Someone played the harmonium and I started to cry, because I’d heard the same doleful tune at Mama’s funeral. There was always a sadness about me now because I missed her so much, but the solemn music made the sadness spread until I wanted to cast myself down on the stone floor and sob despairingly. However, I knew what Eliza would say if I did, and so I remained upright and decorous, though I couldn’t stop the tears splashing down my face.
Mother leaned against me and stabbed awkwardly at my knee with her hand. She seemed to be trying to comfort me, in spite of her own grief and affliction. I was so moved that I hugged her hard, without caring a jot whether I was making a spectacle of myself or not.
Jem flashed a ghostly smile, but he too was struggling to stay composed. He had been so strong and manly before, but now, in church, with Father in his coffin in front and Mother keening beside us, Jem seemed to be losing all his mature authority. His shoulders slumped and his chin started shaking. He closed his eyes as if desperate to keep them in place inside his lids. He was holding a piece of paper covered in his own clear round handwriting. He looked at it again and again, his hands shaking.
We had to sing the first hymn, ‘Praise My Soul the King of Heaven’. We had sung it regularly at the hospital chapel, so I was word perfect and didn’t need a hymn book. I did not have a very fine voice. It was a little shrill – but I sang loudly even so because Mother could not sing herself and Jem was so troubled that not a sound came out, though he was mouthing the words.
Then the parson read from the Bible and we said a prayer. We seemed to be rattling through the service without mishap. But then the parson paused and looked directly at Jem in the front pew. ‘Now we will have the eulogy,’ he said.
Jem clutched his piece of paper convulsively and got to his feet. He was very pale and shaking more than ever. He looked at Father’s coffin, he looked at Mother in the pew. He had to screw up his face to prevent himself from sobbing aloud.
‘Oh, Jem,’ I said, and as he brushed past I clasped his clammy hand and squeezed it hard.
Jem barely seemed aware of my touch. He groped his way to the front and stood squarely in front of the congregation, legs braced to stop them trembling. He held his piece of paper out in front of him and tried to speak, though his head was jerking hard in an effort to control his sobs.
We all waited, our hearts beating fast. Even Mother sat still as a statue, her eyes fixed on Jem.
He still said nothing, though we could see he was trying desperately – but he didn’t dare risk it. If he started talking about Father, he’d lose all self-control and start weeping like a baby in front of everyone. I might not have seen Jem for nine long years, but I knew him through and through. I’d seen him struggling not to cry as a child. I’d seen his shame when he lost the battle.
I looked around desperately, but everyone was stuck to their seats, not a soul coming to his rescue. Then I would!
I stood up, leaned Mother against Eliza, and shot out of the pew to stand beside Jem.
‘Sit down,’ I said to him imploringly, but he seemed unable to move. Then I coughed and stood as tall as I could manage, my hands clasped behind my back.
‘My name is Hetty Feather,’ I said, for it was pointless trying to be Sapphire Battersea or Emerald Star in this village where I’d spent my little girlhood. ‘Perhaps you remember me. I am so pleased and proud to be part of the Cotton family, though they are not my blood relatives. Dear Mother brought up many of us foundling babes.’
There was a little intake of breath from the congregation. People still said the very word ‘foundling’ in hushed tones, with a raise of the eyebrows, as if it were synonymous with ‘child of sin’. Well, even if I was exactly that, I would show them that I could do my Christian duty and give Father a eulogy to be proud of.
‘I have my own dear mama, but very sadly she has passed away. I have my own dear father too and have recently got to know him well. But I’ve been doubly fortunate to have two sets of parents. Though Peg and John Cotton were only my foster parents, they brought me up with the abundant love and care they gave to their own children.
‘As you know, Father worked hard upon the farm. His strength and stamina were legendary and he toiled willingly all day long, a giant among men. When he came home at the end of each long day, you would expect him to call for his supper and then demand a little well-deserved peace – but no, he spent his evenings happy to chat and play with us children. He’d sit me on his knee and play “This is the way the ladies ride”, and then he’d trot me up and down. When he got to the exciting “gallopy-gallopy-gallopy” part I’d shriek with excitement, feeling as if he and I were truly galloping across the countryside together. When I’d been a bad girl – and I’m sure the family will vouch for the fact that this was frequently – Father would take me to one side and be a little stern with me, so that I’d hang my head in shame, but he never struck any of us, though I’m sure I certainly deserved it.
