Hetty Feather

by Jacqueline Wilson

  He was lying wretchedly in bed, his curls damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed with fever.

  'Hello, Saul,' I said softly. 'It's me, Hetty.'

  'I'm not sure he'll know you, child. He's very fevered,' said the nurse.

  But Saul's brown eyes were open, staring straight at me. He knew me all right. He'd heard me burble about Gideon. He knew I'd never have begged to come and visit him. I suddenly felt terrible.

  'Oh, Saul,' I said, wishing I could cry to look truly sorry. 'Oh, poor Saul, you look so ill. I've been ill too, but not as much as you. It must hurt so much. Here, let me hold your hand.'

  I tried to take it, but he pulled away from me.

  'I know you don't like me, but never mind, because I like you,' I said. I was lying now, but it seemed only right and fair. 'You are my dear brother and I wish I could comfort you. I wish Mother could come.'

  Saul's eyes filled with tears. I tried desperately hard to think what it must be like to be him.

  'I think Mother loved you best,' I whispered, bending down beside him. I started stroking his damp hair. This time he didn't try to push me away. 'Yes, you were her special baby, her little lamb, but then Gideon and I came along and she had to attend to us. You got pushed out of the way. No wonder you did not like us. But Mother still loved you best. When she took you to the hospital she was so sad. She could barely speak for days after, she just moped in a corner, missing her special boy.'

  'Hetty, Hetty, try to cheer your little brother,' said Nurse Winterson.

  But Saul was smiling a little and I knew my words were cheering him immensely. I stayed crouched by his side, whispering to him about Mother, and he stopped tossing restlessly and curled closer. His hand was near mine, and this time when I took it he clasped me back.

  His eyelids starting drooping. When they closed, I started uneasily, fearful that he might be dead – but I could hear his laboured breaths and the wheezing of his chest.

  'Come, Hetty. He is sleeping peacefully now. I must take you back,' said Nurse Winnie.

  I staggered to my feet, stumbling over something on the floor. It was Saul's crutch.

  'He'll not be needing that any more,' said the sharp- faced nurse ominously, tidying it into a cupboard.

  I burst out crying then. It was almost as if she'd taken Saul himself and stowed him in the cupboard. I cried all the way back to the girls' wing, though Nurse Winnie did her best to console me. She was sorry for me, and doubtless frightened lest any other nurse asked why I was crying so. I tried to stop, because I didn't want to get her into trouble, but I felt too sad. For all I prided myself on my picturing skills, I'd never before imagined what it was like to be Saul. I had pitied myself often enough, and fretted about dear Gideon, but I'd never cared a jot for Saul.

  I resolved to be a true sister to him if by some miracle he made a full recovery. I'd disguise myself in breeches again and slip along to the boys' wing on a regular basis. I'd make a great fuss of both my brothers. I'd wheedle sweets out of the Sunday visitors and hide them away from the thieving big girls. I'd keep every one for Saul and Gideon, and take pleasure in seeing them suck them. They'd give me sticky embraces, telling me I was their dear sister Hetty.

  But the next morning I heard the boys' nurse whispering to Nurse Winnie. I heard Saul's name – and I knew he was dead. I started crying anew.

  'Oh, Hetty, you have such sharp ears! You poor lamb, I am so sorry. Still, at least you were able to say goodbye to him,' said Nurse Winnie.

  'I can't bear it if he's really dead,' I sobbed. 'I haven't had time to make him like me!'

  'Of course he liked you, Hetty. You were a lovely sister to him. You must try not to grieve so. He will be happy now in Heaven. He will be there with our dear Sarah.'

  I tried to imagine Saul and Sarah playing together in white angel nightgowns. I did not think Saul would care for Sarah. Her nose would run and she would start wailing. He would provoke her and prod her with his crutch.

  'Nurse Winterson, will Saul be lame in Heaven?'

  'No, that is the joyous thing. God will cure him. Saul will be able to run around on two strong legs. Isn't that wonderful?'

  'Why couldn't God cure him here?' I said.

  'Oh, Hetty, you're such a child for questions, even when you're ill,' said Nurse Winterson, sighing hard.

  They let me out of the infirmary the next day. Polly greeted me with a great hug.

  'I thought you might die and then I couldn't bear it,' she said fervently.

