Hetty Feather (19 page)

She slammed the door shut on me, rattled the
key in the lock and marched off.

'Please come back, please, please!' I screamed,
though I knew she would not relent.

At last I drank the water down in three great gulps,
and ate the single slice of dry bread. It was almost
pitch dark now, and I hunched up on my blanket. I
could not think up a single new story, but old tales
from the
Police Gazette
started swirling in my mind.
Mad Flora crouched beside me, knife clutched at the
ready. The Meat-axe Murderer slavered at the door,
dripping with blood.

I pulled the blanket right over my head, but
they crept underneath too. I put my hands over
my ears because they were whispering menacingly,
threatening me.

'Oh, Hetty, are you in there?'

Wait! Was this a real voice, outside my attic
prison? I heard knocking at my door.

'Hetty? Have they locked you in there?'

I knew that husky voice.

'Is it really you, Ida?'

'Oh dear God, they've really locked you up
inside.'

'Ida, please, turn the key and let me out!'

'I can't, my love, those witches have taken
away the key,' she said. She sounded as if she was
crying herself.

'How long are they going to keep me here?' I
asked desperately.

'I don't know. I think maybe all night long. I'm
so very sorry, Hetty. I only just found out. I didn't
see you at dinner but I thought I'd simply missed
you. When I did not see you at supper either, I asked
Polly and she said they'd taken you away to punish
you. She was in tears too, poor girl, saying it was all
her fault, that you were trying to protect her from
Miss Morley. What did you
do
to her, Hetty?'

'I snatched her ruler away when she'd struck
Polly. Oh, how I wish I'd struck her with it. I hate
her. I hate them all.'

'I hate them too. You must try to be brave, dear
Hetty. They will have to let you out tomorrow. If
they don't, I will go to a governor's house and report
them for wicked cruelty,' Ida said wildly.

'I'm not sure I can manage a whole night,' I
wept. 'It's so dreadfully dark and I'm so scared all
by myself.'

I thought of little Gideon then, all by himself in
the squirrel house the night we went to the circus.
No wonder he'd been so traumatized. Was I going to
be shocked senseless too?

'You're not alone, Hetty,' said Ida. 'I will stay. I
cannot get in, but I am only the other side of your
door. I will wait until you go to sleep.'

'But you will get into trouble if they catch you.'

'They won't catch me. If I hear anyone coming,
I'll run along the corridor and hide, and then
creep back afterwards. I'm not leaving you here so
frightened.'

'You're so good to me, Ida.'

'I'd give anything to look after you properly,
Hetty. For two pins I'd slap those evil witches until
they gave me the key, and then I'd let you out and
have you sleep in my own bed – but I have to keep
my position. I'd never get any other work without a
good reference, and I'm not going to end up in the
workhouse. I'll tell you a secret, Hetty. I spent three
years there, and it was a dreadful, dreadful place.
No, I'm doing well for myself now and saving up my
wages. I've the future to think of.' She paused for a
long moment. 'Shall I tell you . . .?'

'Tell me what, Ida?'

'No, no, maybe not now, not yet.' She was silent.

'Are you still there, Ida?' I asked anxiously.

'Yes, of course I am. You curl up, my dear, and try
to go to sleep. Did they give you a mattress?'

'I've got a blanket, but it smells so horrid.'

'Put your cap over your nose – that will
smell of fresh laundering and hair oil, good smells.
Now, you're the girl for picturing. Picture you're
lying on a soft scented pillow, so fresh and dainty,
and you have a feather mattress and a beautiful
warm quilt. Oh, you are getting so cosy now, aren't
you, dear?'

'I didn't think
you
could picture, Ida!'

'I can do lots of things, Hetty. Now nestle under
your splendid quilt. Shut your eyes, dear. You're
getting very sleepy. You're going to go fast asleep
and have happy dreams,
such
happy dreams. One
day all your dreams will come true, Hetty. All my
dreams too . . .' Ida's voice murmured on and on,
and somehow the stout door splintered away and
we were together, both of us in our soft feather bed,
lying on fresh pillows . . .

Then I woke up with a start, my neck twisted, my
whole body aching, locked in the dark all alone. But
somehow it wasn't quite as bad as before because
Ida's voice echoed in my head, helping me picture
the bed, and after a long time I fell asleep again.

Then I heard the key in the lock. The door opened
and I was blinking in daylight.

