Hetty Feather

by Wilson, Jacqueline

  Jem reached up to Gideon in her arms and kissed his white cheek. Then he bent and kissed me too, on both my cheeks and then my lips.

  'Goodbye, Hetty. I love you so,' he mumbled.

  'I love you too, Jem. I love you, I love you, I love you.'

  'You won't forget me, will you, Hetty?'

  'Never ever ever ever ever ever . . .' I still chanted it as Mother tore our hands apart and bustled Gideon and me past the barrier and the ticket man, urging us towards the train. I craned my neck and saw Jem waving and waving. I sawed my own free arm wildly in the air until Mother found the third-class carriages at last and tugged us up into the train as the whistle went.

  I sat on the seat by the door, my legs sticking out. I fingered the leather strap to open the window. As we started chugging slowly out of the station, I wondered if I dared leap right out. I could jump onto the platform, rejoin Jem, and then we could run away together . . .

  Mother slapped my hands away from the strap. 'Stop that, Hetty! Do you want to fall out to your death?'

  'Yes!' I declared, deciding I did indeed want to die if I couldn't be with Jem.

  As the train gathered speed and hastened through the town and out into the countryside, I pictured myself leaping out of the window. My guardian angel would scurry down and snatch me up in his strong arms. We would fly up and up to Heaven. I would wear a snowy nightgown and build castles in the clouds and jump from star to star . . .

  'I definitely want to die,' I declared.

  'That's a dreadful thing to say, child,' said Mother, shocked. 'You can't mean it.'

  'Yes, I do. I'd like to go to Heaven right this minute.'

  'If you choose to kill yourself, you'll go straight to the Other Place, Hetty,' Mother reminded me.

  I thought about H-e-l-l. I remembered the time a hot coal fell out of the fire and glanced against my leg. It had hurt so badly I screamed and screamed – and then I'd had to stump around with a rag bandage for a week or more. I pictured burning my whole body, cooking for all eternity.

  I decided I didn't want to die just yet. I stopped fiddling with the carriage door and slumped in my seat, my chin on my chest. Gideon reached out and clutched my hand. His eyes were wide with fear now. He burrowed hard against Mother.

  'There now, my lambkin, Mother's here,' she said automatically.

  Gideon kept quiet, but he started crying, tears seeping down his cheeks. I cried too, clutching my rag baby, using her soft legs as a handkerchief when I got too damp and soggy. Mother pulled me closer, her arms round both of us now.

  The train started slowing down. I peered out of the window in agitation. Were we there already?

  Mother saw my expression. 'It's a long journey, Hetty. A couple of hours until we get to London town.'

  Gideon wailed fearfully, understanding properly now. The train stopped at a little country station and a large woman in a purple gown squeezed herself into our carriage. She smelled very sweet and her cheeks were very red. I thought she must have been running hard to catch the train, but Mother sniffed slightly and edged away from her.

  The purple lady beamed at all three of us. 'Hello, my dearies. Why the tears and long faces?' She peered at Gideon's pale face and dark-circled eyes. 'Oh dear, is he not well, the little lad?'

  'He's been poorly,' Mother said shortly. She stuck out her shoulder, trying to protect Gideon from the purple woman's glance.

  She looked at me instead. 'And what about this little mite?' she asked. 'Why are you crying so, my dearie?'

  I sniffed, not knowing what to say. 'I don't want to go to Hell,' I mumbled – though I wanted to go to the hospital even less.

  'Hetty!' Mother hissed.

  The purple women shook with laughter. We could hear her stays creaking. She threw back her head, her chins wobbling. Then she reached into her reticule for a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her streaming eyes. 'Children!' she said to Mother. 'Oh my Lord, the things they say!' She looked at me, pinching my cheek with her fat fingers. 'Cheer up, little girlie. Have you been a bad girl plaguing your mother, is that it? Here, I know what will cheer you up.' She ferreted around at the bottom of her bag and came up with a fruit drop as red as a ruby. 'Aha, what have we here? Pop it in your mouth quick!'

  'Thank you kindly, but Hetty's not allowed—' Mother started, but the drop was in my mouth before she could finish her sentence.

