Hetty Feather

by Jacqueline Wilson

  Two or three years! I'd been in the Foundling Hospital for less than a day and yet it already felt like a lifetime.

  'Do you know your way around all this great big building, Harriet?' I asked.

  'Of course I do. Don't worry, you'll learn your way around soon too.'

  'Do you know where all the boys are?'

  'Yes, they are in the west wing.'

  'Do you know how to get there?'

  'Yes, but I have never been. It's not allowed.'

  'Have you never seen the boys?'

  'Oh, yes, yes, sometimes we see them across the yard at play, and we watch their sports day once a year. We see them in chapel too, though we're not supposed to peer round.'

  'Couldn't we go together now, just to have a peep at them?'

  'Of course not, Hetty. We would be seen and then we would get into fearsome trouble.'

  'I don't care. I need to see my brother,' I said.

  'Ah.' Harriet was silent for a moment. 'I had a brother. Two brothers. They are here too. Michael and John.'

  She said their names uncertainly, as if she wasn't sure. I felt my throat tighten. She didn't seem to remember them properly, and yet she was a big girl, not a small girl who was easily muddled, like Martha. I resolved even more strongly that I would never never never forget my dear brothers (especially Jem) or my sisters, and that somehow I would find the boys' wing and seek out Gideon.

  Harriet wouldn't take me to the boys' wing but she did take me to the big girls' room. There was no nurse keeping order so the girls chatted as they mended clothes, sewing up split seams in the ugly brown dresses and hemming torn aprons.

  'Come here, Hetty, let me show you something,' said Harriet.

  I feared I was in for another sewing lesson and I'd already proved myself spectacularly untalented at darning – but Harriet pulled off a long length of cotton thread, tied it together, and then placed it round her outstretched hands.

  'Watch carefully! I will teach you how to play cat's cradle.'

  I watched, though I didn't see a cat or a cradle, just strange patterns forming as Harriet fiddled the cotton with her fingers. She tried her best to show me what to do, and praised me extravagantly when I managed to flip the thread into the right zigzag pattern.

  'Clever baby!' she said.

  I felt a little indignant – she seemed all too ready to treat me like a two-year-old – but I didn't protest. It was wonderful to have found a friend in this huge and horrifying hospital, two friends, if I counted kind Nurse Winterson.

  But at night-time I was utterly friendless. All the little girls were lined up and washed by a big girl. She had long plaits like my Harriet, but she was nowhere near as kind. She scrubbed at our hands and faces with the horrid carbolic soap, not caring in the slightest if it went in our eyes.

  Then we were led to the infant dormitory, a vast room of fifty iron bedsteads. I was taken to a bed right beside the door and my clothes pulled off me by another big girl. She stuck a nightgown over my head. It was so long it trailed on the floor. My shorn hair stuck out wildly in all directions. Some of the other girls laughed and pointed. I licked my fingers and tried to make the tufts stick to my scalp.

  'Stop doing that, you look so silly!' said the big girl. 'Fold your clothes up neatly – neatly, I said – and put them in your basket at the end of the bed.'

  I did as I was told. I hid my lucky sixpence in my basket too, resolving to find a safer hiding place when no one was watching.

  'Now say your prayers. Don't take too long about it, mind. Then get into bed.'

  I knelt down, put my hands together and shut my eyes. 'Dear God, please get me out of this horrid, hateful place,' I prayed. 'Please don't let the matron and the nurses and the other boys be plaguing Gideon. I know it is all my fault he cannot speak any more and I am such a sorry girl. Please bless my dear family at home and don't let me ever forget them. Please especially bless Jem. Please—'

  But the big girl was tugging me impatiently. 'That's enough. Into bed. Now!'

  I opened my eyes and saw that all the other girls were already under their covers. I hurried into bed myself. The big girl dimmed the light and said, 'Goodnight! No talking now.'

  She went out of the door and closed it tight. Immediately a whispering started. The girls called each other, chatting about their day. They started talking about me as if I wasn't there!

  'What about the new girl, Hetty Feather?'

  'She looks a sight. That hair!'

  'She's so small and scrawny.'

