‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir, beg pardon, sir, the poor child is having some kind of fit. Let me carry her away until she recovers,’ said Sarah, struggling to her knees.
I had had all the breath knocked out of me, but I still could not keep quiet.
‘You wicked, evil, terrible thief!’ I screamed hoarsely at Mr Buchanan. ‘You said my story was coarse and unacceptable and no one would ever publish it. And now I know why! You’ve taken it, you’re writing it! You’re just changing the names and putting in long words and mealy-mouthed moral comments, but it’s still my story.’
‘Cease this ridiculous insubordinate babbling at once, or I shall turn you out of my house immediately,’ said Mr Buchanan.
Sarah tried to clamp her hand right over my mouth. ‘Oh no, sir, take pity on her. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. It’s as if the Devil himself has got hold of her tongue,’ she said.
I prised her fingers away, refusing to be restrained. ‘I do so know what I’m saying! You’ve stolen my memoirs, my life! You’re a wicked thief. You think you’re so saintly, but I think you’re going straight to Hell with all the other devils!’
‘That’s it! Go and pack your bags. I will not have you in my house another minute. I am dismissing you forthwith,’ said Mr Buchanan.
‘No, no, please!’ Sarah begged.
‘Without a character reference!’ added Mr Buchanan.
‘But, sir, how will she get another position without one?’ said Sarah.
‘That’s not my concern,’ he said.
‘No, you are just concerned with stealing a poor girl’s work!’ I shouted.
‘Remove this terrible fishwife child from my presence,’ said Mr Buchanan to Sarah.
‘Not until you give me back my memoirs! I’ll not have you copying any more of them. Give them back to me!’ I cried. ‘Give them back this instant or I’ll … I’ll fetch a policeman!’
‘Hetty, Hetty, hush!’ said Sarah, struggling with me.
‘Lord save us, what’s happening?’ said Mrs Briskett, running into the study, her great bulk knocking over columns of books to the left and the right. ‘Oh, Hetty Feather, was that you shrieking at the master?’
‘I am not her master. She is no longer in my employment. Be so good as to turn her out of this house immediately. I will not be shouted at and abused by a wretched foundling child, especially when I’ve shown her every kindness!’ He was shouting too, his fez slipping sideways as he jerked his head in emphasis.
‘I won’t go! Not without my memoirs! They’re my property. You shall not steal them. Give them back!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, you evil-tongued little harpy.’
‘Yes you do. You took them from me. Give them back – please, please! That book means the whole world to me. It’s my life, mine and Mama’s.’ I was crying now, tears of pure rage.
Mr Buchanan was breathing heavily, sweat standing out on his wrinkled brow. ‘You’ve clearly taken leave of your senses. I know nothing of these so-called memoirs. Now get out of my study this instant.’
‘You liar!’ I shouted.
Mrs Briskett gasped and crossed herself piously. She tried to seize hold of me, but I clung to a corner of Mr Buchanan’s desk, screaming.
‘If you please, sir, she means that little red notebook, scribbled all over. Are you sure you don’t still have it?’ said Sarah bravely.
‘I am quite sure – and if you don’t hold your tongue, you will find yourself dismissed as well,’ said Mr Buchanan, puffing himself up like a little bullfrog. A button on his waistcoat burst and his watch popped out of his pocket. It dangled there on his watch chain, along with an onyx seal and a little silver key. The key to his desk drawer?
It was no use asking politely. This was my only chance. I darted forward and snatched at the chain, tugging so hard that it broke. I had the key in my hand before he could stop me. I slotted it straight into the desk drawer – and there, inside, were two notebooks. One contained my own precious memoirs – and the other was an entirely new manuscript. I whipped open the first page.
Emerald Greenwich – the Story of a Foundling Child … by Chas. G. Buchanan
‘There!’ I said, clutching my own memoirs. ‘I knew it! You did steal my memoirs! You’re using them for your own story!’
‘Oh, sir!’ said Sarah, looking shocked.
‘Now now, Sarah – be warned!’ said Mrs Briskett anxiously.
‘Of course I haven’t stolen your ridiculous memoirs, Hetty Feather! I had no idea you called your pathetic little journal by such a grand title. “Memoirs” indeed!’
