Emerald Star (Hetty Feather)

by Jacqueline Wilson

  I felt myself flushing.

  ‘Don’t take offence, Hetty. It’s just we couldn’t help hearing you talking on and on to Mother upstairs,’ said Eliza. ‘You scarcely seemed to draw breath.’

  ‘I was telling her stories,’ I said. ‘I just felt it must be terribly sad and lonely for her stuck up there in the dark, not being able to move. What must it be like for her, with Father in his coffin right beside her?’

  ‘Don’t start that talk in front of the children!’ said Eliza. ‘Consider their feelings!’

  Her twin boys were busy playing duck ponds with their broth, floating pieces of bread on the greasy waves, making them go Quack-quack-quack, far too absorbed to pay attention to me.

  Some of the other women were nodding along with Eliza though, glancing anxiously at their children. They were so protective of their little ones – and yet no one seemed to think it odd that Martha and Saul and Gideon and little Eliza and I had been sent off to London when we were only five to be imprisoned in that dread hospital. No one had considered our feelings. I struggled to keep my temper.

  A sweet-faced young woman with a long golden plait reached across the table and patted my hand sympathetically. ‘I’m sure your mother loved your tales, Hetty,’ she said earnestly. ‘I remember Jem telling us all about your stories long ago!’

  ‘Jem talked about me?’ I said, swallowing hard.

  ‘Oh, he was so proud of his little foster sister. He told us how you pictured until he felt he could actually see your castles and wild beasts and fairy lands,’ she said, her face glowing. She was dressed like a girl but there was a womanly air about her. I struggled to remember her.

  ‘Were you at school with our Jem?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I was. He was so kind to me too, always helping me with my lessons. I’m Janet.’

  A little child in petticoats tripped as it ran past, and she caught it up and cuddled it close before it could draw breath to cry.

  ‘And is that your baby?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no! I’m not married,’ said Janet, and her pale cheeks flushed pink.

  ‘Not yet,’ said one of the other women meaningfully.

  ‘Come now,’ said Rosie, starting to gather up the empty soup bowls. ‘We’ve still so much stitching to do. Hetty, perhaps you could clean the pots for us, while we get on with our sewing?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that – but I’d like to sew too. I’m very good at it,’ I said. ‘I make all my own dresses and can follow any fashion.’

  Some of the girls tittered.

  ‘There’s no need to boast,’ said Rosie.

  I hadn’t meant to boast. I was just trying to make her proud of me and show her I could be useful. I could never seem to say the right thing in company. I hadn’t known how to get along with Katherine and Mina and all the fisher-girls, and now I seemed just as inept with my own folk here.

  Mrs Briskett and Sarah always said I didn’t know my place. I didn’t seem to have a place, even here, where I’d been brought up.

  I attended to all the pots and bowls willingly enough, though it seemed unfair that I should have to act like a servant to everyone else. Eliza then suggested I might take my turn amusing the children. It was easy enough to wriggle out of this task.

  ‘Oh no, Eliza, I might be tempted to tell them a story,’ I said. ‘You had better mind your little boys, while I take your place and sew.’

  That settled her hash. I squeezed myself into the unwieldy sewing circle. It was good I had such a little behind because there was only a tiny three-legged stool to sit on. It made me much smaller than all the others, but I struggled not to feel at a disadvantage.

  I could see we were sewing mourning for the whole family, but there was clearly not enough time or money for head-to-toe black dresses and suits. There was a black jacket to be stitched for Jem, now seemingly the head of the family, and chief mourner. Rosie was stitching one sleeve, Janet the other, while two girls fashioned a side each, and a stout woman called Norah hemmed the back. It was as if Jem himself were lying there in pieces, being lovingly handled by all these women.

  I wanted to stitch Jem’s jacket too, even if it was simply to sew on a few buttons, but there were too many workers already. I was told I could sew wide black bands onto the Sunday best jackets of the rest of the family, or fashion black velvet bows for the children.

  ‘What about Mother’s clothes?’ I asked. ‘Who is stitching them?’

  The women shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘I very much doubt Mother will be able to come to Father’s funeral. She can’t even rise from her bed yet,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Yes, I can see that, but surely we will carry her there, or take her in a cart?’ I said.

