Sapphire Battersea (10 page)

It was the one terrible disadvantage of loving
someone
. You couldn’t bear the idea of being without them. I reckoned up the people I had loved during my fourteen years. I loved Mama most of all, of course. She shone like the sun in my life – but there were stars too. I had loved Nurse Winnie a little, and my dearest friend Polly a great deal. I had cared for young Eliza, and thought wistfully about my whole foster family. I loved them all – though of course Jem was the one I’d truly worshipped and adored.

I thought again about the man waiting outside the hospital. I’d read about the magical method of photography. I wished I had a photograph of that young man so that I could pore over his image and see if he could really be my own dear Jem. I fingered the stamps inside my apron pocket …

‘Hetty Feather! Don’t daydream, girl. Come, I will show you Mrs B’s bedroom.’

Mrs Briskett’s bedroom was twice the size, with a large bed. A vast pair of bloomers sprawled on the covers, legs akimbo. I felt my mouth twitching, and Sarah herself sniggered, but then straightened her face, looking guilty. Mrs Briskett did not have a portrait of her mama. She had several coloured lithographs of great pink pigs, black-and-white cows, huge woolly sheep and assorted hens and ducks. She seemed to have deliberately surrounded
herself
with the raw materials of her trade. I wondered if she lay on her big bed looking at these animals by candlelight, plotting massive roasts and stews.

There was only one more room upstairs – a little inconsequential garret with the ceiling sloping severely. I thought it would be
my
room, but it was overly occupied already, stuffed full to bursting with trunks and old chairs and pictures in frames, and box after box of old ornaments and curtains and cushions and whatnots.

‘This is the box room, the only room in the house you don’t have to bother with,’ said Sarah.

‘Am I to sleep here?’ I asked, in a small voice.

‘Of course not, you ninny. I know you’re tiny, but I think we’d have difficulty bedding down even a little mouse in here,’ said Sarah.

‘So where
am
I to sleep?’ I said, bewildered, because we’d inspected every single room in the house.

Sarah put her head on one side, looking at me. ‘Well … perhaps if you curled up very small, you could sleep on the privy floor?’

‘
What?
’

Her eyes were twinkling, and as I exclaimed in abject horror, she burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Hetty, your face! Dear Lord, you thought I was serious!’
she
chortled, clutching her sides and heaving with laughter.

I did not feel inclined to join in. And when she told me where I was in fact to sleep, it didn’t seem an especially superior alternative. I was to go to bed in the scullery! This was a little dark room off the kitchen. It had a big lead sink, a wooden draining board, a mangle, hooks for all the assorted dusters, mops, brooms and brushes, and several dark depressing cupboards full of matches and candles and cakes of coal-tar soap, Nixey’s Black Lead and Japan lustre shoe-blacking. Sadly, there was no food. Mrs Briskett kept all her edible supplies in the larder, and she locked it up each night with the key she kept round her neck.

There was a small fold-up bed in the last cupboard, and Sarah pulled this out with a flourish. ‘There we are, Hetty. Don’t look such a sour-puss. See, you have a proper bed, and you can use the sink to wash in.’

I hoped she was joking again, but she was serious this time. I felt my eyes filling with tears.

‘Lord help us, what’s the matter now?’ said Mrs Briskett, coming to inspect my ‘bedchamber’.

‘I don’t want to sleep in the scullery! It’s like the punishment room!’ I sobbed. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong yet!’

‘Hey, hey, don’t be so dramatic. I jolly well hope you
don’t
do anything wrong. Little maids have to be as good as gold or else they get dismissed! Sleeping in the scullery isn’t a punishment, silly. I slept in the scullery when I had my first job as a kitchen maid,’ she said. ‘It was practically the selfsame bed.’

I looked at her. ‘But – but you wouldn’t fit it,’ I said, between sobs.

Sarah burst out laughing again. I realized I had not been tactful.

‘I was a slip of a girl then, missy, not much bigger than you,’ said Mrs Briskett, looking offended.

‘I am sorry – I didn’t mean …’ I stammered. It was impossible to imagine Mrs Briskett as a slip of a girl. I was sure that she was vast even as a babe in arms. I pictured her in meat-red swaddling clothes, at least half the size of her poor mama … I found I was laughing too, but I pretended my snorts were still sobs.

‘Now, now, calm down, child, do. I’m going to start baking or we’ll have no tea – and Mr Buchanan will start complaining bitterly if he has to do without his cake. You come and sift the flour for me, Hetty, while I change out of my good clothes,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Cheer up, dearie – you know I can’t abide tears.’

I did cheer up considerably that afternoon. I had worked with dear Mama in the hospital kitchens, and was quick and capable. I sifted flour, I cut up butter, I cracked open eggs and whisked them to a froth. I measured currants and cherries and walnuts, taking a sly nibble every now and then, while Mrs Briskett was staring at the stove and Sarah’s head was bent over her mending.

She set me to darning an old torn nightshirt when I had finished helping with the baking. It seemed strange to hold the nightshirt in my lap, knowing that it had covered Mr Buchanan’s bony body, but I darned the worn patch obediently. I had spent nine years darning at the hospital, so it was second nature to me now.

‘My, Hetty Feather, that’s even neater than I can manage!’ said Sarah, peering at the patch. ‘Look, Mrs B, you can hardly see the stitches.’

‘Well done, dearie,’ said Mrs Briskett, patting me on the back with a floury hand.

I felt like bursting into tears again. No one had ever praised me at the hospital.

