I felt my eyes pricking with tears. Nobody had ever said I looked delightful before, not even dear Mr Dolly. If we’d been alone I’d have taken her hand and squeezed it, but the strange girl was staring.
‘This is Hetty, Clover. I’m sure you two are going to be great friends,’ said Miss Smith.
I wasn’t so sure about that, for all everyone’s insistence. Hetty was eyeing me up and down. She didn’t look too sure either.
‘Come along, girls. I thought we’d go to the Northgate Tearooms in Piccadilly,’ Miss Smith said.
‘Oh lovely, my favourite,’ said Hetty, and as we went out into the alley she took hold of Miss Smith’s hand. ‘Then might we go to the stationer’s nearby? I have very nearly finished writing in the notebook you so kindly bought me.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Miss Smith. ‘If you’re a good girl.’
‘Miss Smith, I’m always good,’ said Hetty, laughing.
I doubted that! The alley was narrow and there was no room for me on the other side of Miss Smith. I had to tag along behind. Hetty had long red plaits bouncing on her back, so tightly tied it was a wonder her blue eyes didn’t pop right out of her head.
I wondered why she wore such strange clothing. People stared at her, and when we walked along the Strand someone pointed and said, ‘Look at that foundling child!’
Hetty stuck her nose in the air, acting like she hadn’t even heard, but she went pink. She looked back to see if I’d heard.
‘This is the Strand, Clover,’ she said slowly, as if I were daft in the head. ‘It’s very busy, isn’t it? You mustn’t mind all the carriages and cabs. You’ll get used to the traffic soon enough.’
‘I’m used to it already,’ I said. ‘And I know the Strand very well. See that theatre over there? My dear friend Thelma dances on the stage there.’
Miss Smith blinked a little at that, but didn’t seem as shocked as Miss Ainsley.
‘She dances on the stage?’ Hetty repeated. She let go of Miss Smith’s hand and walked in step with me. ‘Tell me, does she wear a pink sparkly dress and fleshings?’
‘No, she wears all different colour dresses with amazing red pointy boots with ribbons,’ I said.
‘Red pointy boots with ribbons!’ said Hetty, glancing down at her own clumsy footwear. ‘Oh, how I wish I had red boots!’
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Though I have a beautiful pair of fine felt boots specially made for me. I’d have worn them today, but I have to save them for best. They were made to go with my coat.’
‘Yes, I can see it’s finely styled,’ said Hetty. It was sunny but with an autumnal bite to the air, and she was shivering in her short sleeves. ‘Pity it’s so plain though. And black.’
‘It’s plain and black because I’m in mourning,’ I retorted.
Miss Smith was listening to both of us attentively. ‘Clover’s family were stricken with scarlet fever. She lost her little sister.’
‘That’s so terrible. I’ve lost a brother, and I felt so bad when he died. And what about your mother? She didn’t get the fever too . . .’
‘She died long ago, when I was little.’
‘Oh, you must miss her so,’ Hetty said.
‘Yes, I do,’ I said, truthfully enough, because I’d felt the lack of my real mother throughout my childhood.
‘I know just how you feel,’ said Hetty. ‘It’s the worst thing in the world to lose your mother.’
Miss Smith was looking at her sympathetically. ‘Hetty has lost her mother too,’ she said.
But when she was momentarily distracted by a flower girl on the steps of a big church, Hetty came close to me. ‘I had lost my mother – but now I’ve found her again! It’s a secret though. You won’t tell, will you?’
‘I promise,’ I said, touched that Hetty trusted me with such an important secret. I licked my finger. ‘See my finger wet.’ I wiped it on my dress. ‘See my finger dry.’ Then I drew my finger across my neck. ‘Cut my throat if I tell a lie!’
We shook hands solemnly. Miss Smith looked round and saw us.
‘I see you two are friends already,’ she said, smiling. ‘Look, girls, this is the great church of St Martin-in-the-Fields.’
We looked. I couldn’t see St Martin and there were no fields anywhere in sight, but I tried to look impressed, and Hetty did the same. We decided we preferred the four great bronze lions in Trafalgar Square. Hetty wanted to climb on them but Miss Smith wouldn’t let her. She hurried us towards Piccadilly and the tearoom and we skipped along, though Hetty stopped once, catching sight of herself in the plate-glass windows of a large shop.
