Eloise and the Bucket of Stars

by Janeen Brian

  “Eloise, what’s the matter? Did you fall?”

  Sister Genevieve strode across and took hold of Eloise’s elbow as she tried to rise.

  “I’m fine, Sister,” said Eloise with a cough. “Thank you.”

  “Did you get out of bed before morning time?” piped Mamie from a nearby bed. “Sister Hortense will be mad with you.”

  “Mamie,” said Sister, “since you’re the first Littlie awake, why don’t you wake the others? Help me do my job.” Mamie grinned and jumped out of bed.

  “Now, Eloise, what happened? Gracious, child, you’re frozen. Sit on the bed. Let me rub your arms.” Sister Genevieve looked questioningly at Eloise. Her grey, lazy eye moved inwards.

  Eloise rubbed her lips together. Lies are the tongues of the Devil.

  “I . . . I . . .” she stammered.

  “Perhaps you were dreaming, Eloise. And weren’t aware that you were out of bed.”

  Eloise lowered her head, pressing her lips tighter together.

  Sister placed her finger beneath Eloise’s chin and gently lifted it. “Eloise. As you know, we three sisters live together in one room. And we speak about our charges. But –” she paused and spoke even more softly, “you are often mentioned. And I’m aware there are certain opinions held of you. And your behaviour.”

  Eloise gripped her fingers, feeling their icy tips. “But, Sister, I don’t know . . .”

  “Try hard not to cause any unwarranted trouble. Especially that which could be seen as acting against the doctrines of the Church.”

  Eloise ran her thumb back and forth across the bump on her forehead. Sister Hortense must’ve already said something to Sister Genevieve about last night. About Eloise doing something secret or worshipping other gods. Eloise sagged. She felt sick. How badly she wanted to leave the orphanage.

  “Now, we need lots of water, today, Eloise,” said Sister. “We’ll be giving the Littlies a full wash. Sully wants extra buckets too.”

  “Sully wants lots more water, Eloise,” announced Sister Bernard.

  “I’ve already mentioned –”

  “Sister Genevieve and I will see to the Littlies this morning,” Sister Bernard bustled on. “High time you were dressed, Eloise. No dawdling. Much to do.”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  On with the grey tunic and pinafore. On with the boots that pinched and rubbed. On with the ribbon. On with the day. The water-fetching, chore-ladened day.

  Down the path she went and onto the cobblestones, and there she glanced ruefully at the houses squatting either side. Catching sight of someone by a window or a door stirred her. But Eloise was careful to avert her gaze, so’s not to be seen as spying.

  It irked that her behaviour was discussed by the sisters. She could imagine the sharpest voice. The one that rose over and above the others. But she didn’t set out to make trouble. In fact, she tried to dodge it. But trouble seemed to find her. And lately Sister Hortense’s forehead was rising higher and tighter beneath her headpiece.

  Today of all days, she needed to see Dancy.

  “Here, boy,” she called by the fence, again holding out a clump of grass. Eloise gave a faint grin as the white horse wandered up and nuzzled. “It always tastes better from the other side, doesn’t it? I wish I could stay, Dancy, but I can’t.”

  “Hoy, young filly!”

  Eloise waved.

  “That horse of mine, he really do like you, don’t he?”

  Eloise leaned her cheek against Dancy’s nose. “I think he does, Mr Jackson. But I have to go now. Goodbye.”

  “Bye then.”

  Eloise was about to pick up the buckets from the pump when there was a loud crash. She spun around. Mr Jackson was standing near an old stone fence alongside his forge, gazing at the roof and scratching his head. Several bits of wood and stone lay at his feet.

  “Darn thing’s tumbling down,” he cried with a gruff laugh. “It was a house, many years back, but that be a long time ago. Now, it’s older than my teeth. Still, best I fix it.” With another wave, he trudged back towards the forge.

  “Bye,” Eloise called again. Inwardly, she was relieved Mr Jackson was safe. But she clicked her tongue at the curious thought of the old forge once being a house, and of course the field still being there for Dancy. But if the place was really old, perhaps it was there when the town wall was built. Maybe it was the gatekeeper’s house.