‘When I was tired each night I would curl up on Father’s lap and he would tell me a story. He would gather us all around his knee and tell us tales of the lark he’d heard singing that morning, the baby foal out in the fields, the first pink blossoms on the cherry trees.
‘Father’s body is there in the coffin in front of us, but I like to think he is already in Heaven, singing along with the lark, petting that foal and walking under the flowering cherry trees.’
I stopped speaking and looked at the listening congregation a little anxiously. I expected them to be frowning and shaking their heads at my impromptu speech, but to my immense surprise and gratification they were all staring at me, rapt, with tears in their eyes. Even Eliza was dabbing away with a handkerchief, overcome. I looked at Jem. Thank goodness he was now totally composed. He put his arm round me, squeezed my shoulder tightly, and then led me back to the front pew.
No one clapped because this was a funeral in a church and of course it wouldn’t be seemly – but I could see that if we were in any other venue they’d be cheering me to the rafters.
13
THE FUNERAL FEAST back in the cottage was an absolute triumph. It seems dreadful to describe it thus. Of course we were all very sad. Father was much mourned and Mother totally pitied. Most of the mourners were in tears when Father was taken out into the graveyard and buried in the newly dug grave. All his true kin children threw specially ordered hothouse roses – from the gardener up at the manor – onto the coffin as a mark of respect.
There was no rose left over for me, so I scattered a handful of Michaelmas daisies instead. Yes, that was a time of great weeping – but within an hour we had all had a glass or two of cowslip wine and felt considerably cheered. It was the first time I’d ever tried wine. I didn’t care for the taste at all. It was much too syrupy, with a dark flavour that made me shudder – but I liked the effect it had. The tight clench in my chest eased and I felt as good and welcome as anyone under that thatched roof – more so, in fact, because folk gathered round me in little clusters and praised my eulogy, saying how much it had moved them.
‘You said it all so perfectly, Hetty. It was truly poetic,’ said dear kind Janet. ‘And you spoke out so clearly too, in front of everyone. I could never have done such a thing. Jem was clearly grateful to you, when he was so choked with emotion he couldn’t get the words out.’
Jem was recovered enough to speak up for himself now. ‘You said such splendid things, Hetty, simple yet so true, picturing it all so beautifully. I am glad now I couldn’t read out my own words. They weren’t a patch on yours, even though I had days to write down all my thoughts. You’re a little star.’
‘Oh, Jem, remember! Madame Adeline called me that the day the circus came,’ I said.
‘Because I’d bought you a gingerbread and stuck the star to your forehead,’ said Jem.
‘Oh, you do remember!’
‘I remember everything about you, Hetty. You’re my own dear sister,’ he said, so warmly.
Jem’s real sisters were
perhaps a little put out that everyone was making such a fuss of me. They whispered amongst themselves, looking at me meaningfully, but they did not say anything unkind aloud. I was careful to make myself useful, taking my turn watching over Mother, who was now resting upstairs. She was calmer, but still murmuring ‘Gi-gi-gi’ as she fell soundly asleep. When my foster sisters took their turn with Mother, I handed round the wine and food downstairs.
I’d never seen such a display of food in all my life. It would have fed every child in the Foundling Hospital for an entire month. Every woman in the village had brought several platefuls, not just dear Mrs Maple. There were rabbit pies and chicken pies, and egg and bacon lattice tarts, and little pork pies, and slices of pink ham. The sweet cakes were a picture: Mrs Maple’s Victoria sponge and elderflower cake and custard tarts, a fruit cake, a cherry cake, a jam roll, a Battenberg, apricot and apple and gooseberry pies, and a huge bowl of pink blancmange that set every child clamouring.