  'I saw her sucking up to Harriet.'

  'She's so stupid at darning.'

  'She went down on her knees to pray, pretending she's so holy.'

  'She's just acting monk to make people sorry for her.'

  'I don't like her at all.'

  I jumped out of bed and ran to the nearest girl. 'Well, I don't like you!' I cried, and I pulled her ear hard. She screamed and I ran to the next bed. 'And I don't like you!' I pulled another ear, then ran on. 'Or you – or you!'

  They all set about shrieking, and then the door burst open and someone stood there, an oil lamp held high, illuminating her ugly features. It was Matron Pigface!

  'What is this terrible noise? How dare you behave so badly! And who is this child out of bed?'

  She seized me, shining the lamp in my face. 'Hetty Feather! Behaving like a child of Satan on your very first night here! Get back into bed this instant, and if you put so much as a foot on the floor all night you will be whipped severely.'

  She smacked at me as I dodged past her and dived into my bed.

  'Now you are all to go to sleep this instant!' Pigface commanded.

  After she'd waddled out of the room there were several muttered remonstrances, but soon every girl was breathing heavily. Some murmured as they dreamed, some snored. I was the only one awake.

  I lay on my back, feeling so wretchedly lonely in my narrow bed. I longed to snuggle up beside Jem or Gideon. My arms ached for my dear rag baby. I lay trembling hour after hour. I felt so small in this huge room of spiteful girls. I seemed to grow smaller and smaller as I lay there. I clutched myself in fear that I was actually shrinking. I did not seem myself any more. I gripped my elbows tightly and gritted my teeth. I had to hang onto myself. I was not going to become just another foundling girl in hideous apparel. I might have to wear the dress, cap, apron and tippet, I might have to obey all their dreadful rules, but inside my head I still had to stay Hetty Feather.

  11

  I woke to the clamour of a bell. A new big girl strode up and down the dormitory, shouting at us to get up. It was cold and my bladder was bursting, but I had to strip my bed, roll up my mattress and put on my hateful uniform before I could shuffle to the privy. A big girl – yet another, so many, how would I ever learn who was who? – washed our hands, inspected our necks and brushed our hair. Then we had to line up and walk two by two to the dining room. I did not have anyone to walk with. I decided I did not care. I pictured to myself another Hetty, and we held hands and walked downstairs together, whispering to each other. Several times the other girls tried to elbow me out of the way, but Hetty and I elbowed back. We had small arms but very sharp elbows.

  'Stop pushing and poking each other!' a nurse called. 'Who is that girl there, the little one?'

  'Hetty Feather,' the other girls chorused, triumphant that I was in trouble again.

  'You must learn patience and decorum, Hetty Feather. We expect little girls to queue up quietly for their food at the hospital, not trample and grunt like little pigs in a sty.'

  She said it humorously but she nearly set me off crying again, because I thought of our pig in the sty, and Jem and Mother, and a wave of homesickness washed over me.

  'So you're a new little girl,' said the kitchen maid at the end of the table, serving out bowls of porridge. She was small and slight – if it wasn't for her careworn face I might have mistaken her for one of the big girl foundlings. Her maid's uniform hung about her, her skirts trailing pa
st her boots. 'I'm new here too. It feels very strange, don't it?'

  I nodded forlornly.

  'I'm sure we'll both settle down soon,' she said. 'Here, specially for you!' She took a twist of paper out of her apron pocket and sprinkled the contents on the top of my porridge. 'Sugar!' she whispered.

  All the other girls had entirely plain portions.

  'Get on with it, Ida! There isn't time to talk to the children,' the fat cook called from the serving hatch.

  Ida winked at me. I did my best to wink back, though I hadn't quite mastered the art and I fear I squinted dreadfully. Ida's unexpected kindness cheered me even more than the sprinkle of sugar.

  I still had to face the ordeal of morning school. We had a proper mistress, not a nurse, an elderly lady called Miss Newman. She did indeed resemble a new kind of man: she was tall and square- shouldered, with a severe bun scraped back from her wrinkled forehead. She could control her hair, but her eyebrows wriggled in unruly fashion above her small spectacles. She was plainly dressed in a grey blouse with a white collar and a dark grey skirt, with just a silver clasp on her belt to break the monotony – but she looked exotically glamorous in comparison with the dull uniform of all the nurses.