‘You’ve copied some of it out, and put it under your name!’
‘Yes, I have started copying out a new version. I have taken the time and trouble to try to improve your work, to show you the correct way to go about composition. I was then intending to go over it with you, carefully instructing you. Yet this is the way you repay me, screaming ludicrous accusations at me and attacking my person, actually breaking my watch chain. Just wait till I report these events to the hospital!’
‘No, you just wait till I report to Miss Smith on the Board of Governors that you’ve stolen my memoirs. Look, you’ve written your name by the title – that’s absolute proof!’
I tried to snatch that manuscript too, but Mr Buchanan was too quick for me this time. He picked it up and beat me hard about the head with it, sending me reeling.
‘Now, leave these premises immediately, Hetty Feather,’ he said. ‘Take her out of my sight this instant or I shall fetch a policeman myself. I shall report your behaviour and show him the broken links of my watch chain, and you will go straight to prison. It’s the best place for you, you wicked, ungrateful girl.’
‘Quick, Mrs B! Let’s get her out!’ said Sarah.
They took hold of me, each with a hand in my armpit, and hauled me out bodily, my feet scarcely brushing the floor – though I still had my memoirs clasped to my chest. They dragged me down all the stairs to the kitchen and then let me go.
‘Oh, Hetty, what have you done! He’ll never take you back now, no matter how we beg,’ said Sarah, starting to cry.
‘I wouldn’t stay here now even if he begged me,’ I said fiercely, my head held high.
‘But what will you do, you silly child? You’ll never get another position as a servant without a character reference,’ said Mrs Briskett, wringing her hands.
‘I will – I will try my hand at something other than service,’ I said grandly, though my heart was beating fast. ‘I will make my own way in the world. Somehow.’
‘But where will you sleep tonight?’ Sarah asked.
‘She will have to go back to the hospital,’ said Mrs Briskett.
‘I am not going back there, not ever. I’d sooner walk the streets,’ I declared.
‘Oh, Hetty, if only you weren’t so headstrong!’ said Sarah. ‘You have no idea what life can be like for young girls cast out without a character. So many girls come to a bad end, through no real fault of their own.’
‘I won’t come to a bad end, I promise,’ I said.
‘But what will you do?’
I thought desperately. I remembered when I’d run away before. I’d sold flowers on the street with Sissy, and then Miss Smith had found me. Miss Smith had told us about one of her charities, set up to help destitute young girls. I supposed I was destitute now. The very word made me shudder.
‘I shall go to London and see my friend Miss Smith. She will help me,’ I said firmly. ‘Don’t worry, Sarah, I will be fine.’
‘Of course I’ll worry! You’re like a little sister to me now,’ said Sarah, and she gave me a hug.
‘A very bad little sister,’ said Mrs Briskett, but she came and hugged me too.
I felt like a very small slice of ham in the midst of a very large sandwich, but I was so touched by their concern and kindness that I had to fight not to cry.
I went to the scullery to pack my box – my retrieved memoirs, my books, my lit
tle fairground china dog, my letters from Mama and Jem, my writing paper and envelopes, my brushes, my spare maid’s dress, my nightgown. They all fitted neatly inside. But what about my green Sunday outfit? I tried folding it this way and that, but it was heavy velvet and I could not make it small enough.
‘Wait, Hetty!’ said Sarah. She ran all the way upstairs and came panting back with her own leather suitcase with a strap. ‘You may have this. Mother gave it to me when I first went into service.’
‘But I can’t take it, Sarah – not if it was a present from your mother.’
‘I have no need of it now. I’ve nowhere to go. Mother would want you to have it, I am sure, especially now, when … when the two of you have met,’ said Sarah shyly.
I gave her another hug, feeling dreadful that I had never quite appreciated her properly. I was surprised by Mrs Briskett too, because when I went back into the kitchen with the packed suitcase, I found she’d made me up a veritable picnic in a big paper bag.
‘It’s so kind of you, Mrs Briskett! It will keep me going all day long.’
‘You’ll also need this.’ She went to the larder and took down her jar of housekeeping money. I thought she’d count me out a few shillings – but she gave me the whole jarful.
‘I can’t take it!’
