Sapphire Battersea (3 page)

‘I will always tell you the truth. Your mother is safe and well, and has a good position. You must trust me.’

‘I do trust you, Miss Smith – but I don’t trust anyone else.
They
could be lying to you,’ I said.

‘Hetty, I took it upon myself to raise your mother’s case with the Board of Governors. We agreed that we could not possibly create a precedent by keeping Ida in our employ. Many other mothers would start seeking work at the hospital, and that would never do. We’ve always taken great care that no foundling should be singled out in any way, for treats or praise or special coddling–’

‘Hmph!
I
am
constantly
singled out for scoldings and slappings.’

‘Yes, and perhaps you deserve them, Miss Hetty Feather! Now listen to me, please. The matrons pressed for instant dismissal, and that was understandable – but it seemed to me singularly unfair to turn Ida away without giving her a good character. She’s been an exemplary worker in all her years here, even if it was for a particular reason. She’s
been
hard-working and cheerful, willing to lend a hand with anything. I wrote exactly that in her letter of reference.’

‘
You
gave her a character reference! Oh, Miss Smith, thank you, thank you!’

‘And I found her a new position too, as a general housekeeper to an elderly lady at Bignor-on-Sea on the south coast. She’s an acquaintance of an aunt of mine, an invalid who I’m sure will treat Ida fairly.’

‘But the south coast – that’s miles and miles away! I shall never see her! Couldn’t you have found her a
closer
position, Miss Smith?’

‘Sometimes I think you can never be satisfied, Hetty!’

‘Can we visit at all?’

‘I’m afraid the Board of Governors do not think that a wise idea. But I dare say you will be able to write to each other.’

‘Truly? I will get letters from Mama?’

‘Yes, I’m sure she will write to you every now and then.’

I’d never had letters before, apart from one from Polly. I’d written my weekly letter home to my foster family. I wasn’t sure Mother knew how to write, but Jem certainly did. He had taught me my own lettering when I was barely toddling. I had written for years, but they never once wrote back. Very few of the foundlings received letters, and yet
in
the junior school we all wrote once a week without fail.

My heart beat harder in my chest. ‘Will they give me Mama’s letters?’ I asked fearfully. ‘They don’t always give us our letters, I am sure of it.’

I
wasn’t
sure – but the expression on Miss Smith’s face told me that I’d hit on the truth.

‘I do believe there
is
a little censoring. I certainly don’t approve, but it’s done for well-meaning reasons. Apparently, letters from foster homes are frequently inappropriate or upsetting and would not help the children to settle down at the hospital …’ Miss Smith’s voice wavered.

I seized her hands. ‘That’s outrageous, Miss Smith, and you know it!’

‘Hetty, Hetty, calm down! I do agree with you, it is in most circumstances outrageous, but I do not think there is anything I can do to change matters. It is the custom.’

‘Then it’s cruel and pointless telling me Mama will write if I can’t receive her letters!’ I protested.

‘Hush now!’ She held my hands tightly and put her face close to mine. ‘I have given Ida my own address. I will tell her to send all letters to me. I will bring them to you on a regular basis and I will post your replies. That way you will
know
that the letters are being sent – if, of course, you trust me?’

‘Oh, Miss Smith, of course I trust you!’ I said, and I threw my arms around her.

‘Now, now, Hetty, compose yourself. Still, I am pleased to see you are almost back to your old self – in a furious rage one moment and in a fever of excitement the next,’ she said, laughing at me. ‘If you’re truly grateful–’

‘I am, I am!’

‘Then you must get better quickly and be a good, polite, hard-working girl for your entire future stay at the hospital.’

‘I’m not sure I can quite manage that,’ I said truthfully.

Miss Smith laughed again. ‘Well, do your best, dear,’ she said. She called to the nurse. ‘I think you’ll find that Hetty is on the mend. I have a feeling she’ll be able to get up tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll definitely be her old self by the end of the week. Isn’t that right, Hetty?’

I nodded emphatically. My head ached, and I still felt weak and dizzy when I tried to get up, but I persevered. I ate as much gruel as I could to get stronger, although it didn’t taste the same without Mama’s loving sprinkles of brown sugar and spoonfuls of cream.

I was still punished when I returned to the schoolroom and my own dormitory, but I didn’t care. I listened to the scoldings of Matron Stinking
Bottomly
with my head held high. What did I care if she thought me deceitful and dishonest and a disgrace to the whole hospital? I even held my tongue when she said bad things about Mama. I knew she was simply trying to goad me into flying at her, and then she could legitimately fling me in the punishment room. I knew now that Mama was well provided for and would be writing to me, and that special secret knowledge kept me silent and seemingly obedient.

I performed all the extra housework tasks the matron set me. I did not even murmur when she had me scrubbing out the privies.

Sheila came across me performing this unpleasant task. She would normally have laughed delightedly to see me scrubbing with one hand and holding my nose with the other, but this time she hovered anxiously. Then, to my astonishment, she took up another brush and started scrubbing too.

‘Whatever are you doing, Sheila?’ I asked.

‘What does it look like?’ said Sheila. ‘Ugh! This is disgusting!’

‘But why are you helping me? You, of all people?’

‘Because I feel badly about you and Ida. I think it was all my fault that Matron Peters came downstairs, poking her nose in. I tripped on the stairs
when
I was following you. I think she must have woken then.’

‘Oh! But even so, you didn’t tell on me.’

‘I wouldn’t tell on my worst enemy,’ said Sheila, scrubbing.

‘I thought
I
was your worst enemy,’ I said.

‘Well, there you are, then, I still didn’t tell,’ said Sheila proudly.