  ‘We don’t want her to have another shock,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s better off at home.’

  ‘Is that what Jem thinks?’ I said.

  ‘Well, he’s inclined to think we should get her there at all costs, but I think it’s ridiculous – and it’s Bess and Eliza and me that will have to manage her,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I’m here to manage her too,’ I said. ‘And I think we should do as Jem wishes. Shall I fashion a jacket for her? Oh, do please let me – I know I can do it.’

  ‘There’s not enough time to start from scratch, Hetty, don’t be silly.’

  ‘Then can I trim Mother’s bonnet? She will need to wear it tomorrow, and she will want to show her respect and wear black,’ I said.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, she’s not your mother,’ Eliza snapped as she tried to separate her twins. They had each seized a spare needle and were having a miniature fencing match.

  I felt as if I’d been pricked all over by those very needles.

  ‘I think it’s a very good idea to cover your mother’s bonnet in mourning black,’ said Janet gently. ‘It will be ready for her if she is able to attend tomorrow.’

  Eliza and Rosie raised their eyebrows at each other and sighed, but they fetched me the old bonnet all the same. I cradled it as tenderly as if it were Mother’s head. She had clearly not had a new bonnet for many years. The straw was limp and the material faded and threadbare. I pressed my lips together and reached for a length of black crape and a needle and thread. I was going to fashion Mother a mourning bonnet to be proud of.

  I worked on it all afternoon. I was not content with covering it in crape. I took the black silk mourning-band material and completely lined it, so it would be smooth against Mother’s head. I took the black velvet and made soft new ribbons from it. It was now finely finished, but still very plain and sombre.

  I took another length of black velvet ribbon, cut it into little strips, then fashioned it into a rose. I held it against the bonnet. It looked extremely effective, but a little lonely. I fashioned another and then a third, to be a little black velvet bunch on one side.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Hetty, what are you doing?’ Eliza snatched the bonnet and held it up. ‘Mother’s a sick old woman, not a fancy young girl. She doesn’t need all this frippery. You’re making a guy of her!’

  ‘I am not! I just wanted to make her bonnet less plain. I think I’ve done it splendidly. I’m sure Mother will think so too,’ I said defiantly.

  ‘But Hetty, it’s for a funeral. She can’t wear velvet roses to her own husband’s funeral,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I don’t see why not. Don’t you think it looks grand, like a whole new bonnet?’ I said, my voice trembling.

  ‘Well, it’s all a little pointless anyway, as it’s very unlikely that Mother will be able to go,’ said Rosie.

  I bent my head over the bonnet, cradling it on my lap. I didn’t want them to see the childish tears in my eyes. I’d tried so hard and I’d been so sure they’d be impressed by my millinery skills.

  ‘I think you made a simply beautiful job of the bonnet,’ said a soft voice.

  It was my new friend Janet. She stroked the silk of the lining and ran her finger gently round the whorl of a velvet rose. ‘It’s just like a bonnet you’d buy in an ex
pensive shop,’ she said. ‘I’d love to have such a bonnet myself.’

  I blinked hard and smiled at her. ‘Well, perhaps I can make you one,’ I said shakily. ‘In soft greys with blue roses to match your lovely eyes.’

  I was repaying her compliment, though I knew my eyes were far bluer. I liked Janet very much though. She was far more sisterly to me than my true sisters.

  Eliza set me to sewing plain armbands, a repetitive and insultingly easy task that any five-year-old could master. She was treating me like the little girl I once was, bossing me around as if I were still that harum-scarum child in short skirts. I did not retort. I stared at my needle, and each time I poked it in the material I fancied I was pricking Eliza.

  I had to keep on blinking to stop my tears. I had left my own father to come here. I had thought I was coming home – yet clearly I was not really welcome here in this cramped cottage. I had thought of my foster family with such longing. I had so wanted to help them and be a comfort to them in their hour of need, but my sisters seemed irritated and perplexed by my very presence. I was not even sure poor Mother had any idea who I was. I need not have made the long and troublesome journey. I was not wanted here.