  Keep out robbers . . . and maybe other mysterious things.

  By the time Eloise had left water for Sully and hurried back to the water pump once more, she was panting. The arm-drag ached right up to her armpits. The fresh breeze was welcome. Except it flipped a long curly tendril across her eyes.

  “Ohh,” she grumbled, setting the buckets down and scraping her hair back with the ribbon. In that moment of rest, Eloise fixed her gaze on the tree by the wall. Did anyone else know about the gap behind one of its branches? Or was she the only one? Her heart thudded with yearning to peer through it once again. She recalled the pond she’d seen – the calm, sparkling pond – and chewed over the possibility that it could be the same pond women had once thrown stones in. And where, nearby, strange creatures lived in holes. Perhaps that’s why the wall separated the pond and the holes from the township. A form of protection. Eloise ran her tongue back and forth along her teeth, considering, wondering.

  By the time she’d carted the last of the water upstairs to the bedroom, her skin was damp and her curls were glued to her forehead.

  “Do you know how long we’ve been waiting, Eloise?” said Sister Bernard, pointing to several children still in their nightclothes. “Did you dawdle?”

  “No, Sister,” Eloise replied truthfully, picturing herself stroking Dancy’s lovely mane.

  “The buckets aren’t quite full again, Eloise.”

  Sister Genevieve was towelling Polly dry. “Perhaps, Eloise, you could help Sister and me bathe the last of the children.”

  Eloise’s face warmed. “I’ve . . . I’ve got the breakfast dishes to do, Sister.”

  “Many hands make light work, Eloise.” Sister Genevieve’s voice was steady. Her meaning was clear.

  “Yes, Sister.” But her stomach churned. All it needed was for Sister Hortense to growl about the breakfast bowls not being set again, and she’d be in more trouble. “Come on, Mamie.”

  A moment later, the little girl wrinkled her nose crossly. “You’re rubbing too hard, Eloise. You’ll rub all my skin off and then I’ll fall to bits.”

  Eloise shook her head and said nothing. At last all the Littlies were washed and dressed. Eloise gathered up the washcloths and towels and was hurrying downstairs to take them to the laundry when she met Sister Hortense on the steps.

  There was a moment of tense silence. In a crisp voice, Sister Hortense said, “You were to remain by your bed, Eloise Pail. Do you not remember?”

  A bolt of rage shot up Eloise’s spine. She wanted to scream.

  “I was told to get water, Sister,” she said. “The other sisters needed to wash the Littlies and Sully wanted –”

  “Be quiet, girl. You are trying my patience. Since you’ve left the bedroom, I wonder if the breakfast dishes are set.”

  “Not yet, Sister.”

  Sister Hortense stepped up level with Eloise. “Your impertinence is an insult to God and myself. We will have discipline and obedience. I repeat, discipline and obedience.” The words slid sidelong, hitting Eloise with their understated force.

  Why did Sister hate her so? Why had she been singled out as a person of such unworthiness? And why had Sister curtailed her lessons? If only she could walk away from the orphanage and never come back.

  Once the wet cloths were in the laundry tub, Eloise hurried into the kitchen where Sully was bent over a bench. “Gawd, I love tripe,” said the cook. On her way to the pantry, Eloise took a peek. Sully was slicing at a slab of something, greyish-white and spongy. “I could eat this stuff raw,” Sully added.

  Eloise pulled a face at the thought. Af
ter lifting stacks of bowls from the pantry shelves, she rushed to set them out on the long tables in the dining room.

  Back in the kitchen, her throat caught at the rancid smell. It was coming from the big black pot boiling on top of the wood oven. There was no sign of the tripe on the bench. “Did you always want to be a cook, Sully?” she said.

  “Maybe, or maybe not,” said the cook, with a sly grin. “Maybe I wanted to be a lion-tamer. What are you pinching your nose like that for? Give that tripe a few hours and it’ll come up a treat. Soft and chewy, just as I like it. Wait till you taste it tonight, young lady. You won’t never want to eat nothing else.”

  Eloise swallowed hard. She doubted that. “Sully, can I ask you something?”

  “Long as it’s quick. Got to get the gruel ready for the breakfasts.”

