her hands were freezing.

  Every opportunity she had, Sparrow looked at the shops, trying to see their names; Read Well, a bookshop, a cobbler’s called Heels & Toes, a sewing shop whose window was a rainbow of coloured bobbins, and an ironmonger’s with pans and rakes and metal bathtubs stacked outside. No shop selling baby shawls. No weavers. Perhaps a weaver wouldn’t be in the centre of town; perhaps they’d have some sort of mill out of town?

  Sparrow’s legs began to ache from standing still for so long and she leaned back against the stone pillar. She wondered how Scaramouch was without her. Hettie would be kind to him – as long as he didn’t scratch her. She wasn’t so sure how kind Violet would be. Poor Scaramouch. Perhaps she could find a treat to take back to him?

  Sparrow shifted her tray to a more comfortable position. Glori and the other two girls had all started the day with more matches than Sparrow and now Sparrow’s tray was almost empty and her purse was heavy with copper coins.

  ‘Penny a box!’ Glori called beside her. ‘Beautiful matches! Burn a full minute!’

  Suddenly a man wearing a tall hat stopped beside Sparrow, momentarily blocking the sun and casting a shadow over her.

  ‘Yes, sir? Hello. How can I help you, sir?’ Sparrow said. ‘Matches?’

  Beneath the black hat his cheeks were very pink against his white, white skin as if they’d just been scrubbed with soap. A grey moustache lay like a little upturned caterpillar along his top lip. He leaned over Sparrow’s tray of matches and said very quietly, ‘What else? What else could I possibly want?’

  Sparrow looked back at him blankly. What else? ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he persisted and very slowly, very meaningfully, he winked one small, grey eye at her.

  Sparrow turned to Glori for help, and instantly Glori was there, stepping protectively in front of Sparrow and looking at the man with a hostile expression. ‘We don’t sell anything but matches, sir,’ Glori said.

  The man touched his hat politely and retreated, smiling a cunning smile, as if he knew differently. He vanished smoothly back into the crowd.

  ‘What an odd man!’ Sparrow said. ‘What do you think he meant?’

  ‘I don’t know. You get all sorts here,’ Glori said. ‘Don’t worry about him, Sparrow.’

  Sparrow didn’t worry about him. She grew more and more bored as time slowly passed. She kept looking round the square at the shoppers and stallholders, imagining what fun it would be to make cheese or spin your own wool. What sort of shops might there be on the other side of the square … ? Impulsively she took the almost-empty tray from around her neck and rested it against the wall behind Glori’s feet. She could just slip over and have a quick peep, she thought. Nothing could happen to her in the square.

  She glanced over towards Kate and Agnes on the other side, where Kate’s dark red hair shone in the winter sunshine like a beacon. Kate was having a very intense conversation with a fat young man and they were whispering together, heads bowed. Sparrow craned this way and that, trying to peer past the people moving in front of her. Why did the man look so strained and worried? He was only buying matches … There was a sudden gap in the crowd and through it Sparrow clearly saw Kate slip her hand into her tray beneath the matches. There was a miniscule flash of brilliant light, as if a tiny shooting star had passed between them; it was there – it was gone. The fat man was shuffling away with hunched shoulders and was quickly absorbed by the crowd.

  ‘Glori!’

  A horse and cart came through the square and blocked her view.

  ‘Glori!’

  Kate was selling something other than matches. She had it hidden in the tray, that’s what made it heavy. Sparrow remembered how the strap had cut into Kate’s neck when they’d set out. The stuff was bright – brilliantly bright. It had to be the same sparky stuff Miss Minter had taken from the safe – it had to be! But what was it? And did anyone else know she had it?

  Suddenly there was a harsh shout. A burly man with a top hat was yelling horribly at Kate; his face was contorted with rage. With him was the plump young man who had just bought the bright stuff.

  Kate screamed, ducked and ran.

  Immediately Sparrow felt Glori grab her arm and whisper urgently, ‘Got to go!’

  ‘It’s Kate,’ Sparrow said, clutching her. ‘That man!’

  Glori’s face was white. ‘Yes. We must go,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t make a scene.’

  ‘Guards!’ the burly man was shouting. ‘Guards! That match-girl is selling Brightling! Seize her!’ He was pointing at Kate – or at where Kate and Agnes had been, because now they had both disappeared.

  A girl shouted from the middle of the seething crowd:

  ‘THIEF!’

  It sounded like Agnes. It was Agnes. She’d ditched her tray, jumped up onto a barrel and was shouting at the top of her voice, ‘Thief! That boy stole my purse!’ She pointed into the crowd, crying, ‘There he goes! He’s got my purse! Please, please, help!’

  People started running. Everyone was shouting. The hor
se reared up, neighing, scattering empty buckets on the ground. It was chaos with everyone bumping into each other and dogs barking and running between people’s legs.

