Hetty Feather (21 page)

I crept back to my own bed as soon as Eliza started
dozing, but I couldn't sleep. I lay there, crying, my
fists clenched. I felt so stupid. I'd believed every
word Jem had said. I'd loved him with all my heart.
I'd trusted him. I'd been so sure that he really would
wait for me.

'Oh, Jem, how could you repeat everything to
her
?' I whispered into my pillow. 'You're wicked,
wicked, wicked.'

But as the night wore on, I started to feel I was
being ridiculous. Jem hadn't been
deliberately
unkind. I knew he wasn't really a wicked boy. He was
a sweet, kindly soul who simply wanted to comfort
his silly little sisters. I could see it was ludicrous
for my five-year-old sister Eliza to talk of Jem as
her sweetheart and future husband. It was equally
ludicrous for me to think Jem truly wanted to marry
me. We'd both been little children. Jem was telling
us a fairy story to try to kid us we'd live happily ever
after. Of course he wouldn't marry either of us.

He'd remember us both fondly, if a little sadly.
Then, in the fullness of time, he'd fall in love with
some village lass like Nat's Sally and marry her. His
future was plain to me now. And my future was plain
too. I was Hetty Feather, a foundling, imprisoned in
the hospital. When I was fourteen, I'd leave to be
a servant. That was all I had to look forward to. I
would be a drudge for the rest of my days.

The hospital cook scalded her hands badly with
boiling water, and could not work for weeks.
Ida was asked to take over her duties until Cook
recovered. She was allowed to choose one of us girls
to help her in the kitchen. Ida selected the great
fourteen-year-old girls at first, as expected – but then
announced she'd like to give some of the younger
girls a chance.

'I'd like to try out Hetty Feather for a day,'
she said.

Matron Bottomly snorted derisively. 'You'll
regret
that
decision,' she said, but she let Ida have
her way.

All the other girls moaned and grumbled
and said it wasn't the slightest bit fair. I said
nothing at all. I stayed silent when Ida set me
to peeling the vegetables, freshly picked from
the hospital garden. She told me to have a little
nibble at the carrots and pod a few peas for myself,
but I didn't bother. I even shook my head listlessly
when she offered me a spoonful of syrup from
her larder.

'You're always hungry, Hetty! Aren't you feeling
well?' Ida said, putting her hand to my forehead.

'I'm all right. Leave me alone,' I said, shrugging
her hand away.

'Oh, Hetty, please, dear, tell me what's wrong,'
said Ida.

'Nothing!'
I snapped. 'Stop pestering me.'

If I'd spoken like that to Miss Morley or Matron
Bottomly, they'd have slapped me for impertinence,
but Ida just looked wounded. Her big blue eyes
blinked at me reproachfully. I felt bad because she
had always been so very kind to me – but I was
tired
of being kind back. I'd spent weeks making a fuss
of Eliza and listening to her endless prattle about
Jem when every word was a torment. I couldn't tell
her to shut up and keep out of my way. She was my
little sister after all. I knew just how sad and lonely
she was feeling, how very bleak the hospital seemed
after our cosy cottage.

When I'd first come here, it had meant so much
to me that Harriet had made a special pet of me.
I felt duty bound to do the same for Eliza, even
though the sound of her squeaky little voice made
me wince, and her habit of quoting Jem in each and
every sentence drove me to distraction.

I
had
to stop myself hurting her – but I didn't
see why I had to take such care with silly old Ida.
I wished she wasn't so stupidly sensitive. She had
spirit enough with the others. I'd seen her put Sheila
in her place often enough, and she was wonderfully
sharp with the nurses, even though forced to toady
to Matron Stinking Bottomly. Why did she have to
care what I said?

I sighed at her set shoulders and wounded
expression. She was making pastry, thumping her
rolling pin with unnecessary pressure. Ida had
introduced pies into our diet while Cook recovered,
and they were much appreciated by everyone.
I idly picked up all the cut-off ribbons of pastry. I
started to fashion them into a big fat dough lady.
I turned her into a matron with a silly cap and a
grim expression.

Ida stopped making her endless huge pies and
stared at my creation. She smiled, forgetting she
was offended. 'That's so good, Hetty!'

'No, it's not,' I said, and I suddenly squashed the
figure flat.

'Oh, look what you've done! I wanted to bake
it to keep her. My, you're in a bad mood today,
aren't you?'

I shrugged and made patterns in the spilled flour
on the kitchen flags with the toe of my boot.

'Don't do that, you're just treading it in,' said Ida.
She took a deep breath, still unaccountably intent
on humouring me. 'How about your taking a turn
with the pastry rolling?'

'I don't want to.'

