'Please, oh, please buy my flowers,' I begged, but I could have been a sparrow cheeping for all the attention I attracted. Then a plain lady in charcoal grey paused nearby. She watched while Sissy and I accosted each passing gentleman. I wondered why she was lingering. Did she want a nosegay to brighten her severe outfit? I smiled in her direction.
'Would you care to buy a posy, ma'am?' I asked.
She shook her head and I drooped a little more.
'Are you a regular flower-seller, child? I do not recollect seeing you here before.' She was looking at me strangely. 'What are you doing here?'
'She's with me, missus. She's all right,' said Sissy protectively.
'She looks a little tired,' said the lady.
'I am, ma'am,' I said. 'If you buy some flowers, we will be able to buy a bite to eat. We have had no breakfast today, nor dinner.'
'Are you both very hungry?' she said. 'I have an idea. Perhaps you would like to accompany me to a nearby teashop?'
My heart jumped. A teashop! Oh, how I longed for a cup of tea and a bite to eat! But Sissy was looking dubious.
'We ain't got the wherewithal to go in no teashop,' she said.
'I will happily pay for you,' said the lady.
'Oh, Sissy, please, do say yes!' I begged.
She still seemed reluctant. 'What's the catch, eh?' she asked.
The lady smiled. 'Yes, you're right, Sissy, there is a catch. I would like to ask you a few questions.'
'What about?' Sissy looked alarmed. 'Look, missus, we bought our flowers fair and square from Covent Garden Market. I've got a regular pitch. We don't get no hassle from no one, not even the police. We're totally honest and respectable. We never go off with no gentlemen.'
'I'm sure you're right. I'm not here on any official business, I promise you. I'll be frank. I'm a writer. My books are published by the Religious Tract Society. They are stories of street children very much like you.'
'What's your name then?'
'Sarah Smith.'
Sissy looked at me. 'You read books, Hetty. Have you ever heard of her?'
The only children's writers I knew of were Mr Andersen and the two Mr Grimms. I'd had no idea that ladies could write storybooks. I looked at Sarah Smith with great interest. She was staring back at me.
'So you can read, Hetty?' she said. 'Who taught you?'
Ah. I had to be a little careful now. I could not breathe a word about the hospital or she'd act like Madame Adeline, and want to take me straight back.
'My brother Jem taught me, ma'am,' I said, truthfully enough.
'And where is he now?'
'I lost him long ago,' I said sadly.
'So what is your name, child?'
'Hetty Feather, ma'am.'
She nodded as if she approved of my name. 'Then do please come with me, Hetty. And you too, Sissy. I simply wish to ask you a few questions to use as background for a new story of mine. I'm thinking of calling it A Penny for a Posy. Do you like the title? It will be all about little flower-sellers like you.'
'Could you put us in your story, ma'am?' I asked excitedly. 'Could you use our names? Oh, I should so like to be in a real storybook.'
'I don't want my name in no storybook,' said Sissy.
She made it clear she was only accompanying me on sufferance. We made our way out to the busy thoroughfare of Regent Street. I thought we would go to a humble teashop full of working folk, but Miss Smith made for the door of a grand restaurant, all great glass windows and gilt decoration.
'We can't go in there. We'll get chased away,' said Sissy. 'It's much too grand for the likes of us.'
Certainly the waiter at the door was looking us up and down and glaring. Sissy was neat enough in her print dress, but her hair was straggly and she wore men's boots with their soles flapping. I looked even worse by now, my hair a-tangle, my brown dress dirty and crumpled, my bare feet filthy.
'We are too shabby, miss,' I said.
'Nonsense,' said Miss Smith, taking our hands. She led us into the restaurant, giving the waiter haughty directions. 'We would like a table for three, please. Could we have the menu brought straight away? My companions are very hungry.'
The waiter bowed reluctantly and ushered us to a table right in the corner. He held the chair out for Miss Smith and then hesitated. Miss Smith coughed reprovingly. The waiter sat Sissy and me down too, though he grimaced, as if he'd been asked to seat two monkeys at the zoo.
He made a particular to-do over Sissy's flower basket, trying to take it from her. Sissy hung onto it determinedly.