  'There, that worked a treat, didn't it?' said the purple woman triumphantly. 'Shall we find one for your brother now?' She discovered an emerald- green fruit drop and offered it to Gideon.

  Mother sighed. 'Oh, very well.'

  She stoppered Gideon's mouth with the sweet.

  'Say thank you, children,' said Mother.

  I thanked the purple woman and Gideon nodded his head.

  'Think nothing of it, my dears,' she said. 'How old are you, missy?' she asked me.

  'I'm five going on six, ma'am,' I said.

  'And what about you, little boy?'

  Gideon said nothing. Mother didn't seem inclined to answer for him.

  'He's five too,' I piped up.

  The purple woman seemed surprised. She peered at Gideon, she peered at me. Then she looked at Mother. 'They're never twins! They don't look a jot alike.'

  'They're not twins,' Mother said uncomfortably.

  'Oh my. But they are brother and sister?' She pulled one of my red plaits. Then she lowered her voice. 'Do they perhaps have different fathers? Neither child favours you, my dear.'

  Mother snorted down her nose. 'I don't care to discuss it. Particularly not in front of the children.' She couldn't have been plainer if she'd said Mind your own business – but the purple woman would not be put off.

  'No need to be so humpty-tumpty, missus,' she said, chuckling. 'My two kiddies have two fathers, and neither father was my husband, but we've managed just fine and dandy – and I've a real husband now to support us all.'

  She showed off the gold ring on her fat finger. She was talking in riddles as far as I was concerned, but Mother was outraged.

  'I'm a respectable married woman,' she said. 'These two dear lambs happen to be my foster children.'

  'Really, my dear? Well, there's a thing! Foster children, eh? That's a fine idea. So are their real mothers dead then?'

  'No!' I said.

  Mother usually told me off when I used that tone, but she patted my shoulder now. 'They've never known their mothers. These are children from the Foundling Hospital.' She said it with her head held high, as if it was something to be proud of.

  The purple woman certainly seemed impressed. 'The Foundling Hospital, hmm? I dare say they pay you royally then. How much do you get for their keep, if you don't mind me asking?'

  Mother clearly did mind, but she murmured, 'Eighteen pence a week.'

  'For the two of them?'

  'Per child.'

  'My Lordy, that's a fortune, especially as these two are the size of sparrows, hardly likely to eat you out of house and home.'

  'I look after my children for love, not money,' said Mother. Then her voice broke. 'And now I have to take them back to the Foundling Hospital and my heart is breaking.' She started sobbing. Her arms were still stretched round us so she couldn't hide her face. She wept openly, tears dripping down her dear big face.

  The purple women seemed taken aback. 'Don't upset yourself so, dearie. I'm sure they'll be well cared for. It's not as if you're putting them in the workhouse, now, is it? They'll do very well back at the hospital, and you can always get yourself another baby or two to keep your income steady.'

  'You don't understand,' Mother sobbed. 'I didn't understand. These children seem like mine.'

  We understood, Gideon and I. She was our mother. She'd been Martha's mother too, and Saul's.

  I threw myself against her chest, winding my arms round her neck. Gideon was fairly suffocating but did not protest. We three hugged each other hard. All thoughts of Madame Adeline rode right out of my head on that white pony. At that moment I was hugging th
e only mother I wanted.

  The purple woman was at last subdued. She stopped talking until a new woman joined our carriage at the next station. Then they set up a conversation together, their voices low so we could scarcely hear them. It seemed they were talking about us.

  We clung tightly to Mother the entire journey. At long last the train hissed and puffed into a vast echoing station with steel buttresses arching overhead, like a smoky cathedral. Doors opened and slammed, and there was a scurrying and clamour that unnerved all three of us. We stood still while people pushed us and jostled us and complained in harsh, high voices.

  'Let's go back home, Mother!' I begged.

  Mother looked at us. Her hands tightened on our shoulders. She bit her lip. For a moment I thought she was actually going to bundle us back on the train. But then she took a deep breath.

  'We can't go back home, Hetty,' she said very sadly. 'You are my dear children, but you are not allowed to stay with me. You have to go to the Foundling Hospital now.'