  Just then the cottage door opened – and a tall, broad-shouldered man strode in, smelling of fresh air and honest toil. He looked around the room and then stood still, looking stunned.

  ‘Hetty – oh, my Hetty!’ he cried.

  ‘Jem!’ I said. I leaped up from my stool and flew into his arms.

  12

  JEM SWUNG ME round and round until I was breathless.

  ‘Oh, Hetty, I can’t believe it’s really you! How did you get here? I thought you were living right up on the north-east coast.’

  ‘I was – but I caught the train – three trains – and then I hitched a ride from Gillford with a horrible old man with yellow teeth from Carter’s Bray. Please hit him hard if you see him, Jem, because he wanted to kiss me!’ I blurted out.

  ‘All the old men from Carter’s Bray have yellow teeth, and I shall hit each and every one for his impertinence!’ said Jem, setting me down again.

  I winced as I put my weight on my bad leg.

  ‘Oh, Hetty, I haven’t hurt you, have I?’

  ‘No, no, I’ve just stupidly twisted my ankle. I did it days ago. I’m sure it will be better soon,’ I said.

  Jem knelt down and touched the swollen part very gently. ‘Are you sure it’s not broken?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps we should take you to a doctor . . .’

  ‘No, it’s fine, really.’

  ‘How did you twist it?’

  ‘I was jumping down from a high gate—’

  ‘Oh, you’re still the same Hetty!’

  ‘It was to get away from another horrible old man.’

  ‘They’re pursuing you all over the country!’

  ‘I think this one was my grandfather, but he did not want to own me – nor I him! But Jem, I have found my real father—Oh dear, I am so sorry!’ In my joy at meeting Jem I had entirely forgotten the solemnity of the occasion. ‘I am so sorry about your dear father, and your poor mother.’

  He nodded sadly. Suddenly his square man’s face seemed to soften and shrink, so he looked like a boy again, trying not to cry. ‘It’s such a blow, Hetty. Father still seemed so strong. And now Mother’s taken so badly too. I don’t know what we’re going to do. It’s clear she’s going to be an invalid for the rest of her life. The girls are all quarrelling over where she will live – with Bess, Rosie or Eliza. I know Mother would want to stay in her own house and I’ll do my best to keep her here, but I don’t know how she will be looked after when I am out at work.’

  ‘I do!’ I said. ‘I will look after her, Jem!’

  ‘But Hetty, you’re far too young – and you have your life with your own folk in Yorkshire now.’

  ‘You’re my own folk, Jem. You always were when I was little, and you always will be, no matter what,’ I said.

  ‘Well, we will talk it over later. Perhaps if you could just stay a week or two until I get everything sorted . . . Oh, what a weight off my mind! And how good it is to see you, looking prettier than ever too, with your big blue eyes and flaming hair.’ He held me proudly by the shoulders. ‘Isn’t it wonderful to have our Hetty back?’ he declared to the room.

  There were general murmurs of assent, but I could tell they weren’t necessarily sincere.

  ‘I’ve no idea where Hetty is to sleep, Jem,’ said Eliza. ‘We are excessively cramped as it is. I can’t see how we can possibly fit any more into the room upstairs, and all the menfolk will be squeezed down here on makeshift mattresses—’

  ‘Hetty can come and stay at my house tonight. We would love to have her,’ said Janet.

  ‘Oh, Janet, thank you!’ I said, very touched. I did not really want to sleep at her house, I wanted to be treated as part of the family in this house, but it was very kind of her all the same.

  Jem seemed to think so too, because he squeezed her shoulder and said, ‘Oh, Janet, you are such a dear friend.’

  So I had to trail through the village with this new dear friend when the sewing was finished at last. When I was little, the village had seemed large and sprawling, but now it seemed so much smaller than I’d remembered. It was just as well, for I was limping badly now.

  Janet insisted on carrying my suitcase and giving me her other arm to lean on. ‘It’s very fine leather, Hetty,’ she said, admiring my case.

  ‘It was given to me by the parlourmaid when I went into service,’ I said.

  ‘Oh my, so you’re out at work already,’ she said. ‘You look too young to be in service, Hetty.’