  Eloise’s fingers found the bump on her forehead.

  “Did you ever . . .” she began, feeling a rush of embarrassment, “do you have . . . a family?”

  Sully stared at her as if Eloise had asked her if she wore knickerbockers beneath her long work dress.

  “’Course I ’ad one, I had to be borned, else I wouldn’t be here, would I?” But her face had that shut-down look, as if she’d drawn one of Sister’s curtains across it.

  Eloise shuffled and said, “It’s . . . I just . . . I was wondering, that’s all.”

  Sully picked up a ladle as if holding onto it gave her courage to say something more. “Is it me you’re wondering about. Or yerself?”

  Sully had hit the mark and right away Eloise didn’t know how to go on. Could she ask about the Family Register? Could she ask if the cook knew anything about the inclusion, or exclusion of names? Then again, a slipped word could fall into wrong hands. Or, if she attempted another look in the book and then something went amiss, Sully would know it was her, sneaking about. Perhaps all Sully knew was the kitchen. Or was it? Another thought struck Eloise. Maybe Sully had been working in the kitchen when she’d been left as a baby girl in a bucket. Maybe she knew something about how it happened.

  Eloise brushed hair from her face. “Can I just ask how long you’ve been here, Sully?”

  “How many fingers have I got on me hands?”

  “Ten.”

  “Right, then. So that’s how long I been here. Have to start counting on me toes soon.” She laughed. Eloise’s throat tightened. The timing didn’t work out. Sully wouldn’t have been at the orphanage when she arrived. “And you’d better get into the dining room, unless you want the Devil chasin’ you!”

  “There’s no Devil here,” Eloise replied with a faint smile.

  “And I’ll make sure there never is,” said Sister Hortense, as she marched into the kitchen.

  A shiver ran up and down Eloise’s spine, because the nun was looking straight at her.

  It was several days later. Eloise loved it when the sun slipped out from behind the clouds and warmed her on the way to collect water. But the chill persevered and her boots pressed more painfully around her cold feet.

  “Eloise Pail, the laundry barrels are low.” Sister Hortense met her at the side steps as she returned with the second load of water that morning.

  Already her shoulders were burning. “Yes, Sister,” she mumbled, widening her eyes to prevent tears from forming. In the kitchen, Sully had her back to her. Eloise placed the buckets to one side and bent to pick up two others. The cook was singing one of her tuneless, made-up songs, while at the same time battering pumpkin rinds with a rolling pin. Sully appeared happy enough. But she never spoke of anything much else except cooking. Nor did she seem to have any time off, but perhaps she did. If so, where did she go? Did she have any family? Or friends?

  Eloise stepped outside again. How good would it be to drop the buckets, remove her boots and run through soft, green grass? Perhaps with someone else.

  At the main steps, where the two lion statues sat, she halted. She must stop doing all this wishing. It was like having the gripe, only the bellyache was never-ending. Eloise ran her hands over the carved lion manes and set off once more, her feet swelling with each step.

  It was late in the morning and many of the shops were either opening their doors or were already open. The town gates were in view. What if she left the buckets at the pump and kept walking, right out the gateway, right out of town.

  Eloise, you’re doing it again!

  She fixed her gaze elsewhere and was continuing on her way when there suddenly came a cry, “Hey, girlie!”

  Eloise started but took it that the shout was meant for someone else.

  “You!” The call was repeated and this time Eloise paused and looked in the direction from which it came.

  Outside the wigmaker’s shop, a woman beckoned. “Come here, girlie,” she cried, staring at Eloise’s hair. “Oh, look at them curls. Colour of toffee and long as a yardstick. I’d pay a nice price for a bag of them curls.”

  Astonished, Eloise shook her head.

  “And they dance too!” crowed the woman in delight. “Come on then, come and make friends with a pair of scissors.”

  “No, thank you.” Head down, Eloise hurried on. What a strange thing to have happened. Fancy being offered money for her hair.

  A moment later, the single, most urgent thought in her mind was to run cold water over her sore feet. When that was done, Eloise dragged on her boots, the dampness making it even more of a struggle.

  Dancy was already at the fence, head nodding.

