Clover Moon Read online

  ‘What a good idea!’ I said. ‘Well, this one’s Hyacinth because of her eyes, and this one’s definitely Violet, and this one’s Marigold.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Mr Rivers. ‘You’ve got a fine little protégée, Mr Fisher. You must be very proud of her.’

  ‘I am indeed, sir,’ said Mr Dolly, putting his arm round my shoulders.

  I could feel him trembling. I knew he was terribly excited at the thought of selling one of these expensive dolls. I desperately hoped Mr Rivers wasn’t going to disappoint him. Very occasionally rich folk wandered into the shop and made Mr Dolly display every single doll, but then they shook their heads and said they needed to go away and think about it. They never came back.

  However, Mr Rivers was taking the task seriously. At first he seemed smitten with Hyacinth, and then he tried out Violet’s parasol to see if it worked properly, but he was eventually overwhelmed by Marigold’s dimples.

  ‘I think I shall choose Miss Marigold as she has such a charming expression,’ he said. ‘How much is she?’

  Mr Dolly took a deep breath. ‘She’s five guineas, sir.’

  I stared. I’d seen the price pencilled on the cardboard box. Mr Dolly had more than doubled it. Surely he’d made Marigold much too expensive! Mr Rivers was probably rich, but he wasn’t daft.

  He smiled. ‘She’s very costly, but she is a work of art,’ he said. ‘I’ll take her. Parcel her up, please.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Mr Dolly was blinking with emotion, his eyebrows working overtime. His hands shook as he laid the doll back in her box and smeared the price with a wet thumb. I went to the rag bag and started tucking old scraps of material round the doll’s head and outstretched fingers – the parts that might get chipped or damaged in transit. It was standard procedure, but it charmed Mr Rivers.

  ‘Oh, look at little Clover Moon! She’s tucking Marigold up in her bed just like a nursemaid, bless her,’ he said.

  ‘She’s a very caring child,’ said Mr Dolly.

  ‘She is indeed,’ agreed Mr Rivers. ‘And talented too. Very skilled with her paintbrush.’

  Mr Dolly raised his eyebrows at me enquiringly but didn’t comment.

  When I’d finished protecting Marigold I put the lid on the box, and Mr Dolly tied it tight with string. Mr Rivers had his wallet ready and handed over five pounds and five shillings, then shook Mr Dolly’s hand solemnly. He insisted on shaking my hand too, and thanked me profusely for my help.

  It was the very first time anyone had shaken my hand and I felt honoured. Then Mr Rivers strode out of the shop, holding the large cardboard box out in front of him, like a Wise Man with a precious gift for baby Jesus. (Mr Dolly didn’t give me religious instruction, because he said he wasn’t a Christian, but he’d shown me a book of reproductions of great paintings and the Nativity scenes had taken my fancy.)

  When the shop door was shut and locked Mr Dolly put his arms round me and we did a lurching dance around the room.

  ‘Five guineas for a doll I’d given up on selling!’ said Mr Dolly. ‘Oh, Clover, you’re definitely a plant of the four-leaved variety! You’ve brought me such luck, my little one! Here, my dear. Take the five shillings. You’ve more than earned it.’

  Five shillings! I’d never had so much money in my life. But I knew what would happen if I took it home. Mildred would find it, no matter where I hid it.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Dolly. But could you possibly keep the five shillings safe for me?’ I suggested.

  He nodded understandingly. He put the five pounds in his cash box, and the five shillings in a little embroidered purse in his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Here it is, safe about my person. I shall act as your personal banker. Come to me whenever you need to withdraw a few pennies! Now, let us have a celebration supper! You can stay a little while, can’t you?’

  ‘Of course I can stay, Mr Dolly!’ I said eagerly. ‘I don’t have to leave until eight, and then I’ll walk Pa home from the factory.’

  I played with Anne Boleyn while Mr Dolly cooked our supper on his spirit stove. He admired her newly painted features extravagantly.

  ‘I’m so impressed by your artistic skills, my dear, especially as it’s a first attempt. That little doll has such a pretty face!’ he said.

  ‘So are you quite sure you don’t want me as your apprentice, Mr Dolly?’ I asked artfully.

  ‘I wish I could take you on, my dear, but even if I did, I’m sure your family would object,’ he said, turning the lamb chop.

  I didn’t try to argue further. I knew he was right. Mildred hated me spending so much time with Mr Dolly. She didn’t like him teaching me and said he gave her the creeps. Even Pa wrinkled his nose at the very sound of his name and claimed he didn’t trust him.

  They were both fools. Mr Dolly was the sweetest, kindest, cleverest man in all the world. The smell of his chop was making my mouth water, but he only had one, though he was frying a good pound of sliced potatoes and onions in his pan. When he dished up he took a couple of plates, cut the chop lengthwise and distributed all the vegetables equally.

  ‘Here you are, child. Get it down you,’ he said, offering me the plate.

  ‘I can’t eat your supper, Mr Dolly! Especially half your chop!’ I protested.

  ‘I’ll be buying a big steak tomorrow! Now eat, dear. You deserve it. Heaven knows, you look as if you could do with a good meal. What does that Mildred feed you, bread and scrape?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty much,’ I said.

  She gave Pa meat for supper every day because he’d done a hard day’s work at the factory, while she had a kidney or a slice of liver because she said it was good for the growing baby, but us children mostly made do with hunks of bread and the dripping from the Sunday roast. She’d sometimes give her own kids a rasher of bacon, even little Bert, but never Megs or me.

  If I did the cooking I always tried to slip a slice to Megs, and I frequently stole currants and sultanas and sugar and dabs of butter from the pantry, squashing them all together like a patty – a treat we called Clover Cake. Megs stayed skin and bones though, her cheekbones sharp in her little face.

  Halfway through my supper I pretended to be full, hoping to take a portion home for Megs in a paper poke, though smuggling it past Mildred would be difficult, but Mr Dolly insisted I ate up every mouthful or he’d take offence.

  When I sat back at last, my stomach tight as a drum, Mr Dolly gave me a tiny glass of ginger cordial for my digestion. He sat back in his easy chair, having a little smoke of his pipe. I downed my drink, pretending it was gin. Mr Dolly soon nodded off, snoring softly. I carefully knocked out his pipe and washed up the dishes. Then I played a game with Anne Boleyn, making her a little house out of an old box, and a bed and quilt and pillow with scraps from the rag bag.

  Mr Dolly was still fast asleep when I heard the sound of the factory hooter. I took off his old slippers, covered him with a plaid rug, tucked him up carefully and then slipped away.

  The streets were full of men and women trudging homewards from the sauce factory, reeking of onions and pickle and vinegar. I shivered to think I’d be one of them in the future. I slipped in and out of the crowds, searching for Pa. It seemed an impossible task. He had a slouching walk, his head bent, hands in his pockets, thinning hair lank, his face sallow, his work clothes shabby, his boots down at heel. This description fitted almost every man in the street. Every time I called ‘Pa’ at least twenty heads turned in my direction.

  I searched until the crowd had thinned to a few stragglers shuffling along. I was sure I must have missed Pa. He’d be home now and Mildred would have told tales, trying to work him up into a rage against me. But then I spotted a familiar slight figure turning into Cripps Alley. I ran wildly to catch up with him before he got home.

  ‘Pa!’

  He turned and waited for me under the gas light. He gave me a tired smile, his mouth barely moving. ‘Is that you, Clover?’ he muttered.

  ‘Of course it’s me, Pa,’ I said, run