Emerald Star (Hetty Feather)

by Jacqueline Wilson

  I think I’d almost sooner he’d scolded me. He went to change out of his sodden work clothes and then sat with Mother while I struggled to set myself and the cottage to rights. I served him up a cheese omelette with the salvaged eggs, plus Mrs Maple’s muffins and yet more cake. It was a scrappy meatless meal for a man who’d been labouring hard in the rain all day, but Jem ate it with relish.

  ‘That was so good, Hetty. I’ve never tasted better,’ he said, licking his lips.

  It was as if we were back in our long-ago squirrel tree and he was pretending to eat one of my mud pies.

  ‘Is the squirrel tree still there?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course it is! We’ve been working nearby copse-cutting to make hoops – but I’d never ever let anyone chop down our squirrel tree,’ he said.

  ‘So Eliza liked to play there too?’ I said, still meanly minding that he’d shared our games with my little foster sister.

  ‘I taught her how to keep house there. She enjoyed the game very much. But she couldn’t seem to make it come real the way you did, Hetty. Sometimes when I was with you, it seemed as if we truly lived in that old tree. You had such a way of picturing it.’

  I smiled at him, thrilled.

  ‘Perhaps – perhaps you can picture things for poor Mother. It must be so wretched for her, stuck up there in that dark room all the time. When she’s a little stronger, I’ll see if I can carry her downstairs so she can sit in her chair during the day. But meanwhile, if you could tell her a story or two, it might make such a difference to her, Hetty,’ Jem said earnestly.

  I started picturing for Mother the next day. I washed the sheets and did some cooking, but in between times I sat with her and pictured for both of us. I could not imagine into the future, because I was still not sure what would happen to me, and poor Mother did not seem to have a future. Her present was severely limited, so I pictured the past, constructing Mother’s days when she was young and tireless, Father was bold and strong, and there were little children tumbling around the cottage. I could not help putting myself to the forefront of these tales, elaborating on the day when Gideon and I arrived in a basket, two foundlings for the price of one, ready to join the family for five years.

  ‘Gideon was the good little baby who seldom cried. I was the bad little babe with red hair who yelled her head off,’ I said.

  Mother tried to smile with her poor lopsided face, and started her chant again, trying to join in.

  I pictured for us day after day. When I ran out of memories, I consulted the fat memoir book I’d started keeping when I was ten. I winced at my babyish tone and blushed when I remembered showing my rambling jottings to Miss Smith, sure they were good enough to be published.

  Jem came home unexpectedly with a basket of butter and cheese from the farmer’s wife, and heard me reading aloud. He begged me to carry on, declaring my childish tale a masterpiece. I knew it was nothing of the sort. Still, the story of my life was unusual, to say the least. My former employer, Mr Buchanan, had poured scorn upon my memoir, and yet he had copied it out himself, scarcely changing my words, clearly trying to pass it off as his own work.

  Perhaps I could rewrite the weaker parts myself and try to get it published, in spite of Miss Smith’s forebodings. I was not sure how much money you made out of publishing books, but I thought Mr Charles Dickens had certainly made a fortune. I was reading David Copperfield with enormous enjoyment, but Mother’s attention wandered when I tried it out on her. She preferred my own story because she could relate to those first few chapters.

  Perhaps I would have enough money to keep house in style. Maybe we could even move to another house and live like the Maples. But meanwhile I had no money at all and no means of earning any.

  Jem gave me money to buy necessities – and when I’d stayed a whole month he gave me two shillings from his savings. ‘I’d like you to go to Gillford today. It’s market day and I want you to buy something special. I’ll ask old Molly to sit with Mother and fix for Peter to take you there on the carrier cart,’ he said.

  ‘What have I to buy?’ I said, fingering the two silver coins.

  ‘You must buy a present for yourself, Hetty!’ said Jem. ‘You’ve been so good and kind and uncomplaining. You deserve a special treat.’

  ‘Oh, Jem!’ I said, and I flung my arms around his neck. ‘You’re the one who’s good and kind and uncomplaining, not me!’

  I knew I wasn’t good, and although I tried very hard to be kind to Mother, there were times when I was so tired that I simply lost patience with her and spoke abruptly. And I was far from uncomplaining. When I saw Janet, I frequently moaned about the sheer hard work and monotony of my daily life.