When Mrs Briskett had made her currant cake and her walnut cake, she laid neat slabs out on a fancy plate, and set a tea tray with a pot of tea, a little jug of milk, a dainty sugar bowl, a pretty cup and saucer. Sarah picked up the tray – and then
handed
it over to me.

‘Why don’t you save my legs? You go and serve the master, Hetty,’ she said.

She lent me her best cap and fancy white apron with frills, though the cap came down past my eyebrows and the apron hem swept the floor. Sarah and Mrs Briskett laughed heartily at this spectacle, but in a kindly fashion.

I wasn’t sure
how
to serve the tea and cake, so Mrs Briskett sat at the kitchen table, frowning and scribbling with her hand, pretending to be the master, while Sarah mimed serving ‘him’ with his tea and cake, while I watched carefully.

Then Sarah gave me the real tray and sent me on my way. The tray was wooden, covered with a lacy cloth, and heavy. It was a struggle for me to carry it steadily, and as I started up the stairs the teacup rattled on its saucer and the milk slopped out of its jug, but I managed to get all the way up to Mr Buchanan’s study without serious incident.

I knew I had to knock on the door before entering, but didn’t see how I could do so without growing a third useful hand straight out of my chest. I tried putting my leg right up under the tray to balance it for a second, but it tipped precariously. I was determined to do this properly. I set the
tray
down on the floor, tapped twice on the door, and when the master eventually murmured something, I opened the door a crack, bent down, hauled the tray upright, edged my bottom through the door, and ended up successfully inside the study.

‘I’ve got your tea and cake, Master,’ I said.

‘Mm,’ he replied absent-mindedly, still writing. He made vague waving gestures with his other hand, indicating that I should set down the tray and serve him. I peered around the room but could not spot a single bare surface for my tray. In the end I had to balance it across two piles of books, but it seemed steady enough.

I served his tea on a tiny corner of his desk and offered him the plate of sliced cake. His hand hovered, first over the walnut, then the currant.

‘Which is best, Hetty Feather?’ he asked.

‘They’re both delicious, sir – and I should know because I helped make them,’ I said proudly. ‘Why don’t you take a slice of each?’

He took two slabs – the biggest – and proceeded to eat them, taking alternate bites of each. He made the waving gesture again, this time dismissively.

‘Will that be all, sir?’ I asked, and he nodded, his mouth full of cake.

I was a little disappointed. I wanted him to say,
‘Well
done, Hetty. Here’s two more postage stamps as a reward – and take this book of fairy stories to read tonight – and here’s a blank manuscript book and a fresh quill pen for your memoirs.’ But maybe this was overly optimistic. I made do with his grunt, and bobbed out of the room.

When I got down to the kitchen, Sarah patted me on the back and Mrs Briskett cut me my own slice of cake. They were starting to act more like mothers than matrons.

When I trundled my meagre bed out of its cupboard that night, I sat up and wrote a letter to Mama by candlelight. I had helped myself to a good supply of paper and envelopes from the hospital.

Do not worry about me, dearest Mama. I will be a good, obedient little servant girl for a while. My new master, Mr Buchanan, is a strange man rather like a monkey, but he has been quite kind to me, I suppose. Mrs Briskett and Sarah have sharp tongues and mock me at times, but they mostly mean well. I am as happy as I can be WITHOUT YOU
.

I signed my name with many kisses, and then tucked my letter into an envelope and stuck on my stamp. Then I started a new letter.

Dearest Gideon
,

I can’t say I LIKE being a servant, but I suppose it’s not as bad as I feared. I do so hope that you will find being a soldier is not so bad either. At least you will wear a splendid uniform. Mine is very plain – but then so am I
.

Keep well, dearest brother. Remember I am always

Your loving sister
,

Hetty

Mrs Briskett had only given me a stub of candle, and it was already flickering – but I reached for another sheet of my precious paper. Because I knew I only had a few minutes before total darkness, I wrote hastily, without time to compose my words.

Dear Jem
,

Was it you at the hospital gates???

I am so sorry we did not get time to speak
.

But you can write to me at this address. I am a maid here, and it is quite a good house and the people are tolerably kind but I do not think I am cut out to be a servant
.

With affection
,

Your one-time sister
,

Hetty Feather

P.S. Eliza is doing well at the hospital. She is a
good
kind child and rarely gets into trouble – unlike me. She says you are going to marry her one day. I hope you will be very happy
.

I remembered the address accurately enough, and applied another postage stamp to the envelope. My candle guttered, and then extinguished itself. I lay down on my hard little bed. There was a dank smell of soapsuds and stale cooking, so I had to cover my nose with my sheets. It was so dark I could not see my hand before my face, and alarmingly quiet too. I was used to sleeping in a large room with scores of other girls. I was accustomed to snores and sighs all night long. I lay tensely, feeling terribly alone. I tried to picture Mrs Briskett and Sarah up at the top of the house, and Mr Buchanan somewhere in the middle, but they seemed very far away.

I thought of the young man in brown and wondered if he really was Jem. If so, had he gone all the way home to the cottage now? I thought enviously of my foster family, all crammed together under that thatched roof.

Then, as always, I thought of dear Mama, tucked up in her faraway home by the sea. I whispered to her in the night … and after a while she seemed to whisper back to me:

Night-night, Hetty, my love. You’ve been a good
girl
and tried hard, and I’m proud of you. I miss you so much, my darling, but don’t worry. We’ll be together again some day
.

‘Some day
soon
,’ I murmured, and at last I fell asleep.