'I'll put these in the cloakroom for you, miss,' he said.
'No, you don't! I want them where I can see them. Anyone could help themselves in the cloakroom,' said Sissy.
'Yes, that basket will be fine at our feet, under the table. The flowers smell heavenly,' said Miss Smith.
The waiter did as he was told, though he raised his eyebrows and sighed. Sissy jutted her chin out and glared back at him, but she was biting her lip and fiddling with a lock of her lank hair. She stared at the gleaming knives and forks on the white tablecloth before us, clearly unused to copious cutlery.
The waiter handed us three large menus. Sissy stared at hers, blinking rapidly.
'What would you like?' said Miss Smith. 'You can have anything on the menu. What's your favourite food, Sissy?'
Sissy shrugged her shoulders, seeming ungracious because she simply did not know what to say. I glanced down the long list of items, utterly astonished at the choice. I'd had no idea you could select whatever you wanted in a restaurant. I would have liked to linger over my choices, picturing each dish, but I knew I had to help Sissy as tactfully as possible. The words on the menu were just elegant squiggles to her.
'If you please, I would like the steak-and-kidney pudding,' I said. 'Would you like that too, Sissy?'
Sissy nodded dumbly.
Miss Smith summoned the waiter back and ordered two meat puddings for us, and a little fish for herself. Then she poured us a glass of water each from a crystal carafe. Sissy and I drank thirstily while Miss Smith sipped. She started asking Sissy questions, perhaps trying to put her at her ease.
'How long have you been selling flowers, Sissy?'
'Since I was little.'
'And what do you do in winter, when fresh flowers are in short supply?'
'Sell oranges.'
'Is your mother a flower-seller too?'
'No, miss, she sewed stuff.'
'What sort of a seamstress was she?'
'I dunno.'
'And what about your father?'
Sissy sniffed, not bothering to reply. Miss Smith persisted gently, but Sissy's answers became more and more monosyllabic.
Then our dinners arrived and all our attention was taken by the steak-and-kidney pudding, a great soft suet mound stuffed with choice meat and oozing with gravy. There were potatoes too, and carrots and peas, a big plateful.
I waited cautiously in case Miss Smith wanted to say grace, but Sissy simply sat, stunned.
'You may begin, girls,' said Miss Smith.
I picked up my knife and fork and Sissy copied me, though she held the knife in her left hand and the fork in her right. I did not like to tell her in case I embarrassed her. She struggled with her cutlery but still managed to eat with gusto. I was surprised to see the inroads she'd made on her pudding almost immediately. Then I realized she'd transferred half of it to the napkin on her lap. I guessed she wanted to take it home for Lil. I hoped it wouldn't ooze gravy too soggily.
'Now, Hetty, it's your turn to sing for your supper,' said Miss Smith. 'Tell me about your life. How did you come to be a flower-seller? What did you do before that? Start right from the beginning.'
Sissy looked anxious, but I smiled serenely. I felt Miss Smith had been short-changed by Sissy, who hadn't provided her with any telling details for her Penny for a Posy story. I decided to do my best. I could not tell the truth of course, and relate my own story. I could picture a much more colourfu
l tale.
'I was born in the country, but my dear mother died when I was born,' I began. 'Father went to pieces and started drinking. It wasn't so bad when he came home merry, but he could get into fearsome tempers sometimes and we all trembled in our beds.'
Sissy stared at me, astonished that I was appropriating her father. I carried on determinedly, picturing for all I was worth, inventing a cruel stepmother who sent me off to work in a loathsome factory when I was only eight, and a grasping landlord who cast us out into the streets. I told of two evil women, Miss Peters and Miss Bottomly, gin-soaked old harridans, who harassed us most dreadfully. To give my story a little variety I had a magical episode when I joined a circus and performed nightly in a magnificent equestrian act.
I continued this alternative life history throughout my steak-and-kidney pudding, and talked non-stop through a plum tart and custard, and then a cup of real coffee and a little dish of chocolates.
