Sapphire Battersea Read online

  ‘What do you mean, we’re not going anywhere?’ I said, my voice cracking because my throat was so tight.

  Bertie looked down at his boots. ‘I haven’t got any money, Hetty,’ he mumbled, pulling out his empty pockets to show me. ‘I had such plans. I was aiming to take you up to London today.’

  ‘Yes, to show me the historic buildings.’

  ‘No – to show you the Western Gardens up at Earl’s Court. Folk say it’s wonderful there, even better than the fair. There’s a band, and it’s all decked out in fairy lights, ever so pretty. I knew I’d need quite a lot of cash for two train fares and all the amusements, so I volunteered for more gardening jobs. I started a nice little sideline with my meat customers. If I saw their garden looked a tad untidy, I’d ask if they needed anyone to mow their lawn. It all seemed to be working out excellently …’ His voice tailed away.

  ‘But then?’ I said.

  ‘The parlourmaid from Whiteacres, a big house over in Berryland – she said her mistress was fretting. Her gardener’s hurt his back and the weeds were getting on her nerves – so I says, like an idiot, “Well, I’ll do your weeding, ma’am.” ’

  ‘You’re many things, Bertie, but you’re not an idiot.’

  ‘Wait till you hear me out, Hetty. So after work yesterday I go round to Whiteacres, and I reckoned I had a good hour before the light started to fade, so I kneel down and set to weeding. I worked real hard, pulling and pulling – and then gathers them all up neatly and puts them in a sack, leaving everything spick and span, thinking the mistress might give me an extra tip for tidiness. Then the parlourmaid comes out, looks at my nice tidy bare bed and starts shrieking her head off. It turns out I’d uprooted all her prize shrubs along with the wretched weeds. I thought everything green had to be a weed. I didn’t realize they were waiting to flower later. Only now they’re not. They’re all dead, in the sack. And to stop her missus telling tales to Jarvis the butcher and then him giving me the sack, I’ve had to hand over all my savings towards new plants – and I have to pay her a shilling a week till she reckons I’ve paid for the lot. You’re not laughing, are you, Hetty?’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ I said, spluttering. ‘Oh, poor Bertie. You were trying so hard too. But you have to admit, it’s just a little bit funny.’

  ‘It’s not funny in the slightest, because I can’t take you out now, on account of the fact I ain’t got no spare cash – and I won’t have for weeks and weeks according to that mean old maid.’

  ‘We can still walk out together, silly.’

  ‘But that’s all we can do, walk. I haven’t got the cash for a rowing boat, or even a hokey-pokey – don’t you understand?’

  ‘Of course I do. But we can still walk – and talk. And next week I’ll bake us a pie and we’ll have a little picnic – how about that?’

  ‘Oh, Hetty! I thought you’d be cross with me and want to go out walking with some other lad with a pocketful of cash who’d treat you properly,’ said Bertie. ‘You’re a diamond girl, did you know that?’

  ‘I’m a sapphire girl,’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk in the park. We can always pretend it’s those gardens. I was always picturing when I was young.’

  ‘When you were at the hospital?’

  ‘No, before that. I doubt anyone could picture at the hospital – it was too dreadful. I meant when I was little, in the country. I used to have this special tree. We called it our squirrel house …’ My voice trailed away when I saw Bertie’s expression.

  ‘You and that Jem?’ he said.

  ‘All of us children,’ I said, though of course I’d meant just Jem and me. I didn’t want to think of Jem. I’d had another letter from him yesterday. He had told me all about Mother and Father and the farm, and how Rosie was engaged to be married, and Nat was doing very well in the army, and he hoped he’d maybe meet up with Gideon one day. It was a letter just like Jem himself, strong and straightforward, tender and concerned. It ended: I am thinking of the future, Hetty. Our future, together. With love from Jem.

  I had tried hard to picture Jem himself, but somehow I could only see him as a child, with a boy’s voice, not as the man I knew he was. And it was impossible to picture him now, when I was walking along with Bertie, doing my best to console him.

  ‘You’re thinking of that Jem, aren’t you?’ said Bertie suspiciously.

  ‘No I’m not,’ I lied. ‘I’m thinking of the pleasure gardens – these pleasure gardens,’ I continued as we walked through the gates into the plain green park. ‘Oh, see the fairy lights on the trees, Bertie, and little coloured lanterns – look!’ I waved my hand at the ordinary plane trees, then pointed to a scrubby patch of grass. ‘See, there’s a rose bower for sweethearts – and little boys are walking around with trays of gingerbread and we can simply help ourselves—’

  ‘This sounds better than the Western Gardens!’

  ‘Much better. And over there’ – I pointed vaguely into thin air – ‘is a pleasure dome, like in “Kubla Khan”.’

  ‘What’s Kubla Watsit when it’s at home?’

  ‘It’s a strange poem. I’m not sure I understand it, but I love the way it’s written. Nurse Winnie lent me this book of poetry once. I wish I still had it.’

  ‘Hasn’t that weird old stick Buchanan any poetry books? I don’t suppose he could lend you one?’ said Bertie.

  ‘He’s barely speaking to me since I got cross with him for taking my memoirs. He still has them, Bertie, but he doesn’t mention them. Sarah says she’ll give me what for if I bring it up again. She says it’s not my place to make demands on the master. Oh, Bertie, don’t you just hate having to know your place?’

  ‘Well, I can picture too, Hetty. I can picture right into the future, when I’ll be …’

  ‘A master butcher like Mr Jarvis?’

  ‘Definitely not a butcher. I live, breathe and eat meat, and it’s started to turn my stomach. No, I’ll live on your apple pies, Hetty – and I won’t be no butcher.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think you’d better be a gardener,’ I said, giggling.

  He gave me a look, but then he laughed too.

  ‘So what do you see yourself as, Bertie?’

  He suddenly looked shy. ‘You’ll laugh at me!’

  ‘No I won’t. Well, I’ll try not to. Go on, tell. It doesn’t matter if it can’t come true, it’s only picturing. I have all manner of madcap fantasies. I see myself as a famous author, Sapphire Battersea, writing a few pages every day, living in a house even bigger than Mr Buchanan’s, keeping my mama in luxury. Or – or I could be Sapphire the circus lady in pink, with spangly tights, riding my troupe of rosin-backed horses, while hundreds gasp and clap. Or perhaps I might even be Sapphire the sailor, crossing the seven seas with the wind in my hair, gulls screaming overhead, dolphins swimming along beside the ship. There! Now you can laugh at me!’

  ‘Well, I picture myself on stage in a fancy toff suit, with a little straw hat to tilt at a jaunty angle.’

  ‘An actor?’

  ‘Not a Shakespearean actor, spouting all sorts of stuff you can’t understand. No, comedy’s more my line. Or maybe a music-hall turn – comical, with a saucy song, maybe even a little dance.’ He did a little tap dance on the grass, his feet flashing. He landed elegantly with a ‘Ta-da!’ his arms held high.

  ‘Bravo!’ I said, and clapped him. ‘You’re good at it, Bertie, really good.’

  ‘I thought I might act like a bit of a charmer with the ladies. I could call my act Flirty Bertie – and as I’m so small, it would work really well if I shared the routine with a very tall girl, to make it more comic like, but still touching. A pity you’re not tall, Hetty – it would be grand to do a double act with you. Have you ever fancied treading the boards yourself?’

  ‘I’m not sure! The vicar said that music halls were very bad places – but I think they sound like fun,’ I said.

  ‘They’re great fun. I think you’d love them. I’ll take you there some day – when I’ve got some cas