Diamond

by Jacqueline Wilson

  Luke burst into tears in terror.

  ‘That’s it! That’s my boy! The very picture! You cry hard, son, and learn to do it professional, because you’re going to that undertaker to get yourself trained up to be a mourner.’

  ‘But I’m feared of dead people, Pa!’

  ‘Nonsense, nonsense, they can’t hurt you. You can stop the crying now because there’s no call for it. You’ve got a nice, easy, clean profession compared with your brothers.’

  Mary-Martha held baby John tightly, swaying a little. ‘What about me, Pa?’ she whispered.

  ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, my little lass. You’ve done your level best, I know that. You’ve cared for us all and nursed that poor little babe. You shall stay.’

  We waited. Pa did not even look in my direction, but of course he knew I was there.

  ‘And – and what about our Ellen-Jane?’ Mary-Martha asked.

  Pa grunted as if in sudden pain, but kept staring resolutely at the boys.

  ‘Ellen-Jane can stay too, can’t she, Pa?’ Mary-Martha continued bravely. ‘She helps too. She tries her best, even though she’s only little.’

  Pa threw back his head and gave me one glance with his bloodshot eyes. ‘No one in their right mind would take on a little minx like that one,’ he said, and then he stomped out of the room.

  I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. I didn’t want to be sent to be a carpenter or a fishmonger or a mourning mute. I wanted to stay at home – but I couldn’t bear home any more either. I’d lost my mother, and my father now hated me.

  I pressed close to Mary-Martha for some comfort, for she was all I had left now.

  I HAD BEEN small for my age before, but now I couldn’t seem to grow at all. It wasn’t just because I didn’t have enough food. I had the same greasy soups and stale bread as my sister, and yet Mary-Martha grew tall, and her arms were strong too, because she was forever carrying our little brother, John. I stayed tiny – as if Pa’s new contempt for me had withered something deep within me.

  I tried hard to please him still, doing my fair share of the household tasks and painting all the endless tracts without once going over the lines. I nursed the baby too, though when Johnnie got to be a toddler it was a struggle to carry him properly and I had to walk with a bent back to balance him.

  I was a supple girl even then. I’d naturally bend right over and scuttle like a crab, or walk upside down on my hands. This always made Johnnie go into peals of laughter, so it was a useful ploy when he was grizzly – but I took care never to perform any acrobatics when Pa was around.

  He barely was around. He took to travelling far and wide to do his pattering. Sometimes he didn’t come home for a week or more. We were often left very short of food. Once we could only beg a crust for the baby, while we ourselves starved for two whole days – and then even pious Mary-Martha wished our brothers were home to steal for us.

  When, on the third day, Pa still wasn’t home, I decided I had to find some way of earning enough pennies for food. I left Mary-Martha and Johnnie, and set out from Willoughby Buildings, clutching my rag doll, Maybelle, for companionship. I walked all the way to the market, though I was faint from lack of food. I knew there was always a big crowd there, and that was what I needed.

  There were beggars a-plenty at the edge of the stalls, desperately eyeing the hot pies, the sugary cakes, the pyramids of red and yellow fruit – but the market men were fierce and very protective of their wares. There were all sorts of novelties too: a hurdy-gurdy man, with his mechanical organ and his live monkey in a little red velvet jacket, an escapologist trying to bust out of his chains, and a Punch and Judy stall. Punch looked like a miniature Pa and gave me the shivers, especially when he wielded his stick.

  There were less elaborate buskers too: two girls holding hands and singing together, and a blind man reciting an endless poem about a Red Indian. They all had caps in front of them so that people could throw pennies in if they appreciated their performance. The poor blind man had a cap full of dud counters and pebbles, and every time a mean-spirited lad threw in another worthless stone, he heard the clink, paused in his recital, and murmured, ‘Thank you kindly,’ which made the boys laugh.

  I could not sing and I did not know any poems. I had only one talent. I propped Maybelle against a lamppost and stood up to perform.

  I bent over backwards and started my crab-walk, and then tipped my weight onto my hands and walked about with my legs waving in the air. My hair fell about my face so I could not see the reaction of the crowd, but I could hear murmurings. There were raucous comments from the boys, but plenty of approval from the general crowd.