  I did not feel I deserved a present, but I was excited all the same. I was up very early on market day, in time to make Jem a proper breakfast for once. It was a cold frosty morning so I made a big pot of porridge, and set a rabbit stew to cook slowly all day long, plus an onion soup for Molly and Mother.

  ‘You’re turning into a fine little housewife,’ said Jem, eating his porridge appreciatively. I’d sprinkled sugar on it, with a spoonful of cream.

  ‘No I’m not,’ I said at once, though I felt myself blushing.

  ‘In two or three years’ time you’ll be ready to be a real wife,’ Jem said softly.

  Molly came knocking early, so I could leave the cottage with Jem and walk through the village with him. I tucked my hand in his arm and skipped along beside him in my slipshod boots. Jem had carefully patched the soles for me, but he still shook his head at them.

  ‘I don’t suppose two shillings is enough for a new pair of boots,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘My clumpers are fine, Jem. You’ve mended them beautifully,’ I said.

  ‘I’m going to work so hard, Hetty. Farmer Woodrow’s been very kind, hinting that come the spring he might put me in Father’s place as head hand, even though I’m not yet twenty. That’ll mean more money – and I’ve plans to make a little more for ourselves on top. We’ll rear another pig, and I reckon there’s room for a few chickens if I build a little run for them, and bees too. Soon you’ll be going to market to sell our own eggs and honey, and we’ll have enough profit to buy you a pair of pretty shoes as well as stout boots, and we’ll find you a dressmaker and order a fine frilly dress for you into the bargain.’

  ‘You’re so sweet, Jem, but I can make my own dresses, you’ll see,’ I said.

  There was a little queue of women waiting at the crossroads for the carrier’s cart, all intent on going to market. Jem knew most of them and bade them good day.

  ‘You’ll keep an eye out for my little sister Hetty, won’t you?’ he said earnestly. ‘You’ll make sure she doesn’t get lost and knows where to wait for the cart home?’

  ‘Oh, Jem, don’t treat me like a little girl!’ I said.

  ‘Well, you are my little girl,’ he said sweetly. He’d said it several times already. It had pleased me greatly the first time he said it.

  He kissed me on both cheeks to say goodbye and then hurried off to the farm. I was glad enough of the women’s company at first because I was afraid the carrier might be the awful man from the hill – but he was a kindly, ruddy-cheeked old man who treated us all like ladies, helping us up into his cart as if it were a royal carriage, and apologizing for the squash.

  The women all knew I’d come to keep house and care for Mother, helping my brother cope. They clucked amongst themselves at my sisterly sweetness, which was very agreeable, though the tartest of the womenfolk raised her eyebrows and said, ‘I’m not so sure young Jem thinks of her like a sister. He seems mightily smitten, if you ask me.’

  The others hushed her and clucked some more, while I pretended I hadn’t heard, though my heart was beating hard.

  ‘If that’s the case, then someone’s nose will be put out of joint,’ said another woman, before she was hushed too.

  Someone? Did she mean Jem had a sweetheart? But I’d been living at the cottage for weeks now and he hadn’t
gone out courting anyone. I thought momentarily of Bertie and our days out together when I was in service at Mr Buchanan’s. Dear Bertie, he had been such fun to be with. He’d be amazed to see me now, turning into a real country girl. I wondered if he ever thought of me.

  When we got to Gillford at last, I jumped down from the cart, ran away from all the kindly mother hens and circled the fruit and vegetable and dairy stalls. I petted the rabbits and kittens and puppies in their cages, and then hovered at a stationery stall, fingering the notebooks and quill pens. There were marbled manuscript books with leather spines and corners, very similar to the beautiful red book Miss Smith had bought me, but they were much too expensive so I didn’t trouble looking at them. I opened up each threepenny notebook instead, flipping through the blank pages.

  ‘They’re all the same inside, missy. You don’t have to examine them,’ said the man at the stall, brushing my hands away as if they were flies.

  ‘I am choosing,’ I said with dignity. ‘I’m going to make a considerable purchase.’ I rattled the shillings together in my pocket to give the illusion I had enough money to buy up the entire contents of his stall.