Sissy stayed silent and open-mouthed, only fidgeting when I told Miss Smith the prices of flowers and my favourite Covent Garden supplier, because I was clearly getting a few of my facts wrong. I was not deterred, however. So long as I spoke fluently, filling in many little details, I was absolutely certain I was convincing.
Miss Smith seemed to think so anyway. She took copious notes in her black notebook.
'There!' I said eventually, feeling that I had certainly earned our splendid dinner. 'Will you put some of my story in your book, Miss Smith?'
'I am very tempted,' she said, closing her notebook and smiling at me. 'However, I think you should write your story, Hetty. You are far more inventive than I am. I rather suspect your story is pure fiction from beginning to end, but twice as interesting for that very reason.'
I blinked at her. 'What – what do you mean?' I said.
'She means she knows you're telling whopping great lies, Hetty,' said Sissy, standing up. She had her napkin of suet pudding carefully tucked under her shawl. She reached for her flower basket. 'Come on, little 'un. Time to scarper.'
'No, wait, Sissy! I haven't paid you for your time,' said Miss Smith. She fumbled in her reticule and brought out two silver half-crowns and a little card.
'This card has my name and an address on it. It is an office off The Strand where we are setting up a rescue society for young girls on the street. If you show anyone the address, they will be able to direct you there. You will always be sure of a warm welcome – and if you ever find yourself in need of new accommodation or an alternative occupation, we will do our best to help you. Now off you go, my dear. Thank you so very much for taking care of Hetty, but she is in my charge now. I will take her back to the Foundling Hospital.'
I stared at her. How did she know? I hadn't breathed a word to her about the hospital. I looked at Sissy. 'You didn't tell her, did you?'
'Of course I didn't,' said Sissy. She looked at Miss Smith. 'She can't go back there, miss. They're dreadful cruel to her there – they whip her and lock her up in attics.'
'Do they, Hetty?' said Miss Smith. 'Answer truthfully now.'
'They will quite definitely lock me up if you take me back there now!' I said.
'We will see about that,' said Miss Smith. 'Don't worry about Hetty, Sissy. I promise I will make sure she's all right. You have clearly been very kind to her and looked after her well, but I don't think she could survive on the streets without you.'
'I'll say!' said Sissy. She pocketed Miss Smith's coins, eyes gleaming at the thought of what they could buy in the way of treats for Lil.
'Take the card too, please. And do not hesitate to use it,' said Miss Smith.
'Thank you kindly, miss.' Sissy took the card and then lugged her flower basket off the floor. 'Have a posy, do. And you truly won't be too hard on Hetty? She was only romancing. She tells lovely stories – she can't seem to help it.'
She handed Miss Smith her biggest bunch of roses, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and then lumbered out of the restaurant with her basket, taking care to bump into the supercilious waiter on her way out.
I could not bear to see her go. I got up to run after her, but Miss Smith had hold of me.
'No, Hetty.'
I started crying. 'Poor Sissy truly does have a dreadful father, and they don't have enough food, and there's a little sister, Lil, but she is very ill and I think she is dying,' I wept. 'I swear I'm not picturing now, Miss Smith.'
'I know. Sissy seems a brave, resilient girl, but she certainly has a very hard life. But tell me, Hetty, do you really want that life for yourself? You know you don't belong on the streets.'
'Perhaps that's true – but I don't want to belong to the hospital,' I said. 'I still don't understand how you knew I came from there.'
'Your distinctive name has been on many people's lips since your disappearance on the trip to Hyde Park. You have even been mentioned in the newspapers,' said Miss Smith.
'Really!' I said, rather thrilled. 'But how did you know I was Hetty the foundling when you saw me selling flowers?'
'Oh, come now! The foundling uniform is very distinctive, even without your cap and tippet. And, oh dear, what happened to your boots?'
'Two horrid boys stole them.'
'There, you see, you're not safe to be on the streets. You need to be properly cared for in the hospital.'
'They don't care for me there,' I sniffed. 'You don't know what it's like, Miss Smith.'
'Yes I do. At least, I have an outsider's view. I used to visit on Sundays with my brother, Peter, though I always felt uncomfortable staring at all of you while you ate your Sunday dinners.'
