‘You could buy a plain black bonnet, but it wouldn’t stretch to a coat, let alone a frock and new boots. Can’t you dye an outfit black, dear?’ Mr Dolly asked.
‘I haven’t really got an outfit, not one that’s suitable,’ I said, too embarrassed to explain that I simply had the ragged dress I stood up in. The only other garment I could call my own was my nightgown, and that had been confiscated by the disinfectors.
‘Well, we’ll have to put our thinking caps on,’ said Mr Dolly.
He scratched his head as if he were wearing one already, not looking right or left so as not to catch anyone’s eye. His wore his white hair past his shoulders, and his faded scarlet velvet cloak seemed more suitable for opera-going, so folk might well have stared even if he hadn’t had his huge hump. He was a very small man to start with, and his crooked back made him hunch over and lean heavily on his carved cane.
Uncouth little boys called after him, and adults muttered horrid words and imitated his jerky gait. Mr Dolly took no notice, walking as briskly as he could in his black patent boots. I hurried along beside him, hoping he hadn’t seen or heard them, though that seemed impossible. When we reached the marketplace some hateful urchin threw a rotten tomato at his back. Mr Dolly turned as best he could, shook the tomato disdainfully off his cloak and carried on walking.
‘It’s very fortunate that both the missile and the cloak are red,’ he murmured. ‘The stain shouldn’t be very noticeable.’
I burned for him. I seized my own tomato from the gutter, turned towards the laughing boy and aimed. I caught him full in the face, which was very satisfying.
Mr Dolly tutted at me, but he still smiled. ‘I think I should take you with me for protection every time I go for a stroll, Clover. I had no inkling you had such devastating aim!’ he said.
‘I thought you said we were going somewhere quiet.’
‘We are, my dear. Come with me.’ He led me down the lane from the marketplace and then up the steep slope towards the great grey church of St Anne’s, with its strange coloured windows and long thin spire.
‘I thought you weren’t a religious man, Mr Dolly,’ I said.
‘You’re right, Clover. I have no faith, but that doesn’t mean I don’t find solace in a churchyard.’ Mr Dolly was panting with the effort of climbing the hill. He leaned even more heavily on his stick.
‘Perhaps you might hold on to my shoulder while the road is so steep?’ I suggested. ‘Though I’m scared I might contaminate you.’
‘I told you, dear, I don’t mind the thought of dying,’ Mr Dolly wheezed, standing still to catch his breath. ‘It’s a shame I am not a churchgoer. It would be pleasant to believe in a carefree eternal life in Heaven.’
‘Do you find your own life so very hard?’ I asked.
‘I’m used to it now, but when I was your age I was very unhappy.’ Mr Dolly spoke calmly, though there were tears in his eyes. We went through the lych gate and walked between the great yew trees. He sat down gratefully on an old wooden bench and struggled to catch his breath.
‘My parents were ashamed of me and sent me away to school when I was very young,’ he said, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Ashamed? Because – because of . . .?’
‘Because I was born a hunchback,’ said Mr Dolly matter-of-factly.
‘How cruel and stupid of them!’ I declared.
‘Perhaps. But I received a good education and a love of learning. It was a relatively humane establishment. It was the other boys who were the problem. If I’d had your fiery spirit I’d have fared much better. I was too meek and craven. I always longed to find a friend.’
‘I’m your friend, Mr Dolly,’ I told him. ‘You’re my best friend now that Megs isn’t here.’ I started crying too.
‘Oh dear, forgive me for being such a self-pitying old fool. I’m snivelling over times long gone while you’re going through fresh agonies,’ said Mr Dolly, passing me his handkerchief.
It was a struggle to wipe my nose while wearing the yellow silk scarf.
‘Take it off now.’ Mr Dolly felt my forehead, looking carefully at my face. ‘You seem healthy enough to me, though that cut will be a while healing. If there really is an afterlife I can’t see that stepmother of yours growing wings. She’ll be writhing down below, with all the other wretched devils.’
‘If only my own mother hadn’t died,’ I said.
‘Can you remember her, Clover?’