  ‘Oh, the little lamb, just look at her!’

  ‘She’s such a tiny creature too, a little half-pint.’

  ‘How old do you reckon she is? She must be barely out of baby robes. My, but she’s nimble!’

  I continued to cavort, doing my limited repertoire of tricks, until I sensed I had a big audience, and then I righted myself with a flourish and dropped a curtsy, while everyone clapped.

  ‘Where’s your cap, dear?’ someone shouted.

  I hadn’t brought one with me because the only cap in the household belonged on Pa’s head. I took off my shawl instead and laid it on the pavement. Within a minute all the wool was covered in coppers, and I heard cries of: ‘Bravo, little girl!’

  I barely stopped to acknowledge the praise and collect floppy Maybelle. I gathered up my money, tied a knot in my shawl, and ran off with it. I bought a pie for Mary-Martha and a pie for me, a candy cane for us to share, and a loaf of fresh bread, still warm from the oven, plus milk and porridge for the baby.

  My shawl was stretched to bursting point and it was a struggle to carry it home, but Mary-Martha was so pleased to see me with my special feast. She was even hungrier than me, for she was naturally a big girl, and when she starved she had terrible pains in her stomach that bent her double, so at first she simply ate ravenously. She was so eager, she didn’t even pause to cut the bread – simply broke off great chunks and sank her teeth into the soft dough – but when she’d eaten her fill and fed little Johnnie, she turned to me.

  ‘How did you pay for all this food, Ellen-Jane?’ she asked. Her voice was low, because she was rocking Johnnie to sleep, but she was looking at me intently, her eyes fearful.

  ‘I didn’t steal it,’ I said quickly. ‘I earned it.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I went to the market and put on a little show,’ I said, licking the candy cane.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I pretended I was a turn at the music hall,’ I said.

  We’d never been to a music hall, but the older lasses at the buildings often sang music-hall numbers as they scrubbed the floors or staggered home with bags of coal, and we’d picked up some of the jolly tunes – though we didn’t dare sing them when Pa was around because the words were saucy.

  ‘You sound like a scalded cat when you sing. You can’t hold a tune at all,’ said Mary-Martha.

  ‘I didn’t sing. I did my upsy-daisies,’ I said, using my baby word for acrobatics.

  ‘Oh, Ellen-Jane! You’re too big now to do that in front of everyone!’

  ‘Everyone thought I was too little – and they marvelled,’ I said proudly. ‘They gave me so many pennies. Look, I haven’t spent half of them yet!’

  ‘I’m sure it’s a sin,’ said Mary-Martha worriedly. ‘It’s begging – and it’s also very wanton, turning upside down and showing your drawers.’

  ‘Jesus was always very kind to beggar people – and I wore my petticoats so they could only see a little bit of my drawers,’ I said defiantly. I marched up to the wall of tracts. ‘God helps those who help themselves!’ I declared.

  I had her there. She fed Johnnie his bowl of milky porridge and sucked at her share of the candy cane without further comment.

  So now, whenever we were desperate, I took myself off to market and did my little turn. The beggars tried to elbow me
out of the way because it meant fewer pennies for them. The escapologist threatened to tie me up in his chains, and the singing girls stuck their tongues out at me, but the hurdy-gurdy man took a fancy to me and suggested I have a pitch in front of his organ.

  ‘You can do all your little tricks in time to the music. That way they’ll be more of a novelty. And I have an even better idea: I’ll get Jacko, my monkey, to take his hat off and collect extra coins for you inside it, and then we’ll split the takings – fair’s fair,’ he said.

  It didn’t sound exactly fair as I was the one doing most of the work, with little Jacko coming second. The hurdy-gurdy man did nothing but turn the handle of his machine, but he was big and fierce and it seemed better to have him on my side.

  I soon knew all five of his tinkly tunes by heart, and could cavort and cartwheel pleasingly to the rhythm. I tried to make friends with Jacko, who looked such a sweet little creature, but when I went to pet him, he nipped me hard so I was frightened to try again. He didn’t care for Maybelle at all and came near to tearing her limb from limb, so I had to keep a watchful eye on them both.

