Sapphire Battersea (18 page)

I glanced at the page in front of him. His handwriting was even more blotched and sloped at a bizarre angle.

‘Take care not to get too carried away, sir – or even I won’t be able to read it,’ I said. ‘I’ll make a start on it as soon as I’ve finished copying your other work.’

Mr Buchanan suddenly snapped to attention. ‘That won’t be necessary, Hetty. I think it’s better if I make a fair copy myself – then I can alter sentences as I go, rearrange paragraphs, et cetera. It will take longer but will be far more satisfactory in the long run.’

I stared at him, appalled.

‘Don’t look so stricken! You can still continue with the old manuscript. You must not take this personally. You’ve worked hard, I grant you, and
you
write a very legible hand, if a little childish in appearance.’

‘But what about my stamps?’

‘What? Oh, your postage stamps! Yes, you can have the agreed ration until you finish the manuscript.’ He reached into his desk drawer, and took out the stamp box. ‘In fact, I will continue to provide you with stamps whenever you ask, so long as you don’t take it into your head to communicate with every child in the Foundling Hospital.’ He handed me another four stamps.

‘Thank you, sir. That’s very generous of you. And don’t worry, it’s just so I can write to Mama.’ I silently mouthed ‘and Jem’ when he started writing again, for honesty’s sake.

Mr Buchanan gave me the old manuscript and a spare pen, and I started writing too, but I couldn’t settle properly to my task. I kept peering around the room, looking for my memoirs. It was so difficult to detect in this mad chamber, crammed to the ceiling with books and papers and manuscripts. I craned to look in the wastepaper basket, wondering if he’d tossed my poor work in there.

‘Do you have a crick in your neck, Hetty?’ Mr Buchanan asked.

‘Oh no, sir, I was just looking … I couldn’t help wondering …’ I couldn’t wait any longer. ‘What did you think of my memoirs, sir?’

Mr Buchanan removed his fez to scratch his head vigorously. Then he set the quaint hat back on his head at a comical angle, wrinkling his nose to hitch up his spectacles.

Tell me, you ridiculous little monkey man!
I screeched inside my head, but I clamped my lips together to keep the words inside.

‘Oh yes, your “memoirs”,’ said Mr Buchanan. He said the word as if it were ridiculous, and I felt the blood flooding my face. ‘Mm, well, it was certainly a substantial effort, Hetty. I hadn’t realized it would be so long, when you have led such a short life.’

‘But what did you think of the content, sir?’

‘It was quite … startling. I’m surprised at you, child. You showed shameful ingratitude to your benefactors. Some of the passages about your good matrons were quite scandalous. Miss Smith was absolutely correct. Though vividly written, the manuscript is unpublishable.’

‘But it’s the truth, sir.’

‘Nonsense! It’s the truth as you perceive it – a childish tirade by an angry, undeserving creature, utterly self-absorbed and far too passionate. I am ashamed of you, Hetty. I cannot understand how you could write this.’

‘Then give me my memoirs back, sir,’ I said defiantly.

‘When I am less distracted by my own work, I
will
glance at it again. Perhaps there might be a few simple passages we can work on. Your childhood in the country might make a pleasing pastoral piece. People like to read about simple country bumpkins.’

‘They’re not simple country bumpkins,’ I said hotly. ‘They’re my family.’

‘Of course, of course,’ he said soothingly. ‘And perhaps, when I’m not quite as busy, I’ll help you to construct a written portrait that will do them justice. Now, I think you’d better run back to the kitchen, Hetty. I don’t want you to copy any more today. I need a little space to continue my new story. You’re distracting me.’

I peered all around.

‘What is it now?’

‘I’m looking for my memoirs. Can I have my book back, please?’

‘I shall keep it safely here in my room, and if I have a spare moment in the next few weeks, I shall give it another glance.’

‘Oh no, sir!’

‘Are you arguing with me, Hetty Feather?’

‘No, sir. Well, yes, sir, I suppose I am, because I want my memoirs back. They’re mine, and I feel uncomfortable without them.’

‘You’re being ridiculous, girl. The book is safe in my room.’

‘But
where
, sir? I can’t see it anywhere. It’s not on your desk, or on your shelves, or any of the piles of books.’

‘I have it safe, I assure you.’

‘Then
please
may I have it back?’

‘Of course you may, in the fullness of time, when I have finished looking at it.’

‘But that’s not fair!’ I wailed, stamping my foot in my passion. ‘It’s my book and I want it back
now
!’

‘Hetty Feather!’ Sarah came bursting in through the door, skirts flying. ‘Whatever are you up to, shouting at the master! Forgive her, sir – she’s just a wilful, ignorant orphan who does not yet know her place.’

‘I am not an
orphan
!’ I screamed as Sarah picked me up in her huge arms, heaved me over her shoulder like a coal sack, and bore me away.

SARAH CARRIED ME
all the way back down two flights of stairs to the kitchen and then dumped me on the rag rug in front of the range. Mrs Briskett stared at us both in astonishment, up to her elbows in uncooked pastry.

‘Oh my Lord, whatever’s the matter, Sarah?’ she gasped, wringing her doughy hands.

‘Hetty Feather’s taken leave of her senses! I was seeing to the fires on the first floor when I heard this rumpus upstairs. She was shrieking at the master!’

