Eloise and the Bucket of Stars

by Janeen Brian

  “He was big,” said Eloise slowly, and then she said even more slowly, as a fog began to lift. “He was wearing a hat. One with three points. It was –”

  “Just as I thought. It be Mr Humple, the new town crier. Was the other man there too, Mr Strawney, in the orange cap?”

  “No.”

  Still nothing made sense to Eloise. Only the great big hole left after the theft.

  “They be the two that came to see me ’bout a job needing doing. Keen about metals. And keen about that paper too. I agreed that Mr Humple could have it, but only once you finished with it. And, by all accounts, it don’t look like you were.” The blacksmith took a breath. “That be downright bad mannered of the man, I say. I don’t know if the pair of them be heading out of town or not. But since it be their job, they’ll be back here in Whittering sometime.”

  But it might be too late. It might be far too late for everything.

  Eloise hung her head. If only she’d been able to work out more of the message. Then all would’ve been saved on the rock. Suddenly the trip into town seemed colourless and filled with misery.

  “Come back when you can, young filly,” said the old man, kindly. “Who knows?” He raised his palms and smiled.

  The shop was easy to find. Above the doorway hung a sign on which was painted a large cotton reel. The bell above the doorway tinkled as Eloise entered. Her stomach lurched. From feeling wretched and despondent, she gasped now with astonishment. It was a shop of colour and patterns and shelves and fabric. There were boxes and containers displaying threads, thimbles, scissors and lace. Eloise turned in a circle, mouth open, glad she was the only customer. Behind the counter was another doorway, from which hung a curtain of green-and-white stripe, fresh like a daisy bush. The curtain was swept aside and a small, stocky man appeared with rimless glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  “May I help you, Miss?” he shouted.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Fentwhistle,” replied Eloise, raising her voice a little. “I’ve come for Sister Genevieve’s parcel.”

  “Eh?” The man cupped his hand behind his ear.

  “Sister Genevieve,” said Eloise, somewhat louder.

  “Ah, yes.”

  For the next five minutes, Eloise shifted from foot to foot, while the draper searched the shelves. Finally, he disappeared behind the curtain and returned with the parcel.

  “Thank you,” shouted Eloise. She paid the man and set off back to the orphanage.

  A thought troubled her as she drew closer to the lion statues. What was it about the paper that made Mr Humple and Mr Strawney so keen to get their hands on it? Mr Jackson said they were interested in metals, but had he told them anything about the paper to arouse their interest? The perplexing thing was there didn’t seem to be any connection with metals.

  And why was the town crier so bullying in the way he took the paper, even though the blacksmith had promised it to him once she’d finished with it?

  It all led to Eloise thinking that they knew something more about the message than she did.

  But how?

  They were travellers, a town crier and a storyteller. How much time had they had looking at it? How much had they deciphered?

  Eloise shook her head in frustration and despair.

  As she entered the hallway, Eloise’s shoulders drooped. Compared to Mr Fentwhistle’s shop, everything in the orphanage looked plain, drab and colourless. When she had a home, she would make sure it looked much more like the shop.

  Sister Bernard was outside teaching the Littlies a folk dance and Sister Hortense wasn’t prowling about. The parcel’s paper wrapping crinkled and crackled in Eloise’s hands and she thought about the bright, new fabric and the cotton and needles that lay inside. What if she offered to help Sister Genevieve make the cushion covers?

  Sister Genevieve wasn’t in the schoolroom, but Janie Pritchard was. She was writing something with pen and ink.

  “Do you know where Sister Genevieve is?”

  “I think she’s in the nuns’ room.”

  Eloise turned on her heel, trod the stairs and then knocked.

  “Thank you, Eloise,” said Sister, smiling. “I’ll make six new cushion covers for our room. I think it needs a little brightening.” She pulled at the string. “It’s exciting, isn’t it?” Eloise nodded, swept up by the nun’s enthusiasm. “Look at that lovely fabric! Eloise, how would you like to help me sew the covers?”

  “Oh, yes, Sister!”