‘Yes. She was good and kind and sweet and gentle. At least, I think she was. I seem to remember her holding me in her arms, singing to me. But perhaps that’s just fancy. I make up so many things and they seem so real that it’s hard remembering what’s true and what isn’t. Yet when something terribly true happens, like Megs dying, it doesn’t seem real at all. There’s a part of me that thinks she’ll be back at home, sucking her thumb on the doorstep, waiting for me.’
Mr Dolly waited patiently beside me as I willed it to be true. I could see Megs stroking her nose as she sucked her thumb. I saw her short straggly hair sticking up at the back where she’d lain on it. I saw the patches in her pale print frock. I saw her skinny, mottled legs, scabs on the knees because she fell over so frequently. I saw her old brown boots, both soles flapping so they could no longer be padded with newspaper. But as soon as I thought of her boots I remembered that little grubby foot dangling.
Mr Dolly waited until I had stopped sobbing.
‘I’ll miss her so,’ I said. ‘Did you have a special sister, Mr Dolly?’
I wondered if he’d made dolls for her when they were children. Perhaps they played games together, and that was why he understood girls and their concerns so perfectly.
‘No, I had brothers,’ said Mr Dolly, in the tone he’d used for the boys at his school. ‘But when I was grown up I always longed for a little girl.’
‘Were you ever married?’
‘It’s hardly likely, is it, my dear,’ said Mr Dolly sadly.
‘If I were older I would want to marry you, Mr Dolly,’ I said. ‘You’re the loveliest man I’ve ever met.’
‘I shall treasure that remark until my dying day.’
I looked about me at the old tombstones, so moss-covered you couldn’t read who lay underneath.
‘Will Megs be buried here?’ I whispered.
‘I think the new graves are behind the church.’
‘She won’t like it at all. She’ll be so lonely. I’ll have to come and visit her every day,’ I vowed.
‘Is your mother buried here?’
‘I don’t know. Pa’s never taken me to see her. He’ll rarely talk about her.’
‘Shall we take a little stroll and see? Then we can imagine her looking after your sister when she’s laid to rest here.’
This was such a comforting idea that I ran up and down the rows of recent gravestones at the back of the churchyard reading every one. I hoped Mother would have a beautiful white marble angel spreading her wings above her grave, or even a small cherub. But when I eventually found her I saw that she didn’t even have a proper gravestone with an elaborately carved loving message. She had a small flat rectangular stone inscribed with her name, Margaret Moon, the date of her birth and the date of her death.
‘Oh!’ I said, thrilled to have found her but horrified to see such a paltry memorial stone. It was almost like a gravestone for one of Mr Dolly’s penny specials.
I knelt down, trying to work out the shape of Mother’s coffin underneath.
‘Do you think there might be room to bury Megs here?’ I asked Mr Dolly.
‘I should think so.’
‘I need to be there for her funeral! Then I can ask the men who dig the grave. I must be there – but I can’t turn up in this ragged dress,’ I said, plucking at it in despair.
‘I’ll see what I can do, dear,’ said Mr Dolly. ‘When is the funeral?’
‘On Friday.’
‘Then come and visit me on Thursday. I’m not promising I can work a miracle, but I’
ll do my best,’ he said.
‘You are the kindest man in the whole world,’ I said fervently.
I didn’t quite know what he was proposing. Was he hoping that another customer like Mr Rivers would miraculously appear? But even if he did, Mr Dolly needed every penny of the sale himself. I’d seen the bills piling up by his cash box, noticed the gaps in the tiles on the shop roof, shivered in his damp unheated rooms. He was as poor as my own family, maybe even poorer.
I had every faith in Mr Dolly, but all the same I decided not to be too hopeful. Instead I busied myself tidying Mother’s grave, pulling up weeds and brambles, not caring when my hands got scratched. I saw that other mourners had left vases of flowers on top of their loved one’s grave.
I decided that no one would really mind too much if I took one small flower out of each arrangement. I gathered them quickly, adding daisies and buttercups growing wild in the tussocky grass. I found an old ginger ale bottle tossed into the shrubbery. It wasn’t quite right for a vase, but it was the best I could do. I filled it with rainwater from a pail and then set my purloined bouquet in front of Mother’s meagre gravestone.