  'I think I nearly died. Sarah did – and my brother Saul.'

  'Will you go to their funerals?' Polly asked in awe.

  I rather hoped I would go. I had never been to a funeral, but it seemed to be a very grand and sombre occasion – and anything was better than the monotony of the hospital routine. I think they must have had funerals, but I wasn't invited. We sang a special hymn in chapel on Sunday – and that was the last time their names were ever mentioned.

  14

  Christmas was coming but I didn't know whether to get excited. I asked Harriet how it was celebrated at the hospital.

  'Christmas is rather like a special Sunday,' she said, which depressed me utterly.

  I hated the long cold hours in chapel. I'd started to hate Sunday dinner too. I still simpered so that the ladies and gentlemen would give me sweets, but the big girls were wise to me now, and stole them all from me the moment I stepped outside the dining room.

  I tried looking to Harriet for protection, but she had developed a ridiculous passion for one of the younger gentlemen visitors and hung back, blushing and smiling, frequently the very last foundling out of the dining room.

  He wore a gold tie-pin in the shape of a P, so Harriet spent entire hours wondering if he was a Philip, a Peter or a Paul.

  'I think I heard his wife calling him Peregrine,' I fibbed, making up the silliest name I could think of.

  'Nonsense, Hetty! And that lady isn't his wife, she's far too old, years and years older than him. She might even be his mother, though I rather think she is his older spinster sister.'

  She was a very plain, pale, serious-seeming lady who always wore plain charcoal-grey dresses with no adornments – so perhaps Harriet was right.

  She certainly seemed convinced he was fancy-free and conducting a full-scale flirtation with her, though as far as I could see he didn't so much as glance in her direction. But she was happy to dream.

  'Will all the ladies and gentlemen gawp at us when we eat our Christmas dinner too?' I said.

  'Oh yes!' said Harriet happily. 'And they will be in the chapel for the Christmas service with the choir and the tableau vivant.'

  'What's a tableau vivant?' I asked.

  'Oh, it's very pretty, a representation of the Nativity. I hope each year that I might get picked as Mary. I would so love to play the virgin mother in all her holiness with everyone gazing – especially him.'

  I knew all about the Nativity. Every Christmas time Mother hung up a big picture of baby Jesus in the manger, with all his visitors adoring him.

  'So is this tableau vivant like a play?'

  'There are no words, Hetty, and you have to keep very still. It's like a living picture.'

  This wasn't such good news. It didn't sound as if anything happened. I longed for drama, angels proclaiming at the tops of their voices, innkeepers turning away the holy couple, wise men processing with their exotic gifts.

  'How do we know who is who if no one moves or says anything?' I said.

  'Don't be so silly! They wear special costumes. Mary has a beautiful dress of brilliant blue and a long white veil,' said Harriet, sighing wistfully. 'Imagine!'

  Oh, I could imagine. I suddenly understood. Harriet had been wearing an ugly brown dress and a ridiculous cap since she was five years old.

  'I do hope you get to be Mary,' I said. 'Or if not, perhaps I could be Mary?'

  My heart beat fast at the thought. I pictured myself in that blue dress, felt the soft bright silk on my arms, the long veil
brushing past my shoulders.

  'Oh, Hetty!' said Harriet, and I saw she was trying not to laugh. 'You are much too little. And you have red hair.'

  I was rather put out by this. Harriet was meant to be my friend.

  'I could stand on a box. And my hair wouldn't show much underneath my veil,' I said, a little sulkily. However, I had another idea. 'Or as I am really little, perhaps I could be baby Jesus? I could crouch inside a box, and be like baby Jesus in the manger.'

  This time Harriet couldn't help laughing heartily. 'You are so comical, Hetty! You couldn't possibly pass as Jesus! No, they have a real baby, one of the new foundling babes from the nurseries. Last year it cried so loudly that it almost drowned out the singing of the choir.'

  'I could do that. I am very good at crying,' I said. 'Who chooses the children for the tableau vivant?'

  'I'm not sure,' said Harriet. 'Perhaps the matrons and the nurses?'

  I had no chance at all if Matron Pigface Peters had any say. But dear Nurse Winnie would surely put in a good word for me.

  'Or maybe it's the teachers,' said Harriet.