  Glori pulled Sparrow away. ‘Come on!’

  They ran, dodging this way and that, pushing against the crowd. Someone shoved against Sparrow and she felt her heavy purse fall from her waist.

  ‘Hang on!’ She bent over, quickly reaching for it.

  Glori’s hand slipped from her grasp.

  ‘Glori!’

  Sparrow struggled to reach the purse … gave up, turned back to Glori. If she lost Glori now, in this crowd … But Glori had vanished.

  A woman crashed against her, apologising as she elbowed Sparrow in the neck. Sparrow cried out, swirled away.

  ‘Help!’

  She ricocheted off something soft and bouncy, yelled, spun round and flew straight into a pillar.

  Her head smashed against the stone. A searing pain flooded through her, then everything went black.

  20

  Lost

  Miss Minter stood in the empty market square, wrapped up in a big, shapeless black coat and a large hat. She had insisted that Glori took her to the place where the accident had happened that very afternoon.

  ‘Where?’ she demanded.

  Glori pointed to the pillar where Sparrow had hit her head. ‘They said there. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘It’s the worst thing that could happen,’ Miss Minter said softly. ‘Perhaps not the worst – I can think of worse – but bad. It isn’t good. Should I blame you, Gloriana? Is it your fault?’

  ‘No, really it wasn’t. I –’

  ‘Sparrow’s first outing, her first time on the streets.’ Miss Minter dug her gloved fingers into the pillar. ‘You were in charge of her, my Gloriana. You!’

  Glori winced and swallowed a lump the size of a melon. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, as she’d said a million times. ‘It weren’t my fault.’

  ‘Wasn’t,’ Miss Minter corrected her in acid tones.

  ‘Wasn’t my fault. Anyone that ran looked like they was guilty. It was get nabbed or let Sparrow get nabbed. No choice, Miss Minter, you can see that – can’t you?’

  Miss Minter scanned the empty square. ‘And she put her tray … where?’

  Glori showed her exactly where she’d found Sparrow’s tray, neatly propped against the wall.

  ‘At least Kate got away with the Brightling,’ Miss Minter said quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ Glori looked again at the pillar where Sparrow had been hurt. ‘A gent said Sparrow were – was – badly hurt. Poor little Birdie!’

  ‘Poor little nothing!’ Miss Minter said. ‘I’ve spent money on her, all the time she’s been here, Gloriana. I’ve been seeing people, finding out, digging around for information. Your Tapper doesn’t come cheap, either.’

  Glori glanced at her nervously. ‘I know, miss. Thank you.’

  ‘Some people do have a family, it seems. Mothers and fathers. Sisters perhaps. I had a cousin once. No. Never.’ She paused, took a deep breath, started again, but her thoughts seemed jumbled. ‘Sparrow’s family history is not as straightforward as Miss Knip imagines. Tapper’s a clever lad, a smart boy. He likes you, doesn’t he?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I want Sparrow back. We must get her back. How much does Sparrow know?’

  ‘About … ?’

  ‘Yes, yes – about the Brightling.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Glori said. ‘She’s sharp, though. This morning she guessed something was wrong with the tray and when we saw Cari … ’

  ‘I’m not interested in Carina. Don’t talk to me about Carina. It’s Sparrow we must find,’ Miss Minter said. She twirled round slowly, gazing at the closed and silent shops. ‘Where can she be? Who has got her?’

  ‘She can’t even find her way back,’ Glori said. ‘I made sure, like you said, and took her a round-about way.’ She was sorry she had now, as a picture of Sparrow, wandering the streets aimlessly, came to her.

  Miss Minter pulled her hat down further over her face. ‘We must get her back quickly. Even a few words from her – the empty school, the narrow alleyway – might lead people to us.’

  ‘If she can, she’ll get back,’ Glori said. ‘She’ll come back for her cat. She won’t want to leave him, will she? I haven’t seen Scare-a-mouse since we left this morning … Where is he, Miss Minter?’

  Miss Minter looked vaguely around Middle Square. ‘I really can’t imagine,’ she said quietly, smiling slightly. ‘I expect he’ll turn up when he’s hungry.’

  21

  Hilda

  Sparrow’s first sensation was pain. It felt as if a hammer was pounding her temples and smashing against her skull. She raised her hand to her throbbing head. Bandages. She opened her eyes slowly, squinting in the light.

  ‘She’s awake,’ a woman said softly. ‘Look! Hello dearie, how are you feeling, my lovely?’

  Sparrow closed her eyes again. It seemed the safest and easiest thing to do and, really, she couldn’t speak; she couldn’t even think with this hammering going on.

