Clover Moon Read online

  I leaned against the wall, suddenly weary. I wished I could skip the next five years overnight. I would be trapped in Cripps Alley for such a long, long time. It was no use hoping that Mildred would sicken and die when the new baby was born, like my own poor mother. Mildred was as strong as an ox. She could have another baby each twelve-month without any problems. When she had Bert she’d given birth only a couple of hours after her first pain, and was up and about within a day, whereas Mrs Watson was flat on her back in bed for a week after she had her little Tommy.

  ‘You all right, Clover?’ It was Mrs Watson herself, calling from her doorstep, Tommy on her hip, her little girl, Alice, butting her head against her knees. Tommy was wailing mournfully, though she was joggling him up and down, trying to distract him.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you,’ I answered.

  ‘You don’t look it. That poor head of yours has swollen right up,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be as right as rain tomorrow, you’ll see,’ I told her.

  ‘You’re a plucky kid, Clover, I’ll say that for you. And you’ve got a knack with all the little ones. Look at little Bert, happy as can be. My Tommy won’t stop wailing. He was at it all night long and he still won’t quieten,’ she said. ‘I’m desperate for a bit of sleep.’

  ‘I’ll mind him for you for a couple of hours, and little Alice too,’ I offered. I still felt guilty about her washing being spoiled – and I loved her calling me plucky. Fancy, two people praising me in the space of half an hour! It made me feel warm and special, aching head or not.

  ‘Oh, Clover, I couldn’t possibly. You’ve got enough on your hands, plus you must be feeling pretty poorly,’ said Mrs Watson, though she looked tempted.

  ‘Go on, I don’t mind a bit.’ I set Bert back down on the pavement. ‘There now, Bertie, have another little crawl. Alice, you keep an eye on him for me while I give your brother a cuddle so your poor ma can take a little nap,’ I said.

  I took Tommy out of his mother’s arms. He was red in the face with crying and his damp little body felt hot.

  ‘Perhaps we should loosen his shawl?’ I suggested. ‘It’s a very fancy pattern. Did you crochet it yourself?’

  ‘No, I got it from the used-clothes stall down the market last week – good as new.’ She looked at my ragged frock. ‘You ought to tell your ma to go there – you can get some lovely little outfits at sixpence a pop.’

  ‘I doubt she’ll be buying me any clothes in a hurry, new or used,’ I said, rocking Tommy. I looked at his flushed little face. ‘You know what, I think he’s teething. Our Bert used to get those bright red cheeks. I used to rub his gums with teething jelly. I think we’ve still got some at home. I’ll try him with it.’

  ‘Bless you, Clover,’ said Mrs Watson. ‘Come and wake me in two hours then, dear.’

  I was more than ready to do so because Tommy didn’t settle properly, though the jelly soothed him for five minutes because it was so sweet. Bert didn’t appreciate my fussing over Tommy and started crying for attention himself.

  ‘Dear goodness, why do babies have such powerful lungs?’ I said to Megs. ‘You’d feel so much more obliging if they whispered sweetly.’

  I’d been flattered by Mr Rivers saying I was a good little nursemaid, but I couldn’t quieten poor Tommy. He was hotter than ever, his fluffy hair stuck to his head with sweat. I took the shawl off him altogether and gently blew on his face, but it didn’t cool him and he was still sadly fretful.

  Megs took his fancy white shawl and wrapped it over her head and round her shoulders. ‘Look, Clover, I’m a bride,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘A very beautiful bride,’ I said, rocking Tommy, who wailed louder than ever. ‘Be a bride if you like, but I wouldn’t have babies if I were you.’

  ‘Naughty bad babies,’ said little Mary smugly. She and Jenny imitated them, adding to the caterwauling. Alice hung back at first, but soon joined in their play, especially when I turned an old torn pinny into a baby for her.

  Mildred was trying to nap too, and came to the door threatening blue murder if we didn’t all button it immediately, but she kept her fists by her sides and had another anxious glance at my head. ‘Better put some more of that ointment on, Clover,’ she said.

  I smeared it on, and put some on Tommy’s flaming cheeks too just in case it helped. Then I carted him back to the Watson house, Alice trotting beside us clutching her pinny baby. Mrs Watson was deeply asleep in an armchair, her head nodding on one side, but as soon as she heard Tommy she sat up straight, sighing.

  ‘He’s still at it then?’ she said. ‘Thank you, Clover. I’ll take over now I’ve got my strength up again. Bless you, dear.’

  ‘I’m happy to help, Mrs Watson,’ I said.

  I still felt happy when we went to bed, and made up a story for all the children, whispering into the dark. It was all about a kind artist who painted our picture, which hung in a special gallery. The Queen herself saw it and took a fancy to it and invited us all to tea at the palace.

  The children fell asleep one by one. I was just dropping off myself when I heard an urgent banging at the door. No one ever knocked after dark unless it was an emergency.

  I jumped out of bed and ran to the top of the stairs. Mildred had the door open. I saw Mr Watson standing there, looking frantic.

  ‘Our Tommy took a fit this evening. I ran with him all the way to the children’s hospital, a good two miles away. The nurse there says it’s scarlet fever and the poor little mite’s unlikely to pull through. Our Tommy’s been put in isolation, all alone in a little metal cot. We have to tell everyone who’s gone near him because the fever’s catching. The wife said your Clover nursed him half the afternoon!’

  4

  I SAT DOWN at the top of the stairs, shivering with fear. Poor little Tommy! Was he really going to die when he was only a few months old? Scarlet fever! There had been a bout of it in the alley two summers ago. Three of the four Miles children had died of it, and their mother nearly went demented.

  The fever’s catching!

  Would we all catch it? Oh, thank the Lord, I hadn’t let Megs hold little Tommy. But I had cradled him in my arms, rubbed my own head against his tiny hot one, put my fingers in his mouth to apply the teething jelly, even changed his soaking napkin. I couldn’t have got closer to him. So was I going to catch the fever and die too?

  I clasped my arms around myself. I couldn’t die! Megs and all the other children needed me. How would they manage without me? I saw them all kitted out in black, their little white faces dripping with tears as they filed past my coffin. I pictured Pa wild-eyed and shaking, crying for his firstborn child. Even Mildred might shed a guilty tear and pray that no one had noticed the great gash above my eye.

  What would it feel like when they screwed down the lid and took me to the graveyard and buried me under the earth? Would my spirit be able to squeeze out of my body and drift through a crack in the coffin? Would I be just a wisp of smoke, or would I assume a pale ghostly body?

  I hoped I might be less scrawny, with long shining hair. And would I grow wings? I didn’t want to fly up to Heaven. I wanted to stay here on earth and look after everyone. Perhaps I could be Megs’s guardian angel and keep her safe and happy?

  But would I actually make an angel? I hadn’t always been a good girl. I had lied enough times to turn my tongue black. I had lost my temper and raged at the boys who plagued Mr Dolly. I had cracked a few heads together in my time. I had bad-mouthed Mildred. My Lord, I had even wished her dead, and meant it too.

  I wouldn’t be an angel. I’d be pitchforked down to hell to join the other devils. I thought of Pious Peter, who spouted hellfire every week at the Saturday market, describing the torments of the damned. My head started throbbing, as if those terrible pincers were already closing in on me. I was burning even though I was shivering. It seemed I had the fever already.

  I put my head on my knees, struggling not to cry. I heard Mildred and Pa arguing down below, and then the thud of footsteps