  She stood at the front of our classroom and peered hard at all us girls. She saw me and raised her formidable eyebrows. 'What is your name, little girl?'

  'Hetty Feather, Nurse – miss.'

  'You will address me as Miss Newman, if you please.'

  'Yes, Miss Newman.'

  'Did you attend school in your foster home?'

  'No, Miss Newman.'

  She sighed. 'Well, you are going to have to concentrate very hard, Hetty Feather.'

  She held up a large placard with four pictures. There was a round rosy fruit, a big brown furry creature, a yellow piece of furniture, and a black and white animal waving its tail. Each picture had writing underneath it.

  'A is for Apple, B is for Bear, C is for Chair and D is for Dog!' I declared.

  Miss Newman stared at me. 'I thought you said you had never attended school, Hetty Feather.'

  'I haven't, Miss Newman.'

  'So how have you learned to read?'

  'My big brother Jem read to me,' I said proudly. 'So I learned all my letters.'

  Miss Newman nodded approvingly. 'Then he was a kind brother to you, child.'

  'Oh, he is, the kindest brother in the whole world,' I said fervently.

  Miss Newman led all of us through the alphabet with her coloured placards – and then we progressed to the much duller but still interesting spelling out of little words. It was not long before I could stutter 'The c-a-t is on the m-a-t', and in the second half of the long morning's lesson I grasped a scratchy pen and wrote line after line of shaky as and bs and cs. Then I wrote my first sprawling word – c a b – and drew a picture of the London cab that had taken me away to this grim new life.

  Miss Newman liked my picture, she liked my word, and when she had showed me how to sign my artwork Hetty, she embellished it with a gold star.

  I was pleased and proud, but the star made me think of the wondrous night of the circus and Madame Adeline and then the awfulness of Gideon going missing, and I had to fight to stop my tears brimming all over again.

  'She thinks she's so clever just because she can read and write, but look, she's nothing but a crybaby,' Sheila hissed to her friend, Monica. Sheila was the fierce fair girl with the high forehead and I already detested her.

  However, Martha came and peered very closely at my picture, running her finger along the lines as if it helped her to see. 'Very good, Hetty. And you have a gold star! I've never had a gold star yet. I won't either. I am a total dunce.' She sighed, though she said it cheerily enough.

  'Well, I think you're very clever,' I said loyally. Even if Martha did not remember me properly, I remembered her. We were still sisters, no matter what.

  Martha was truly very good at our singing lesson. We had to stand in lines and sing long dreary hymns. I did not know the words yet so I could only hum uncertainly to the piano music, but Martha's voice soared high above the others, making me shiver with its sweetness.

  Wait till I tell Mother! She will be so proud that Martha can sing like an angel, I thought. Then I realized I would never be able to tell Mother. I had to fight the tears this time, knowing that if I cried again the other girls would torment me. I screwed up my face desperately.

  'Look at Hetty Feather!' sang Sheila, keeping in time to the hymn. 'She looks like she's about to w-e-t herself!'

  I did actually need to go to the privy. I couldn't get used to the idea of only being able to go when the nurses commanded. My bladder and bowels had a will of their own and I prayed I would not have an accident. One girl was wriggling and jiggling towards the end of the line and Miss Newman spoke to her sharply.

  'Stop fidgeting, Sarah Barnes!'

  Sarah jumped – and then water started trickling down her legs, spreading in a pool about her boots. The girls on either side of her sprang away, and everyone stared and pointed. Miss Newman sent Sarah out of the room in disgrace. She shuffled soggily away, her head bowed, her face scarlet with shame.

  I had a desperate private conversation with my own bladder. I had seen a pig's bladder at home so I had some idea of what mine looked like. I pictured tying the end up tightly with string, making many knots. It worked so well that when we were eventually allowed a trip to the privy, I sat there for several minutes before I could squeeze out a single drop.

  'Come along, Hetty Feather. For goodness' sake, child, you must be finished now! You're just being contrary.'

