Emerald Star (Hetty Feather)

by Jacqueline Wilson

  There did not seem to be any maid attached to this place. No one brought me any fresh hot water, so I washed quickly in the cold suds from last night and pulled on my clothes. My dress was crumpled from the journey, the little white collar stained with smuts from the train. I looked a sorry sight to be meeting my father – if, of course, I could track him down.

  I brushed my hair vigorously and tied it up in as neat a topknot as I could manage, pinning it into place. It seemed to have a will of its own and was forever trying to shake itself loose. Already little strands were curling down and gathering about my ears.

  You have your father’s hair, Mama whispered to me.

  Perhaps it was going to be simple. I just had to take a quick turn about the village, see a red-haired man, and approach him. But then what? How was I to announce myself? Hello, dear Father, I am your long-lost daughter. I am Hetty. No, Sapphire. Emerald? Perhaps I wouldn’t need to say a word. He would just catch a glimpse of me, stop short – and then open his arms. I would go running and he would hug me close, his red head bent to mine, holding me as if he could never bear to let me go.

  I pictured it so vividly I had to wipe my eyes, overcome with emotion. Then I stepped out of my room and trod cautiously along the landing. Perhaps Tobias was snoring behind one of those closed doors? I hurried past and down the wooden staircase, carrying my clumpy boots in my hand so as not to waken him.

  It was dark and still downstairs, the blinds drawn. I breathed shallowly, disliking the rich smell of beer and the stale reek of smoke. I picked my skirts up as I wandered around. I’d seen some of the old men spitting into the sawdust and was mindful of my hem. I went into the kitchen and found it empty. I peeped into the cupboard but it was bare, like Old Mother Hubbard’s. I’d eaten the last of the bread and cheese. There was a jar of pickles, a tin of treacle, and pepper and salt – they would make a very sour breakfast. Still, at least I could make myself some tea, if I could get the ancient range working.

  I went out to the privy – an even worse experience in daylight – and then started battling with the range. It was a complicated brute of a machine, but similar to the one in Mr Buchanan’s kitchen, where I’d worked as a maid. Mrs Briskett the cook had taught me to master it – and with a little huff and puff I managed this one too. As the kettle slowly boiled, out of habit I seized a cloth and wiped down the greasy surfaces, and then took a broom and swept the floor.

  I heard footsteps outside, and then Lizzie came in, her cheeks red from the wind, a basket hanging from her arm.

  ‘My, my, you’re up early!’ She cast an eye around the room. ‘And you might have spun Tobias a tale of being a theatrical, but it seems to me you’ve had a maid’s training, judging by the state of this room. Thank you, dear. Now, let’s get you breakfast – and I’ll share some with you.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but I can’t find anything to eat in the cupboard,’ I said.

  ‘See what I’ve brought in the basket!’ said Lizzie, delving into it cheerfully. She unwrapped two strange orange fish and set them sizzling in the pan.

  ‘What are they?’ I asked.

  She stared at me in surprise. ‘Great Heavens, girl, haven’t you ever tasted kippers? My family’s smoked herrings for three generations. My, you’re in for a treat. And I’ve a freshly baked loaf, a crock of best butter, a pot of my own raspberry jam, and a jug of full-cream milk.’

  ‘You’re giving me a breakfast fit for a queen!’ I said.

  ‘Well, you look as if you need feeding up. Look at you, thin as a pin!’ said Lizzie, picking up my arm and circling my wrist with her large hand. ‘You’re not ill, are you, child?’

  ‘No, I am naturally thin,’ I said. The frying kippers were starting to smell wonderful. ‘You will see I have an excellent appetite!’

  ‘You need one. You’re light as a little feather,’ said Lizzie.

  I gave a start, but it was clear she’d hit on my name inadvertently. I made the pot of tea, Lizzie buttered the bread, and we ate our kippers.

  ‘They are delicious!’ I said, taking a huge mouthful to show Lizzie that my appetite was healthy.

  ‘Careful now! Eat cautiously, or you’ll munch on a mouthful of bones.’ She shook her head at me in fond exasperation. ‘Fancy you never trying a kipper till now. What did you have for Sunday breakfast at home?’