'Well, well, well, Hetty Feather!' Matron Bottomly
peered in at me, a look of triumph on her ugly face.
'You look suitably chastened, child. Are you truly
sorry, or do you need another twenty-four hours to
teach you your lesson?'

'I am very sorry, Matron,' I said meekly, my head
bowed, because I could not stand the thought of
further imprisonment.

'I am glad to see you truly penitent at last,' said
Matron Bottomly, smiling grimly. 'I'm pleased that
vicious spirit of yours is broken at last. Now perhaps
you will show suitable respect to your elders and
betters.'

Oh, how I hated her, talking about me as if I was
a tamed wild beast. Of course I wasn't the slightest
bit sorry I'd stuck up for poor Polly. I had no respect
whatsoever for Matron Bottomly or Miss Morley.
They were undisputedly my elders but they certainly
weren't
my betters. They were cruel, wicked women,
not fit to look after children. How dare they beat us
and lock us up like criminals and act as if it was for
our benefit!

I resolved to run away.

'Oh, Hetty, I will run away too,' Polly said,
hugging me.

Her hands were still scored with red weals from
Miss Morley's ruler, and her eyes were red too,
because she'd cried bitterly the entire time I'd been
incarcerated.

We tried to concoct a sensible plan of action. We
fancied ourselves the cleverest girls but we lacked
inventive ideas. We knew so little of the world
outside the hospital. We only knew our foster homes
– and so we thought of our lost foster mothers.

'If Miss Morrison knew the way we are treated
here, I'm sure she'd take me back into her care.
She'd take you too, Hetty, because you are so bright
and clever.'

'If Mother knew they'd kept me locked up in an
attic all night, she'd
definitely
take me back – and
my goodness, Jem would rise up and seize Matron
Bottomly and kick her up her stinking bottom,'
I declared. 'And of course you could stay with
us,
Polly.
You might care for my brother Nat, who is almost
as dear as Jem, and then you can marry him when
we are older and we can live in adjoining cottages.'

We alternated futures, flying between one
household and another, the way we'd pictured
our pretend visits as little children. It had been so
easy when we were small girls, but now it seemed
incredibly difficult. We could fly there in an instant
in our imagination, but it was a far harder task
working out each step in reality. We had no clear
idea how to get to our foster homes. I knew we had
to go on a long journey by train, but I did not even
know the names of the stations – and though I had
a little money (Jem's sixpence and my Christmas
pennies), I knew they would not be nearly enough
to pay the fare.

'How will we actually get out of the hospital?'
said Polly.

We rarely set foot outside the grounds. We had
been taken to tea at a governor's house several
times, and once some girls had been picked to go
on an outing to Hampton Court – but not us. We
were always carefully guarded, and the grounds
were regularly patrolled by staff. Surely if we simply
started running, they would seize us and bring
us back? I could not stand the thought of further
incarceration in the attic room.

'We have to make firm plans,' I said, though I
did not have any idea how to do this. I'd lived in the
hospital so long that the outside world had faded
like a dream. I had pictured home often enough, but
I'd added so many details that now I wasn't sure
what was real.

The mother and father in my mind were now like
good guardian angels. Yet contrarywise I could also
remember Mother paddling me, Father shouting
angrily. My brothers and sisters seemed like siblings
in a storybook, not really connected to
me.
Martha
was now simply the girl in spectacles who sang
sweetly in the chapel on Sundays.

I even felt I'd lost contact with Gideon. I'd dared
my dressing-as-a-boy trick twice more in the infants
school, and last year at the boys' sports day I'd
looked hard for him. He eventually spotted me and
risked edging close to say hello. I did not recognize
him till he did so. He was so tall now, and had filled
out a little, seeming less sad and spindly.

'Hello, Hetty,' he said softly.

'Oh, Gideon, it's really you!' I said.

I did not care about hospital rules. I threw my
arms around him. However, it felt odd, as if I was
embracing a stranger. We asked each other politely
if we were all right, but then stood smiling shyly,
at a loss for further conversation. I was so glad he
was still talking properly, but I did not like to point
this out in case it embarrassed him. Eventually I
asked him if he ever thought of Mother and home.
I wished I'd held my tongue because his brown eyes
grew misty. He shook his head, though I was sure he
was lying. Then one of the boys' teachers looked our
way and Gideon ran off hastily.