  I touched the scarlet notebook, stroked the grass green, but settled eventually on bright blue to match my eyes. I might have reverted to Hetty back in the village, but in my heart I was still Sapphire. I still had one shilling and sixpence left. I looked around the stalls again, wanting to buy Jem and Mother a little present, and maybe Janet too, because she’d been such a kind friend to me.

  At the edge of the market I found a whole lane of material stalls with bolts of fine muslin and lawn and silk and lace. I wandered up and down this fairyland, while fine gowns danced in my head, but I knew this was a fantasy. I walked the stalls a second time, delving in and out of the remnants baskets.

  There was a piece of deep blue velvet that could make a beautiful little bodice, and a cheap sky-blue floaty muslin would make the sleeves and skirts, with a velvet trim. Oh, I saw it, down to the last hook and eye and ribbon edging. I knew such a dress would truly suit me. I ached for that dress. I could afford it too, because the velvet was only threepence and it was such a small piece. I could get away with just three yards of blue muslin at fivepence a yard. It was the one advantage of being so small. But then I would have nothing left for presents.

  ‘I can see you’re taken with the blue velvet. It’s a bargain at that price,’ said the stallholder, grinning. My dress seemed to be swirling in his head too, because he added, ‘It would go lovely with your colouring. You’d be the belle of any ball.’

  I so wanted to be the belle of the ball. I saw myself swishing my skirts, Jem’s hands circling my blue velvet waist – but common sense prevailed. Jem might be persuaded to dance a quick jig on the village green come May Day, but he’d never be taking me to any proper ball. I was Cinderella without a fairy godmother or a handsome prince.

  I put the velvet back in the remnant basket with a sigh and left the bolt of blue muslin untouched.

  I looked at plain white lawn instead. I figured it up in my head: a nightdress for Mother, a shirt for Jem, a pocket handkerchief . . . Seven yards, eight yards, at threepence a yard. I didn’t have enough.

  I’d have to content myself with four yards for Mother’s nightdress. But what about the fine shirt for Jem, with a proper collar? He only had his rough work shirts. He’d look so handsome in a crisp white shirt.

  ‘You’re clutching that bolt of lawn as if it were a dolly!’ said the stallholder. ‘How many yards do you want?’

  ‘I’d really like eight, but I can’t quite afford that many,’ I said.

  ‘Well, that’s a pity, but this ain’t a charity, dear. I’m not giving it away,’ he said, shaking his head at me.

  It was cold and draughty at the end of the stalls and he kept clapping his mittened hands over his elbows to warm himself.

  I took a deep breath. ‘You must be very chilly,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’d like to go to the market alehouse and warm yourself up with a pint.’

  ‘Well, that’s very perceptive of you, dear – but there’s not much chance of that when I’ve got a stall to run,’ he said. ‘Now, how many yards is it?’

  ‘I’ve got one and sixpence. Look, that’s all I have,’ I said, turning my purse inside out.

  ‘Then that’s six yards. Let me measure them,’ he said, taking the bolt from me.

  ‘There won’t be much left on the roll – two yards, maybe three at the most. You’ll have to sell it as a remnant, reduced price. Tell you what, if you let me have that extra couple of yards, I’ll watch your stall for you while you warm up in the alehouse.’

  The stallholder burst out laughing. ‘You’ve got a cheek! You want me to give you a whole lot extra for nothing and you’ll steal all my day’s takings into the bargain!’ he said. ‘You must think I’m simple if I’m falling for that trick. You can bat those pretty blue eyes at me as much as you like, but I’m not budging.’

  ‘You take your money with you! As if I’d steal! I’m a good Christian girl who knows her ten commandments,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, and I do too. Don’t it say you mustn’t covet your neighbour’s ox? Well, don’t you go coveting my material what you can’t afford,’ he said, nodding his head at me.

  ‘In the New Testament Jesus says “Suffer the little children to come unto me” – so couldn’t you suffer me and let me have that extra couple of yards so I can make my poor sick mother a nightgown and my dear hard-working brother a good shirt for Sundays?’ I said.