‘There, dear. That looks very pretty,’ said Mr Dolly.
I didn’t want to go home again. When we got back to Dolls Aplenty Mr Dolly invited me in, but I was still worried about polluting his shop with germs. I dawdled on the way home, keeping my scarf over my nose, though folk stared. I pretended I was a real highwayman and selected people at random, pointing two fingers at them in place of a pistol.
Your money or your life! I shouted inside my head, and soon collected imaginary fistfuls of silver, enough to provide mourning outfits for the whole family. I even kitted out little Bert in a black dress and coat and tiny black button boots. We could attend the funeral and mourn Megs in appropriate style. I could also afford to take a white silk dress with matching silk slippers to the undertaker’s so that Megs could be dressed like a little angel.
But when I turned into our alley all my imaginings seeped out of my head. I looked at our doorstep, where Megs had always sat. It was empty.
The sight was so painful that I doubled up as if I’d been punched in the stomach.
There was a sudden clatter on the cobbles and Jimmy Wheels bowled up to me. ‘Have you got the bellyache, Clover?’ he asked.
I straightened up slowly, shaking my head. ‘I’m just sad, Jimmy,’ I mumbled.
‘Because your Megs is dead?’ Jimmy was used to siblings dying. His ma had tried to have a healthy child but none had made it much past babyhood.
I nodded. ‘I don’t suppose your ma has any mourning clothes she could lend me?’ I asked hopefully, though Jimmy’s mother was twice my size.
‘She hasn’t got any now. She pawned them after the last baby died. She can’t bear to go to funerals no more,’ said Jimmy. ‘Why have you got that snot rag tied round your face, Clover?’
‘So I can’t give anyone the fever,’ I said.
‘Have you got it then?’ Jimmy bravely propelled himself forward and peered up at me. ‘Can’t see any red rash.’
‘I think I must be all right,’ I said. ‘What about Mrs Watson and her little girl? Did they get the fever too?’
‘Can’t say. They’ve gone away. She had the hysterics when the infection men took all the baby’s clothes so her old man packed her off to relatives in the country. Don’t even know if they’ll be back for the funeral. So when’s your Megs getting buried then?’
‘Friday. I don’t even know if I’ll be going because I haven’t got any black clothes, though Mr Dolly says he’ll try to help me,’ I said.
‘Mr who?’
‘Well, he’s Mr Fisher really. The man who makes all the dolls. He has a shop in Market Street. Have you ever been that far?’ I asked, because I’d only ever seen Jimmy scooting up and down our alley.
‘Do me a favour!’ he said indignantly. ‘I’ve been all over, even up west with all the toffs. I heard tales and wanted to see what it was like for myself. Made a fortune that day too. Some old girl took pity on the poor little crippled boy and gave me sixpence when I wasn’t even asking for it. So I asked all sorts and they coughed up royally. Had to stick all the cash down my jumper, and it didn’t half dig in during the long trek home. Still, I wasn’t complaining. Of course I know the Dolls Aplenty man. He made me my chariot.’ He thumped the sides of his wheeled board proudly.
‘Mr Dolly did?’
‘Yep, before that Ma used to drag me about in an old pram and I hated it because I felt like such a baby. She used to park me outside his shop window when she did her errands, so’s I had something to look at. The bloke with the crooked back used to come out of his shop and chat to me. Then one day he gave Ma this piece of wood, all smoothed and varnished, with wheels at all four corners. “See if your Jimmy takes a shine to this,” he says. “It’ll give him a bit of independence.” So we tried it out when we got home and I was off, like a dog after a rat. Don’t know what I’d do without it now,’ he said.
‘He’s a lovely man, my Mr Dolly,’ I said.
‘Yeah, he is. Me and Ma think the world of him now,’ said Jimmy Wheels.
If only Mildred felt the same way!
The house was empty when I got home.
‘She’s gone off down the park with all the kids because they were driving her mad cooped up indoors, and we’re not allowed to play with them in the alley,’ Sukey told me importantly. ‘We’re not allowed to play with you either, Clover.’