  A nurse came and dragged me off while I was still weeing. A little splashed down my legs, but not enough to make a puddle. I thanked the Lord for my long skirts, though it wasn't comfortable.

  We had our dinner in the great dining hall. I saw Harriet and tried to go and sit with her, but I was hauled back to sit on a bench with the other girls my age.

  We had a different kitchen maid to dole out a few morsels of boiled mutton and carrots and potatoes. I received a standard portion, but when the other kind kitchen maid passed behind my bench, taking her great dish back to the kitchen, she slipped one more potato onto my plate. It had a little dab of butter on top and tasted especially delicious. She watched me eat it up, smiling at me.

  'Did that new kitchen maid give you an extra potato, Hetty Feather?' Sheila demanded crossly.

  'She had one left so she gave it to me. Because I'm little and I look sweet,' I said. 'Not like you.'

  Sheila had a very high frowny forehead and a fierce expression, her mouth drooping like a dog. I pulled my own features into a Sheila-face, and the two girls opposite laughed. Even Monica sniggered, though she was Sheila's best friend.

  It was a stupid mistake to ridicule Sheila, especially as she was much bigger than me. She cornered me out in the playground when there wasn't a nurse in sight.

  'I'll teach you, Hetty Feather,' she said, and she punched me in the stomach, so that I doubled over.

  Then she ran behind me and pushed hard. I toppled down onto my chin. I grazed my hands painfully, tore the knees out of both my stockings, and sliced my poor chin right open.

  Monica squatted down beside me, looking aghast. 'Oh, Sheila, you've hurt her! She's bleeding frightfully, look!'

  'Only a little bit,' said Sheila, but she looked worried too.

  'What if she tells Matron?' said Monica. 'You will be whipped, Sheila!'

  'Good!' I said, struggling to my feet. I wiped my stinging chin with my hand. I was startled when I saw the bright red on my fingers but I decided to be brave. I'd played soldiers often enough with Jem at home. I knew you had to show courage when you were wounded. I marched off, swinging my arms, my dripping chin held high.

  Matron Pigface came into the playground just then, bell in hand, ready to ring for us to go indoors for our needlework session. She took one look at me and gasped. 'Hetty Feather! Whatever have you done to yourself, you wretched child?' />
  Every girl in the playground stood still, staring at me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sheila and Monica clasping hands.

  'Answer me, Hetty Feather!' Pigface bellowed.

  I did not want to answer her. I did not want to admit to all the infant foundlings that Sheila had knocked me down and I had failed to punch her back. It was too shaming.

  Matron Pigface was peering closely at my chin, inspecting my hands, lifting my skirt to see my torn stockings and oozing knees. 'Have you been in a fight?'

  I shook my head, because I hadn't had the wit or strength to fight Sheila back.

  'So did some girl here attack you?' Pigface demanded.

  I opened my mouth at last. I looked at Sheila. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of everyone knowing she had triumphed over me. 'No, miss . . . Matron. No one attacked me. I fell over because these blooming boots are too big.'

  Pigface shook me by the shoulders for impertinence until my head waggled. Then she seized me by the wrist and hurried me off to the washroom. She scrubbed at my chin and hands and knees with carbolic soap. It stung horribly but I stood still and stiff, because I was a wounded soldier and would not show weakness to any enemy. Then she painted my chin with strange purple liquid from a medicine bottle. This stung even worse than the soap and I wriggled just a little.

  'Keep still, Hetty Feather,' Pigface said, but when she'd finished applying the violet medicine and replaced my blood-splattered tippet with a fresh one, she gave me a nod that was almost approving. 'Run along to join the other girls at needlework, Hetty – and watch where you're going this time!'

  She did not accompany me. I was supposed to know my own way around the building after twenty-four hours' residence. I darted off, but I was concentrating on the pain of my chin. I darted in the wrong direction, to the left instead of the right. I blundered down a long echoing corridor, turned a corner – and seemed to find the washroom all over again.

  I stared at the big white room, my hands over my sore chin, wondering how I could possibly have come full circle – when a small snivelling boy came rushing in, with ink all over his hands.