‘Oh my Lord, I look such a guy,’ she said. ‘You’re so lucky to have fancy clothes, Clover.’
It was the first time in my life that anyone had envied my clothes.
‘You should have seen me a few weeks ago. I wore old rags and my boots were so worn out the soles flapped,’ I said.
‘I wish these blooming boots would wear out,’ said Hetty, stamping her big foot. ‘And my frock has no doubt been passed down from foundling to foundling for the last hundred years at least!’
‘Do you have to wear that get-up all the time?’
Hetty nodded. ‘But when I’m grown up I shall wear silks and satins and smooth velvets in beautiful bright colours. I am going to be a writer and I shall publish books and make sacks of gold so I will be able to afford a fine dress for every day of the week,’ she declared.
Miss Smith raised her eyebrows. ‘Where are my sacks of gold, hmm?’ she asked, laughing. ‘I doubt I’ve earned half a sack throughout my entire career! But at least I’ve made a comfortable sufficiency, enough to treat two dear girls on their best behaviour.’
And treat us she did, taking us into a beautiful tearoom with golden doors and window frames, and a burly gentleman standing to attention on the steps to welcome customers and keep away the riff-raff. The walls were papered rose pink, with a deeper rose carpet on the floor. The tables were covered in white damask cloths and there were gold chairs with rose velvet cushions.
‘Oh my!’ I said, looking about me in awe.
‘Oh, we go to all the finest tearooms, don’t we, Miss Smith?’ said Hetty, sitting at the nearest table and lolling back in her chair, examining the menu, totally at ease.
I still felt flustered, particularly when a waiter tried to take my coat. I held on to it for dear life, sure he was trying to steal Mr Dolly’s masterpiece. Miss Smith whispered that he only wanted to hang it up for me, and promised he would give it back at the end of our meal, but I still clung on determinedly.
‘I don’t blame you, Clover. If I had a fine coat like that I’d want to keep my eye on it,’ said Hetty. ‘Now, which tea are we going to drink? Do you fancy Earl Grey or Darjeeling or Gunpowder or Orange Pekoe or Rose Petal?’
I thought she was making up these strange names – surely tea was tea. I wasn’t sure she’d be able to read the fancy writing anyway, but when she passed me the menu I saw the listed teas for myself.
‘My goodness!’ I said. ‘I think I’ll have Rose Petal! Then my drink will match this lovely room.’
‘And I’ll have Gunpowder, and if anyone strikes a match my tea will explode!’ said Hetty.
Miss Smith chose Earl Grey, the dullest. Hetty and I were a little disappointed when our teapots arrived. Hetty expected her tea to be fizzing ominously but it seemed perfectly tranquil, and I’d hoped my tea would be pink and fragrant but it looked an ordinary brown, though it did smell a little of roses.
The food was far more astonishing. Miss Smith ordered a plate of sandwiches for us to share. I expected a hunk of bread with dripping or jam. Instead there were slithers of soft snowy bread without any crust containing mashed-up egg or grated cheese or pink ham, all delicately garnished and set out on the plate in such a beautiful pattern that it seemed criminal to take one.
But Miss Smith bade us eat up, so we did, and each filling was delicious. I thought she had forgotten her promise of cakes and buns and had chosen sandwi
ches instead, but as soon as the sandwich plate was gone the waiter brought us a plate of strange pale-gold morsels that were perhaps cakes, perhaps buns.
‘These are scones,’ said Miss Smith. ‘And see these little pots of jam and cream? We spread these on the scones.’
Hetty wasn’t quite as knowledgeable as she made out because she set about slathering cream and jam on the top of her scone. Miss Smith didn’t say a word, but I saw that she split her own scone in two and applied the cream and jam to the inside. I did my best to copy her but found my knife had a will of its own, and I ended up with very sticky fingers. Even eating the scone itself was rather a challenge. The jam and cream oozed out whenever I took a bite and I ended up spilling it down my coat, which was upsetting.
Miss Smith saw me rubbing at it with my napkin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll clean it for you when we get back to the home,’ she said quietly.
‘It’s all right, my friend Thelma showed me how to sponge a coat,’ I said quickly.
‘You’re obviously a very messy eater, Clover!’ said Hetty, cheerfully licking her own jam and cream off the top of her scone as if it were a penny ice cream.