  Mary-Martha came to see me one day, hugging Johnnie all the way. She seized hold of me halfway through my act, telling me that I was shaming her – but she shut her mouth when she saw all the coins showering into Jacko’s cap like brass hailstones.

  ‘You see!’ I said triumphantly. Though I had to give Fred, the hurdy-gurdy man, his unfair share, I still had a fortune left to spend. ‘I can buy you new shoes, Mary-Martha,’ I offered.

  She couldn’t squeeze her feet into her old ones any more. She was making do with a pair of Luke’s boots, but they were so worn down at the heel, she lurched sideways as she walked.

  ‘I’d sooner go barefoot than have my sister doing a devil’s dance,’ she said.

  ‘What about the baby then?’ I said. ‘When he starts running about outside, do you want him to go barefoot too?’

  Mary-Martha looked as if she were wavering. She clutched Johnnie tight, her hands automatically fondling his tiny feet.

  ‘No I don’t,’ she said, tears starting up in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Ellen-Jane. I know you’re doing this for all of us. Maybe that’s why I take it so badly. I’m the eldest sister. I should be earning for you. Maybe I just feel envious seeing you dancing around looking so pretty, with all the folk admiring you so – and envy is a sin – it’s forbidden in the ten commandments.’ She took a deep breath and started, ‘Thou shalt not—’

  ‘I know, I know – and it says honour thy father and mother – but Ma’s dead and Pa’s turned so fierce and angry with me, I can’t honour him at all,’ I said. ‘So I’m going to carry on performing, no matter what you say.’

  ‘I do hope Pa doesn’t find out! Folk are talking about you. What if he fetches up here at the market to do his pattering? He’ll whip you within an inch of your life.’

  I shivered, because I was sure she was right. ‘He won’t find out,’ I said fiercely.

  Pa mostly wasn’t there – and when he did come back, he spent very little time under his own roof. For endless hours he would pickle his brain in the alehouse. Sometimes he drank away all his week’s earnings in one long evening before staggering home. Mary-Martha would try to help him get his boots off and lie down, but sometimes he was so angry he yelled at her incoherently. I always hid in the cupboard because I set Pa off worse. But frightening though these times were, we both hated it when Pa grew sad instead of bad.

  ‘What would my lovely Lizzie think of me now?’ he’d cry, his red eyes watering with tears. ‘She never liked it when I’d had a drink inside me. Beware the demon drink, she’d mutter, quoting my own damned tracts at me. If she could see me now, it’d break her heart. What sort of a father am I to her little lambs? Where are my fine boys? Come here, Mary-Martha, and bring the little lad who was so precious to your mother.’

  Mary-Martha would carry little Johnnie over to Pa. She’d let him hold him, but her arms were always outstretched, ready to catch the baby if Pa fumbled and dropped him.

  I’d watch through a crack in the door, remembering the times Pa dandled me on his knee. I felt so bad that I’d spoiled it all. It’s all right, Hetty. I know now that it wasn’t really my fault. Pa was just blaming me because I reminded him of Ma and it was too painful for him to look at me – but I was still very young, and somehow it seemed my fault all the same. One time I even tried smearing my bright hair with coal dust to make it dark and plain, but the sight of me still seemed to turn Pa’s stomach.

  He was cruel to me, though he was tender with the baby, rocking him clumsily and trying to croon lullabies. Once, when he was tickling Johnnie’s toes, he sat holding his new kid shoes, squinting at them thoughtfully.

  ‘These little baby boots – are they hand-me-downs from her?’ he asked Mary-Martha. He couldn’t even say my name now.

  I froze inside my cupboard, so scared Mary-Martha would tell him how we had the money to buy new clothes.

  ‘No, Pa, they’re not hand-me-downs,’ she said calmly. ‘They’re brand new for our little Johnnie.’

  ‘So where did you get the money then? Heaven knows, I don’t pass on enough,’ said Pa, suddenly sounding agonized.

  Mary-Martha didn’t miss a beat. ‘The boys like to buy things for their baby brother,’ she said. ‘Matthew and Mark have only stopped by once, because their masters keep a close eye on them, but Luke often comes calling when he’s not needed for a service. He’s very generous. Folk pay him little tips, see, because he cries so hard and prettily at all the funerals.’

