Hetty Feather (3 page)

She was outraged when Saul told tales on me.
'You pushed our Saul out of a
tree,
Hetty?' she said,
horrified. She reached for her paddling ladle and I
ran to hide behind Jem.

'It wasn't high up in the tree, Mother, and
she didn't
mean
to,' said Jem, doing his best to
defend me.

Oh, I did so love Jem. But it was no use: I was
well and truly paddled, and Mother forbade all of us
to play in the squirrel house.

Gideon looked mightily relieved, Martha was
indifferent, Jem was clearly sad for me – but I
was so aggravated I stamped and shouted and
screamed at Mother. You can guess the result. I
got paddled all over again, and sent to bed without
any supper.

Mother came and sat beside me as I snuffled in
the dark. 'Now, Hetty, are you sorry for being such
a bad girl?'

'No, I am not sorry.
You
should be sorry for being
a bad mother,' I mumbled beneath my blanket.

Mother had sharper ears than I'd reckoned.
'What
did you say, Hetty?' she said.

Oh no, was I about to get
another
paddling?
My bed started shaking. Mother was making odd
gasping sounds. Had I shocked her so much she was
having a fit, like Ruben in the village after drinking
too much ale?

I peeped above the blanket in terror. Mother was
sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands over her
mouth, splitting her sides with laughter. Oh, the
relief!

'Don't you grin at me, girl!' she spluttered. 'I've
never known such an imp as you. What am I going
to do with you?'

'Paddle me and paddle me, even when I'm a big
girl like Rosie,' I said, laughing too.

But Mother suddenly stopped. She put her arms
round me and hugged me tight. 'Oh, I'm going to
miss you so, little Hetty, even though you're such a
bad, bad girl.'

I am absolutely certain that is what she whispered
into my red hair. I didn't understand. I thought she
meant when I had to attend the village school like
Jem. I didn't dream I was only a temporary member
of Mother's family.

I found it sorely trying when the blissful summer
holidays ended and Jem had to spend all day long
at his lessons. I didn't miss Rosie and Nat and Eliza
one jot, but I missed Jem horrendously. I was left at
home with Martha, who was no fun, and Saul, who
was a sneaking toad, and Gideon, who was a milksop.
They wouldn't play lovely games with me like my
dear Jem. Mother didn't want us under her feet in
the cottage, but neither did she want us toddling
down the village lane and into the woods without
Jem to keep an eye on us, so we were confined to the
front step and our little patch of garden.

If I suggested spitting in the earth and making
mud pies or drawing in the dust with a stick, then
Martha would hang her head dejectedly because
she couldn't see well enough. If I organized a game
of Chase and held Martha's hand, she could run as
fast as me – but then Saul would whine, because
he always came last with his limpy leg. If I tried
a picturing game and pretended a tall oak was a
warty ogre and the grunting pig in the back yard a
mythical monster, Gideon would play on gamely, but
he'd wake screaming in the night. He'd refuse point
blank when told to feed the pig our potato parings,
and whimper to be held whenever Mother took us
for a walk past the oak tree.

I'd hold my breath when Mother comforted then
questioned him. Gideon did not wish to tell tales on
me and get me into trouble. He would press his lips
together when she asked what was ailing him – but
Saul
delighted
in getting me into trouble and told
all sorts of stories to Mother about me, and then of
course I'd get paddled.

Sometimes I decided it was
worth
being paddled
to plague sly Saul. I'd see him lick the jam from
Martha's bread or drop a spider in Gideon's special
mug of milk. I didn't tell stories on him – where was
the fun in that? – but I'd creep up on him unawares
and punish him. Once I spotted him leaning right
over the gate to poke the poor pig with his wooden
crutch, laughing when she squealed. I darted
forward and gave him a shove. Oh, how
he
squealed
when he fell face down in the pigsty. It was so soft
with smelly mud he didn't hurt his poorly leg or his
other leg either. He just hurt his dignity, lying there
bawling, covered in potato peelings and pig poo.

I laughed and laughed and laughed. I even
laughed while I was being paddled.

Jem laughed too when I told him, but he said
I must take care not to be so bad when I went to
school.

'Teacher has a big cane, Hetty, and she swishes
it all day,' he said. 'She hurts much more than
Mother.'

'She swishes
you,
Jem?'