The scone was so delicious it was worth the embarrassment of spilling it. I was starting to feel wonderfully full. The waiter returned to give us fresh pots of tea – and then he brought a huge silver cake stand.
‘Would you like me to describe the cakes for you?’ he asked.
Hetty and I nodded, speechless.
‘The top plate comprises pink iced sponge cakes with a butter-cream layer and a crystalized rose as decoration, choux éclairs filled with fresh cream and topped with coffee icing, and meringues, also filled with cream and garnished with blackberries and slices of peach. The middle plate has refreshing lemon tarts and cherry pie in a shortcrust pastry sprinkled with icing sugar, and chocolate gateau with piped chocolate cream and a layer of raspberry jam. The third plate has your specially requested buns, iced pink and white and yellow. I hope you enjoy them, madam, little misses,’ said the waiter, scarcely drawing breath.
For a full minute Hetty and I were speechless, staring at the sweet splendour in front of us.
‘Help yourself, girls,’ said Miss Smith.
It was so difficult to choose!
‘Could we possibly have two, Miss Smith?’ I whispered.
‘You may have as many as you like. Just don’t give yourselves a tummy ache,’ Miss Smith told us.
She selected a pink cake, ate it in four neat bites and then started on a coffee éclair. So Hetty and I started tucking in too. I’d asked Miss Smith for buns and she’d taken the trouble to order them specially and I very badly wanted buns, but I knew what buns tasted like. I’d never had a pink sponge cake or an éclair or a fruit meringue or lemon tart or cherry pie or chocolate gateau, and I was already quite full.
I thought of Sissy trying to take her meat pudding away with her. I’d have even less success attempting to stuff a cake or two into my napkin.
Hetty reached out for the chocolate gateau, the biggest cake on the stand – so I did too. Miss Smith touched the little silver forks by our china plates, indicating that we should use them to eat the gateau. It seemed an odd idea and I’d already had a battle with the knife, but I did my best. Hetty didn’t bother. She simply picked up her gateau in both hands and started munching away. By the time she’d finished she had smears of chocolate all round her mouth and on her cheeks, and I dare say my face needed a good wash too.
‘Perhaps you’d better run to the ladies’ room, girls, and splash your hands and faces,’ said Miss Smith, pointing to the back of the tearoom.
We ran off together, winding our way through the tables. Some of the grand ladies stared at us haughtily, but we didn’t care. We peered at ourselves in the great glass mirror in the washroom and laughed out loud, before splashing ourselves liberally. Then we used the water closets, which were far grander than the ones at the home. The chains even had gold handles.
‘Do you think they’re real gold?’ I breathed.
‘Maybe!’ said Hetty. ‘My, aren’t they amazing? At the hospital we just have privies. It’s awful if you get picked to clean them!’
‘What’s it like there?’ I asked.
‘It’s horrible. I hate it. I especially hate the matrons – they’re so cruel and strict.’
‘Why are you in a hospital? You don’t seem at all ill,’ I asked.
‘It’s just called a hospital. We’re not sick. Well, we all had the influenza once, but that’s all. We’re there because our mothers couldn’t look after us. I know it broke my mother’s heart having to leave me there. So what’s it like at Miss Smith’s home? She’s not in the least cruel or strict,’ said Hetty.
‘No, she is lovely,’ I agreed. ‘But we are taught by Miss Ainsley, and she is very particular and quite strict. She once sent me out of the room in disgrace but she’s not cruel. She doesn’t beat us and I suppose she tries to be fair.’
‘What are the other girls like?’
‘Some of them were very mean at first, but they’re nicer now. And the little ones are sweet, and I especially like the oldest girl, Sissy,’ I said.
‘Oh, Sissy!’ said Hetty. ‘I like her too. She was so kind to me. You’re lucky to have her as a friend.’
‘Can’t you come and live in Miss Smith’s home too?’
‘Oh, how I wish I could! But I have to stay in the hospital until I am fourteen, and besides, I get to see my dearest mother in secret and that helps me bear it there,’ Hetty told me. ‘She’s my very special secret friend. I’m not friends with the other girls there now. And I’m deadly enemies with Sheila.’