  “Sister Genevieve,” came a cross voice from within the room. “I am trying to meditate. Will you kindly restrain your noisy conversation?”

  “I’m sorry, Sister Hortense.” Sister Genevieve leaned closer and whispered, “I’ll let you know when we can begin.”

  “All right,” said Eloise, breathlessly, “and Sister, will it just be me?”

  “I think so, Eloise, dear. Just you.”

  The thought of spending time with the nun lifted Eloise’s spirits. Once again, she’d have something to look forward to. But still the wretchedness of the stolen paper remained lodged in her stomach, like one of Sully’s soggy puddings.

  And she dismissed any thought of ever asking the town crier about the likelihood of a family for her.

  When Eloise woke next morning, the room was a gritty, grey colour, and it was far too early for Sister Bernard to come and rouse the Littlies. Eloise looked at the girl sleeping in the next bed and decided to get up and fetch the extra water for the spinach plants.

  The spring days were fickle. That morning was still, damp and overcast. No birds sang and the quietness made Eloise feel as if she were the only person alive. No one was at the pump and she filled her buckets quickly to get the watering over and done with.

  She couldn’t help but glance through the eyehole. The view that morning was dim but it was impossible to judge whether the pond was worsening or recovering. But there were still no birds in the area.

  Eloise badly wanted to tell Sister Genevieve about the pollution of Whittering Pond. How it might also connect to her ailing plants and possibly extend beyond the garden boundaries. She trusted the sister. But she was still a grown-up who lived with two other sisters. Who knew what information had to be shared?

  Later Eloise returned to the pump again, this time with Janie Pritchard. On the way, the girl said, “Guess what I saw the other night?”

  “What?”

  “A shooting star!”

  Eloise turned and frowned.

  “I did. I can see out of one of the windows.”

  Was that the same night that Eloise had crept out of bed and seen one as well?

  “When I was little,” the girl went on, “my father would put me on his shoulders. Then he’d tell me to reach up and touch the stars. I always thought one day I would be able to.”

  “Have you told anyone?” said Eloise. She needed to know how much information Janie Pritchard was sharing with Sister Genevieve and others. It might open up gaps that would make everything harder for her.

  “What? About me liking stars? Or that I think unicorns ride on the back of shooting stars?” The girl’s blue eyes twinkled.

  “No,” said Eloise with a straight face. “About me being out of bed.”

  Janie looked away.

  “You saw me, didn’t you?”

  “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell anyone. It’s an awful rule and anyway, I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.”

  “Thanks.” Eloise flushed.

  But a short while later, Janie Pritchard stared hard at Eloise. “You’re looking at that horse again. It’s like he’s a magnet for you.”

  “Oh.” Eloise brushed the comment away.

  “Come on,” the girl insisted. “I’ve told you how I love stars. I didn’t have to. Some people might think it’s silly but I still told you. So why don’t you tell me why you keep glancing at the horse, or in that direction?”

  Eloise’s tongue pushed hard into her tooth gap. She thought. “Because it’s none of your busin
ess.”

  Janie Pritchard looked as if she’d been slapped in the face.

  Eloise clicked her tongue. Part of her wanted to open up to this girl. It was true; it wasn’t everyone who loved stars. Or unicorns. But Eloise held back. All the information she’d ever discovered or gained her whole life had been sealed inside. She’d never shared special thoughts or wonderings. And could she trust this girl, who was really still a stranger?

  Dancy’s whinnying was insistent. She knew Janie Pritchard would follow if she went to him.

  “Do you ride him?” the girl asked, standing irritatingly alongside Eloise.

  Eloise shook her head and patted the horse, as if they’d just met. Not like a beloved companion. Not like an earth unicorn who shared a bump in the same spot as her.

  “Let’s go,” said Eloise.

  “I’m going up there, first.”

  “What? Where?”

  “By that tree, past the forge.”

  “Why?” said Eloise, alarmed.

  “Because I’ve watched you. You look at two places when you’re here. Either at the horse. Or up by that tree. So there must be something there.”