  ‘Mostly porridge,’ I said, truthfully enough. Then I thought of my fastidious employer Mr Buchanan, and his silver tureens of eggs and sausages and bacon. I could always count on scoffing a full plateful of his leavings. ‘But sometimes a grand fry-up, if it was available.’

  ‘Your mother never tried you with kippers even though she came from these parts?’

  I swallowed. ‘Mama and I could not always be together,’ I said delicately.

  ‘And what about your pa?’ said Lizzie, wiping up kipper juice with a crust of bread.

  I hesitated again. ‘My father was away a lot,’ I said. I took a deep breath. ‘He came from these parts too, but he went away to sea.’

  ‘Did he?’ said Lizzie. ‘My grandpa was away at sea when he was a lad, on the whaling ships. Most of our menfolk used to be whalers. My grandpa told me the stink was so bad when the ships came back you couldn’t go near the harbour – running in blood and guts and blubber, it was. Sorry, dear.’ She saw I’d stopped eating. ‘I didn’t mean to put you off your breakfast.’

  ‘Perhaps – perhaps my father was a whaler too?’ I said.

  ‘No, no, there’s no whaling nowadays, more’s the pity. There’s no steady job for any of the men round here. They fish with the tide and clutter up their houses during the day and drink themselves stupid here at the Fisherman’s and are no real use to man nor beast – especially their womenfolk.’

  ‘Do you have a husband, Lizzie?’

  ‘More’s the pity. I married him when I was a little lass not much older than yourself. Well, I was never as little as you, I was always a big strong girl even in my teens – but not strong enough. Before six months were gone he was beating me black and blue – for naught, just because he was in the mood. I should have left him then and there, but I was weak and there was already a baby on the way, so what could I do? If I ran away, folk would think I was having a child out of wedlock and shun me.’

  I swallowed. ‘I’m sure it’s not always the woman’s fault if she has a baby out of wedlock,’ I said.

  ‘I know that, dearie, but there’s the shame of it all the same,’ she said. ‘And what would I have done once the child was born? How could I get work with a babbie at my breast?’

  ‘Perhaps – perhaps you would have given the baby to a foundling hospital?’ I said, my voice wobbling.

  ‘I couldn’t have borne being separated from my firstborn,’ said Lizzie, sipping her tea and sighing. ‘I don’t see how any woman could ever give away her own child.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d have had no choice,’ I said fiercely.

  Lizzie looked at me. ‘All these perhapses! Is this what happened to you, little Missy Emerald Star?’

  I felt myself flushing as red as my hair. ‘Perhaps it did – but I know my mama loved me with all her heart and soul,’ I said, my eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Oh dear, don’t start crying now. I didn’t mean to cause offence. Come on, finish up your kipper, don’t let it go cold. Of course your mother loved you. Who am I to judge any different? And I might as well have given my Henry away, and Stewart and Andy, for all the good they do me now. They’re all rough lads, the spit of their father, and they lead me a merry dance. I wash and clean and cook and care for them all, with never a word of thanks, and then I come here to earn an honest penny and I never get thanked for that either. That’s men for you – especially Monksby men.’

  I stared at Lizzie, perplexed. I had had little experience of family life. My foster parents had not been the sort of couple for open affection, but they had seemed very cosily settled together. During those long lonely years growing up in the Foundling Hospital I had
thought all families living together were equally happy. When my dear friend Polly and I played picturing games, our favourite fantasy was playing Mothers and Fathers. We took turns being the parents and breathed life into the hospital bolsters so that they became our babies. We embellished our games with quaint dialogue: ‘How are you today, dear Mother?’ ‘I am very well, dear Father. Pray come and kiss our pretty baby’ – the very words bringing tears of longing to our eyes.

  The turbulent experiences of the past six months had done nothing to alter my expectations of family bliss. Mr and Mrs Greenwood at Bignor had treated each other with great kindness and respect and loved their three children dearly. I felt a little pang remembering, because I had longed to be part of their family too. Most of all I’d wanted to be a family with Mama. Now that she had been so cruelly taken from me I felt my only hope was to try and find my father. I had pictured a strong, loving man welcoming me with outstretched arms and cherishing me for the rest of my life.

