Sapphire Battersea (23 page)

‘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.

‘That will cover the cab fare, just in case,’ she said, tucking it up my velvet cuff.

I smiled at her gratefully and gave Sarah a little nod. ‘We’ll be fine,’ I said grandly.

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ said Mrs Briskett, folding her arms. ‘It’s not right and fitting, meddling with the supernatural. It’s just a form of witchcraft, that’s what
I
say.’

‘Well, we don’t care what
she
says, do we, Hetty?’ Sarah murmured to me and we set off.

WE WALKED AWAY
from the town, along a stream, down many winding lanes. I tried to take note of the way we were going in case I had to steer Sarah back, but I soon became muddled. I was surprised when we stopped in front of a relatively modest cottage with an ordinary suburban garden. It had a little privet hedge, a patch of emerald-green lawn, and a bright flowerbed of marigolds and geraniums edged with scallop shells.

Sarah led me up the red and black tiled garden path and pulled the bell by the front door. A tall pale woman in black answered the door.

‘Is she Madame Berenice, or her servant?’ I whispered to Sarah.

‘No, no. She is Emily. I believe she is Madame Berenice’s sister. She will serve us refreshments afterwards.’

‘Afterwards!’ I repeated excitedly.

Emily took our shawls silently. Sarah pressed a little envelope of money into her hand and
murmured
something about materialization. Emily nodded, and still without speaking led us into a very dark room, the curtains shrouded with thick black velvet. I expected her to light a lamp but she went away again.