'She swished my friend Janet for chalking her
b
s and
ds
the wrong way round, and when I said it
wasn't fair, Janet had tried and tried to learn, she's
just not very quick, Teacher swished me too and told
me not to answer back.'

'I don't like Teacher,' I said.

I knew my
b
s from my
ds
already because Jem
had taught me. But then I thought of Martha.

'Martha can't write any of her letters,' I said.
'Will Teacher swish
her?'

'I won't let her,' said Jem stoutly.

But Martha didn't go to the village school when
she was five. Mother boiled up a tub of water
one evening and gave Martha her own special
scrub, even though she'd had a washday bath on
Monday. Mother gave her a special creamy mug of
milk for her supper and held her on her lap while
she drank it.

Father gave Martha a ride on his knees.
'This
is the way the ladies ride,'
he sang, jiggling her up
and down while she giggled.

Saul whined that it wasn't fair,
he
wanted a
ride. Gideon said nothing, but he sucked his
thumb and stared while Martha drank
his
milk.
For once I didn't complain. I was too little to under-
stand, but I saw the tears in Mother's eyes, heard
the crack in Father's voice as he sang. I knew
something was wrong – though Martha herself
stayed blissfully unaware.

She went to sleep that night as soon as her head
hit the pillow. I stayed awake, cuddling up to her,
winding a lock of her brown hair round and round
my finger as if I was binding us together.

Mother came and woke us very early.

'Is it time to get up?' I asked sleepily.

'Not for you, Hetty,' said Mother. 'Go back to
sleep.'

It was still so dark I couldn't see her, but I
could tell that she'd been crying again. She gently
coaxed Martha up and led her out of the room.
I turned over into Martha's warm patch and
breathed in her faint bread-and-butter smell,
wondering why Mother had woken her so early. I
decided I should creep out of bed and go and see, but
it still seemed like the middle of the night and I was
so tired . . .

When I woke up again, the sun was shining
through the window. I ran downstairs, calling out
for Martha. She wasn't there. Mother wasn't there
either. Rosie and Eliza were brewing the tea and
stirring porridge.

'Where's Mother? Where's Martha?'

'They've had to go out,' said Rosie. 'Come and sit
down like a good girl, Hetty.'

I didn't want to be a good girl. I wanted Mother
and Martha. My heart was beating hard inside my
chest. I was very frightened, though I didn't quite
know why. I started screaming and couldn't stop,
not even when Eliza bribed me with a dab of butter
and sugar, not even when Rosie slapped my kicking
legs. Jem eventually quietened me, lugging me up
onto his lap and rocking me like a newborn baby,
but he seemed almost as anxious as I was.

Rosie and Nat and Eliza knew something we
didn't. They nudged each other and wouldn't look
us in the eye over our breakfast. Jem questioned
them persistently, I cried, Saul snivelled, and Gideon
didn't get out to the privy in time and wet all down
his legs. We couldn't manage without Mother. She
was always there, as much a part of the cottage as
the roof and the four walls. We were lost without
her. And why had she taken Martha with her?

'You know where Mother's taken her,' said Jem,
standing on the bench so he was eye to eye with
Rosie. 'Tell us!'

'Stop pestering me, Jem. I've got more than
enough to do without you and the babies fuss fuss
fussing. Hetty, if you start that screaming again, I'll
paddle you with Mother's ladle.'

'Don't you dare paddle Hetty,' said Jem. 'She's not
being bad, she's just fearful. She wants Mother.'

'Well, Mother will be back presently,' said Rosie
evasively.

'Why did she go off without saying goodbye? Why
did she take Martha with her?'

'Poor little Martha,' said Rosie, suddenly
softening. Her lip puckered as if she was about to
cry.

'Is Martha poorly?' Jem persisted, but Rosie
wouldn't answer.

When Gideon had been poorly with the croup
last winter, Mother had called in the doctor. He had
looked grave and said Gideon might have to be sent
to hospital.

'Is Martha so poorly she's had to go to
hospital
?'
Jem asked.

He lowered his voice when he said the word. We'd
heard the villagers talking. Hospitals were terrifying
places where doctors cut you open and took out all
your insides.

'She's had to go to the hospital, that's right,'
said Rosie.

Nat sniggered, though even he looked troubled,
his eyes watering as if he was near tears.