‘Of course you can. You’ll likely need every penny. You’ll be able to stay somewhere small but decent for a few days until this Miss Smith can find you work.’
‘Oh, Mrs B!’
‘Mrs Briskett to you, missy! Now, mind you write and let us know how you’re getting on. We’ll worry ourselves sick about you till we hear, won’t we, Sarah?’
‘Oh, we will, we will,’ said Sarah, giving me another hug.
‘You’re sure you know the way to the station? You must ask for a ticket to Waterloo – that’s the London station. When you arrive there, use some of your money on a hansom cab, do you hear, Hetty? And if you get lost up in town, then look for a policeman and ask him the way. Take care now!’
‘Oh don’t! She looks so little. We can’t let her go!’ said Sarah. She stared around wildly. ‘Can’t we hide her somewhere, here in the house? Just for a day or two, while we sort things out for her?’
Mrs Briskett frowned, clearly wavering. But then the bell from Mr Buchanan’s study started jingling fiercely.
‘Oh! Oh, maybe master’s changed his mind! You be ready to say you’re very very sorry, Hetty,’ said Sarah, straightening her cap and gown and rushing out of the kitchen to the stairs.
‘I’m not sorry. It’s the master who did something wrong, not me!’ I said – but I was wavering too. Now that my temper was ebbing away I was starting to feel very, very scared. Perhaps I would apologize. I didn’t need to mean the words. Inside my head I could scream that Mr Buchanan was a dishonest, hypocritical thief, just so long as I didn’t say it out loud. Then I could stay in my position with Mrs Briskett and Sarah, where I felt so safe and cared for.
But it was no use. Sarah came back, chalk-faced and tearful. ‘Oh, he won’t relent!’ she said. ‘He asked if Hetty had gone, and when I said she was still doing her packing, he said he would have her physically thrown out on the street if she wasn’t gone in the next five minutes!’
‘I’d like to see him try! He’s just a withered little monkey man! He couldn’t lift me, for I’d scream and kick and hit him,’ I declared.
‘Hush, Hetty. Stop that silly talk! The master will fetch someone to do it. You might get hurt. You’d best go straight away,’ said Mrs Briskett.
‘He says he’ll be watching from his window to make sure he’s seen the back of you,’ said Sarah.
‘Then I’ll show him my blooming back,’ I said. I had one last hug with Sarah and gave Mrs Briskett a shy kiss. ‘Thank you so much for looking after me,’ I said.
Mrs Briskett’s face started wobbling. Great tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Oh my, now look! You’ve set me off – and I can’t abide crying!’ she sobbed.
‘Then don’t cry, Mrs Briskett, please. I shall be fine. Goodbye, my dear friends.’
I took Sarah’s mother’s suitcase and my bag of goodies, and walked swiftly out of the kitchen, through the scullery and down the back passage. I opened the door to the area steps and climbed up onto the pavement. There was Mr Buchanan peering down at me, still looking outraged. He actually shook his monkey fist at me.
Well, I’d show him. I pulled the most ferocious face up at him, and made a strange gesture with my fingers – I’d seen the boys do this at the hospital. I hoped it was rude. Certainly, judging by the expression on his face, it had considerable effect. Then I sauntered down the road, my head in the air, as if I was simply out for a Sunday stroll.
Oh, my Lord – what was I going to do about Bertie? As soon as I was out of sight of the house, I slowed down and started shivering. It seemed as if I would never see Bertie again. I thought of our happy Sunday jaunts, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut to stop myself crying on the street.
Then something large and warm and boisterous bounced straight into me. It knocked the suitcase and paper bag out of my arms, and licked my face with a very big wet tongue.
‘Tommy! Down, boy! Down, I say. I know you like the little missy, but you’ll frighten her!’
It was Tommy the black Labrador, with his kindly old gentleman owner.
‘Are you all right, little missy? Tommy doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just pleased to see you and desperate to get to his lovely park.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, stroking Tommy’s soft head.
‘But, oh dear, he’s made you drop all your belongings. Here, let me help.’ The old man bent down and picked up my bag of goodies, luckily so tightly folded over by Mrs Briskett that none had spilled. He handed me the suitcase. ‘Going off on a journey, are you, little missy?’ he said. ‘Going home to visit your mother, is that it?’