  Someone, presumably the same woman, held a glass of cool water to her lips. She sipped it then lay back on the pillow. The bed was so soft – the sheets had to be absolutely white as snow, she thought, to be as soft and smooth as this. She turned her head slightly and smelled roses and honeysuckle, and felt very safe.

  ‘Can you hear us?’ A man’s voice this time.

  ‘I don’t think she’s properly awake yet, Bruno,’ the woman said. ‘She’s all dopey. Does your head hurt a great deal, you poor, dear thing?’

  Sparrow heard them quite clearly but she didn’t have the strength to answer so she kept her eyes closed. She felt wonderfully safe and relieved to be able to say nothing.

  She smiled to herself and slept.

  The next time Sparrow woke, her head didn’t hurt so much; now it wasn’t a hammer she felt, but a steel band, tight around her forehead.

  There was a gentle click clack sound somewhere near her.

  She opened her eyes.

  She was in a strange room with red roses growing up the walls. When she looked again she realised it was wallpaper and wondered how it smelled of roses, but then she saw a vase of real red roses on a chest of drawers.

  She felt along the bed for Scaramouch. He wasn’t there.

  She sat up sharply and cried out, ‘Scaramouch!’

  A plump woman of indeterminate age had been sitting knitting by the fire – that accounted for the click-clacking noise. She had blonde plaits neatly wound round her head. Her white linen collar was spotless. Her round cheeks looked soft and very pink.

  ‘She’s awake!’ The woman dropped her knitting and came to her bedside. ‘Dearie, how are you?’ she asked, leaning over her. ‘I’m Hilda, Hilda Butterworth. Three days you’ve lain there.’

  ‘Hilda Butter … ? Three days! Where’s Scaramouch?’ Sparrow muttered, looking round.

  ‘Oh I’m so glad you can speak, dearie. We were worried you were done for.’ Hilda bit her lip. ‘It was Bruno’s fault. He knocked you out cold – like a slab of meat, you were.’

  ‘Three days?’ Sparrow repeated. ‘I’ve been lying here all that time without my cat?’

  ‘I didn’t see a cat, dearie. We brought you home and looked after you because Bruno, my husband, he said it was his fault you hit your head. He got in your way. He owns a toyshop not too far from the square, and came out to see what the fuss was all about. You bounced off his big fat stomach and splat into that old pillar! Five stitches you had to have, but don’t worry,’ she added, as Sparrow touched her bandaged head, ‘it’s mostly in your hair and it won’t show.’ She smiled. ‘No one else was picking you up, were they? They’re a rum lot, our townsfolk, I sometimes think.’

  Sparrow smiled weakly. ‘Three days,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  When had she last seen Scaramouch? In the hall, in Hettie’s arms … he’d be all right. Hettie would look after him. She was a kind girl … an unhappy
girl. She remembered Cari and a sadness shot through her.

  ‘There, you’re a dear girl, aren’t you? What a nice face you’ve got. What’s your name?’

  ‘Sparrow,’ said Sparrow.

  ‘And where are you from, Sparrow? Where do you live? We’ve been so anxious – we couldn’t find out who you were. We asked and asked. Your mother and father must be so worried about you.’

  ‘I’m from nowhere,’ Sparrow said quietly.

  She felt tears come into her eyes. Her tears seemed to appal Hilda, who dabbed at them quickly with the bed sheet. ‘No, no, don’t cry,’ she squeaked. ‘What can be the matter? What is it?’

  ‘I’m an orphan. I’ve never had a home,’ Sparrow said.

  And then it was Hilda’s turn to cry. She wiped her eyes and kept trying to apologise and then started blubbing again. Finally she called downstairs to Bruno to come up.

  Sparrow’s head hurt but she didn’t mind because this woman, Hilda, was so kind and the sheets were so smooth and the room so cosy, it was like being in heaven. Where are you from? Where do you live? She didn’t want to remember the Knip and Pynch Home for Waifs and Strays or Miss Minter’s attic or making matches. She never ever wanted to recall the awful look of hopelessness on Cari’s face. She wanted to forget it all and lie here swimming in roses and white sheets for ever and ever.

  ‘Women, women,’ the man called Bruno muttered. He came stamping up the stairs with a person who Sparrow guessed immediately was Hilda’s sister because she looked very similar, though not so smiley. Her name, she learned, was Gerta.

  The three of them stood and stared at Sparrow.

  ‘She says her name is Sparrow,’ Hilda told them. ‘And she doesn’t remember anything and she’s an orphan.’

  ‘Oh is she now?’ Gerta said, making a face that meant she didn’t believe a word of it.

  Bruno was a big man. He was almost bald and had a nose like an old potato, upon which rested a pair of wire spectacles, and ears like cabbage leaves. ‘Hello, there Sparrow,’ he said, grinning widely. ‘Well, well. No more talking, if it turns on the waterworks. Sparrow? Now, that’s a funny name for a girl.’