  My mouth was open in the dark cupboard. Mary-Martha was such an excellent liar she almost had me convinced, let alone Pa.

  I congratulated her fervently when Pa was fast asleep, snoring his head off, but with the baby still tucked tenderly under his arm.

  ‘You were wonderful, Mary-Martha,’ I whispered.

  She turned a painful shade of red. ‘Lying is a sin, especially to your parent. I expect I will end up in Hell,’ she said miserably. ‘But I couldn’t let Pa know the truth, not when he’s so set against you.’

  ‘I’m sure God knows the difference between good lies and bad lies – and if he doesn’t, don’t worry. I’ve told many bad lies, so I will hold your hand in Hell – and at least it will be warm,’ I said.

  I meant it sincerely, but Mary-Martha burst out laughing. I hugged her hard and she hugged me back. I never used to be especially fond of my sister, but now I realized what a dear sweet soul she was – and the only member of my family who still loved me.

  I LEARNED TO develop my acrobatic routine. I realized it was good to engage with my audience. I’d crab-walk in and out of the crowd or conduct a conversation upside down. It made folk laugh and they marvelled even more. I wasn’t doing any complicated tricks. I think all three of my elder brothers could turn a neat cartwheel and I’d simply copied them. It was only a novelty because I was a girl – and I still looked years younger than my real age.

  The hurdy-gurdy man still took half my money. He made sure wizened little Jacko scampered around the crowd collecting coins in his upturned fez and then making a show of emptying them into a great pot marked MONKEY MONEY, which got another laugh and made folk even more generous.

  I started to get a regular audience. Folk came specially to see me before they did their marketing. Sometimes they came back two days in a row, so I did not find it odd or unusual one week when a small man with a bald head and very narrow eyes came day after day. He watched me intently, his eyes just little slits, squinting as if he were staring into full sunlight. I could barely see the colour of his eyes, just a flash of steely grey. There was something about the intensity of his stare that made goose pimples prickle my arms.

  I carried on performing in front of him, acting gay and carefree, tossing my long hair and smiling hard, even when upside down, but inside I was starting to get scared. Who was he? Could he be a friend of Pa’s from the alehouse, ready to tell tales on me? I was sure I’d neve
r seen him before.

  Was he a policeman, ready to march me off to prison for performing in public? But he had no uniform and I didn’t think standing on my hands was breaking any law.

  Was he some sinister soul with evil desires? This seemed more likely. Mary-Martha had given me whispered warnings about such men. She had told me to beware. If such a man approached me, I shouldn’t stop to talk to him, but must run away quick.

  When he was there again on the third day, he waited till I was the right way up, bobbing curtsies. And then his hand came out and he suddenly grabbed me by the wrist. His grip was astonishingly strong. I’d learned to twist my hand and wriggle out of reach if any of my brothers caught hold of me in a similar fashion – but this time I was held like a handcuff.

  ‘Let me go, Mister,’ I piped in the baby voice I used when performing.

  ‘I just need a moment of your time, little fairy,’ he said. ‘And what would your name be then, precious child?’

  Oh, he used such pretty names for me, and he spoke softly enough, but there was something about his voice that was truly menacing.

  ‘My name’s Ellen-Jane, Mister. Now let me go, please. I’ve finished my performance for today,’ I told him.

  ‘Your performance! Oh, the pet!’ he said, his tight mouth stretching into a grin that showed his yellow teeth.

  I thought of the book of fairy tales I’d painted, with the little girl looking at the great fierce wolf, tucked up in bed, his jaws wide open, ready to eat her up.

  ‘I’ll let you go in a moment, my sweetheart. Just one or two more questions. How old are you, little one?’

  ‘I’m five,’ I lisped, because everyone thought me such a tiny tot.

  ‘Five! Oh, bless her!’ he said. Then he jerked my arm hard, pulling me right up close so that he was almost embracing me. He stared closely at my face, held my arm up and looked down at my legs. ‘You’re as little as five and as light as five, and you can wheedle and whisper like five – but I have my doubts, very serious doubts. I reckon you’re at least seven – maybe eight . . .’