Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Reading Notes

  About the Author

  Also by Jacqueline Wilson

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Hetty Feather has seen her fair share of adventure, excitement – and tragedy. Following the death of her beloved mama, Hetty is alone in the world once more. She sets off on her greatest challenge yet – the search for her father.

  But Hetty fears she’ll never truly belong anywhere. Even when she is reunited with her childhood sweetheart, Jem, Hetty still longs for adventure – especially when an enchanting figure from her past makes an unexpected reappearance. Could a more exciting future lie ahead for Hetty? Could she cast aside the foundling name she has always hated, and become the brave, bold, bright EMERALD STAR?

  For Naomi

  With many thanks

  and lots of love.

  1

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU doing here, child? This is no place for a little lass like you. Come on, tell me your name.’

  I drew myself up as tall as I could, standing on tiptoe in my clumpy boots.

  ‘I’m not a child,’ I said haughtily, though I knew I was so small and slight I did not look anywhere near fourteen. ‘My name is . . .’ But then I hesitated foolishly.

  My name is Hetty Feather, but I had never felt it was my real name. It was a comical name chosen at random when Mama handed me to the matron at the Foundling Hospital when I was only a few days old. I had been christened Hetty Feather in the hospital chapel and people had been calling me that name in irritation and anger ever since. I was not a placid child and found it hard to stick to the rigid rules and regulations of the hospital. My hot temper and wild spirit made me stand out from all the other foundlings as clearly as my bright red hair.

  I was plain, the smallest and slightest in my year, and cursed with my carrot hair – but I did have bright blue eyes, my one good feature. I fancied my mama might have called me Sapphire if she’d been able to keep me. When at last I found her, I discovered she really had wondered about naming me her little Sapphire.

  I tried to call myself Sapphire Battersea when I left the hospital to go into service, proudly adopting Mama’s distinctive surname. But they laughed at me in my new position and said Sapphire wasn’t a servant’s name. I did not want to be a servant. When I was dismissed in disgrace, I ran away to Mama, only to discover the dreadful truth – that she was dying of consumption. I had to earn my living all that sad summer by the sea, when I visited her daily. I could not find any respectable work at all so I chose a disreputable job instead. I fashioned my beautiful green velvet Sunday best dress into a mermaid costume and joined Mr Clarendon’s Seaside Curiosities as a star attraction. I was Emerald the Amazing Pocket-Sized Mermaid. My new dear friend, Freda the Female Giant, called me Emerald every day.

  ‘Are you deaf or simple? What is your name?’ the innkeeper repeated.

  I did not want to call myself Hetty Feather. I did not care for the name – and the governors at the Foundling Hospital might well be trying to track me down. I longed to say that my name was Sapphire Battersea, but I had to be wary in this new strange village. This was where my dear mother had been brought up. Folk might recognize the name and run to tell my father. I wanted to seek him out myself and break my news gently.

  The innkeeper tossed his head and turned to walk away.

  ‘I am Emerald,’ I blurted out.

  The old men leaning on the sticky bar sniggered into their foaming pints.

  ‘Emerald?’ the innkeeper repeated. ‘What sort of a name is that?’

  ‘A fine distinctive name,’ I said.

  ‘What about a surname then?’

  ‘I am Emerald . . . Star,’ I announced, giving birth to my new self right that moment.

  ‘Emerald Star!’ said the innkeeper.

  This time the old men laughed openly.

  ‘She’s cracked in the head!’ he said to them, and they guffawed and drank and spat contemptuously in the sawdust at their feet.

  ‘I’ll thank you not to mock,’ I said. ‘Emerald Star is my stage name. I am very well known in the south. In fact people pay to come and see me.’

  ‘What do you do then, Emerald Star?’ the innkeeper asked, an unpleasant tone to his voice.

  ‘I perform upon the stage,’ I said.

  I wasn’t exactly lying. When I exhibited myself as Emerald the Amazing Pocket-Sized Mermaid, it was upon a sturdy plinth, so that people did not have to bend down to see me reclining there, twitching my green velvet tail on a little pile of sand.

  The word ‘stage’ made the men’s heads rock. They set down their pints and stared at me as if I were about to perform then and there. Some looked smugly disapproving.

  ‘So she’s one of they actresses,’ said one, and tutted with his two teeth.

  ‘Are you a turn at the music hall then, lass?’ asked another with interest. ‘I go regular on a Saturday night over at Brackenly. I’ve seen them all – Simon Spangles, little Dolly Daydream, Georgie and His Talking Doll, the Romulus Brothers, Lily Lark . . . Great acts, all of them. But I’ve never seen you.’

  ‘I’m not a travelling player. I perform on the London stage,’ I insisted, telling a terrible lie.

  ‘You don’t look like one of them theatricals, all painted faces and high-pitched voices,’ said the innkeeper.

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said one of the old men. ‘What sort of a costume’s that?’ He pointed to my drab grey dress. ‘You’re nothing but a little maid, spinning us all fairy stories. I don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘Believe what you want. I don’t care at all. My business is not with you.’ I turned to the innkeeper. ‘My business is with you, sir.’

  ‘She wants her pint of porter!’ said the old man, chuckling.

  ‘I simply want a bite to eat and a room for the night,’ I said. ‘I have adequate funds.’ I patted my full pocket. ‘And you advertise both on the sign outside.’

  It was the only sign I’d seen. I’d tramped the length and breadth of this bleak little Yorkshire village searching for rooms. It was a seaside of sorts, but it did not seem to have hotels and hostelries. Beautiful Bignor on the south coast had these aplenty, and every second house had lodgings. It had bathing machines along the beach, and pierrots and hokey-pokey men and all manner of amusements. This bleak village of Monksby had a small harbour and a stinking fish market and a few streets of mean dwellings. Now it was past ten o’clock, the only place with any light and life was this Fisherman’s Inn.

  I was desperately tired. I had been travelling all day, cooped up in the third-class railway carriage, my heart beating wildly at the thought of finding my father. I was not sure quite how I would manage this. I did not even know his last name. Mama had simply called him Bobbie. I had not liked to ask her all the hundreds of questions humming in my head because she found it so painful talking about her past.

  ‘Give the child a room, Tobias, and stop persecuting the poor little thing,’ said the woman behind the bar. She was big and tough, with a great crooked nose like a picture of a w