Clover Moon Read online

  ‘May I choose another doll instead?’

  ‘But they are my two finest. Perhaps they’re not quite as grand as the French beauties in Cremer’s window in Bond Street, but they’re just as good as any of the German china dolls,’ said Mr Dolly.

  ‘Yes, I know, and they’re much more beautiful than the French dolls,’ I said, though I had never been to Cremer’s – or indeed Bond Street. ‘But could I perhaps have one of your wooden dolls – quite a small one, though not the tiny ones that live in a doll’s house? Could I have . . . Anne Boleyn?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Mr Dolly, ‘if you’re really sure she’s the one you want the most.’

  ‘I’m certain sure,’ I said.

  Mr Dolly went into the back room and came out with Anne Boleyn, newly attired in a jade print dress to match her green eyes and a red cloak the colour of her glossy cheeks. He pressed her into my hands. I held her close, and one of her small wooden hands touched my wrist as if she were stroking it.

  ‘Keep safe, Clover dear,’ said Mr Dolly.

  ‘I will – of course I will. You mustn’t worry about me.’ I held Anne Boleyn in my right hand, slung my sack of provisions over my shoulder, gave Mr Dolly a quick kiss on the cheek and then walked to the door. I opened it cautiously, looking for Mildred, but there was no sign of her.

  ‘Goodbye!’ I said, and then ran off quickly.

  The sack was a little cumbersome and the ginger beer bottle banged uncomfortably against my back. I held Anne Boleyn with a stiff wrist, as if carrying a fragrant bouquet, because I knew her small wooden limbs were fragile and I didn’t want to crush her clothes. I certainly couldn’t run easily now, and after ten minutes I had to resort to an ungainly hobble.

  I looked for the hansom cab stand but couldn’t see one. I had clearly failed to follow Mr Dolly’s directions. Had he said go up the street or down? Turn left or right? It had seemed so simple at the time but now I couldn’t remember.

  I stood there dithering, starting to panic. How could I be lost in such a short space of time? I held Anne Boleyn tight and told myself to calm down. I didn’t really need a cab, did I? I could walk to the Strand easily enough. I peered down at my boots and raised each foot in turn to examine the soles. They still seemed sturdy. Yes, I would walk to Miss Smith’s establishment and save all the money in the purse for my future needs.

  I stopped the first kindly-looking woman I saw, timidly plucking at her skirts. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but could you possibly give me directions to the Strand?’ I asked, trying to speak as correctly as possible.

  She laughed at my little speech. ‘You what, love? The Strand? What, where all the theatres are? Well, I see you’re in your best bib and tucker. What show are you going to see?’

  ‘I’m not going to see a show. I’m looking for a certain lady who advises young girls,’ I said with all the dignity I could muster, because I knew she was teasing me.

  ‘Oh, bless the child! Wouldn’t you like me to give you some advice? That would be to run along home to your mother!’ The woman laughed at her own joke.

  ‘I would if I could, but sadly my mother is in her grave, and my little sister too,’ I said.

  She suddenly realized the significance of my black outfit. ‘Oh my dear, I’m so sorry. There’s me having my little carry-on, and there’s you with a breaking heart, mourning your loved ones! So, you need to go to the Strand, dear? Well, I don’t rightly know the way, because I have to admit I’ve never been there myself, only heard of it, but it’s up west, isn’t it? Stands to reason, because Hoxton’s east, right? So go that-a-ways,’ she said, pointing. ‘Make for Clerkenwell – then, when you reach . . . Bloomsbury, is it? . . . then it’s a little bit south, as far as I can make out. Yes, we’re east, so go west, and then south. Just don’t go north and you should be fine,’ she said. ‘God bless you, child. I’m sorry for the loss of your dear ones.’

  I thanked her and set off again. I walked a very long way along dreary roads that seemed to stretch out for ever, but at least I knew I was in Clerkenwell, because that was the name of the road. I certainly wasn’t up west yet because the folk in the street looked ordinary enough. I was expecting silks and satins for the ladies and top hats for the toff gents in the Strand. I was worried that I might be chased away the moment I got there, but glancing in the windows at my reflection I saw that in Mr Dolly’s outfit I looked positively genteel, and my hair shone in the sunshine.

  Despite my smart outward appearance I was feeling weary now, worn down by worries far heavier than my sack. I’d stopped looking for Mildred over my shoulder every minute, but now that fear had eased a little I kept thinking of Megs. Try as I might, I could not picture Mother under the earth, reaching out her arms and drawing Megs to her bosom. Megs would be so lonely lying there. I wondered if I should go back home after all, take my punishment from Mildred, start the daily drudgery of factory work, suffer anything at all so long as I could go to that churchyard every day and whisper reassuringly to my poor sister.

  And what about Jenny and Richie and Pete and Mary and Bert? My little Bert, who might be crying for me this very instant. What of all my friends in the alley? What about Jimmy? And what about dear Mr Dolly? How could I bear not to see him any more?

  I turned round more than once, but after a few paces turned resolutely westwards again, knowing that I had to take this new opportunity. It was surely long past lunch time now, so I stopped in a big green square, sat on a bench and munched on my cheese and plum cake. I started off thinking I would nibble a quarter of each and prudently save the rest for later, but I found I was so ravenously hungry from grief and exercise that I ate the lot, and drained my bottle of ginger beer.

  ‘My, that went down quick,’ said a gaunt-looking man with thinning grey hair. He was sitting on the other end of the bench, writing in a small notebook. I’d been so intent on my own thoughts that I’d scarcely noticed him. He was wearing a shabby jacket and the fine cord of his trousers was rubbed pale, especially at the knees, and though his boots were of good quality they were unpolished and down at heel. He spoke in a gentlemanly manner, but he looked poor. Perhaps he was hungry too. Maybe he’d been hoping that I might offer him a few crumbs of cake or a morsel of cheese.

  ‘I’m so sorry, sir, I’ve eaten everything. But perhaps you’d like to lick up the crumbs . . .’ I said, offering him the paper wrapping. My brothers and sisters always fought over the last crumbs of any meal we were sharing.

  However, the man seemed taken aback. He laughed uncertainly. ‘I’m peckish, child, but not that hungry,’ he said. His pale face coloured. ‘Did you think I was a beggar?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said hastily, though I had wondered.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, you did! No, child, I’m just a poor poet, starving in my garret – well, not literally, but pretty near. I don’t suppose you care for poetry . . .’ He didn’t look as if he expected me to say yes.

  ‘Oh, I do!’ I assured him. I was very impressed. I’d never met a poet before. Mr Dolly spoke of all the writers of his volumes in awed tones, as if they were gods. He worshipped poets most of all and told me tales about them. They lived in exotic places amongst mountains and lakes, or even abroad in Italy, though Mr Dolly’s favourite poet came from London. He knew some of his poetry by heart, and often recited a very long Ode to a Nightingale. I didn’t really understand it. There seemed to be very little about nightingales – just some man feeling sad and rather wishing he were dead. I remembered the worrying part about men having sparse grey hair and being spectre-thin. I suddenly blinked at the poet.

  ‘I’m glad you like poetry,’ he said, holding out his hand to the sparrows fluttering all around us. ‘Why don’t you give the birds a little feast of your crumbs?’

  I scattered the crumbs and they pounced on them, jostling for morsels.

  ‘You like birds, sir?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I do. There’s nothing as determined and lively as a London sparrow,’ he replied.