I started at him. Of course! I was sure I had more than enough money for a train trip to the coast and one night’s board and lodging. I would go to see Mama!
‘Yes, you’re right,’ I said. ‘You’re absolutely right. I’m going to visit Mama.’
‘She’ll be so pleased to see you,’ he said sweetly.
I wasn’t quite so sure. She’d be pretty horrified if she knew I’d broken Mr Buchanan’s watch chain and stuck my tongue out at him. I wouldn’t necessarily tell her the whole story. But before I set off on my journey I had to find someone else.
I said goodbye to the old man, gave Tommy another stroke, and set off for the town, stopping to wipe my face thoroughly with my handkerchief once I was out of sight.
I went past the draper’s shop, pausing momentarily to glare at Ivy and Kitty behind the counter. Then I walked up to the butcher’s shop. I knew it was very foolish of me, but I was a little scared to go inside. The front of the shop was hung with poultry, their yellow claws dangling purposefully, as if ready to scratch the customers’ heads. The sides of the shop were draped with a furry frond of hares and rabbits, their eyes staring mournfully, their little mouths dripping blood.
I wasn’t used to such an alarmingly close encounter with so many dead animals. In fact, the more I stared, the more certain I was that I could never enjoy a rabbit pie or a chicken stew ever again. I ran past the poor dead creatures into the shop, to face further scenes of carnage. Great sides of beef and lamb hung from steel hooks, and a huge pig’s head leered at me from the table, an apple in its mouth. Parts of its body were arranged in a grisly pattern all around it: belly and chops and kidneys, and a very long string of sausages.
The smell of meat was unpleasantly over-powering. I breathed shallowly, feeling so sorry for Bertie. I could see no sign of him, and hoped he wasn’t out delivering.
I tried to avert my eyes, and joined the queue of folk waiting to give their orders. My arms ached holding my food package and the suitcase, but I didn’t want to set them down on the floor. I couldn’t sully Sarah’s mother’s suitcase with bloodstained sawdust.
I waited
as seemingly half of Kingtown deliberated over their mince and mutton, while Jarvis the butcher and his two bigger lads listened and gave advice. They barely had a full set of fingers between them, but they still chopped chunks of meat with alarming speed and gusto. I found I was clenching my own fists anxiously on their behalf.
At last I was at the front of the queue, facing Mr Jarvis himself, a man as large and fat and red as his own sides of beef.
‘How can I help you, little missy? Who’s the cook in your household?’
‘Well, it’s Mrs Briskett, but I’m not—’
‘Oh, Mrs Briskett! Lovely lady, but particular, and that suits me fine because I am too. So how can I help you? The meat the boy delivered yesterday was up to scratch, was it not? Is there company coming? Does she need a capon or a crown of lamb?’
‘No, no, sir, it’s – it’s your boy I want. Bertie. Is he here? May I have a quick word with him?’ I whispered.
Mr Jarvis stood stock-still. He cupped his hand to his ear in a pantomime gesture. ‘Say that again!’ he said. He nudged the other two lads. They stopped chopping. ‘Listen to this!’
I took a deep breath. ‘Please may I talk to Bertie?’ I repeated.
The lads nudged each other and sniggered.
‘What do you think this is, girl? A parlour where young lovers can do their courting?’ Mr Jarvis bellowed, for the benefit of the entire queue behind me.
‘I’m sorry, sir, of course not, sir, but it is a matter of urgency,’ I said.
‘A matter of urgency?’ Mr Jarvis boomed. The whole street must be hearing him now – even Ivy and Kitty in their draper’s shop. ‘This must be young love. You want to see our Bertie urgently, do you?’
The lads burst out laughing. I started crying, in rage and humiliation.
‘I only wanted to say goodbye,’ I sobbed. ‘I can’t see that’s so outrageous. Please tell him I came calling. My name is Hetty Feather.’ I turned on my heel and tried to push past all the customers.
‘Hey! Wait, missy. Don’t cry now,’ said Mr Jarvis, relenting. ‘He’s in the back, doing the offal. Go and say your goodbyes then, but be quick about it.’