Clover Moon Read online

‘She’s dead,’ Pammy said.

  It was the first time I’d heard her speak. She had a gruff little voice that made my heart turn over.

  ‘Yes, she’s dead, but she can fly up in the clouds,’ I said.

  ‘My ma’s dead,’ said Pammy. She said it matter-of-factly, but a tear trickled down her cheek.

  ‘So is my ma. Perhaps they’re friends up in Heaven, and they both take care of Megs,’ I said. ‘Shall we make a dough ma?’

  Pammy nodded and tried fingering the dough. She frowned and gave it to me. ‘You make it,’ she said.

  ‘You can do it if you try,’ I said, but I fashioned the head and body and wings all the same.

  Jane had calmed down now. She started pulling at me but I gently shrugged her off.

  ‘Wait, Jane. I’ll make you an angel too, but I’ll just finish Pammy’s first,’ I said.

  I gave Pammy a darning needle and encouraged her to poke two eyes and a smiley mouth on the dough face.

  ‘She’s smiling!’ she said.

  ‘Yes, she is. Did your ma have curls? Shall we make her some? You can do that bit. Just roll a weeny bit of dough and curl it round and stick it to her head. That’s the way,’ I said.

  Pammy did her best. Then she took another wisp of dough and tried to stick it to her own head. ‘I’ve got curls,’ she said.

  ‘Lovely curls,’ I said, giving her chin a fond little pinch.

  This was too much for Jane. She clenched her fist and battered the dough mother into a blob, and then tried to do the same to Pammy, hitting her hard.

  Pammy screamed, Jane roared and Elspeth and Moira cried. Miss Ainsley came rushing into the room.

  ‘Goodness me, this place is like a bear garden!’ she cried. ‘I thought you were meant to be looking after the little ones, Clover. Why aren’t they doing their cross-stitch? And what on earth is that nasty grey stuff smeared all over the lino?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Ainsley,’ I said, hastily trying to scrape it all up and put it in the bowl. I didn’t want her telling tales on me to Miss Smith when she next paid a visit. I wanted to be taken out for tea!

  I tried to get the little girls to help me, but all four continued wailing.

  ‘Oh dear goodness,’ said Miss Ainsley, going from one to the other. ‘Stop this silly noise, girls! I thought you were supposed to be so good with little children, Clover. I can’t see much evidence of it so far. I don’t think we can trust you to look after them again!’

  ‘Oh, that’s not fair, Miss Ainsley. We’ve been getting along splendidly, haven’t we, girls?’ I said.

  Elspeth and Moira nodded, but Jane was too far into her tantrum to see reason and Pammy went and hid in the corner, clutching the mangled remains of her angel.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got in your hands, Pammy?’ Miss Ainsley asked. She peered closer and must have spotted her pastry curl. ‘And dear Lord, it’s all over your hair too!’

  She plucked it out of Pammy’s sparse wisps. Pammy wept bitterly.

  ‘Please stop! I won’t have this silly shrieking! It’s very bad for my nerves,’ said Miss Ainsley. ‘Dear goodness, what a day! First Cook cuts herself, then Mary-Ann has one of her turns and now you little girls get into a terrible pickle.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Mary-Ann, Miss Ainsley?’ I asked.

  She looked stricken. ‘Never mind, dear. Off you go now. See if you can make yourself useful elsewhere. I need to get these little ones calmed down before supper.’

  At least she didn’t seem too cross with me – but what was all the mystery about Mary-Ann? I took the bowl of angel remains and slipped along to the dormitory. There were no big girls on guard now, so I opened the door and crept inside. The curtains were drawn so it was very dark, but I could just about make out Mary-Ann lying in her bed. She was breathing deeply and seemed asleep.

  I went to my own bed and checked under the covers, but it was bone-dry. I opened my cupboard very slowly so that it wouldn’t creak and felt for my pillowcase. It still had the soft shawl inside and I could feel Anne Boleyn there too. I felt her head, her body, all four limbs. Thank goodness she seemed intact. I shut her up again, then crept cautiously to Mary-Ann’s bedside and peered down at her.

  She had her hands pressed to her forehead as if she had a terrible headache, and when she turned in her sleep she gave a groan.

  ‘Mary-Ann?’ I whispered. ‘Are you really ill?’

  What if she had the fever? I reached out gingerly and put my hand on her forehead. She wasn’t burning, but she groaned again.

  ‘Does it hurt bad?’ I asked.

  ‘Dreadfully,’ she murmured. She sounded unlike herself, young and scared.

  ‘Shall I get Miss Ainsley?’

  She shook her head and then started crying.

  ‘There now,’ I said. I knelt beside her bed. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, even though she’d been so hateful to me. I smoothed back her long hair and then stroked her forehead. ‘Does this help?’

  ‘A little,’ she murmured, still crying.

  ‘Try not to cry – it will make it worse,’ I said, wiping her face with a corner of the sheet. ‘There now. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘Are you . . . Clover?’ she asked warily.

  ‘Yes, but don’t worry. I’m not going to put a spell on you,’ I said.

  ‘You can if you want. Make my head better!’

  ‘I’ll try.’ I kept on stroking and murmuring, ‘There now. Go away, pain. I’m soothing it away.’

  Mary-Ann’s breathing slowed and she relaxed. I tried taking my hand away and she didn’t murmur or groan. I picked up the pastry bowl and crept silently out of the room.

  18

  THE NEXT MORNING Mary-Ann seemed almost normal, though she was very pale. She didn’t say a word about our encounter, so neither did I. I wondered if she even remembered it because she’d seemed half asleep, but later that day, when we bumped into each other on the stairs, she gave me a tiny nod of acknowledgement.

  She was different after that. She was still the boss of the class, she still picked on the weaker girls, she still said cutting things – but not to me. She didn’t make friendly overtures, she left me alone, but she didn’t seem to be my enemy any more.

  Occasionally when she was spending the whole day at the home Miss Smith gave us middle girls a lesson. She didn’t teach Bible Studies or Reading or Writing or Arithmetic or Needlework or General Housecare. She didn’t write on the blackboard and set us copying in our notebooks. She simply talked to us, calling her lesson ‘Travel’.

  We stayed sitting at our desks, but Miss Smith took us travelling the world, telling us about the huge hot lands of Africa and India, the frozen climes of the Arctic and Antarctic, the thick jungles and vast deserts and endless seas that made up the world. She told us about intrepid women missionaries who went to spread God’s word in heathen lands, and fearless female explorers like Isabella Bird and Mary Kingsley and Marianne North.

  I especially liked the sound of Marianne North, who journeyed all over the world and painted all the exotic plants and had recently set up her own art gallery in Kew Gardens.

  ‘Oh, how I would like to do that!’ I exclaimed.

  The other girls mocked me, laughing that a girl from the gutters of London could fancy herself a grand lady artist and traveller, but surprisingly Julia said, ‘Though actually Clover really is very good at drawing.’

  Everyone looked at Mary-Ann, expecting her to be furious that Julia of all people should stick up for me. Even Julia looked uncertain, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut, but Mary-Ann simply nodded.

  When class was finished I followed Miss Smith back to her office, asking her if I could possibly look at Mr Rivers’s picture again. I stared at the children skipping in the alley and imagined Megs and me joining in the game.

  ‘You’re missing your break time, Clover,’ Miss Smith said gently.

  The children in the alley faded back into the picture. I stared after them wistfully.