Sapphire Battersea Read online

  ‘I call it one minute to six, Mrs B,’ said Bertie.

  ‘I thought I told you half past five?’

  ‘Or six at the latest, and here we are now – six just about to chime. Punctual to the finest degree!’

  ‘Hmph!’ said Mrs Briskett, but she invited Bertie to stay for our oyster patty supper.

  Sarah only nibbled the edge of hers, and then got up from the table determinedly. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs B, but I’m that het up I can’t eat.’

  Mrs Briskett tutted at her, but let her go. ‘Take care now! Don’t get too over-excited, you know it’s not good for you,’ she said.

  Bertie and I exchanged glances, while Sarah blushed.

  ‘Where are you going, Sarah?’ Bertie asked. ‘Are you seeing that fine policeman fellow I’ve seen eyeing you up and down appreciatively?’

  Sarah snorted at him. ‘The very idea!’ she said, but she seemed too preoccupied to get properly indignant. She waved goodbye to us, tying up the drawstrings of her bag.

  ‘Don’t waste all your hard-earned money now,’ said Mrs Briskett.

  ‘Surely the gentleman is paying for you, Sarah – or by definition he ain’t a gentleman,’ said Bertie.

  ‘You mind your own business, you cocky little urchin,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m off now.’ She looked at Mrs Briskett. ‘Wish me luck, Mrs B!’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing. You’re a very foolish girl, and I don’t approve,’ said Mrs Briskett – but as Sarah went out of the back door, she called, ‘Good luck, even so!’

  ‘Come on, Mrs B, out with it! What’s Sarah’s secret? We’re all agog!’ said Bertie.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you, lad. My lips are sealed. Now, finish your patty and be off with you.’

  ‘Such excellent patties too, Mrs B. Hetty’s lucky to be able to learn from you,’ said Bertie.

  ‘I know you’re just trying to sweet-talk me, Mr Honey-tongue. Go on – scoot!’

  Bertie crammed the last of his patty in his mouth. He stood up, gave Mrs Briskett a little bow – and blew a kiss to me as he went out of the door.

  ‘I saw that!’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘I’m not sure I should let you near that boy, Hetty. I’ve no idea what he’ll get up to. No, correction: I’ve got plenty of ideas, and none of them good. Come along, help me clear the table. Then you can copy out a few receipts for me, seeing as you’ve got this famously excellent handwriting.’

  I meekly did as I was told. Mrs Briskett was all of a fidget, fussing around the kitchen, starting to turn out her larder but losing heart halfway through. She kept sighing. I wondered if she were wishing she had a Sunday outing too.

  ‘Did Mr Briskett pass away a long time ago, Mrs Briskett?’ I asked.

  ‘What? There was never any such person! I told you, it’s a courtesy title.’

  ‘Did you ever have a sweetheart, Mrs B?’

  ‘Mrs Briskett! No, I’ve never had no time for men,’ she said. ‘You can’t trust them. You’re a case in point. It’s clear some bad lad led your poor mother astray.’

  ‘Mrs Briskett, is that man in the grocer’s shop Sarah’s sweetheart?’

  Mrs Briskett rolled her eyes. ‘Of course not, Hetty. That gentleman happens to be respectably married.’

  ‘Then why is she seeing him? Where do they go?’

  Mrs Briskett tapped my nose with her finger. ‘Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies,’ she said.

  ‘The matrons always used to say that to me at the hospital,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not surprised. You’re a terrible girl for questions, Hetty Feather.’

  ‘How else am I to find out about things?’ I said.

  ‘There aren’t many answers worth knowing,’ said Mrs Briskett, sorting jars of sour pickles. Her mouth was puckered, as if she were actually sucking them. I wondered what it would be like to be Mrs Briskett, with no family at all, cooking tempting and tasty dishes for one pernickety old gentleman who rarely cleared his plate.

  ‘Do you like working here, Mrs Briskett?’

  ‘Questions, questions! You can’t seem to help it! Yes, of course I do. You can’t go much higher than this – cook-housekeeper in a lovely villa. I started off as a kitchen maid when I first went into service, but the cook was a regular harridan and scared the life out of me. Then I worked for a young couple, but the missus was too flighty and didn’t give me no direction. Then I worked in another home where the missus was the exact opposite, telling me what to do all day long. I used to hear her voice nag-nag-nagging even in my dreams. And then I came to work for the master here, and what a joy it is to have no missus whatsoever.’

  ‘But, Mrs Briskett, wouldn’t you like to be a missus one day?’

  Mrs Briskett stared at me as if I’d suggested she become an Indian Princess or an opera singer. ‘Of course not, Hetty. I hope you’re not going to turn out to be one of those girls with ideas above their station.’

  I went to bed that night, determined to keep all my ideas above my station. I wrote a long letter to Mama, telling her that I’d been to church and had a jolly boat trip with a new chum. I did not specify exactly who this new chum was. I wrote to Jem too, and I described the boat trip – but I thought it best not to mention any chum at all.

  I GOT INTO the habit of copying Mr Buchanan’s writing every day. At first it was hard work deciphering all his curlicues and squiggles, but after a few days I grew used to his style and could copy quickly and easily. I could not say his work read quickly and easily. He used such long convoluted sentences that you lost all sense of what he was saying. He spent page after page laboriously describing every little detail. His characters rarely talked to each other, and when they did, it was with the stiff erudition of elderly clergymen, even though they were children. They were quite the most tedious children too, forever quoting the Bible to each other and pointing out morals.

  I had read Miss Smith’s stories with huge enjoyment, but Mr Buchanan’s tales were so turgid that I yawned as I copied them.

  ‘Did you not get enough sleep, Hetty? That was a fearsome yawn!’ said Mr Buchanan sharply.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I – I’m just a little tired today,’ I said, pressing my lips together.

  ‘You’re making good progress with your copying. You will have the manuscript ready for the publisher by the end of the month. Now, I have to cast my mind about and find a subject for a new story …’ He paused. I realized he was expecting me to show some interest in this project.

  ‘You’re very industrious, sir,’ I said dutifully.

  ‘I have to work hard because, alas, my stories do not sell particularly well,’ he said.

  ‘Oh goodness, sir, I wonder why,’ I said – though I knew very well!

  ‘I think they are written in too fine a literary style,’ said Mr Buchanan. ‘And my characters are well-brought-up young ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps I should copy your friend Miss Smith and write about street waifs. Her stories are immensely popular.’

  ‘Miss Smith goes out into the London streets, sir, and interviews the children there,’ I said.

  ‘I dare say. And very admirable too. But you are surely not suggesting I do likewise?’

  I tried to picture Mr Buchanan picking his way fastidiously across muddy pavements, summoning street children imperiously. They’d simply jeer at him. They might even throw stones.

  ‘Perhaps not, sir,’ I said.

  ‘I believe that was how Miss Smith met you, Hetty,’ said Mr Buchanan.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Well, child, perhaps you can tell me a few tales from the past? He was looking at me hopefully, his nose twitching.

  ‘What, right this minute, sir?’

  ‘Can you not remember clearly enough?’

  ‘Oh, I can remember every single detail, sir. Besides, I wrote it all down in my memoirs.’

  ‘Ah yes. Your memoirs. Do you still have them, Hetty?’

  ‘Yes I do. I was hoping Miss Smith might help me to get them published – but when she rea