I ate and drank determinedly until I was truly stuffed. I felt myself flushing as pink as the blancmange. I stepped out of the stifling cottage and stood in the cold early evening air, looking up at the violet sky.
‘I shall stay here, Mama,’ I whispered. ‘I have made the right choice, haven’t I? I love Father, but I don’t belong in Monksby. I don’t believe you did either. Oh, Mama, we belonged together. Why were you so cruelly taken from me? I miss you so much. If only you were here.’
I knew Mama was in my heart, but I couldn’t hear her tonight. I tried to imagine her in her own Heaven, rephrasing my eulogy for Father, but now my much-praised words seemed cheap and hollow. Mama would never be happy listening to larks and walking under cherry blossom. She’d want to listen to me, to walk side by side with me. She would be missing me unbearably too.
I started sobbing, covering my face with my hands, leaning despairingly against the cottage wall.
‘Hetty? Oh, Hetty, are you crying?’ It was Jem, come to find me. ‘You poor little girl. You loved Father like a true daughter, didn’t you,’ he said, and he took me in his arms.
He seemed so moved I did not like to tell him I was crying for my own mama.
‘I shall miss him so too,’ Jem whispered in my ear.
We clasped each other for comfort.
‘I shall have to be the man of the home now,’ Jem said.
‘And I shall be the woman of the home,’ I declared. I meant it seriously, but Jem gave a great hiccup and then laughed.
‘Oh, Hetty, you’re such a dear funny child,’ he said, hugging me.
‘I shall show you. I shall look after you, Jem, and look after Mother, and we will all get along splendidly together,’ I promised.
I was fired up and ready to start immediately, but all three of my foster sisters and their families were spending another night at the cottage, so again I had to avail myself of the Maple hospitality.
It was a struggle walking back to their fine old house. My ankle had started aching again and I was feeling unaccountably dizzy. When I lay down on the feather mattresses in the bacon loft, the little room seemed to whirl about me, the hooks performing a circular dance. I had to clutch the sides of my bed because I feared I might fall out altogether.
I felt very ill – but oh dear, that was as nothing compared with the way I felt in the morning. It was as if my head were crammed into a hard helmet. If I even lifted it from the pillow, pain throbbed in my temples. It even hurt to open my eyes. My stomach was affected too. Just the thought of the cakes and pies I’d golloped down so eagerly yesterday made me heave. When I tried to stand up, I felt so weak I had to flop back into bed again. I knew I could not possibly eat any breakfast. I had no desire for food ever again, although I was immensely thirsty and drained the glass of water on the little bedside table.
When Janet came to fetch me, I whispered to her that I was very ill. ‘I am so sorry, but I am suffering from some terrible fever,’ I murmured. ‘Don’t come too near lest it’s contagious. I have never felt this ill in all my life, not even when I had pneumonia.’
Janet put her hand on my forehead and peered into my eyes. ‘Oh, poor Hetty, don’t worry! You aren’t truly ill,’ she said cheerfully.
‘I am, indeed I am,’ I said indignantly, and then winced at the sound of my own loud voice. ‘I feel utterly wretched.’
‘Yes, dear, I don’t doubt it, but it’s only because you drank too much cowslip wine yesterday,’ Janet said gently.
‘What? Then . . . am I drunk?’ I said in horror.
‘You were just a little bit last night. And now you will have a sore head and a dry mouth and feel very weak,’ said Janet.
‘Yes! Very sore and very dry and very weak,’ I said. ‘But oh, how terrible, to have been drunk!’
I had seen drunken men on the streets of London. I had watched poor Sissy’s father bellow and rant in a drunken rage. I had seen cocksure lads quaff their ale and then stagger into the sideshow to sneer at poor Freda, my dear female giant friend. I associated drunkenness with all that was cruel and loud and base. Oh dear Lord, had I behaved in a similar fashion? I pulled the bedclothes over my head in shame, unable to look kind Janet in the eye.
‘That’s it, sleep it off, Hetty,’ she said, patting my shoulder gently.
‘I feel so ashamed,’ I said.
‘It was an emotional day yesterday – and you probably didn’t realize how potent cowslip wine can be,’ she said.