  She led us across the station forecourt to a public lavatory. This was such a novelty to us that in spite of our misery we marvelled at the white porcelain and brass chain and the proper paper for wiping ourselves. When we had relieved ourselves, Mother washed the train soot from our hands and faces and then fumbled in her purse. She brought out two bone lockets, each hanging on a silk ribbon.

  'These are for you,' she said, tying one round my neck.

  'Is Gideon having a necklace too, Mother?' I said, surprised.

  I picked up my locket and peered at it. There was a long number engraved on one side. I read it out with difficulty: I didn't know my numbers yet the way I knew the alphabet.

  'This is your number at the hospital, Hetty. You are foundling number 25629 and Gideon is number 25621.'

  'So are there thousands and thousands of children at the hospital, Mother?'

  'No, no, the hospital has been open a very long time. All the first foundlings have grown up and maybe had children and grandchildren of their own, and now they are in their graves. So many children,' said Mother. She bent closer to us. 'And you two – and Saul and Martha – are the best foundling children ever. Take no notice if folk spurn you or cast aspersions because your real mothers could not care for you. You hold your heads up high and let me be proud of you.'

  We stared back at her earnestly, tipping our chins up and stretching our necks. She gave us each a warm kiss on the lips and then took us by the hand.

  'Come then, my children.'

  We emerged into the loud, hissing bustle of the station. Mother led us outside, where the hansom cabs were waiting.

  'Please take us to Guilford Street,' said Mother, fingering her fat purse to show she could pay the fare.

  'The Foundling Hospital?' said the cab driver. He sucked his teeth and shook his head at us. 'Poor little mites.'

  We clambered inside his cab and peered out in awe and terror at the crowded London streets. Mother might have been a country woman, but she proudly showed us St Paul's Cathedral as we passed slowly over Waterloo Bridge. We could not believe the traffic everywhere. We were used to seeing one cart at a time in the village lanes. There seemed to be hundreds of cabs and carriages and carts and huge omnibuses crowded with city folk. Men in smart dark suits marched on foot over the bridge. I wondered if they could be some strangely garbed army, but Mother said they were simply businessmen on their way to and from work. There were ladies too, their skirts drawn up in comical bustles at the back, trit-trotting in their tiny shoes. They had to hold up their skirts and tread warily when they crossed the streets, which were covered in horse dung.

  We were country children and used to horse dung – and clearing out the pigsty – but we'd never smelled it so strongly before. The river smelled sour and strange too, with a greasy slick shining in the water. What sort of city was this where you couldn't stroll along the streets or swim in the river?

  Once we were over the bridge, the cab travelled through such a muddle of streets, some very broad and big, some narrow twisting alleyways, so that I was hopelessly muddled and confused. My heart thudded whenever I spotted any great grey building in case it was the hospital. At last the cab slowed and came to a stop outside great iron gates enclosing a plain wide building with many arched windows.

  Mother drew in her breath and clutched our hands tight. She didn't need to tell us. We were at the Foundling Hospital.

  10

  Gideon and I huddled in the cab. Mother had to pull us out.

  'Please be so good as to wait,' she said to the cabman, and approached the porter. 'If you please, sir, I'm bringing my two foster children back to the hospital,' she said.

  He nodded and let us through the forbidding gates.

  Mother walked us along the long gravel path towards the doorway. We stared up at all the windows but we couldn't see inside. There were no children peeping out at us, no children playing on the grass, no children anywhere. I strained my ears but could hear no chatter, no singing, no laughter.

  Mother rang the doorbell, and a tall woman in a dark dress and white apron opened the door. She had a white cap tied on her head and a long grim face. She did not smile.

  'Foundlings 25621 and 25629?' she said.

  'Yes, ma'am,' said Mother huskily. 'This is Gideon Smeed and Hetty Feather. They are such dear children. Hetty is very bright indeed, and Gideon is very good and loving, though he doesn't speak just at present. He needs a little extra cosseting—'

  'We treat all our foundlings in exactly the same manner. We have no favourites here,' said the nurse. 'Come along, children.'

  She held out her hands. We shrank backwards, clutching Mother.

  'Say goodbye,' the nurse said firmly.