  “Hello, boy,” Eloise said, drinking in his warm, earthy smell. “These buckets are for the laundry, so I can’t stay. But I know what I’d rather be doing.” The horse gave a soft whinny and nuzzled into her neck. “What did you say, Dancy? You think you and I should ride away together?” Eloise gave him a hug and, with a rueful smile, began to trudge back.

  She’d only taken a few steps when the urge to glance through the open gateway overtook her. Although now at an angle, she could still see the track that led out and away. The branches on the few trees at either side shifted in the light breeze. All of a sudden the blood rushed from her scalp to her toes.

  Would she dare? She wouldn’t go far.

  Eloise quickly glanced about. Mr Jackson’s forge was empty. In the market square, barrow boys wearing bright-coloured rags around their necks pushed small carts while horses or donkeys pulled larger ones. Ladies in soft bonnets chatted at a corner of the square and a man struck a flint to light his long pipe. Nothing extraordinary was happening.

  Except for the beating of her heart.

  Because, of course, she was an orphan and townspeople knew the orphans’ uniforms from their monthly performances in the square. So, in those clothes, she wasn’t invisible. Therefore, it was important she moved as if with purpose. Anything less and she’d look furtive, uncertain. Definitely suspicious.

  Eloise gave herself an imaginary errand to run in the next town. She’d buy some hard-boiled sweets in a shop. A smile played around her mouth. Oh, if only that were true.

  Having left the buckets by the pump, she took a deep breath and set off. A sound of drums beat in her ears. Her breathing came hard and fast, and her feet were numb to pain. Just before the gate, her nerve fled. The risk was too great. Sister Hortense was a simmering firecracker. And she was her least favourite person. But the gate was there. The road only five steps further on.

  Then Eloise had an idea.

  She bent over and pretended she was looking for something. In this way, she sidled out of the gate and on to the road. Her legs wobbled so much they threatened to collapse beneath her. For the first time in her life, she was not only out of the orphanage, but out of the town of Whittering. There was the winding road, the trees, a smudge of greenery in the distance and the wide unending sky.

  Eloise pushed down the urge to jump and utter a joyous whoop of excitement. But inside she was all jitters and shakes. She paused, taking in the wonderful scene before her until a flurry of dust alerted her. A cart approached.

  In an instant Elo
ise scurried back, grabbed the buckets and raced up to the orphanage. Her feet could be shredded to pieces. She didn’t care. There was a world outside. And one day, that’s where she would be too.

  Only when she reached the lion statues did Eloise’s heart leap. Her hair had been flopping about. The long, chestnut-coloured curls that the wigmaker was so keen to buy had been flicking about her face and neck as she ran.

  Her ribbon.

  Frantically, Eloise felt her head and neck. She shook herself in case it’d dropped down her tunic and become stuck. She leaned over and ran her fingers through her hair. Finally, with a sick feeling in her gut, she knew. She’d lost the ribbon.

  “What am I going to do, lions?” she cried.

  She could see the creased fury in Sister Hortense’s face if she returned without her ribbon. She could imagine the sourness of her remarks. But she might find it.

  Leaving the buckets with the lions, Eloise returned and searched every place she’d been, even outside the gates. Nothing.

  Bone-weary, she finally approached the side steps of the orphanage, her red face streaked with dark smudges and sweat, her mouth a straight line of apprehension.

  The laundry was beside the privy. At last she could off-load the water buckets. And that was where she was able to breathe a sigh of relief. It wasn’t a grey orphanage ribbon that she found in the laundry but a scrap of material from a frayed tunic. And it would have to do. Until she could think of something else.

  As she was quickly tying the strip, Eloise was alerted by the clatter and scrape of wheels and hooves. A cart stopped in front of the main orphanage doors. The next thing, Sister Hortense appeared, ushering a fair-haired Littlie down the steps and into the cart, where a lady and man sat waiting. The nun accepted an envelope from the man, before stepping back and holding up her hand. It was more a formal gesture than a friendly farewell wave.

  Eloise saw an opportunity while the sister was still outside. First, she dashed into the privy and then into the kitchen.

  “Late again, are you?” Sully eyed Eloise, one sandy-coloured eyebrow raised.