‘Can we be friends, Hetty?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, I’d like that,’ said Hetty, and we gave each other a hug. Then we ran back to Miss Smith and started anew on the cakes. I ate a pink cake and a coffee éclair and a lemon tart and a meringue and a cherry pie, and then flopped back in my chair, my stomach stretched to bursting point.
The buns stayed untouched. I stared at them anxiously. I wanted them so much – but I knew I was in danger of being sick then and there if I ate another morsel. Miss Smith saw me looking at them. Hetty was peering hopefully at the remaining cakes.
‘I will ask the waiter to bring a cake box and you two girls can take some back with you,’ she said.
‘Could I perhaps have the last lemon tart and maybe the cherry pie because – because I know someone who would especially appreciate them,’ said Hetty.
‘You can have all the cakes if I can have the buns,’ I said.
So we walked out of the tearoom with two full cake boxes, big smiles on our faces and big tummies under our frocks.
There was one extra wonderful treat. Miss Smith took us to a magnificent stationer’s shop down a little alleyway and allowed Hetty to choose a new notebook for her journal.
‘I’ll have this lovely sapphire-blue one,’ said Hetty. ‘To match my eyes!’
‘Would you like to start keeping a journal too, Clover?’ Miss Smith asked. ‘Perhaps you could choose a green one to match your eyes?’
I hesitated, carefully looking inside all these wonderful notebooks, relieved I’d washed my hands thoroughly.
‘Do they all have lined pages?’ I asked.
‘Oh no, miss. We have notebooks with blank pages too. They are generally used for sketching,’ said the stationer.
‘Oh, I would love a sketchbook!’ I said. ‘A sketchbook like Mr Rivers’s!’
‘Did you fancy a green volume, miss? How about this one?’
He showed me a beautiful deep green marbled notebook. I opened it with trembling hands. The pages were creamy smooth and blank.
‘This one?’ said Miss Smith softly. ‘And perhaps a packet of coloured pencils too?’
‘Oh, Miss Smith, you truly are an angel!’ I said.
19
BACK AT THE home I had six buns to give away – two pink, two white and two yellow. I wondered about cementing the uneasy truce wit
h Mary-Ann by giving her one of the buns – but then I’d have to give one to Julia too, and all the other girls in the dormitory would start clamouring.
I went to the nursery instead. Sissy was there with the little ones, reading them a story, but they didn’t seem to be listening properly. Sissy read aloud so slowly, her usual lively voice a monotone. Jane was muttering under her breath and fidgeting, Elspeth and Moira were poking each other and giggling, and little Pammy seemed fast asleep, her head on her knees.
She woke up soon enough when I opened my cake box.
‘Who would like a bun?’ I asked.
‘They’ll be having their supper shortly!’ Sissy protested, but she let them select a bun each. Elspeth and Moira both chose pink.
‘I want pink!’ Jane yelled, predictably enough.
‘I should choose the white – it has jam inside!’ I whispered in her ear, so she grabbed a white bun.
‘Would you like a white bun too, Pammy?’ I asked.
Pammy nodded and held her hand out for it nervously, as if it might bite. She had to be persuaded to have the first nibble, but soon she was wolfing it down as eagerly as the others.
‘You must have a bun too, Sissy,’ I insisted.
‘Then you’ll only have one left for yourself,’ she said.
‘But I’ve already had sandwiches and scones and cake. Oh, Sissy, the tea! Miss Smith is so kind and generous. Look, she’s bought me a sketchbook too, and a packet of pencils.’
‘There, I bet you’re glad you came here now,’ said Sissy, persuaded into having a bun after all.
I reflected as I ate my own bun. The primrose yellow icing was sweet, but inside the soft bun there was a large dollop of sharp lemon curd. It was the most delicious combination I’d ever tasted and I licked my fingers appreciatively. I was glad I’d come. I’d still give anything to have Megs back, but without her my home in Cripps Alley meant nothing to me.
At our lunch-time recreation the next day I took my sketchbook and a pencil and went to sit in the window seat to catch the light. I drew Megs from memory, copying Mr Rivers’s style a little, using delicate lines and adding shading to make her look more real. I made several false starts, but at last I managed to capture a reasonable likeness. She was there on the page staring back at me, sucking her thumb, her eyes huge in her tiny pointed face, her hair like dandelion fluff.