Sapphire Battersea (19 page)

I remembered the clowns that I’d seen at Tanglefield’s Travelling Circus. My stomach gave a little twist as I thought of Madame Adeline and her troupe of rosin-backed horses. I’d been a very little girl when I’d first seen her perform. I thought she looked like a fairy in her pink sparkly outfit, her long locks flowing, the most beautiful woman in the world. When I ran away from the hospital and found her again, I realized that she was a sad old lady beneath her wig and thick make-up. I wondered if she was still performing.

Bertie was waiting on the area steps, wearing his best brown suit, but not quite so perfumed this time. He rolled his eyes when he saw my new dress.

‘My, Hetty, that’s a fine outfit you’re wearing!’ he said.

‘She made it herself, every stitch,’ said Sarah.

‘One of
my
old Sunday outfits, bless her. I always loved that bright green – but it looks even better on
young
Hetty, with her red hair,’ said Mrs Briskett.

They both beamed at me proudly while I fidgeted before them. I couldn’t work out how to react to them at all. I was used to people who loved me (like Mama and my old foster family) or people who loathed me (like Matron Pigface Peters and Matron Stinking Bottomly). Mrs Briskett and Sarah ticked me off almost as much as the matrons – but they seemed genuinely fond of me already.

I wondered whether I should give them a hug goodbye. Perhaps they would think it outrageous. I was sure
Bertie
would welcome a hug, but I wasn’t sure it would be wise.

‘You look a total sweetheart in that lovely green dress, Hetty,’ he said, spinning me round.

Was he saying I was
his
sweetheart? My heart started thumping inside my tight velvet bodice. I knew Jem assumed I was
his
sweetheart. His last letter to me had made it plain:

My dear Hetty
,

What a pair of sillies we are. I thought you had forgotten all about your dear Jem – and you thought I had forgotten YOU, transferring my affections to little Eliza. I will always love her dearly as my young sister – but I hope that you and I will find the deeper love of true sweethearts
in
the fullness of time
.

Of course you’re very young, still a child, and we are forced to live many cruel miles apart. But I am nothing if not patient, Hetty. I will work hard and save hard, biding my time. In two or three years’ time I should be ready to branch out on my own, and then … well, we shall see!

Take care, my own sweet girl, and write often to your

Very loving Jem

I did not need to carry the letter on my person. I had read it so many times by flickering candlelight that I knew every word by heart. Yet even though I knew it so well, I didn’t know what to make of it. I was thrilled, of course. It was exciting to think that I inspired such deep feelings in such a fine man. But this was the trouble. I’d known Jem the
boy
. When I thought of him, I still saw him as an earnest, fresh-faced ten-year-old, his hair tousled, his clothes torn, his boots muddy.

I could not match that Jem with the tall man in corduroy waiting outside the hospital. I remembered so many sweet things the boy Jem had said to me – but this heartfelt love letter unnerved me. Since I forced myself to stop thinking about Jem the year I was ten, he had grown shadowy, almost unreal, like a character in a storybook. Now it
seemed
almost as if Robin Hood or Dick Whittington were writing to me.

What would he think if he saw me walking hand in hand down the street with Bertie? I blushed and tried to wriggle my fingers free.

‘Hey, keep hold, Hetty!’ he said, curling his own fingers to keep mine safe.

‘I – I’m not sure I should be holding your hand,’ I murmured.

‘And why’s that? Do you suddenly think you’re too grand for me in your fancy dress?’

‘No, of course not! It’s just … well, to be utterly truthful, Bertie, I think I have another sweetheart already.’

Bertie dropped my hand and stared at me. ‘Well, that was quick work! You’ve only been out of that hospital place five minutes!’

‘No, this is a long-ago sweetheart, when I lived in the country when I was little.’

‘How little?’

‘When I was five and Jem was ten.’

Bertie burst out laughing. ‘Oh, come on, Hetty!’

‘I know, it sounds so silly, but he was my dear brother and so kind to me.’

