Sapphire Battersea (4 page)

‘Is Ida well?’ Miss Smith asked quietly.

‘Oh, she sounds very well and likes her position, but she is missing me and, oh my goodness, I am missing her,’ I said, holding Mama’s letter to my chest.

I did not want to show it to Miss Smith because it was so precious and private, and I could not bear her to see that Mama had a little difficulty with her spelling. Miss Smith seemed to understand. She brought out another envelope from her pocket with a blank piece of paper inside, and a sharpened cedar pencil.

‘I thought you might care to reply straight away,’ she said.

‘Oh, Miss Smith, you are
such
a dear friend!’ I said.

We sat down together on the old brick wall. Miss Smith started jotting things down in a small notebook, intent on writing another of her stories, while I scribbled hastily to Mama.

The Foundling Hospital

Oh, Mama, dearest, most special Mama in the entire world
,

I am missing you so enormously much. I cannot believe fate has been so unkind to us, tearing us apart again in this way – though if I had
been
more cautious and Sheila less nosy (though she is sorry now), we would still be together. How lovely of you to write to me. It is such a relief to know you’re in a good house with a kind lady – though heavens, Satan himself would seem kind compared with those wicked matrons
.

I was taken poorly when you had to leave the hospital, but the doctor was gentle, and Miss Smith was wonderfully reassuring, and I am totally better now, though my heart aches too and I long to have your dear arms around me
.

With all my love
,

From your own daughter Sapphire (the most beautiful name in the world because you chose it specially for me)
.

Mama and I have been writing to each other ever since. I have all her precious letters in little bundles tied with silk. Nurse Winnie gave me a yard of narrow green silk ribbon as a secret present when I helped her with her sewing classes for the little ones.

‘Remember
your
first darning lesson when you were five, Hetty?’ she said, smiling at me. ‘You were all fingers and thumbs, you poor little mite, and sewed the toe of your stocking tight to
the
heel!’

‘I was a very stupid little girl, Nurse Winterson,’ I said.

‘No, no, you were bright as a button. There was always something distinctive about you, Hetty. I knew you would go far.’

‘How far is that?’ I said, sighing. ‘So far that I will scrub people’s floors and dust their mantelpieces for the rest of my working life?’

‘I have a feeling you won’t be a servant for ever,’ said Nurse Winnie. ‘And even if you are, you will still lead a very different life from here. Servants have days off, you know. You will be able to do as you please. And pretty servant girls have followers.’

‘I dare say – but I’m not the slightest bit pretty,’ I said. ‘I am the smallest, skinniest girl in my whole year and I have bright red hair.’

‘I think your hair is a beautiful colour, dear,’ she said – and the next time I helped her she gave me the green ribbon. ‘
To tie up your bonny red hair
,’ she sang, pulling one of my plaits.

Dear Nurse Winnie! She was the only person in the whole hospital I cared for now, apart from Eliza, my little sister. Eliza was brought to my old foster home in the country when she was a babe. I was sent off to the hospital before I turned six – and five years later Eliza followed me.

I had greeted my little foster sister joyfully,
desperate
for news of home. It was a hard blow when she spoke of our brother Jem so fondly. I had adored Jem passionately when I was a tiny girl. He had cared for me tenderly and played with me patiently. He had even taught me to read and write … He had been like a mother and father to me as well as a foster brother. I’d hoped that one day, far in the future, he’d be my dear husband too. When I played dressing up as a bride, Jem had kissed my finger and promised that he’d put a ring on it one day.

I had believed him utterly. I had thought of him as
my
Jem, but when little Eliza chatted away innocently enough, I realized that he was
her
Jem too. He had played all the same games with her. I could not bear it. I felt he had betrayed me. I stopped writing loving little messages to him in my weekly letters home. There seemed little point in writing anyway, as he never bothered to reply. Though perhaps he
had
written? Miss Smith had actually admitted that many of our letters were confiscated.

Tears sprang to my eyes when I thought of Matron Pigface’s trotter-fingers fumbling with my precious letters, tearing them to shreds and tossing them into the fire. I wondered what Jem would have written …

No, what did I care? I had been a silly little
child
and he had been a kindly lad, that was all. It was ridiculous to believe that our love had been real. I would not be wearing my green ribbon for Jem, or for any other young lad, come to that. I did not want foolish followers. I only cared for Mama.

I WOKE VERY
early and sat up in my narrow bed. I looked down the long dormitory of sleeping girls in the silvery dawn light. This was the very last time I would ever see them!

I clasped my hands around my knees, hugging myself. It was not unduly cold but I shivered in my nightgown. Today I was leaving the hospital for ever. Hetty Feather was no more. I would leave her behind, along with my brown gown and apron and cuffs and stupid great floppy bonnet.