'It's a skill to be proud of, making good pastry.
I've picked up a lot of knowledge working in the
kitchen. I could teach you all sorts, Hetty. Maybe
you could eventually get a position as a cook-general
if you learned a few recipes.'

'I don't
want
to be a cook-general,' I declared.

'It's far better than being a kitchen maid or a
tweeny.'

'I don't want to be any kind of stupid servant,' I
said.
'Especially
in a kitchen.'

This time I'd really gone too far. Ida flushed. She
thumped the pastry with her rolling pin. She looked
as if she'd like to give me a good thumping too.

'Oh, I'm all too well aware that you look down
your nose at servants,' said Ida. 'So pray tell
me, Hetty, what exactly
are
you going to do with
your life?'

I could not answer her. I had clung to the idea
of marrying Jem for so long. Now I could see how
painfully silly I had been.

'What was it again?' said Ida angrily, putting her
floury hand to her ear as if I'd spoken. 'Run away to
the circus to join your real mother?'

It was my turn to flush. I'd forgotten I'd once
told Ida about Madame Adeline. She was another
childish dream. I remembered the roar of the crowd
as we cantered around the ring, the sound of all
those many pairs of hands clapping me . . .

I stuck my head in the air. 'I might just do that
very thing,' I said.

'Oh, Hetty, as if that circus lady could
possibly
be
your mother!'

'She could be. She practically said so,' I said
fiercely. I did not really believe it now, but I could
not bear to let my last dream fade away.

'You're getting a big girl now,' said Ida, shaking
her head. She'd rubbed a floury sprinkle over her
cheeks and her cap was awry, making her look
foolish. 'You're far too old for these silly daydreams.
You've got to be practical, know your place, work
hard, make something of yourself.'

'Like you, you mean?' I said spitefully.

'You might not think much of my position,
Miss High and Mighty, but it suits me perfectly,'
said Ida. 'I work hard and I keep respectable and I
save my wages.'

'Yes, but what
for
? You do the same thing day
after day, week after week, year after year. You must
be mad, Ida. You don't have to stay here.
You're
not
a foundling. You could walk out and get a better job
anywhere.'

'I've got a good job
here
and I was very lucky to
get it too, coming from the workhouse,' said Ida.
'You're talking nonsense, Hetty. I know you must
be missing Polly sorely but there's no need to take it
out on me. I've tried my best to cheer you up.'

'I shall never be cheerful here, never never never,'
I declared.

I simply could not stop myself. Ida was my only
true friend left in the hospital and yet I seemed
determined to alienate her. I stayed rude and sulking
all day, doing the barest minimum of work.

'Judging by today, I doubt you can even be a
servant when you leave here, Miss Hetty Head-in-
the-Air,' Ida sniffed. 'No one in their right mind
would ever take you on as a skivvy, let alone a cook.
Now, are you going to snap out of it and be a good
sweet girl tomorrow?'

I snapped my fingers and then presented her with
my own glum face. 'Does it look like it?' I said.

'Well, go away and stew, you stupid girl. I'll pick
someone else to come and help me.'

'As if I care,' I said, and marched out of the
kitchen.

I cared dreadfully when Ida picked
Sheila.
I knew
she'd done it deliberately to annoy me. Ida didn't
like Sheila any more than I did. She just wanted to
pay me back. It was bitterly painful to peep through
the kitchen hatch and see Ida and Sheila stirring a
vat of rice pudding together, laughing away. When
Ida saw me looking, she popped a handful of raisins
into Sheila's grinning mouth. She gave a little nod,
as if to say,
That will show you, Hetty Feather.

It showed me all right. It looked as if I'd lost my
last friend at the hospital through my own stupid
behaviour. I should have gone to Ida privately and
apologized, but I was too proud. I stalked around by
myself, dutifully keeping an eye on little Eliza but
otherwise taking no notice of anyone.

I sat listlessly in the classroom, never bothering
to answer a single question now. I felt so dull and
slow I could scarcely lift my pen to write any words.
I found my grades slipping. I had been first equal
with Polly at everything, but now I was sliding down
almost to the bottom of the class, along with Mad
Jenny and Slow Freda and Stutter Mary, the three
sad girls who could barely read and write.

I tried even
less
with my household tasks. Every
Sunday I daydreamed in chapel and ate my dinner
stony-faced, staring down all the chattering ladies
and gentlemen. There seemed no point in smiling.
They would never pick
me
to be their new little
adopted daughter. I was small, sour, red-haired
Hetty Feather.

I could not even get interested when everyone
started talking about the Queen's Golden Jubilee in
June. What did I care for our fat little monarch? Miss
Morley's lessons became very focused on the Royal
Personage. At long last she used the coloured maps
on the classroom wall, showing us all the different
lands the Queen ruled over.