I had glimpsed him since, going in and out of the
chapel, but was not even sure it was really him –
there were so many tall thin boys with brown eyes.

I decided I could not include him in my escape
plans. We had been parted too long. It was almost
as if he wasn't my brother any more. There was
only one brother I was sure of. My vision of Jem
shone like a lantern in my head. I was sure I still
knew every freckle on his dear face, every curl of
his hair, every curve of his ear. I knew the sound
of his sneeze, his yawn, his merry laughter. I felt
I could instantly pick him out from fifty thousand
other boys. He would be almost a man now, able to
find work. He could look after me – and Polly too.
She was dearer to me now than any of my sisters.

She did not give answers now in Miss Morley's
class. She wrote down her sums silently from the
board, and if Miss Morley made mistakes, she
copied them without comment – though she bit
her lip. Alone with me, she talked as usual, but she
was quiet with everyone else, her head bent as if to
escape notice.

But someone was quite definitely noticing her.
A large woman dressed all in black, with a very
pale face and dark shadows under her eyes, started
coming regularly on Sundays, leaning heavily on the
arm of her husband. She wore an enamelled hair
locket around her neck and had a habit of rubbing
it with her plump white fingers, as if it was a tiny
lamp and she was trying to summon a genie.

She didn't seem interested in the tiny girls who
usually attracted the most attention. She didn't
glance at the capable big girls, almost ready for
work. We were used to strange women eyeing them
up and down, on the lookout for a useful servant.
No, this large lady in black always paused at our
table of ten-year-olds and hovered there, blinking
her shadowed eyes and fingering her locket. She
watched our every mouthful, she strained to hear
our whispered remarks, she peered with her large
head at an angle, as if she was Matron checking
the neatness of our plaits and the cleanliness of our
necks.

The large lady kept looking in our direction. Not
at me, but at Polly.

'That lady in black is really starting to annoy
me,' I grumbled. 'She will not stop staring. Poke
your tongue out at her, Polly!'

'Don't be unkind about her, Hetty. She looks so
sad,'
said Polly. 'Who do you think she can be?'

'Maybe she's your long-lost mother, come back
to claim you after all this time. She's rich and
respectable now and can afford to buy you back
from the governors,' I said.

'I think her husband
is
a governor,' said Polly.
'I saw him on Friday when the mothers were
petitioning. I remember his whiskers and his fat
watch-chain.'

'Look at the buttons on his waistcoat, all
set to pop off! Have you ever seen such a stomach!'
I said.

'But he looks a kindly man,' said Polly.

Perhaps he read her lips, because just then
he nodded at her and smiled. Polly smiled back
demurely. The lady in black gripped her husband's
arm and swayed a little, as if she felt faint.

'There! She's recognizing you, her little lost
Polly,' I said, carried away with my story.

I started elaborating on my romance, but
Polly wasn't listening. She was looking at the
couple and they were looking at her. It was almost
as if they were alone in the vast dining room. The
hundreds of other foundling girls did not seem to
exist – even me.

I felt my stomach tighten, so much so that I
could not finish my Sunday dinner. I was immensely
relieved when the table was tapped and it was time
to file out. I hurried Polly away from the couple,
suggesting we find a quiet corner to read – but
Matron Bottomly stood in the doorway.

'There you are, Polly Renfrew! Come with me to
my room, child.'

Polly gasped. There was only one reason for going
to Matron Bottomly's room. It meant that you were
going to be severely punished.

'But Polly hasn't
done
anything,' I said, taking
her hand.

'Did I ask for
your
comments, Hetty Feather?'
said Matron. 'Hurry along now, if you please.'

I had to slink away while Polly marched off after
Matron Bottomly. She peered back at me anxiously
and I gave her a cheery wave of encouragement,
though inside I was in turmoil.

I went off to the dormitory and waited by her
bed. I waited and waited and waited. Normally
Matron Bottomly was brisk with her punishments.
She'd give you a severe talking to. If you had been
exceptionally bad, you were whacked with a stick.
I was the only girl so far who'd been locked up in
the attic. She surely wouldn't dream of shutting
Polly
up there. Polly was so scared of the dark.
If she woke in the night, she always needed to
wake me up too so I could hold her hand. If she
was shut up alone in the attic all night, she'd go
demented. I was sure she hadn't done anything
wrong at all – though we were all used to being
seized indiscriminately and punished for some
insignificant or imagined offence.