I peeped down at the basket at the end of my bed. My new clothes were neatly folded, waiting for me. I felt a thrill of excitement at the thought of putting them on, though they were ordinary work clothes – a plain grey dress and coarse cream apron. I knew nothing of fashion after all my years of incarceration in the hospital, but I could always dream of a real silk dress to match my green ribbon, long frilled skirts, fine lace, white silk stockings, and shoes as elegant as Cinderella’s glass slippers.
I
had no new shoes at all – my hideous brown clumpers still fitted me, so they were deemed suitable for my new position.

I was going as an under-housemaid to a gentleman who lived in the suburbs of London.

‘Not just
any
gentleman, Hetty,’ Miss Smith had told me excitedly. ‘He’s a writer! Mr Charles Buchanan.’

‘Do you know him, Miss Smith?’

‘I know
of
him, dear. He writes children’s stories for the Religious Tract, as I do. Very moral tales. He is apparently a very moral
man
. He applied to the hospital because he thought it an act of charity to take a foundling child into his employ – and I did my best to persuade the Board of Governors that you would be an ideal candidate, Hetty. It was a hard task. Matron Bottomly seems to feel that you are quite unsuited to such a worthy gentleman’s establishment, but I argued your case, stressing that Mr Buchanan might be a very good influence on you. Why are you staring at me like that? Surely you’re pleased?’

‘I’m pleased you stood up for me, Miss Smith, of course I am, but if I’m completely truthful I do not really
want
to be this very moral gentleman’s servant,’ I said.

‘Well, whose servant
do
you wish to be?’ said Miss Smith, looking aggrieved.

‘I don’t want to be
anyone
’s servant,’ I said, folding my arms obstinately.

Miss Smith sighed. ‘So how do you propose to earn your living, Hetty?’ she asked tartly.

I swallowed hard. Wasn’t it obvious? I clung to my own elbows to give me strength to come out with it. ‘I – I hoped my memoirs would be published, and I would earn money that way,’ I said.

‘Oh good Lord, Hetty, how could you possibly think such a thing!’

‘Well, you said as much – in a roundabout fashion. You said I had a vivid turn of phrase and excellent powers of description, and a powerful imagination.’

‘That’s all too true.’

‘Well?’

‘But that doesn’t mean that your memoirs are fit for publication!’

‘But why have you praised them so?’

‘I wanted to encourage you, my dear. I never dreamed you thought you could publish such a work!’

‘I know it’s a little childish in parts because I wrote most of it years ago – but I can polish it a lot, maybe rewrite sections. Oh, Miss Smith,
surely
it stands some chance of publication?’

‘It’s a wonderful piece of work, Hetty, but only as a private journal. It is not
fit
for publication. Be
reasonable
! Only recollect the things you’ve written about Matron Peters and Matron Bottomly!’

‘But they’re true, every last word – I swear it!’

‘I dare say, but there would be the most terrible scandal if such a fiercely condemnatory document about such a well-respected charity were published!’

‘Well, surely a scandal would be good. It might sell more copies!’

‘Hetty, you’re incorrigible! You can never publish your memoirs – they’re much too bold, too personal, too passionate, too violent, too bitter, too unladylike, too ungrateful, too every single thing!’

‘Then why didn’t you tell me this years ago?’

‘Because I felt it was very good for you to have a private outlet for your pent-up feelings. I know how hard it’s been at the hospital. It’s been exceptionally good for you to develop a writing discipline. You have remarkable literary skills, far beyond your age and station, but you must channel them carefully if you ever hope to write for publication. Oh, please don’t upset yourself so, dear!’

I had started crying bitterly, utterly cast down. I had so believed my memoirs would be published and make my fortune so that Mama and I could live together without serving a soul.

Miss Smith lent me her lacy handkerchief. When
I
continued to cry, she put her arm round me and mopped my face herself. Her kindness softened me, and I tried hard to stop sobbing.

‘There now, perhaps you really
will
be a writer some time in the future. But not yet a while, my dear. You can accept this perfect position with Mr Buchanan and be patient. I am sure you will observe good writerly habits if you work in his establishment.’

‘I’d sooner work for you, Miss Smith,’ I said.

‘If you were my servant, I’d expect you to go “Yes, missus,” and nod obediently every time I spoke to you,’ said Miss Smith.

‘Yes, missus,’ I said, bobbing her a curtsy – and she burst out laughing.

‘I scarcely recognize this new persona, Hetty! Carry on in a similar vein at Mr Buchanan’s like a good sensible girl. You really must try to act humbly and do as you’re told. I’m starting to feel a little worried about Mr Buchanan. There he is, thinking he’s taken on a meek little foundling girl who will be very grateful for her good position. You are a
little
grateful, aren’t you, Hetty?’

‘Yes, Miss Smith,’ I said, because I supposed I was grateful to
her
. I did not see why I should be grateful to anyone else. Even after nine years’ hard training at the hospital, I still did not see
why
I had to be content to be a servant.