Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Read online

  I was not sure whether I was walking eastwards or not, so I stopped one of the women and asked if she could kindly tell me which was east and which was west. She stared at me and then cupped her ear. I repeated my question.

  ‘Aye, that’s what I thought you said, lassie. And if I’d asked such a daft question not once but twice, I’d blush with shame. Are you simple, girl?’

  ‘No, ma’am – and you’re not the slightest bit civil. I’m a stranger in these parts. How do I know which way’s east?’ I said crossly.

  ‘Well, follow that sharp little nose of yours. You’ll soon find out,’ she said, and hobbled on her way in her broken boots.

  So I followed my nose. The street petered out. I saw the harbour wall, and a muddy beach with a few old boats in various states of decay mouldering on the sand. There were rocks where girls clambered with baskets, and a vast expanse of grey sea. I stepped onto the sand and gazed out to the faraway horizon.

  3

  WHAT DID THE old shop woman mean? Where was my father? Mama had told me he’d run away to be a sailor. Was he still sailing now, far away in foreign climes? I remembered the old pink and yellow and green map in the classroom at the Foundling Hospital, and how I’d slid my finger around the edge of each land, imagining myself sailing the world. Perhaps Father was really living that dream. I saw him in sailor’s navy, his face tanned deep brown, his body braced as his ship rode the big waves. Tropical seabirds flew over his head and marvellous dolphins frolicked in the wake as he sailed further and further away . . . away from me.

  ‘Father!’ I called into the wind, without quite meaning to. The girls on the rocks all stared at me, several giggling.

  I felt a fool and tried looking round too, as if also wondering who had cried out. I walked up and down the beach for a few minutes, collecting shells in a desultory fashion. Then I spotted a strange grey stone with a coiled imprint and picked it up eagerly. I stared at it in my cupped hands. I was back in my classroom again, remembering the picture of fossils in the new set of science books donated by a rich governor. Our teacher had not taught from it. She considered it the work of the devil because it dealt with evolution, suggesting we were all descended from monkeys.

  ‘Imagine! Do you want to think your great-great-grandmothers and -grandfathers had hideous furred faces and long tails?’ she’d said.

  None of us knew our great-great-grandparents. We had no knowledge of any relative whatsoever so could not take offence on their behalf. I did not mind the idea of simian ancestors, and pictured myself happily swinging through the trees and sharing their bananas. I wanted to read the science book if it contained such interesting, controversial ideas, particularly if it upset my teacher. I cordially hated her, especially as she’d once cruelly beaten my dear friend Polly. I sneaked into the classroom when we were meant to be outside taking the air and read eagerly, though the words were not as easy and inviting as a proper storybook. I learned about fossils – ancient small rocks with petrified little creatures trapped inside, turned to stone for ever like a spell in a fairy tale. I had pored over the illustration, tracing the whorls with my finger – and here was a real fossil! I examined the stone carefully, turning it over and over in my hand. It really was a fossil, rare and wonderful. How much would it be worth? Perhaps I was holding a fortune in my hand?

  One of the girls wandered towards me, dragging her pail. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ she asked.

  I put my hands behind my back, scared she might snatch my treasure away. I was still used to hospital ways. If you were ever lucky enough to be given a sweet by a gawping visitor you had to hide it straight away or one of the big girls would snatch it off you.

  This girl was certainly bigger than me. She towered over me in fact, and she was sturdy too – but she was smiling at me in a friendly fashion.

  ‘Go on, show us,’ she said. ‘Have you found a pretty shell?’ She spoke to me kindly but as if I were about five years old.

  ‘I have found something much more rare and valuable,’ I said, with a proud nod of my head.

  ‘Let’s see, then.’

  I reluctantly proffered my fossil. She stared at it.

  ‘Oh . . . lovely,’ she said. She looked as if she were trying not to laugh.

  ‘You don’t know what it is,’ I said. ‘It’s thousands and thousands of years old. It might be worth a fortune.’

  ‘It’s a fossil,’ said the girl matter-of-factly. ‘It’s not worth any kind of fortune, not that sort. Digger Jeffries in the gem shop might give you a halfpenny for it, but nothing more. You are funny.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ I said. ‘I might start collecting fossils.’ I looked in her bucket. ‘So what are you collecting? Are they shells?’

  ‘They’re flithers,’ she said.

  ‘They’re not pretty at all,’ I said.

  ‘Of course they’re not pretty,’ she said, giggling.

  ‘So why are you collecting them?’ I stared at them in disgust. I had seen cockles and whelks at Bignor. ‘You don’t eat them, do you?’

  ‘They’re bait, silly, for the fishermen. Don’t you know nothing?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know these sorts of things,’ I said. ‘I’m a stranger here. I’m visiting from London.’

  She stared at me, actually looking impressed. ‘You come all the way from London town?’ she said, as if it were Timbuktu.

  ‘Yes, by myself, on two trains,’ I said nonchalantly.

  ‘My! I’ve never even been across the moors,’ she said. ‘What’s London like, then? Have you ever met the old Queen?’

  ‘I did once – well, nearly,’ I said. ‘On the day of her Golden Jubilee.’

  ‘Did you see her palace? Folk say all the houses in London are like palaces, built really big, with nine rooms, ten rooms, sometimes more,’ she said.

  ‘There were many more rooms than that in the place I grew up,’ I said, truthfully enough.

  ‘So what are you doing here then?’ she asked.

  ‘My mama came from this village. Did you ever hear of an Ida Battersea?’ I asked eagerly – but the girl shook her head.

  ‘I’ve never heard that name before,’ she said.

  ‘Then have you perhaps heard of Bobbie Waters?’ I said.

  She stared at me. ‘Of course I have. We all know big Bobbie. What do you want with Bobbie Waters?’

  I pulled Lizzie’s shawl more firmly around my head. ‘I – I just need to have a word with him. But I believe he’s away on a sea voyage . . .’

  ‘What? Oh yes, I’m with you. But he’ll be back before noon,’ she said.

  ‘Really? Before noon today! You’re sure?’

  She looked at me queerly and then crossed herself. ‘Please God, yes,’ she said, and ran over to join her friends, prising more flithers from the rocks.

  I couldn’t believe the timeliness of my visit to Monksby. It seemed as if Fate itself had thrust a hand forward and propelled me like a chess piece into the right place at the right time. Of course, I did not know for sure that this Bobbie Waters was the right man. I only had that old shop woman’s word for it. And it was so strange and depressing that not a soul in this small, tight-knit community remembered poor Mama. I felt her inside me, wound about my heart, and I could tell by the fierce beat that she was pleased I was back.

  I peered out across the grey waves for the mast of a tall sailing ship. I stared until my eyes watered, but no vessel appeared on the horizon. I wandered up and down the beach, sand spreading in my boots at every step. There were no seaside amusements at all, not even a solitary bathing machine. A few very little boys were dashing in and out of the waves in their under-drawers – a couple were completely naked. They saw me watching, and jeered and gestured in a very rude and unfriendly fashion. I gestured back and stomped up the steeply sloping path to the clifftop. I had to sit on the tufty grass to recover, gasping for breath. It was windier than ever up there, and my eyes watered as I gazed over the sloping rooftops of the village.