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  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir, beg pardon, sir, the poor child is having some kind of fit. Let me carry her away until she recovers,’ said Sarah, struggling to her knees.

  I had had all the breath knocked out of me, but I still could not keep quiet.

  ‘You wicked, evil, terrible thief!’ I screamed hoarsely at Mr Buchanan. ‘You said my story was coarse and unacceptable and no one would ever publish it. And now I know why! You’ve taken it, you’re writing it! You’re just changing the names and putting in long words and mealy-mouthed moral comments, but it’s still my story.’

  ‘Cease this ridiculous insubordinate babbling at once, or I shall turn you out of my house immediately,’ said Mr Buchanan.

  Sarah tried to clamp her hand right over my mouth. ‘Oh no, sir, take pity on her. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. It’s as if the Devil himself has got hold of her tongue,’ she said.

  I prised her fingers away, refusing to be restrained. ‘I do so know what I’m saying! You’ve stolen my memoirs, my life! You’re a wicked thief. You think you’re so saintly, but I think you’re going straight to Hell with all the other devils!’

  ‘That’s it! Go and pack your bags. I will not have you in my house another minute. I am dismissing you forthwith,’ said Mr Buchanan.

  ‘No, no, please!’ Sarah begged.

  ‘Without a character reference!’ added Mr Buchanan.

  ‘But, sir, how will she get another position without one?’ said Sarah.

  ‘That’s not my concern,’ he said.

  ‘No, you are just concerned with stealing a poor girl’s work!’ I shouted.

  ‘Remove this terrible fishwife child from my presence,’ said Mr Buchanan to Sarah.

  ‘Not until you give me back my memoirs! I’ll not have you copying any more of them. Give them back to me!’ I cried. ‘Give them back this instant or I’ll … I’ll fetch a policeman!’

  ‘Hetty, Hetty, hush!’ said Sarah, struggling with me.

  ‘Lord save us, what’s happening?’ said Mrs Briskett, running into the study, her great bulk knocking over columns of books to the left and the right. ‘Oh, Hetty Feather, was that you shrieking at the master?’

  ‘I am not her master. She is no longer in my employment. Be so good as to turn her out of this house immediately. I will not be shouted at and abused by a wretched foundling child, especially when I’ve shown her every kindness!’ He was shouting too, his fez slipping sideways as he jerked his head in emphasis.

  ‘I won’t go! Not without my memoirs! They’re my property. You shall not steal them. Give them back!’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, you evil-tongued little harpy.’

  ‘Yes you do. You took them from me. Give them back – please, please! That book means the whole world to me. It’s my life, mine and Mama’s.’ I was crying now, tears of pure rage.

  Mr Buchanan was breathing heavily, sweat standing out on his wrinkled brow. ‘You’ve clearly taken leave of your senses. I know nothing of these so-called memoirs. Now get out of my study this instant.’

  ‘You liar!’ I shouted.

  Mrs Briskett gasped and crossed herself piously. She tried to seize hold of me, but I clung to a corner of Mr Buchanan’s desk, screaming.

  ‘If you please, sir, she means that little red notebook, scribbled all over. Are you sure you don’t still have it?’ said Sarah bravely.

  ‘I am quite sure – and if you don’t hold your tongue, you will find yourself dismissed as well,’ said Mr Buchanan, puffing himself up like a little bullfrog. A button on his waistcoat burst and his watch popped out of his pocket. It dangled there on his watch chain, along with an onyx seal and a little silver key. The key to his desk drawer?

  It was no use asking politely. This was my only chance. I darted forward and snatched at the chain, tugging so hard that it broke. I had the key in my hand before he could stop me. I slotted it straight into the desk drawer – and there, inside, were two notebooks. One contained my own precious memoirs – and the other was an entirely new manuscript. I whipped open the first page.

  Emerald Greenwich – the Story of a Foundling Child … by Chas. G. Buchanan

  ‘There!’ I said, clutching my own memoirs. ‘I knew it! You did steal my memoirs! You’re using them for your own story!’

  ‘Oh, sir!’ said Sarah, looking shocked.

  ‘Now now, Sarah – be warned!’ said Mrs Briskett anxiously.

  ‘Of course I haven’t stolen your ridiculous memoirs, Hetty Feather! I had no idea you called your pathetic little journal by such a grand title. “Memoirs” indeed!’

  ‘You’ve copied some of it out, and put it under your name!’

  ‘Yes, I have started copying out a new version. I have taken the time and trouble to try to improve your work, to show you the correct way to go about composition. I was then intending to go over it with you, carefully instructing you. Yet this is the way you repay me, screaming ludicrous accusations at me and attacking my person, actually breaking my watch chain. Just wait till I report these events to the hospital!’

  ‘No, you just wait till I report to Miss Smith on the Board of Governors that you’ve stolen my memoirs. Look, you’ve written your name by the title – that’s absolute proof!’

  I tried to snatch that manuscript too, but Mr Buchanan was too quick for me this time. He picked it up and beat me hard about the head with it, sending me reeling.

  ‘Now, leave these premises immediately, Hetty Feather,’ he said. ‘Take her out of my sight this instant or I shall fetch a policeman myself. I shall report your behaviour and show him the broken links of my watch chain, and you will go straight to prison. It’s the best place for you, you wicked, ungrateful girl.’

  ‘Quick, Mrs B! Let’s get her out!’ said Sarah.

  They took hold of me, each with a hand in my armpit, and hauled me out bodily, my feet scarcely brushing the floor – though I still had my memoirs clasped to my chest. They dragged me down all the stairs to the kitchen and then let me go.

  ‘Oh, Hetty, what have you done! He’ll never take you back now, no matter how we beg,’ said Sarah, starting to cry.

  ‘I wouldn’t stay here now even if he begged me,’ I said fiercely, my head held high.

  ‘But what will you do, you silly child? You’ll never get another position as a servant without a character reference,’ said Mrs Briskett, wringing her hands.

  ‘I will – I will try my hand at something other than service,’ I said grandly, though my heart was beating fast. ‘I will make my own way in the world. Somehow.’

  ‘But where will you sleep tonight?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘She will have to go back to the hospital,’ said Mrs Briskett.

  ‘I am not going back there, not ever. I’d sooner walk the streets,’ I declared.

  ‘Oh, Hetty, if only you weren’t so headstrong!’ said Sarah. ‘You have no idea what life can be like for young girls cast out without a character. So many girls come to a bad end, through no real fault of their own.’

  ‘I won’t come to a bad end, I promise,’ I said.

  ‘But what will you do?’

  I thought desperately. I remembered when I’d run away before. I’d sold flowers on the street with Sissy, and then Miss Smith had found me. Miss Smith had told us about one of her charities, set up to help destitute young girls. I supposed I was destitute now. The very word made me shudder.

  ‘I shall go to London and see my friend Miss Smith. She will help me,’ I said firmly. ‘Don’t worry, Sarah, I will be fine.’

  ‘Of course I’ll worry! You’re like a little sister to me now,’ said Sarah, and she gave me a hug.

  ‘A very bad little sister,’ said Mrs Briskett, but she came and hugged me too.

  I felt like a very small slice of ham in the midst of a very large sandwich, but I was so touched by their concern and kindness that I had to fight not to cry.

  I went to the scullery to pack my box – my retrieved memoirs, my books, my lit