  ‘You could make them with six yards,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want to skimp. Poor Mother’s a big lady and a helpless invalid. She doesn’t want a tight nightgown riding up round her knees. And my dear brother—’

  ‘Oh, save us your dear brother! You’ve got the gift of the gab, little girl, I’ll say that.’

  ‘Then think how I’ll talk lots of customers into wanting lengths of materials for fine dresses while you’re sitting toasting your toes at the alehouse fire,’ I said.

  ‘I must be crazy – but all right, I’ll take the opportunity,’ the stallholder said, tying his takings purse around his waist. He took my one and sixpence and dropped them in the purse too.

  ‘You’ll give me the extra lengths in return?’ I said.

  ‘Well, let’s see how you do. If you’ve sold to three satisfied customers while I’m gone, then I’ll give the extra to you gladly,’ he said.

  ‘That wasn’t quite the bargain!’ I said. ‘But all right, it’s a deal, so let’s shake on it.’

  He shook my hand, still chuckling, and called to the man at the neighbouring stall to keep an eye on me. ‘Make sure she doesn’t run off with a couple of bolts of material under each arm,’ he said.

  ‘The very idea!’ I said indignantly. ‘I’m an honest God-fearing girl – and I’ll get you three customers, you just wait and see.’

  So I was left in charge of his stall, though he kept looking back at me doubtfully. Even when he went into the alehouse I saw him peeping back through the door at me.

  I decided I’d truly show him. His stall was in the worst place possible. Folk wanting material had eleven others to look at before they reached this one. Most stopped and made their purchases before they were halfway down. Women drifted by, of course, but always seemed intent on visiting the shops further on.

  I had to attract attention. I had seen the effectiveness of Mr Clarendon’s pitch.

  ‘Roll up, roll up, ladies,’ I shouted at the top of my voice, startling everyone. ‘Come and see the bargains on my stall! Look at this fine muslin all the way from India!’ I shook out a bolt and held the material up to my face. ‘There, isn’t it pretty! Look, madam – imagine wearing a beautiful dress as blue as the sky come the spring. Who’s got blue eyes among all you beautiful ladies? Just think how lovely you’d look. All the gentlemen would come running. Buy ten yards for a wide skirt to flounce and frill and I’ll throw in this netting for an unde
rskirt half price. Who’s going to snatch up this bargain and be the envy of all her friends?’

  A crowd started to gather, but they were all just staring, some of them open-mouthed. Come on, just one of you buy, and the others will follow like sheep, I thought.

  Several lads were gathering too, acting a little rowdy at the back, passing comments on me.

  ‘You, sir!’ I said, picking on the biggest and boldest. ‘I reckon you must have a pretty sweetheart. Does she have a birthday coming up? How about presenting her with a lovely length of patterned muslin? I’ll tie it up with a satin ribbon and make it look like a gift fit for a queen. Oh my, won’t she look a beauty in this blue? Won’t she love you so for giving her such a splendid present? Won’t you feel proud, walking out with her in her pretty dress?’

  The lad looked as if he might be wavering, but his mates were still joshing.

  ‘His Susie can’t sew to save her life,’ said one.

  ‘Well, of course not, if she’s a lady,’ I said quickly. ‘She’ll go to a good dressmaker, and have her frock made up in the very latest fashion.’

  ‘Yes, she’ll do just that,’ said the big lad, pulling a handful of coins out of his pocket. ‘How much will it be?’

  ‘Half a crown – and that’s a very fair price!’ I said.

  I expected him to object, so I was all set to come down gradually to two shillings, but perhaps he didn’t want to look cheap in front of his friends.

  ‘A fair price for a very fair girl,’ he said, and he pushed forward through the crowd and gave me his half-crown piece.

  I measured out his muslin while everyone clapped.

  ‘Any other gentlemen sweet enough to treat his lady?’ I asked hopefully. ‘Or if you don’t have a gentleman, why don’t you treat yourselves, ladies? You get yourself up in my fine muslins and silks on a Sunday, and then you’ll have gentlemen aplenty. Or what about decking out your little girls, all you mothers? Look at this cream silk, just longing to make your little darlings look lovely. You there with the beautiful baby, madam! Buy this length of fine silk for her and I’ll come and nurse her for you.’