When she told us the Queen was also Empress of
India, half the class assumed she
lived
in that huge
hot sub-continent. Miss Morley laughed at such
ignorance. She said the Queen mostly lived here
in London, at Buckingham Palace – and she would
quite definitely be in London on 23 June, the day of
the Golden Jubilee.

Miss Morley seemed utterly obsessed with Queen
Victoria. She gave us dictation about our Loyal
Sovereign, she told us the history of her fifty-year
reign, she even had us calculating how many seconds
would tick by during the Royal Procession if it started
at eleven and ended at two. I assumed this was a
specific obsession peculiar to Miss Morley – but it
seemed to be shared by all the staff. Even little Eliza
started babbling about our Great Queen and showed
me a picture that she'd drawn in the infant class. I
admired it wearily, though her Queen Victoria looked
very like a fat stag beetle with a crown upon its head.

We even prayed for Queen Victoria in chapel
on Sunday, which seemed to me a little bizarre.
Why should all us foundlings, born in shame and
destined to live our lives as servants, pray for such
a fabulously rich and fortunate old woman who
owned whole continents? She should surely be on
her padded knees, praying for God's mercy for us.

At the end of the service Matron Bottomly
marched to the front of the chapel and ascended
the pulpit, her beaky nose pecking the air. She was
smaller than the vicar, so only her head was in view,
sticking up comically like a coconut on a shy. I had
such an urge to aim my hymn book at her!

'I have a very important announcement to make,
children,' she said. 'As you all know, our dear Queen
has ruled over us for fifty wonderful years. Next
Thursday is the day of the Golden Jubilee, when the
whole country will celebrate her glorious reign. We
are going to celebrate too! You have all been invited
to a festive gathering at Hyde Park in London. You
will be given a splendid meal at this venue and join
in all kinds of fun and games, and then Her Majesty
the Queen herself will come and greet you!'

There was a great
'Ooooh'
of excitement and
astonishment, though perhaps we were more thrilled
at the sound of the splendid meal and the fun and
games than the prospect of seeing the Queen.

I was excited too, I could not help it. We were going to
escape the dreary hospital for a whole day! Oh glory!

'Settle down now, children. You must be especially
well behaved. Any child who is seriously surly or
disobedient will
not
be included in the trip to see the
Queen,' said Matron Bottomly – and her ridiculous
coconut head turned so that she was looking straight
at me.

Oh, I understand you
very
well, Matron Stinking
Bottomly,
I thought.
It would give you such huge
delight to be able to deny me my rights. How it
would please you to declare before everyone that
Hetty Feather was too wicked to attend the Jubilee
Celebrations.

I smiled demurely back at Matron Bottomly. For
once in my life I wasn't stupidly going to cut off my
nose to spite my face. My behaviour over the next
few days was exemplary. I tried hard in lessons on
Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, but not
so
hard
that my knowledge irritated Miss Morley. I meekly
wrote down her exact words during dictation. I
figured out each silly sum, finding how many days
it would take Queen Victoria to sail to India if
her mighty ship steamed along at a certain terrific
rate of knots. I wrote a neat, unimaginative essay on
'What I should say should I meet Her Majesty the
Queen'.

I had myself performing copious curtsies,
simpering 'If you please, ma'am,' repeatedly. Miss
Morley gave me a big red tick and wrote
Excellent
at
the bottom of my page. She actually wrote
Excellant,
but I decided not to point this out. I sewed aprons
exquisitely, using tiny stitches and turning each
corner with a perfectly sewn double hem, as if I was
making the finest robes for the Royal Household. I
dusted every corridor and corner of the hospital, my
feather duster reaching
up
to the picture rails and
down
to the wainscoting. I practically lined up every
infant foundling and gave them a good dusting too.

Oh, how irritated Matron Bottomly must have
been when Thursday morning dawned bright and
sunny, and there I was, smiling, as good as gold. She
was probably tempted to give me a slap for sheer
cussedness. She did not have the imagination to
invent some wicked misdemeanour on the spot.
She simply gave me a hard poke in the back and
said, 'Mind your manners while you're out, Hetty
Feather. All of London will be looking at us.'

We were all issued with clean clothes from
top to bottom that Thursday, breaking with all
known custom. Our caps and aprons and tippets
were laundered and starched so snowy white they
looked brand new. Matron had had every big
girl ironing all day Wednesday, when we'd all
shuffled round in our stockinged feet while every
big boy polished our boots. We were given bread
and butter for our breakfast because the nurses
were so fearful the little ones might spill their
porridge down their crisp white chests. Every
child had mouth and hands dabbed at with a damp
cloth after breakfast, and all the infants were
forced into the privies and frightened into copious
evacuation so that none would disgrace the hospital
during our long outing.