  But now Lizzie was painting a far bleaker picture. I saw my father turning from me with harsh words, I saw him reeling drunkenly, I saw him striking me . . .

  I drooped over my kipper, unable to eat another mouthful. ‘Are all Monksby men really like that?’ I whispered.

  As if on cue, Tobias came scuffling into the kitchen in his undervest and trousers, scratching himself and yawning. ‘What’s that smell? Have you been giving this girl kippers, Lizzie?’

  ‘Yes, I have. The poor little mite would have gone hungry, left to your tender mercies,’ she said. ‘Go and stick your head under the pump, Tobias – you look a dreadful sight. I’ll stick a kipper in the pan for you.’

  ‘Who are you to order me about, Lizzie Hughes? I’m your gaffer, girl,’ said Tobias, giving her a little push as he shuffled past.

  ‘You’re free to give me notice any time you want. You know you’ll never get another woman to come and work for a surly, smelly old tyke like you,’ said Lizzie with spirit.

  Tobias swore at her but their dispute seemed reasonably amicable all the same. When he came back, marginally more kempt, Lizzie served him his kipper and he ate it with relish.

  ‘You’d better start coming in this early every day, Lizzie. I’m always partial to a cooked breakfast,’ he said, smacking his lips. Then he turned to me. ‘Right, lass. Are you staying on here or going on your way?’

  ‘I – I’m not sure,’ I said.

  ‘Well, make up your mind – no shilly-shallying,’ said Tobias.

  ‘Could I settle up now but maybe leave my suitcase here for the day? And then stay another night if – if I can’t finish my business today?’ I asked.

  ‘Very well. So that’s half a crown, little miss,’ said Tobias, holding out his hand.

  ‘It says one shilling and sixpence on your board outside,’ I said indignantly. ‘I can’t pay that much!’

  ‘You showed me a whole purseful of money last night. I’m the landlord and I can charge what I like, whatever it says on that board. Half a crown, if you please!’ said Tobias.

  ‘You can’t charge the poor girl half a crown! How can you possibly justify that?’ exclaimed Lizzie.

  ‘Simple! It’s one and six for her bed, sixpence for a very fine breakfast, and another tanner for the storage of her goods,’ said Tobias.

  ‘I provided her breakfast – and I’ll look after her suitcase,’ said Lizzie. She reached for my purse and counted out a shilling and six pennies. ‘There, you’re all paid up now,’ she said, slamming the coins down in front of Tobias.

  He swore again but seemed to accept the deal.

  Lizzie followed me upstairs. ‘Don’t let that mean old skinflint upset you, dear,’ she said. ‘So what are you going to do today? Are you seriously looking for kinfolk? What was your mama’s name again?’

  ‘Ida Battersea.’

  ‘There’s no Battersea that I know of in these parts,’ said Lizzie. ‘But I suppose you could try over in Sandfleet or Rushmore – I don’t know all the folk there. But you’ll be tramping miles if you go there. Are you sure you’re up to it?’

  I stamped my feet. ‘I have stout boots,’ I said.

  ‘And you’re clearly not used to our fresh winds,’ said Lizzie. ‘You’d better keep my shawl for the day.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly!’

  ‘Go on, tie it tight about you. You need something to keep you warm. I’ll get it back from you when you collect your case,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Why are you being so very kind to me?’ I asked, near tears.

  ‘It’s nothing, dearie. I’d happily swap a little lass like you for my great big lummoxing lads.’

  I held that thought in my head when I set out to wander the village once more. Perhaps my father still ached for his long-lost daughter.

  I had hoped there might be more to the village than I’d seen last night. I’d arrived after dark, exhausted after the long express train ride up north, and then the little local train that steamed up and down hills and set all its passengers shoogling in their seats. But no, even in daylight I could only find three or four uneven little cobbled lanes winding up and down the cliffside, with houses stuck on in clumps here and there, like barnacles.

  I looked in vain for a post office where I might enquire. There were very few shops – a butcher’s, a bakehouse, and a general provisions store. This latter was open, so I peeped inside timidly. A gaunt old woman in a bonnet sat knitting behind the counter. She gave a little start when she saw me, and her shaky hands dropped a few stitches.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am,’ I said. Surely she expected customers to walk into her shop?