  I was struck as dumb as Gideon. I couldn't believe it was actually happening. Not now, not so coldly and quickly.

  Mother gathered us together and kissed us, first me, then Gideon. 'Goodbye, my dear lambs. Try to be good and make me proud of you,' she whispered. 'Hetty, look after your brother.'

  She straightened up and took a step backwards. Then she turned and ran down the path, her hand over her eyes.

  'Mother!' I called.

  Before she could look back the nurse shut the door, trapping us inside the hospital. She clasped our hands determinedly. Her own hands were icy cold and startlingly smooth – we were used to Mother's big work-roughened hands.

  'I am Nurse Beaufort. Come with me,' she said, setting off at a quick march.

  We had to scurry fast to keep up with her. Gideon tripped once and she jerked his arm impatiently, hurting him. He started crying then, big tears splashing down his cheeks.

  'Don't cry so, Gideon. I am here. I will look after you,' I said desperately.

  'Ssh, child. You are not allowed to talk until outdoor playtime,' said the nurse, yanking my arm too.

  She pulled us up a long flight of stairs. There was another nurse standing there, waiting. She was dressed in an identical dark frock and white starched apron, but she was smaller and very squat. Her dress strained at the seams and her white cap seemed too small for her dark-pink face. She had little eyes, prominent nostrils and several chins, looking for all the world like a pig in a bonnet. I gave a little snort, half laughing, half crying.

  'Be quiet, child,' she snapped. She seized me by the shoulders and propelled me to the right. My head jerked round. Tall, grim Nurse Beaufort was propelling Gideon the other way.

  'Oh no, if you please, Nurse, Gideon and me, we have to stay together!' I said, struggling.

  'I am not a nurse! I am Matron Peters. Now come along, child. You cannot go with your brother. The small girls' wing is this way,' said Pigface Peters.

  'But you don't understand! He's only little. He can't manage without me.'

  'Nonsense.'

  'It is not nonsense!' I shouted, stopping in my tracks. 'I have to look after Gideon. I promised Mother.'

  'You must forget all about your foster mother now. You are a foundling child and you will obey
our rules. Our boys and girls live separately – and so will you.'

  'Then let me say goodbye to Gideon! Let me explain to him. Oh please!'

  'Stop this ridiculous fuss this instant, Hetty Feather!'

  'I won't stop! You are very cruel and wicked and I hate you!' I cried.

  I twisted my wrist out of her grasp and ran the other way, after Gideon.

  'Gideon! Oh, Gideon!' I shouted.

  He was dragging his feet and drooping, his boots barely supporting him. He looked round, his eyes wide, his mouth a great O of terror.

  Then fat pig-trotter fingers seized me by the shoulders. She hauled me along, kicking and screaming, marching me to the right, away from my poor brother.

  'How dare you behave so atrociously! You will be sorry, my girl, very sorry.'

  She pushed me into a strange cold room with small bathtubs in orderly rows.

  'Right, missy, take your clothes off instantly. You need a bath.'

  I stared at her. 'But I've had a bath. I'm clean as clean, look!'

  'Country clean,' she said scornfully. 'You need a good scrubbing to get rid of all those nasty bugs and beasties. Get those clothes off while I fill the tub.'

  I took off my coat and then sat down to start unlacing my boots. The matron crumpled my good coat up into a little ball and dropped it into a basket. I gave her one boot and she threw it on top of my coat, careless of the muddy soles. She saw my shocked expression.

  'You won't need these any more,' she said, giving the basket a contemptuous shake.

  I blinked at her. Were the foundling children required to run around naked?

  'You will wear our uniform now,' she said.

  'Can I wear my best clothes on Sundays, miss?'

  'You must call me Matron. No, you wear your white tippets and aprons on the Sabbath, with bands around your cuffs, specially snowy white. And woe betide you if you get them dirty. Now hurry up, child. Get the rest of your clothes off and step into the bath this instant.'

  While she was topping up the bath, her back turned, I took Jem's precious sixpence out of my pinafore pocket. I stuck it inside my mouth for want of a better place to hide it. The coin tasted unpleasantly metallic and felt as big as a dinner plate against my cheek, but it couldn't be helped.