‘I shall never ever drink another drop again,’ I vowed.
I felt I should drag myself up and make amends to the Maple family as best I could, but the smell of breakfast cooking downstairs made me feel so nauseous that I knew it was much safer to stay in my bed. I tossed and turned uneasily until lunch time, taking care to breathe shallowly. I fancied I could still smell long-ago smoked bacon in the tiny room and its odour was now immensely offensive.
Janet came up to my room at midday, with a bowl of chicken soup, a crust of bread – and a large glass of yellow liquid.
I gazed at it in alarm. ‘I cannot drink any more wine!’ I said wretchedly.
‘No, it’s not wine, Hetty. It’s Mother’s lemon cordial. It will make you feel better, I promise. Take a few sips and see,’ said Janet.
I tried, very gingerly, and after a few minutes I agreed that she was right, though I only felt minutely better. ‘How is it you don’t feel as terrible as me, Janet? I’m sure you drank the cowslip wine too,’ I said, rubbing my head and groaning.
‘I only had one glass,’ she said.
‘Oh dear! I was so thirsty I kept gulping it down. I am so stupid,’ I said, shame-faced.
‘You’re not the slightest bit stupid. You’re just a little inexperienced. You haven’t had a very normal life,’ said Janet.
‘Sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever catch up and learn to be like other girls,’ I said.
‘I think you should just be yourself,’ said Janet.
By mid afternoon I really was starting to feel quite a lot better. I got up and washed and dressed and went downstairs, hanging my head, to apologize to Mrs Maple.
I thought she would scold me but she was as sweet as her daughter, and just gently laughed at me. The Maples wanted me to stay another night under their roof, and in any other circumstances I would have loved to accept their hospitality – but I knew some of my sisters were journeying back to their own homes today.
‘I need to be at the cottage with Mother,’ I said.
‘Well, we will help you all we can, child,’ said Mrs Maple. ‘But it will be a great burden for any young girl, caring for a helpless invalid and running the household. Do you know how to cook at all?’
‘Oh yes! Well, I can’t bake the way you can, but I can make simple meals – and I’m very good at apple pie. I will make one soon and invite you round to sample it,’ I said.
I gathered my things together, and Mrs Maple made me one more poultice for my sore ankle, though it was nearly better now. I kissed her and Janet goodbye, thanked them many time
s, called farewell to Mr Maple in his workshop, and then set off down the road to the cottage.
It was strangely silent inside now. Bess and Eliza and their families were departed – only Rosie had stayed on. While I was flopping around in my bed she had washed and dried all the many dishes, packed up the makeshift spare beds, swept the cottage throughout, prepared a stew that was now bubbling in its pot, and had tended to Mother throughout.
‘Oh, Rosie, you’re like the good fairies!’ I declared. ‘I feel so terrible that I wasn’t here to help you, but I felt so poorly I couldn’t get out of bed.’
‘Well, you’ll have to get out of bed tomorrow, for I must go back to my work. Those children will be running riot without me, plaguing their poor mother to pieces.’
Rosie was a nurserymaid in a large house ten miles away, looking after four unruly children and a babe in arms.
‘I’ll be leaving them anyway next spring to get married,’ she said. ‘But I’ve been thinking I should give up my position now and care for Mother – and then she can live with us when I am married.’
‘No, Rosie! I will look after Mother. She’ll want to be here, in her own cottage. I will look after Jem too. He needs me now,’ I said stoutly.
‘Hetty, you’re still a child – and you’re not even a relative, you’re just a foundling,’ said Rosie.
‘Don’t be so horrible!’ I said, stung.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m just speaking the truth. You say you want to look after Mother, but where were you today?’
‘I told you, I was ill,’ I mumbled.
‘Yes, I know you felt ill. I’m sure we all did after the funeral feast. But we all got ourselves up and got on with it. Jem was up before dawn to start work on the farm. And what would poor Mother have done if we daughters had kept to our beds all day long? She’s as helpless as a baby, Hetty. She needs to be washed and changed and spoon-fed, don’t you realize?’
Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Page 15