  Aha! Miss Newman was too strict a teacher to have obvious favourites, but we all knew she favoured Polly and me because we were the cleverest. Perhaps she would pick both of us? I thought hard about costumes. I did not wish to be a shepherd or a guest at the inn. Their costumes would be very commonplace. But the wise men would surely wear fine gowns of velvet and brocade – and if they were kings, they should have golden crowns on their heads!

  'Oh, Harriet, we could be the three wise men!' I said. 'You could be the big one and you could be first to bow down to baby Jesus and give him a big present. And then Polly could be the middle-sized wise man and give a middle-sized present. Then I could come last and be a teeny tiny wise man with a very teeny tiny present.'

  Harriet laughed so hard that tears rolled down her cheeks. 'It's not Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Hetty! You are so funny! And besides, we are girls, so we only play the lady parts. The boys always play the wise men.'

  'But that isn't fair!' I reckoned it up, counting on my fingers. 'There are heaps and heaps of men parts. There are only two lady parts, Mary and the innkeeper's wife. Unless – is an angel a man or a lady?'

  Harriet did not look sure. 'I think an angel can be either,' she said.

  'Then I could be an angel and wear a long white nightgown. Oh, and I could have wings, great feathery wings. Do you think I could have wings that really fly?'

  'Pigs might fly before they let you be an angel, Hetty,' said Harriet. 'Everyone says how fierce and bad you are. And you fidget so. You could never be part of a tableau vivant where you have to stand still as still throughout the entire service. Now stop plaguing me about the tableau vivant. Tell me, did you happen to notice the exquisite cravat my gentleman was wearing this morning?'

  But I was in a sulk and did not want to discuss Philip-Peter-Paul-Peregrine. I didn't care if he was choked by his own exquisite cravat. I just wanted to be in the tableau vivant.

  I told Polly all about it that night.

  'We could both be angels, Polly. Well, perhaps not the big special angel who tells the wise men about Jesus.'

  'Gabriel,' said Polly.

  'Yes, that one. But there are lots of other angels – the hymn says, A host of heavenly angels, and I'm sure a host means a great deal. So we could be small angels, baby ones—'

  'Cherubs,' said Polly.

  'Yes, cherubs!' I thought back to the Nativity picture at home. 'There were definitely cherubs at the Nativity. They were up at the corners, flying above the stable, but they didn't have any clothes on, just little wisps.'

  'We would have to wear clothes, Hetty,' Polly said firmly.

  But we weren't chosen to be angels, wisps or no wisps. Monica was picked to be a small angel. We were astonished. She was such a thin, colourless girl with very little personality. She just echoed everything Sheila said. Sheila seemed equally taken aback, convinced that she would make a far superior angel. She started to tease and torment Monica – but Monica didn't retaliate. She had become irritatingly holy since being chosen.

  'You're making Jesus very unhappy calling me silly names and pinching me, Sheila,' she declared. 'I shan't play with you any more until you say sorry.'

  'I'm not a bit sorry,' said Sheila, marching off. 'I'd far sooner play by myself.'

  She stood stamping her feet and glowering in a corner of the playground while Monica smiled in a maddening saintly way and struck angelic poses. I walked arm in arm with Polly past Sheila and felt almost sorry for her. A truly kind child would have invited Sheila to walk with us – but I am afraid I am only kind when I want to be.

  I definitely tried to be kind to my real friends. I decided I wanted to give a Christmas present to Polly, to Harriet, to Nurse Winterson, and to Ida. I did not have any money apart from Jem's precious sixpence, safely hidden inside the knob of my bedhead. I did not have an opportunity to go shopping in any case. I had not been outside the grounds of the hospital since arriving.

  This meant I had to make my presents. I certainly wasn't a competent needlewoman. Besides, I had no materials. But I was an opportunistic thief. I was sent in disgrace to Matron Peters's room for cheeking one of the nurses. While standing there being seriously scolded, I saw she had a Chinese bowl of dried lavender and rose petals on her little table. This gave me a wonderful idea. I edged nearer and nearer the bowl, my hands behind my back.

  When Matron Pigface consulted her punishment book to check just how many times I had been in trouble, I grabbed a big handful of dried flowers and stuffed them up my sleeve.

  I worried a little when I said my prayers at night, in case thieves went straight to Hell, so I told God I was very sorry. But it didn't stop me snatching a torn apron from the mending basket the next day, and hanging onto my needle and thread instead of handing them in to Nurse Winterson after our darning session.