  She sighed irritably, peering at her knitting. ‘You’re a stranger in these parts,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Are you visiting?’

  ‘Well . . . possibly. My mama lived here when she was a girl. Ida Battersea – did you know her?’

  ‘There’s no Battersea here,’ she said, picking up stitches.

  I decided to be bolder. ‘And – and I’m looking for a gentleman. His name is Bobbie,’ I said nervously.

  ‘Bobbie what?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure. His Christian name was Robert. Are there any Roberts in this village? He may have gone away across the sea.’

  ‘I know many a Robert. There’s Bobbie Brown and Robbie Wright and old Robert Pegley and young Bob Pemberton and Bobbie Waters and Bobbie Donkeyman. Which one are you chasing?’ she asked.

  I hesitated helplessly. ‘I’m not quite sure,’ I said.

  ‘Here’s a girl wants a man by the name of Robert, and when I give her a choice of six she’s still not satisfied,’ said the old woman, her head bent over her needles. There was no one else in the shop so presumably she was addressing her knitting.

  ‘Thank you for your help. I presume they all live locally? I – I shall do my best to seek them out,’ I said.

  ‘Well, off with you then, unless you’d care to make a purchase,’ she said.

  Lizzie’s kipper was warm in my stomach but it had left an insistently fishy taste in my mouth. If one of these Roberts was my father and he swept me up in his arms in a paternal passion, I didn’t want to breathe fish in his face.

  ‘Might I have a quarter of peppermint balls?’ I asked, fumbling in my purse.

  The old crone took for ever setting down her knitting, getting to her feet, shuffling over to the shelf of sweetie jars, prising off the lid, shaking peppermints onto the scales ounce by ounce, tipping them into a little paper bag, and spinning it up and over so the corners were fastened. She was breathing heavily by the time she held her hand out for money. I gave her a penny and she put it into a cash drawer and then sat back down, exhausted.

  She knuckled her rheumy old eyes and peered at me intently. ‘Stand over by the door,’ she said. ‘I want to take a look at you in the daylight.’

  I moved over to the door. She leaned forward on her counter, her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re a London lassie – b
ut that shawl’s knitted to a local pattern,’ she said.

  ‘Oh! Yes, it’s Lizzie’s, from the Fisherman’s Inn,’ I said.

  ‘You stole it, you brazen hussy?’

  ‘No, she lent it to me,’ I said indignantly. ‘She’s been very kind to me – unlike some people. Don’t you call me a brazen hussy, you silly old woman.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve a sharp tongue in your head and a fiery nature, judging by your hair.’ The old woman sucked her few remaining teeth. ‘Tainted colour. Mmm! I reckon it’s Bobbie Waters you’re after, missy.’

  I ran up to her. ‘Do you really think so? Do I – do I look like him at all?’ I asked eagerly, throwing caution to the wind.

  ‘I’m just a silly old woman, so how would I know?’ she said triumphantly, and bent her head over her knitting.

  ‘Where would I find him?’ I asked. ‘Which house does he live in?’

  She shrugged, stitching away.

  ‘Oh please tell me – please,’ I begged. ‘I have to see him as soon as possible!’

  She looked up at me, her eyes narrowed. ‘If you really want to see him . . .’

  ‘Yes? Yes?’

  ‘Then go through the village, as far east as you can go—’

  ‘East. Yes. And then?’

  ‘And then gaze ahead and you’ll be looking straight at him,’ she said, and started cackling with laughter.

  I plied her with further questions, but she rocked back and forth, still laughing, refusing to say another word. Then a couple of raggedy barefoot boys came scampering into her shop for two ounces of sherbet and I shut my mouth abruptly. I hadn’t realized I’d be found out so quickly, and by a half-witted old woman too. I didn’t want anyone else to work out whose red-haired child I might be before I had a chance to meet my father and tell him myself.

  When I was outside the shop I unwound Lizzie’s shawl from my chest and tied it tightly around my head instead, endeavouring to tuck in every wisp of hair. To my surprise and relief the women I saw in the narrow streets were mostly wearing their shawls tied about their heads in a similar fashion.