I stared at her: her pale, serious face, her plain charcoal-grey dress. I remembered Harriet's beloved, the man with the tie-pin in the shape of a P . . .
'Oh, I remember you now!'
'Yes, and I remember you, the cross little red-haired girl with the big friend who fluttered her eyelashes at my foolish fop of a brother,' said Miss Smith, laughing. 'Don't look abashed, Hetty. I think you had every right to be sulky in those particular circumstances. But I am concerned that you hate the hospital so. I have recently been invited onto the board of governors because of my rescue work with children and my books for the Religious Tract society. I thought the Foundling Hospital an excellent institution in most respects. The children all seem well-nourished and healthy, their food is fresh and simple, and I'm particularly impressed that everyone receives a decent education and proper training.'
'But all the girls are trained to be servants,' I said.
'There is nothing wrong with being a skilled servant, Hetty,' said Miss Smith, shaking her head at me.
I sniffed again, lolling back in my chair. 'You wouldn't care to be a servant, Miss Smith,' I said impatiently.
'I agree I would sooner be a writer,' she said. 'But I wasn't joking when I said that you could be a writer too, Hetty Feather. You have a very vivid imagination and a gift with words. Your invented life history was immensely entertaining.'
'But you didn't believe me.'
'I think if your story was down on paper, you might write with true conviction.'
'Do you think I could really have one of my stories published in a book?'
'Not yet a while. I can't quite promise you that, Hetty. We will have to see. You will have to work hard, practising your art. Try writing for at least half an hour each day. I can promise I will keep in touch with you and do my best to help you.'
'But I have to go back to the hospital?'
'You do indeed.'
'Matron Bottomly will be so very angry with me,' I said.
'I dare say – but I will do my best to protect you.' Miss Smith gave me a most unladylike wink. 'I am a governor now, Hetty. Your Matron Bottomly has to answer to me.'
Miss Smith gave the money for our sumptuous meal to the waiter, who had been hovering for quite a while. I saw how much money it was.
'My goodness, writers must earn a great deal, Miss Smith!' I said with keen interest.
'Do not get too excited, Hetty.
Many writers earn a pittance, or cannot sell their work at all. You might well have to earn your keep as a servant while you hone your craft.'
'I shall start honing for all I am worth,' I said. 'If Ida is still talking to me, I shall beg her for a whole stack of kitchen paper and start writing my story straight away.'
'Ida?'
'She works in the kitchen and has been my dear friend ever since I arrived at the hospital. But I have not been a dear friend to her. I don't think she will like me any more now.'
'I am sure she will, Hetty, but just in case, it might be prudent to make a little purchase before we take you back to the hospital,' said Miss Smith.
She took me by the hand and let me up Regent Street and along a little arcade. She stopped outside a stationer's shop. There were wondrous marbled notebooks in the window, patterned with swirling combinations of colour, some sky-blue and purple and pearly pink; some silver and emerald and jade; some scarlet and vivid orange and gold.
'Oh!' I exclaimed, looking at them in awe. I ran my finger over the glass window, following the flow of the design. 'I know the pattern is abstract, but does that swirling shape remind you of anything?'
'It looks like feathers, Hetty,' said Miss Smith. 'How felicitous! You must select one of the notebooks – and perhaps you need a pen?'
'I have an excellent quill pen given to me by my long-lost friend, Polly. Oh, Miss Smith, might I have my very own bottle of ink?' I asked.
We went inside the stationer's and I deliberated deliciously over each and every notebook. Perhaps the purple was the prettiest, the shades of green the most pleasing to the eye – but I chose the notebook with scarlet and orange swirls picked out in gold, because it was as bright as the hair on my head.
The stationer parcelled it up in a special canvas satchel, with a bottle of black ink in its own little leather pouch for safe-keeping. Miss Smith and I had only been acquainted for a matter of hours, but I threw my arms about her and kissed her pale cheek.
She hailed a hansom cab and asked the driver to take us to the Foundling Hospital. I clutched my wondrous present and tried to feel brave – but when we drew up outside the great gates of the hospital, I was trembling.
Hetty Feather Page 24
