Hetty Feather Read online

  He was lying wretchedly in bed, his curls damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed with fever.

  'Hello, Saul,' I said softly. 'It's me, Hetty.'

  'I'm not sure he'll know you, child. He's very fevered,' said the nurse.

  But Saul's brown eyes were open, staring straight at me. He knew me all right. He'd heard me burble about Gideon. He knew I'd never have begged to come and visit him. I suddenly felt terrible.

  'Oh, Saul,' I said, wishing I could cry to look truly sorry. 'Oh, poor Saul, you look so ill. I've been ill too, but not as much as you. It must hurt so much. Here, let me hold your hand.'

  I tried to take it, but he pulled away from me.

  'I know you don't like me, but never mind, because I like you,' I said. I was lying now, but it seemed only right and fair. 'You are my dear brother and I wish I could comfort you. I wish Mother could come.'

  Saul's eyes filled with tears. I tried desperately hard to think what it must be like to be him.

  'I think Mother loved you best,' I whispered, bending down beside him. I started stroking his damp hair. This time he didn't try to push me away. 'Yes, you were her special baby, her little lamb, but then Gideon and I came along and she had to attend to us. You got pushed out of the way. No wonder you did not like us. But Mother still loved you best. When she took you to the hospital she was so sad. She could barely speak for days after, she just moped in a corner, missing her special boy.'

  'Hetty, Hetty, try to cheer your little brother,' said Nurse Winterson.

  But Saul was smiling a little and I knew my words were cheering him immensely. I stayed crouched by his side, whispering to him about Mother, and he stopped tossing restlessly and curled closer. His hand was near mine, and this time when I took it he clasped me back.

  His eyelids starting drooping. When they closed, I started uneasily, fearful that he might be dead – but I could hear his laboured breaths and the wheezing of his chest.

  'Come, Hetty. He is sleeping peacefully now. I must take you back,' said Nurse Winnie.

  I staggered to my feet, stumbling over something on the floor. It was Saul's crutch.

  'He'll not be needing that any more,' said the sharp- faced nurse ominously, tidying it into a cupboard.

  I burst out crying then. It was almost as if she'd taken Saul himself and stowed him in the cupboard. I cried all the way back to the girls' wing, though Nurse Winnie did her best to console me. She was sorry for me, and doubtless frightened lest any other nurse asked why I was crying so. I tried to stop, because I didn't want to get her into trouble, but I felt too sad. For all I prided myself on my picturing skills, I'd never before imagined what it was like to be Saul. I had pitied myself often enough, and fretted about dear Gideon, but I'd never cared a jot for Saul.

  I resolved to be a true sister to him if by some miracle he made a full recovery. I'd disguise myself in breeches again and slip along to the boys' wing on a regular basis. I'd make a great fuss of both my brothers. I'd wheedle sweets out of the Sunday visitors and hide them away from the thieving big girls. I'd keep every one for Saul and Gideon, and take pleasure in seeing them suck them. They'd give me sticky embraces, telling me I was their dear sister Hetty.

  But the next morning I heard the boys' nurse whispering to Nurse Winnie. I heard Saul's name – and I knew he was dead. I started crying anew.

  'Oh, Hetty, you have such sharp ears! You poor lamb, I am so sorry. Still, at least you were able to say goodbye to him,' said Nurse Winnie.

  'I can't bear it if he's really dead,' I sobbed. 'I haven't had time to make him like me!'

  'Of course he liked you, Hetty. You were a lovely sister to him. You must try not to grieve so. He will be happy now in Heaven. He will be there with our dear Sarah.'

  I tried to imagine Saul and Sarah playing together in white angel nightgowns. I did not think Saul would care for Sarah. Her nose would run and she would start wailing. He would provoke her and prod her with his crutch.

  'Nurse Winterson, will Saul be lame in Heaven?'

  'No, that is the joyous thing. God will cure him. Saul will be able to run around on two strong legs. Isn't that wonderful?'

  'Why couldn't God cure him here?' I said.

  'Oh, Hetty, you're such a child for questions, even when you're ill,' said Nurse Winterson, sighing hard.

  They let me out of the infirmary the next day. Polly greeted me with a great hug.

  'I thought you might die and then I couldn't bear it,' she said fervently.

  'I think I nearly died. Sarah did – and my brother Saul.'

  'Will you go to their funerals?' Polly asked in awe.

  I rather hoped I would go. I had never been to a funeral, but it seemed to be a very grand and sombre occasion – and anything was better than the monotony of the hospital routine. I think they must have had funerals, but I wasn't invited. We sang a special hymn in chapel on Sunday – and that was the last time their names were ever mentioned.

  14

  Christmas was coming but I didn't know whether to get excited. I asked Harriet how it was celebrated at the hospital.

  'Christmas is rather like a special Sunday,' she said, which depressed me utterly.

  I hated the long cold hours in chapel. I'd started to hate Sunday dinner too. I still simpered so that the ladies and gentlemen would give me sweets, but the big girls were wise to me now, and stole them all from me the moment I stepped outside the dining room.

  I tried looking to Harriet for protection, but she had developed a ridiculous passion for one of the younger gentlemen visitors and hung back, blushing and smiling, frequently the very last foundling out of the dining room.

  He wore a gold tie-pin in the shape of a P, so Harriet spent entire hours wondering if he was a Philip, a Peter or a Paul.

  'I think I heard his wife calling him Peregrine,' I fibbed, making up the silliest name I could think of.

  'Nonsense, Hetty! And that lady isn't his wife, she's far too old, years and years older than him. She might even be his mother, though I rather think she is his older spinster sister.'

  She was a very plain, pale, serious-seeming lady who always wore plain charcoal-grey dresses with no adornments – so perhaps Harriet was right.

  She certainly seemed convinced he was fancy-free and conducting a full-scale flirtation with her, though as far as I could see he didn't so much as glance in her direction. But she was happy to dream.

  'Will all the ladies and gentlemen gawp at us when we eat our Christmas dinner too?' I said.

  'Oh yes!' said Harriet happily. 'And they will be in the chapel for the Christmas service with the choir and the tableau vivant.'

  'What's a tableau vivant?' I asked.

  'Oh, it's very pretty, a representation of the Nativity. I hope each year that I might get picked as Mary. I would so love to play the virgin mother in all her holiness with everyone gazing – especially him.'

  I knew all about the Nativity. Every Christmas time Mother hung up a big picture of baby Jesus in the manger, with all his visitors adoring him.

  'So is this tableau vivant like a play?'

  'There are no words, Hetty, and you have to keep very still. It's like a living picture.'

  This wasn't such good news. It didn't sound as if anything happened. I longed for drama, angels proclaiming at the tops of their voices, innkeepers turning away the holy couple, wise men processing with their exotic gifts.

  'How do we know who is who if no one moves or says anything?' I said.

  'Don't be so silly! They wear special costumes. Mary has a beautiful dress of brilliant blue and a long white veil,' said Harriet, sighing wistfully. 'Imagine!'

  Oh, I could imagine. I suddenly understood. Harriet had been wearing an ugly brown dress and a ridiculous cap since she was five years old.

  'I do hope you get to be Mary,' I said. 'Or if not, perhaps I could be Mary?'

  My heart beat fast at the thought. I pictured myself in that blue dress, felt the soft bright silk on my arms, the long veil