I cast myself down on Polly's bed, beating it
with my fist in my frustration. 'I hate it here,
I hate it here, I hate it here,' I muttered into
Polly's pillow.

I shut my eyes tight, picturing myself marching
to Matron Bottomly's room and rescuing Polly – but
I so dreaded the punishment attic myself, I didn't
quite have the courage. I lay there, hating myself as
well as the hospital.

At long last I heard Polly's footsteps. I sat up and
stared at her. She wasn't flushed and tear-stained.
There were no cruel red marks on her hands. Yet
she looked immeasurably different. She was walking
slowly, as if treading water, and her eyes were dazed.
She blinked when she saw me.

'Oh, Hetty,' she said, and her hand went to her
mouth. 'Oh, Hetty, I hardly know how to tell you.'

I stood up and faced her. 'What
is
it, Polly?'

'I – I am leaving the hospital,' Polly whispered.

'What?' I said, shaking my head.

'I know. I can scarcely take it in myself, but it's
true. I've to gather up my things and go now. I am
to live with Mr and Mrs McCartney – she is the lady
in black.'

'Oh my Lord! Is she
really
your mother?' I said.

'No, no. She had a daughter our age, Lucy, but
she died of the influenza last winter and now she
wants to adopt me to take Lucy's place.'

'But people aren't allowed to adopt us! We belong
to the hospital.'

'I know, but Mr McCartney is a governor and a
very generous benefactor. They will do whatever he
wants,' said Polly.

'And – and is it what
you
want?' I asked
hoarsely.

'Oh, Hetty, I don't know!' said Polly, tears
suddenly rolling down her cheeks. 'I can't bear the
thought of not seeing you any more – but of course
I want to leave the hospital.'

'Do you
like
them, the McCartneys?'

'I think so. They seem very kind, though still very
sad. I am to have Lucy's room and all her clothes
and even all her toys. She has five large china dolls,
and a doll's house with an entire family of very little
dolls – a mother, a father, a grandmother with little
spectacles, a grandfather with a grey beard, and five
children, one a tiny baby doll in a crocheted shawl.
It was Mrs McCartney's when she was a child and
she described it very carefully. She gave it to Lucy
and now it is to be mine.'

'You are too old for dolls and doll's houses,' I
said sourly.

'I know, but I don't mind,' Polly said.

'
I
mind,' I cried. 'I mind it all. Oh, Polly, don't
go and be their child. Please stay here with me. You
are my only friend. I can't bear it at the hospital
without you.'

'I'm so sorry,' said Polly, hugging me. 'I haven't
any choice. Matron Bottomly says I have to go now.
But I will beg my new mama and papa to bring
me back here to visit you – and I will write to you
lots and lots. Then, when we are fourteen, we can
meet up properly because you will be out of the
hospital too.'

'Yes, but I will be a servant then,' I said. 'You will
be a lady.'

'We will still be
us,
Hetty,' said Polly.

But we knew there was already a divide between
us. I could not be mean enough to rebuke Polly
further. I knew I would have jumped at the chance
of escaping the hospital. I would not have sacrificed
that chance for anyone, not even my dearest friend.
But the McCartneys had not chosen me as their
new daughter. They had chosen Polly, and I could
understand why.

She was fair and neat and placid, while I was
small and fiery with flame-red hair. She had the
table manners of her spinster schoolteacher foster
mother: she cut up her food daintily, nibbled slowly
and drank from her cup with her little finger stuck
out at an elegant angle. I had the manners of a rough
country child: I still bolted my food and talked with
my mouth full and slurped my milk. Polly's voice
was gentle and she enunciated every word carefully,
while I spoke in a wild torrent. Of
course
they picked
Polly.

I swallowed hard, trying to compose myself. I
kissed her wet cheeks. 'I will miss you sorely, Polly,
but I am also truly happy for you,' I said.

'I'm sorry I've been so lucky,' said Polly,
still crying.

'I think those McCartneys are lucky having you
for their new daughter,' I declared.

We hugged again, and then I helped her
gather her few possessions. She insisted on taking
every present I'd ever given her, even the little
squashed heart with huge stitching. Matron
Bottomly came marching into the dormitory, rubbing
her hands.

'Are you ready, Polly dear?' she said, so
sickly sweet now that Polly was leaving. 'Mr
McCartney's carriage is waiting.
What
a fortunate
girl you are!'