‘Oh, Hetty, how could you!
Shrieking
, you say, Sarah?’

‘Like a banshee! Is that not right, Hetty? Whatever possessed you?’

‘He’s got my memoirs and he won’t give them back!’

‘What? You’re working yourself into a passion over a scribbling notebook? Have some sense, girl! The master will give you notice now.’

‘Just as I was getting fond of you, child! How could you lose your temper like that?’

‘It’s the red hair – they’re all the same. Stop that noise at
once
, Hetty Feather, or I’ll give you such a slapping,’ said Sarah, shaking me.

‘But he’s stolen it from me!’

‘Why on earth would the master do that, you silly girl? He’s got countless notebooks of his own.’

‘He said he wanted to keep it a while, so he could improve certain passages,’ I sobbed.

‘Well, surely that’s what you wanted, is it not?’ said Mrs Briskett, perplexed.

‘Yes, but
I
want to look after it, not him. It’s
mine
.’

‘I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life!’

I couldn’t make either of them understand. My memoirs meant so much to me. I’d had so little that was truly my own at the hospital. I’d worked so hard at them. It was as if little pieces of myself were stuck to the pages of that notebook, my very blood mixed in with the ink. But though I put this into words as passionately as I could, they still seemed shocked at me – and I couldn’t implore the master again because they would not let me near him.

At first they were both sure he would ring for me and dismiss me on the spot, but when he’d done nothing by the next day, they decided he
might
have forgiven me because I was young and inexperienced.

‘And you can’t
help
having that awful red hair, can you, dear?’ said Mrs Briskett. She pulled my cap down so that it brushed my eyebrows, to hide as much hair as she could.

I was allowed to do all my usual chores, though forbidden to serve the master his afternoon tea. If Sarah thought she heard the master’s step nearby while we were making his bed or scrubbing his bathtub, she would whisk me hastily out of the way.

I wrote a long tale of woe to Mama, telling her all about it. She was very tender and comforting when she replied, but in many ways seemed to take the same attitude as Mrs Briskett and Sarah.

Try to stay out of his way, Hetty dear, and when you do evenchooly bump into him stair at the flor and look as meak as posibol. In all other respecs this seems a good posishun so you must KEEP it. This leter is sent with all the love in the world from yore own dear Mama

But she added a P.S.:
You can allways surch for yore memoirs when dusting his studdy and shov it down yore apron quik
.

I
did
search, but I couldn’t find my memoirs in any of the piles of books. Greatly daring, I tried the little drawer in his desk where he kept the stamps – but it was stuck fast. He had locked it! I wondered
if
he had crammed the book in there. It would just about fit. But there was no key in the lock, and I couldn’t find one anywhere in his trinket tray.

I was fretting miserably about it the next morning, when Bertie called with his meat basket.

‘Hey, Mrs Briskett, wait till you see the side of beef I’ve got for your Sunday lunch! If you make one of your Yorkshire puddings, it’ll be a meal fit for the old Queen herself. It’ll put you in such a good mood I dare say you’ll let Hetty here stay out an extra hour – isn’t that right?’

‘Young Hetty isn’t allowed out on Sunday at all, boy, let alone an extra hour. She’s disgraced herself good and proper, she has,’ said Mrs Briskett.

Bertie raised his eyebrows. ‘Cor, Hetty, what’ve you
done
!’

‘She’s severely cheeked the master, when he’s been so kind as to take an interest in her, that’s what she’s
done
,’ said Sarah.

‘Oooh, what did you say, Hetty?’ asked Bertie, grinning.

‘I simply asked for my property back,’ I said haughtily.

‘No, no, missy! There was no
asking
! When I heard, you was shrieking your head off and stamping your foot,’ said Sarah.

‘What a girl!’ said Bertie admiringly. ‘But you haven’t lost your position, have you, Hetty?’

‘She’s very lucky not to,’ said Mrs Briskett.

‘It’s only because the master’s preoccupied with his work. He’s always like this when he starts a new story. I once splashed red-hot soup into his lap when I was serving his supper and he barely flinched, he was so busy scribbling in his notebook,’ said Sarah.

‘He’s no right to purloin
my
notebook,’ I said.

‘Here, perhaps he’s pinching all your ideas, Hetty,’ said Bertie.

Mrs Briskett and Sarah laughed heartily, as if he’d made the funniest joke in the world. I did not find this amusing, but at least it softened them up. Mrs Briskett relented over my Sunday-night curfew, though she issued so many conditions and commands she set my head spinning.

I had added incentive to finish sewing my Sunday dress. I sat up half Saturday night adding the finishing touches by flickering candlelight and was consequently so tired I nearly fell asleep during the sermon, my head nid-nodding while Mrs Briskett and Sarah took it in turns to give me a sharp poke.

It was wonderful, though, to parade into and out of church in my new green frock with its gold trimmings. I saw some of the younger maids giving it the eye, and I was sure they were looking envious. I could have done with a decent pair of white
stockings
instead of my old holey grey ones, and my stout boots were much too hobbledehoy. I looked at a girl wearing pale-grey kid boots with little heels and pearl buttons, and longed to possess a similar pair. I looked down at Mrs Briskett’s feet and then at Sarah’s, but
their
boots were almost as ugly and serviceable as my own, so there was no point hoping for their cast-offs; besides, their feet were twice the size of mine so I’d be shuffling around like a clown.