  I made four little lavender sachets with my stolen snippets. I tried to fashion them into hearts, but they were woefully lumpy and lopsided. I wanted to sew long loving messages on each, but I didn't have the skill or the time, so I simply stitched each name. Ida was mercifully short, and Polly was simple enough. I had to write Harriet in very tiny stitches, but even so her name had to wind round the edge of her heart. I could not possibly attempt Nurse Winterson in its entirety, and I was fast running out of time, so she had to make do with a hastily stitched NW. She seemed delighted all the same, and kissed me on the cheek. Harriet kissed me too, and gave me her own presents. She had fashioned me a very little dolly out of scraps of wool. She was too small to cuddle close so was no real substitute for my rag baby, but I was still very grateful and gave Harriet many kisses back.

  Polly had a present for me too – a pen! She had found a jay's feather in the playground and fashioned the end into a proper quill.

  'I can't quite figure how to get any ink,' she said, a little anxiously. 'It would spill if I tried to smuggle some from the classroom inkwells.'

  'Never mind, Polly. I can write secret stories in invisible ink, or perhaps I could prick my finger and write in blood, though it would have to be a very short story. But I love my quill pen.'

  'And I love my scented heart,' said Polly, and we gave each other a fierce hug.

  Ida gave me a present too. I was rather hoping for one, but I thought it would be some delicious titbit, maybe another slab of toffee or a little iced cake.

  'Here, Hetty,' she whispered at Christmas Eve supper. 'Don't open it until tomorrow morning, now!' She dropped a little square parcel in my lap.

  Definitely a cake, I thought, my mouth watering. I hoped it would have extra-thick icing, and maybe yellow marzipan too, and a surplus of cherries. I was in such a greedy daze of anticipation I almost forgot I had a present to give to Ida too. I fumbled up my sleeve where I had hidden it.

  'Are you looking for a handkerchief, Hetty?'

  'No, no. Where's it gone?' I said, wriggling and scrabbling.


  Ida's present had gone right up my sleeve and down inside my dress. I tapped my front. There it was, a little lump above my own real heart. I edged it up towards the neck of my dress.

  'Is it moving? Oh dear Lord, have you got a mouse down your dress?' Ida squealed, backing away from me.

  'No, silly Ida! It's your present.'

  'You have a Christmas present for me?' said Ida.

  'Yes. Ssh!' I said, peering round to make sure we weren't being observed. I scrabbled down my dress. 'I haven't got any fancy paper to wrap it with, so you will see what it is right this instant. Perhaps you can wrap it up yourself and try to forget what it is, and then when you open it on Christmas day it will come as a splendid surprise. Ah!'

  I fished the lavender heart right out into the open. It had got squashed out of shape during its journey up and down my frock and my stitches seemed very big and uneven. I offered it shyly, hoping Ida wouldn't laugh at my efforts.

  Ida didn't laugh; she cried. She stared at the crumpled heart in her hand and tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks.

  'Oh, Ida, don't cry. I'm sorry it's such a small and shabby present. I will try harder next year,' I said earnestly.

  'It's a wonderful present – so kind of you, Hetty – oh, bless you, child,' Ida mumbled, and then hurried away to the kitchen, forgetting her serving tray in her haste.

  Sheila glared at me. 'What have you done to make Ida cry, Hetty Feather?'

  'I have made her happy,' I said stoutly, though I wasn't quite sure if this was true.

  I couldn't wait till Christmas morning to open my present from Ida. I got up in the middle of the night, clutching my precious small parcel. I tiptoed the length of the dormitory to the washroom. I knew where the nurses kept a candle and matches, in case a child was taken poorly in the night. I took the candle into a corner and lit it with a match. Then I sat down cross-legged and opened my parcel.

  It wasn't cake. It wasn't anything to eat at all. It was a tiny book, bound in red, with gilt lettering: The Story of Thumbelina. I opened it up with trembling fingers. The story was about a very, very small girl called Thumbelina, and there were coloured illustrations! I saw Thumbelina with pink cheeks and very yellow hair, tucked up neatly in a brown walnut-shell bed. I stroked her hair and patted her tiny quilt and then read the first few pages, though I had to squint in the candlelight and it was fearfully cold in the dank washroom.