  ‘Well, I’m not any more. I couldn’t bear being a servant,’ I said vehemently.

  ‘I do so agree. My mother wanted me to go into service at the big manor. Her cousin is a lady’s maid there, and Mother thought I could get trained up to be one too – but I’m not really a girl for airs and graces, and I’m sure I’d never learn to arrange hair and care for fine silk and satins and style my lady,’ said Janet.

  ‘I think it’s all such a silly set of rules. Why should all these rich ladies and gentlemen be treated like little children? Why can’t they brush their own hair and dress themselves? They’re useless layabouts, the lot of them,’ I said firmly.

  ‘You’d better not talk that way in front of Mother,’ said Janet, giggling. ‘So what did you do after you left service, Hetty?’

  ‘Well, I – I worked a summer season at a seaside show,’ I said, deciding not to be too specific. ‘And the last few weeks I’ve been working as a fisher-girl up north, but that is the worst job in the world. I am sure I am going to have nightmares of cod and haddock all my life.’ I made a dead-fish face and Janet burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh, Hetty, you’re so funny. No wonder Jem’s always loved you so!’ she said.

  ‘Really? Jem loves me?’ I said.

  ‘He was always boasting about you at school – Hetty this, Hetty that, telling us stories of what you’d done. It broke his heart when you went to the Foundling Hospital.’

  ‘It broke mine too,’ I said. ‘But, oh, Janet, I am free of that place now. I found my dearest real mama but . . . but I’ve lost her now. I found my true father too, but I’m not sure he really needs me. I am needed here. I will keep house for Jem and tend poor Mother. That will prove the best work in the world.’

  Janet was looking at me a little oddly, her sweet face suddenly clouded. ‘You – you must not feel this is what you have to do, Hetty. You are so young, with your whole life ahead of you.’

  ‘But it’s what I want. Jem wants it too,’ I declared.

  ‘Well, you and Jem must decide together,’ she said. ‘I think he’d maybe want you to have some freedom and see a little bit of the world first after all those years at the Foundling Hospital.’

  ‘I have seen a bit of the world! I’ve been to London, I’ve been to Bignor on the south coast, I’ve been all the way to Monksby in Yorkshire. Where have you been, J
anet?’ I said.

  ‘I haven’t been anywhere, Hetty,’ she said, smiling wryly. ‘I’ve simply stayed in the village. I teach the little ones at the school, which I suppose seems strange, because I struggled to learn to read when I was small, and the teacher used to get impatient and whip me, which made me even slower. But Jem helped me. He taught me so kindly, turning it into a game.’

  ‘Oh, he taught me too! In just that way!’

  ‘And now that’s the way I teach the little five-year-olds. I never ever whip them and I like to think school is a happy place,’ said Janet. ‘Here we are, Hetty. This is my home.’

  It was the largest house in the village, the one set back from the street. It was a proper country home, old and graceful, with timbered walls and a tiled roof, three whole storeys high. No wonder Janet’s family had room for guests.

  There was a large barn beside the house and Janet nodded towards it. ‘Father’s in there, but we won’t disturb him now. You’ll meet him at supper.’

  I remembered playing in the hay in a big barn when I was little. I stared at this one. Was this the farm then? It seemed much too small – and yet the whole village had shrunk so maybe it was possible.

  ‘Is this the farm where Jem works, Janet?’ I asked.

  She burst out laughing. ‘No, Hetty! The farm is beyond the village, over there.’ She gestured towards the meadows. ‘But long ago, before any of the other cottages were built, this was a farmhouse, and Mother and Father like to keep it that way, plain and simple. Like me! Do come in.’

  Janet’s house was utterly unlike any others I knew. She might call it plain and simple, but it was much grander than the tumbledown cottage with its rough furniture and cramped rooms. There was a long solid oak table in the middle of the room, with elegant oak chairs arranged all around it. A big carved chest for linens stood at one side, and on the other loomed a huge dresser set with matching willow-pattern plates, enough to serve supper to the whole village. There was a proper rug with a swirly pattern on the polished wooden floorboards, two old paintings of the countryside on the walls, a big brass warming pan and a tall clock with a wooden case that ticked and tocked as if it were talking to me.