‘You’re definitely not
my
worst enemy any more. If you carry on helping me perform this disgusting task, I shall have to recategorize you. You will be a dear friend,’ I said.

Sheila went a little pink. ‘I’m not sure about that, Hetty! But I do feel especially sad that you’ve lost your mother all over again. And Ida would be a
lovely
mother–’

‘She is, she is!’

‘You must be so worried about her now.’

‘I am. But Mama is strong-willed and very determined. I have a feeling she is safe and in good hands now,’ I said.

I did not want to tell her about Miss Smith’s reassurances. Sheila might be almost my friend now, but I wasn’t sure I trusted her totally.

‘I wish I could discover
my
mother,’ said Sheila sadly. ‘Do you think you will ever see Ida again, Hetty?’

‘Of course! When I am fourteen I will leave this hateful hospital, and I will search the length and breadth of England until I find her again!’ I said fervently.

Miss Smith came to the hospital a few days later, supposedly to check on the state of my health and mark the progress of my memoirs. (She had bought me my beautiful red Italian notebook and encouraged me to start my life story on its smooth creamy paper.) We usually sat in the corner of the schoolroom when Miss Smith visited, under the watchful eye of my teacher, Miss Morley – but this time Miss Smith said I still looked very pale. She fancied a turn in the gardens would do me a power of good.

Miss Morley did not dare protest, because Miss Smith was on the Board of Governors and a well-known, powerful lady to boot.

We went down the stairs and out through the back door, a forbidden joy in itself. We girls went outdoors to ‘play’ every day, but we had to cluster in the front courtyard, where the big girls strolled and the little ones skipped. All our school-work and training happened indoors: reading, writing, counting, sewing, serving, scrubbing – so that we would be competent servants by the age of fourteen.

The boys were going to be soldiers so they were
encouraged
outdoors. They did Physical Education every day. They marched up and down, they swung their arms, they ran on the spot. They did not have to perform a single household task. Instead they were marshalled out into the gardens, where they dug and hoed and watered our potatoes and turnips and carrots, our cabbages and kale, our peas and beans, our blackberries and gooseberries.

There were all the senior boys now, digging away in their shirtsleeves. Although they were under the supervision of Old Joe the gardener, they were calling to each other and whistling merry tunes as they worked – while
we
had to work in total silence. If we so much as whispered, we were punished.

‘Oh, lucky, lucky boys!’ I said to Miss Smith.

‘I agree with you, Hetty. Boys seem far more free and fortunate than girls, no matter what their station in life.’ She stared over at a tall thin boy standing by himself. Two sturdier fellows were slyly pelting him with potatoes whenever the gardener’s back was turned. The boy did not shout or swear or try to retaliate. He simply stood there like some anguished martyred saint, accepting this punishment.

‘Poor lad,’ said Miss Smith. ‘It doesn’t seem much fun for him.’

I watched with a heavy heart, biting my lip to stop myself crying out. I knew the boy. He was my dear foster brother, Gideon. I wanted to rush to protect him. I still loved my strange, shy, solitary brother so much, though we scarcely saw each other now that we were at the hospital.

If only I could give the two tormentors a taste of their own medicine. I looked down at the freshly turned earth beside the path. I bent down and grabbed a handful, squeezing it into a muddy lump.

‘No, Hetty, no!’ said Miss Smith.

‘I have to,’ I said, and hurled my clod.

It landed most satisfactorily right in the face of the biggest boy. He gave a muffled shriek – unable to cry out loudly with a mouthful of earth. I hoped there were big juicy worms wriggling right down his throat. He bent over, coughing and gagging, while his friend whirled round and round in comical anxiety, wondering from whence the attack had come. All he could see was a stern lady and a small female foundling demurely taking the air in the gardens.

Gideon looked over too, and saw me. I was dressed in our hideous brown uniform, but my cap could not contain all my flaming red hair. I hoped he would wave and smile when he recognized me,
but
he hung his head and looked more miserable than ever. I had meant to help, but I had only shamed him.

‘Oh dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have done that,’ I murmured.

‘Yes, you should be ashamed of yourself, Hetty. Such behaviour!’

‘Pointless, stupid behaviour,’ I agreed, sighing.

‘I am sure Matron Bottomly or Matron Peters would feel you should be severely punished in some particularly painful way. They might think that depriving you of all post is a suitable punishment,’ said Miss Smith.

I put my hand in hers. ‘But you are not a matron, you are my own dear Miss Smith, and you are going to give me my post, are you not? Oh, do I truly have a letter from Mama?’

Miss Smith patted the pocket of her skirt and smiled at me. We went round the corner to the greenhouses, out of sight of the gardener and all the boys. She reached into her pocket and offered me a small white envelope.

I carefully wiped my muddy hands on the back of my uniform and took it. I was shaking now, my fingers clumsy. I unpeeled the flap, trying not to tear it at all, because it was so very precious – and then pulled out the letter.

18 Saltdean Lane

Bignor-on-Sea

Sussex

My deer little Hetty – no, my brite bloo-eyed Sapphire!

I miss you so my darling child, but if it wernt for the ake in my hart I wuld be happy for I am now working for a lovly old lady Miss Roberts and she is a deer to me, much sweeter than those meen old matrons
.

It is a butiful place here. The see is such a site. How I wish you wer with me to take the air and run on the sands. But be of good cheer, you will be out of the hospital befor too long, and then when I have savd enuf muny we will be togever forever deerest child
.

With all my love

Your mama Ida

P.S. Please furgiv the look of this letter. I am not used to putting pen to paper and I canot figure out how to spel all the wurds
.

I read my letter again and again, though the dear words blurred because my eyes filled with tears.