  “If we don’t go now,” said Eloise firmly, “Sister Bernard will froth at the mouth.”

  Janie Pritchard shook her head. “I don’t care.”

  Eloise raised her eyebrows. “You might.”

  Tears sprang into the girl’s eyes.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I-I don’t ever want to go back to the orphanage,” Janie stuttered. “I want to go back to my home. I hate knowing other people are living in it. I just want to go home.”

  Eloise picked up her buckets. They felt heavier than usual. Perhaps it was because the girl echoed her thoughts. She, too, longed to leave the orphanage and never return. She wanted a family, or a place to call home. She wanted to see what she’d been missing all these years. On the other hand, Janie Pritchard didn’t want to return to the orphanage because she knew what she was missing.

  She walked off.

  “Come on,” she said. But after a short distance, Eloise veered away from the cobblestones, slowing down until she heard footsteps behind her. “Over here!” she said, pointing towards the tree just past the forge. Already, she was racking her brain as to how much to tell Janie Pritchard.

  “This is what I’ve been doing,” she said, indicating the rock.

  The girl pulled an inquisitive face and knelt down. She traced the picture of the unicorn and then the words, shapes and numbers. “I wonder what they mean,” she said. “When did you find them?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Eloise paused. “I carved them.”

  The girl looked down at the rock and then up at Eloise. “Why?”

  Eloise closed her mouth. Any more information and she’d feel as if she was on a slippery slope.

  Sister Bernard had plenty to say when they returned. Had they walked to the next town to get the water? Had the pump broken, perhaps? Finally she added, “Once the buckets are in the kitchen, you’re to both rake the leaves and trim the side hedge. After that, Eloise will help Sully. And Janie will have lessons with Sister Genevieve.”

  “Yes, Sister,” they chorused miserably.

  “And let that be an end to time-wasting.” The nun pursed her mouth. “We are a family here and we have a duty to help each other. And to be quick about it!”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  The hedge-trimming reminded Eloise of the time Sister Bernard had cut all the Littlies’ hair down to their scalps.

  “Why?” said Janie Pritchard.

  “Nits,” said Eloise. “But I don’t think my hair’s ever been cut,” she said, almost to herself.

  “No wonder it’s so long.”

  And it’s worth money. The wigmaker would pay money to cut my hair.

  She’d be in for a whipping, though, if Sister Hortense ever saw what she’d done, without her permission. Then again, if she had it cut, took the money and ran away straight afterwards, there wouldn’t be a problem.

  The girls became absorbed in their own thoughts, and the sound of the rakes scraping up leaves from the paths was more pleasurable than voicing their own longings to escape.

  Janie Pritchard broke the silence. “We’re not a family,” she said. “Not like Sister Bernard said.”

  “They think we are,” said Eloise. She and Janie Pritchard had several things in common, not the least that both were orphans, but that didn’t make them family. It simply made them on one side of the fence with the sisters on the other.

  As Eloise scooped up the last of the leaves, she realised she’d never considered the sisters having families. To her they were simply grown-ups in charge of orphans. It was hard to imagine them doing anything else.

  Janie Pritchard knew about families.

  Perhaps Eloise’s longing for one might never come true. Maybe the best she could hope for would be a servant. She was used to drudgery, but at least she’d be in a house. And have a room.

  And there’d be no Sister Hortense.

  “I don’t think Sister Hortense was ever a kid,” she blurted.

  Janie held the rake still. A grin flickered at the corners of her mouth. “What was she then?”

  “She was just born,” said Eloise, with a straight face. “And then she put on a big, black nun’s habit.”

  Janie laughed out loud.

  Eloise joined in and it felt good.

  A little later, Janie said, “You know that rock you showed me?”

  Eloise pushed the pile of leaves in the bucket down with her boot. “Mmm,” she murmured, on alert.

  “Why did you do it? And what does it mean?”

  To answer those questions meant she’d have to expose everything. She’d have to tell Janie Pritchard all the secrets about the paper and Whittering Pond. A lump rose in Eloise’s throat. She wasn’t sure she could.