Perhaps Martha was very ill, about to die?
But this was all such nonsense. I had cuddled
up to Martha all night long and she hadn't been
poorly at all.

I clung to Jem and he rocked me again. He didn't
go to school that day. He told Rosie he was staying
home to look after us little ones. Rosie tried to make
him go but she sounded half-hearted. She was glad
enough to have him in charge while she scrubbed
the cottage and set the cooking pot bubbling on
the hearth.

Jem played patiently with Saul and Gideon and
me. When the two little boys had a nap after their
soup, Jem took me to the forbidden squirrel house,
trying his best to distract me. I was deeply touched
but it didn't work. No matter how hard I tried to
picture, it stayed a grubby hole in a tree. My mind
was too full picturing Mother and Martha.

Rosie had once won a Sunday school prize, a
book called
Little Elsa's Last Good Deed.
It was a
pretty book, bright blue with gold lettering, and I'd
begged Jem to read it to me. He'd stumbled through
the first few pages until we both got tired. It was
a dull story and Little Elsa was tiresomely
good.
She didn't seem real at all. I leafed through the
whole book, looking for pictures, but they weren't
exciting like the Elephant and the Mandarin and
the Pirate and the Zebra, my favourite pictures in
The Good Child's ABC.
I only liked the last picture,
with Little Elsa lying in bed looking very pale and
poorly, and an angel with curly hair and a shiny hat
flying straight through the window to carry her up
to Heaven.

But now I kept picturing Martha as the ailing
child in some grim hospital, a doctor sawing at her
stomach, an angel at one end, intent on stealing her
away up to Heaven, and Mother down the other end,
hanging onto Martha's ankles.

I sobbed this scenario to Jem and he did his best
to reassure me.

'Mother and Martha will come home safe and
sound, you'll see,' he said. 'In fact I reckon they're
home already, and when Mother finds I've stayed off
school she'll be right angry with me. And if you pipe
up we've been to the squirrel house, we'll both get
a paddling.'

We trailed back home. When we ran into the
kitchen, there was Mother at the table, still stiff
in her Sunday best, bolt upright because she was
wearing her stays, though her head was bent.
Martha was nowhere to be seen.

'Where's Martha, Mother?' Jem asked.

'Martha?' I echoed.

'Martha's . . . gone,' Mother said.

'The angels got her!' I said, starting to cry
again.

'What? No, no, she's not dead, Hetty,' said Mother.
She took a deep breath. 'Where are the others, Saul
and Gideon? Having a nap? Go and get them, Jem. I
might as well tell all of you together. But Jem, wait
– what are you doing at home, young man? Rosie,
why didn't you make him go to school? Oh, never
mind, make me a cup of tea, I'm parched.'

We gathered around Mother, staring at her. I
nudged up close to Jem. Gideon clasped my hand
tight. Saul started snivelling.

'There now, you needn't look so tragic,' said
Mother, sipping her tea. 'Martha's very well. She's
just not going to live with us any more.'

We stared at her, baffled.

'Where
is
she going to live, Mother?' Jem asked.

'She's gone back to the Foundling Hospital,
dearie,' said Mother. 'You were too little to remember
when she came to the family.'

'The hospital! They'll cut her into bits!' I
wailed.

'No, Hetty. It's not that sort of hospital, my lamb.
It's a . . . lovely big home for lots of children who
don't have mothers,' said Mother.

'I remember you telling us about the hospital,'
said Jem. 'That's how we got Martha, then Saul,
and now Gideon and Hetty.' He put his arms round
me, hugging me tightly. 'But why did Martha have
to go back there? You're her mother now.'

Mother's face crumpled. 'I know, my dear. But
I was only her foster mother. I was simply looking
after Martha until she was a big enough girl to go
back to the Foundling Hospital.'

'So when will she come home to us?' Jem asked.

'The Foundling Hospital is her home now, my
dear.'

'But Martha won't be able to manage without us!
She can't see properly, and she's a little slow. She
needs us to help her!' Jem cried.

'She will find some other good kind big child to
help her,' said Mother. 'Now do stop your questioning,
Jem. You're upsetting the little ones.'

She entreated him with her eyes, while Saul
and Gideon and I sniffled by her side. We were too
little and stupid and stunned to work out the obvious
just yet.