‘That’s stupid. I haven’t got the fever. And even if I had, you couldn’t catch it from me because I’ve got this scarf on, see?’ I said.
I kept Mr Dolly’s scarf tied over my nose even inside the house because it still stank of sulphur. It smelled of burning too. Mildred hadn’t put enough liquid in the stewpot and it had started to blacken. I added water and flour for thickening, fished out the worst of the burned mutton and cut off the crusty bits. I fried up a couple of onions too to give the stew a bit more flavour. Mildred was a hopeless cook.
She wasn’t the slightest bit grateful when she came home, the children straggling behind her.
‘You been cooking onions?’ she said, sniffing. ‘I was saving them to fry up with a bit of bacon for your father. You’re always interfering, Clover. Where have you been all day anyway, leaving me to cope with everything when you know I’m poorly?’ She rubbed her swollen stomach significantly.
I slumped at the table. The children came and stood near me, still a little wary. I reached out my arms for Bert, and he allowed Jenny to place him on my lap, though he didn’t snuggle up to me as usual. I looked at each and every one of my brothers and sisters. I cared for them all, especially baby Bert, but none of them were anywhere near as dear to me as Megs.
The boys were joshing each other, squabbling over some silly stick they’d found, and Jenny and Mary were playing a complicated clapping game. I couldn’t credit it. Weren’t they missing Megs at all? I didn’t have the energy to be angry with them. I bent my head so they couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.
Perhaps Mildred saw. She was still patting her stomach as if trying to soothe the baby inside. ‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘If this baby’s a girl we’ll call it Megs.’
I knew she was trying to be kind to me for once. I also knew I hated the idea. Megs was the name of my own dear sister, taken away from us and still not even buried.
‘We’re not calling any new baby that!’ I said. ‘It’s Megs’s name.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Mildred huffily. ‘Well, don’t just sit there like a wet weekend. Get the table laid and them kiddies washed – they’re all over mud from the park. And I’m sure our Bert needs changing.’
Bert was indeed feeling very soggy. He was starting to relax, though he still didn’t seem very sure I was his old Clover. He reached up and started pulling at my scarf with his chubby hand.
‘No, Bert, she has to leave it on for a few days, just in case,’ said Mildred. Then she peered more closely. ‘
What is it you’ve got wrapped round your face?’
‘A pair of bloomers,’ I said irritably, and the children giggled.
‘Don’t try to be smart with me, miss.’
‘Well, it’s a scarf, obviously, so I can’t give any of the children the fever, though I keep telling you, I haven’t got it,’ I snapped.
‘It’s not your scarf though.’ Mildred had been keeping her distance from me, but now she came up close. ‘It’s silk, that is. Where did you get a gaudy gentleman’s handkerchief like that? You didn’t nick it out of some old boy’s pocket, did you?’
‘No I blooming well didn’t!’ I protested.
‘So how did you get it?’
‘Someone lent it to me,’ I muttered.
‘Someone! It was that horrid old hunchback, wasn’t it?’ Mildred said triumphantly. ‘That doll man.’
‘He’s not horrid. He’s the kindest, loveliest gentleman ever!’
‘He gives me the creeps. Haven’t I told you to keep away from him? You’re asking for another hiding,’ said Mildred. She had the large ladle in her hand and looked ready to strike me with it.
‘Don’t you dare!’ I said fiercely. ‘There’s already folk wanting to report you for bashing me about the head with that brass thimble.’
‘I’ve a right to discipline my own child,’ she said.
‘But I’m not your child, and I’m so glad I’m not too. I hate you, Mildred Moon,’ I said recklessly.
The other children stared at me round-eyed and then looked at Mildred, waiting for her to attack me.
She shook her head, her mouth open. ‘That’s all you can say? That you hate me? After all I’ve done for you! I’ve fed you and clothed you and taught you and corrected you and wasted whole weeks of my life arguing with you, and that’s the gratitude I get!’ Mildred peered around at the other children. ‘Do you hear that? This is how she repays me!’
‘It’s your own fault I hate you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been so cruel to me.’
Clover Moon Page 8