‘You can’t be sweethearts with your
brother
.’

‘He’s not a real brother by blood, he’s my foster brother. His name’s Jem and – and we always used to play we would get married one day.’

‘Look, when I was five I wanted to marry the pretty little girl with plaits I glimpsed at church on Sundays,
and
the maid with the rosy cheeks who served us porridge at breakfast,
and
the kind old dame who sat me on her lap when she taught me my letters.’

‘Yes, but he does still care for me, Bertie. He’s started writing to me.’

‘But can he come and see you and take you out of a Sunday?’

‘No.’

‘So what would you rather do – sit at home in your scullery week after week, or come out with me and have fun?’

‘Oh, Bertie! I want to come out with you and have fun, of course I do – but I feel bad about Jem. He says he’ll wait patiently for me, even if it’s years.’

‘Come off it! How old is this Jem? He must be … nineteen now. You’re telling me a grown man of nineteen is happy to moon about, daydreaming about a little girl he’s not seen for goodness knows how many years. Is he soft in the head, this Jem?’

‘No!’

‘Is he very plain? Very thin or very stout? Is he missing a limb or two?’

‘
No!
He’s strong and tall and good-looking.’

‘Then don’t you think he might have half the
village
after him, if he’s such a catch? I bet he’s got a sweetheart at home.’

‘Jem would always be true to me,’ I said, but my voice wavered.

I remembered all Jem’s sweet-talk with little Eliza, spinning her the same stories.

‘Aha!’ said Bertie, seeing my face. ‘You’re not so sure now, are you? Come on, Hetty, stop your nonsense. Don’t spoil things. I’m taking you somewhere special today.’

‘To the river?’

‘No, that was
last
week.
This
week we’re going on a little expedition. I’ve got an even better surprise.’

We walked down into town and then hopped on a bus for a ten-minute ride. We sat squashed up together on the top, the wind in our hair, looking over a high wall into green parklands. Then, far in the distance, I saw shimmering reds and yellows and bright blues. I heard music. I sniffed savoury smells.

‘What is it? What
is
this place? Oh, it’s not a circus, is it?’ I asked, quivering.

‘No, it’s a fair. There are swings and merry-go-rounds with carved horses and—’

‘I know what a fair is. I’ve been to one,’ I said, remembering the children’s fair in Hyde Park on the day of the Golden Jubilee.

‘There! I thought it would be such a surprise,’ said Bertie, looking very disappointed.

‘Oh it is, it is – a
lovely
surprise,’ I reassured him, standing up eagerly to see better. The bus lurched and I nearly toppled over.

‘Careful!’ said Bertie, grabbing me. He stroked the gold fringing on my bodice. ‘This is very pretty. Did you really make it all yourself?’

‘Yes, every stitch,’ I said proudly.

I remembered my first darning lesson at the hospital when I was five: how I’d pricked myself with the needle a dozen times, and bunched the toes up together. Perhaps the hospital had taught me something useful, then?

I stared at the other girls all about me as I got off the bus. I was pleased to see that my dress looked almost as stylish as theirs – though some of their dresses hung a little differently, sticking out at the back. At first I thought that all the girls, though otherwise slender, simply had big fat bottoms – but surely they couldn’t all have such protruding rears?

‘Bertie, why do those girls’ dresses stick out in that way?’ I asked.

Bertie seemed to be the fount of all knowledge, but this time he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Search me, Hetty. Ask one.
I
can’t, I’ll get my face slapped.’

I wasn’t sure I dared – but when we were waiting in the queue to climb up inside the great red
and
yellow helter-skelter, we got talking to the couple in front. Bertie knew the boy, who worked in the draper’s in the next town. His girl worked there too, and clearly made use of the shop’s wares, because her dress was sewn all over with ruffles and ribbons, with little jet beads around her cuffs. I admired these, and she admired my gold fringing. She clapped her hands when I told her I’d whipped it off an old curtain.