  “Janie,” said Sister Genevieve, walking out from the side door. “Have you finished out there?”

  The girl took her answer from Eloise, who nodded.

  “Yes, Sister,” she said.

  “Very well. Clean up and go to the schoolroom.”

  Janie took her bucket and rake and headed towards the storeroom.

  “And Eloise,” said the nun, “once you’ve finished helping Sully in the kitchen, we can make a start on the cushion covers.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” said Eloise, smiling with excitement. She hung up the rake, dumped the leaves in the pile by the laundry and walked into the kitchen. Sully could ask her to do anything. And Janie Pritchard wasn’t going to get any answers right then. She, Eloise Pail, was soon going to be sewing with Sister Genevieve.

  “Took your time, didn’t you?” said Sully.

  “Sorry,” said Eloise. “I just had to go to the privy before –”

  “Oright. Oright. Don’t need to know your life story. The butcher gave me some sheep guts. Look at them, cheap and fresh. So, chop ’em up nice and small, so’s they go further.”

  Eloise’s stomach turned at the sight of a coiled pile of coloured gizzards sitting wetly on the bench. She picked up a knife as Sister Bernard shepherded the Littlies’ outside. Who would take her place slicing up guts in the kitchen after she’d gone?

  With her mouth shut tight and her nose wrinkled, Eloise chopped and sliced and soon her fingers were slimy and speckled with blood.

  “How you going?” said Sully a little later from the stove. “Finished?”

  “I think so.”

  “Either you have. Or you haven’t.”

  The cook took a couple of brisk steps. When one foot landed on a fallen sliver of gut, up she went – legs in the air, apron, skirt and petticoats flying, before landing with a thump. “Oww,” she bellowed.

  Eloise stuck out one bloodied hand to help the cook up. Sully burst out laughing. “Well, that musta been a sight. Thought I was heading to heaven!” She gave another peal of laughter.


  “What was that about heaven, Sully?” Sister Hortense stood at the doorway, her face dark.

  “Just a joke, Sister. I went flying sky high and –”

  “A kitchen is a place of food preparation, Sully, not a place of silly behaviour or Devil merriment.” The nun stared down her nose at Sully, still spread out on the floor. “And, perhaps you could also lower the noise level of your singing and whistling. Such raucous sounds do not set a good example for the Littlies.”

  Sully’s face flushed scarlet. “Yes, Sister.” She scrabbled to standing. In that instant, Eloise knew for certain that Sully had indeed been an orphan.

  Eloise stood silent, her back against the bench, wiping her hands and hoping she was invisible.

  Sister Hortense turned her head. “And you, again, Eloise Pail. Always somehow involved in some sort of outrage or other. I have not had cause to speak to you for some time, yet here you are again.”

  “But it weren’t Eloise’s fault,” said Sully. “She was just chopping up the guts. It was me that slipped and –”

  “Enough, Sully.” Sister held up her palm. “You have no need to protect one who is clearly disobedient and uncooperative. One who fails to hold dear the true teachings of the church.” She shot Eloise another pinched look. “Bear that in mind, Eloise Pail.”

  Thinking about her story pieces, dark and safe in a drawstring bag in a cupboard nearby, helped fend off Sister’s barbed words. But she curled her toes from habit, anxiously hoping that Sister wouldn’t set her another job. Sister Genevieve was waiting for her.

  Once Sister Hortense was gone, Eloise said, “Thanks, Sully, for trying to help me.”

  “Anybody could slip on a gizzard, for goodness sake! Even Sister Hortense.” The cook suppressed a giggle and then went on, brow furrowed, “But nobody tells me my music is upsetting. ’Cos it makes me happy. And besides, the chicken I cooked her the other day wasn’t fatty.” With a righteous sniff of indignation, Sully picked up a large bowl. “Put the gizzards in there and then you can go.”

  Eloise washed her hands. In no time, she was up the stairs and about to knock on the nuns’ door.

  Eloise rapped gently, leaning her ear close to the door.