I peered at the very prominent bump at the back of her dress. ‘I love the way your dress hangs at the back,’ I said, describing a curve with my hands.

‘What? Oh, you mean my bustle!’ she giggled.

‘Ah! So, this bustle – is it stitched into the dress?’

She brought her head close to mine. ‘It’s a special pad. We sell them at our shop for five shillings,’ she whispered.

Five shillings! But I didn’t need to
buy
one. I could surely fashion a pad out of anything. I thought of all the cushions cluttering every chair and sofa at Mr Buchanan’s. No one would notice if just one went missing …

Then we were inside the helter-skelter, climbing up and up the stairs in the dark. The draper’s couple kept pausing above us, so that I blundered right into the girl’s wretched bustle.

‘What are they playing at?’ I said to Bertie.

‘Oh, I know exactly what they’re playing at,’ said Bertie. ‘We could play that game too.’

‘You’d better not try!’ I said, and when he did indeed try to put his arms round me, I gave him a sharp poke with my elbow.

When we got to the top of the helter-skelter, I felt dizzy up so high, right above the gaudy canopies of the fair, able to see for miles across the wooded parklands. I clutched hold of Bertie in spite of myself.

‘There now, Hetty, I’ve got you tight,’ he said.

He sat down on a mat and pulled me onto his lap. Then someone gave us a shove in the back. We were suddenly whizzing round and round and round, at such a rate and with so many bumps I thought we might fly straight off the slide – but Bertie was true to his word, holding onto me tightly, his hands gripping my waist. We hurtled right down to the end of the slide and shot off onto the grass, tumbling in an undignified heap, screaming and laughing.

‘That was good, eh, Hetty?’ said Bertie, pulling me upright.

‘Yes, it was wonderful,’ I said, jumping up and down and clapping my hands.

‘You’re a marvellous girl, up for any kind of lark,’ said Bertie. ‘Right, I’m going to win you a coconut as a reward.’

We went to the coconut shy and he tried his hardest, aiming three balls at the hairy coconuts balanced on sticks. He hit one with his last throw, but he couldn’t topple it.

‘It’s a cheat. They must be stuck on!’ he said, red in the face with effort.

‘Can I have a go?’ I begged.

‘It’s a waste of time. You can’t shift the beggars,’ said Bertie.

‘Please!’

‘You’re so obstinate!’ he said, but he paid a penny for me to have a go too.

I tried my best. I missed completely with my first shot. I hit a coconut with my second ball – and it wobbled a little but stayed balanced on its stick.

‘There, what did I say?’ said Bertie.

I took aim with my last ball. I pictured Matron Pigface Peters’ head on the stick and
hurled
the ball with all my strength. It struck the coconut with such force that it shot straight up – and then toppled to the ground.

‘There! I did it! We’ve got a coconut, Bertie!’ I shouted triumphantly.

Bertie didn’t look too thrilled, though everyone else around laughed and clapped me.

‘So what do we
do
with this nut? How do we eat it?’ I asked.

‘Crack it open,’ said Bertie.

‘How do we do that?’

‘You’re such a strong girl I should think you could do it with your teeth,’ he snapped.

‘What? Oh, Bertie, don’t be cross with me. I thought you
wanted
to win a coconut. Are you cross with me for spending all your pennies?’

‘I’ve got heaps more, silly. I’m just cross because
I
wanted to win it for you. Bit of manly pride and all that. Come over to the darts stall. I dare say you can win us a china ornament or a goldfish in a bowl.’

‘Will you be even crosser if I do?’ I said.

‘Probably!’ said Bertie, but he was smiling now.

‘Seriously though, I feel so bad that I haven’t any money for rides. I won’t get paid for a couple of months yet.’

‘I’ve got heaps for both of us,’ said Bertie, patting his jingling pocket. ‘I saved all my tips this week,
and
mowed Mr Jarvis’s big garden for an extra shilling, so we’re rich. So is it darts now, Hetty?’