Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Read online

  I opened my case and showed Lizzie the fairytale books Mama had given me, and her precious hairbrush and comb, and her little violet vase, and her letters tied in neat bundles with satin ribbon. She admired each item reverently, as if they were holy relics, as indeed they were to me. I showed her the fat marbled manuscript book where I’d recorded my memoirs, and she seemed astonished to hear that I had written all the words myself.

  However, Lizzie was most impressed with my nightgown! She marvelled at the fine cotton and the white embroidery, an S and a B embroidered on the yoke, entwined with daisies.

  ‘It’s beautiful, just like a real lady’s! Where on earth did you get it, Emerald?’ Lizzie said, looking at me uncertainly.

  ‘I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking!’ I said. ‘I made it for myself, Lizzie.’

  She peered at the stitches, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Truly,’ I insisted. ‘I told you, I’m good at sewing and darning.’

  ‘I should just say so! They look like fairy stitches – and all so smooth!’ she said, holding the fine linen to her reddened cheek.

  ‘I had nine years of wearing harsh foundling uniform that scratched against my skin like sandpaper. This is my little luxury,’ I said.

  ‘Well, good for you, girl. This nightgown is fit for a princess,’ said Lizzie.

  I resolved then and there to make her a similar nightgown because she had been so kind to me. I bade her farewell and lugged my case the length of the street, all the way up to the clifftop. My arm felt as if it were being pulled from its socket, but it was worth it when I sat down on a tussock at the top. The very grass was rough at Monksby.

  I looked down at the village below me, trying to work out which little slated roof was sheltering my father. I stared at the cluster of folk at the harbour-side, trying to discern the burly shape of my new stepmother. I peered at the girls collecting flithers on the rocks, the little boys splashing in the sea. For one second I imagined a gigantic wave rising up and sucking Katherine, Mina and Ezra out to sea, so that I could live with Father in peace and comfort, just the two of us. I felt my face flushing, feeling as guilty as if I were truly Emerald Mermaid and had drowned them all deliberately.

  I diverted myself from imaginary mass murder by opening my case and taking out my pad of writing paper, my precious pot of ink and my old chewed pen. It was very windy up on the cliff and I had to hang on tight to my possessions to stop them blowing away. It was a struggle to write coherently. I used my closed case as a desk, but it was a very bumpy one, and my writing wobbled this way and that, till I feared my letter was scarcely legible.

  c/o Bobbie Waters’ House,

  End Cottage,

  Home Lane,

  Monksby,

  Yorkshire

  Dear Miss Smith,

  I should write OH dear, Miss Smith, because I have been a wilful and disobedient girl, and I am sure you are very vexed with me. You will have heard that I left Mr Buchanan’s establishment. I did try hard there, I truly did, and I’m sure Mrs Briskett and Sarah will vouch for me – but Mr Buchanan did not help me with my writing as you had hoped. Indeed, he did not try to help me, he helped HIMSELF. He stole my memoir and attempted to rewrite it as his own work. When I discovered this and challenged him, he grew very angry. I suppose I grew angry too, and he dismissed me without a character.

  I was tempted to write another page or two on the same subject because I still burned with righteous indignation when I thought about it – but I’d already used up one piece of notepaper and it was very precious. I decided not to inform Miss Smith of my change of occupation. I could write persuasively, but I’d never convince her that displaying myself as a scantily dressed mermaid in a seaside freak show was a perfectly acceptable way of earning my living. I decided to cut to the chase.

  I went to stay near dear Mama – and perhaps you are aware of the very sad fact that she became sick with consumption. I know you helped get her the position with that elderly lady at Bignor, and I’m sure you thought her a good kind Christian woman, but she was NOTHING OF THE SORT. She turned poor Mama out of her house.

  I burned all over again with the injustice. It was so raw and painful writing about Mama that I couldn’t go into detail.

  Mama died at the end of the summer, so I resolved to find my father – and I have, Miss Smith, I’m sure I have! He is certain I am his daughter too, and we both have distinctive red hair – but for some difficult folk this is not proof enough.

  I need to know Mama’s true name. She must have used it when she registered me at the hospital. Could you please, please, please be an angel and look in the records for me and let me know Mama’s birth name? Then I will be able to rest secure in my new house with my dear father – and other step relatives.

  I know I am a sore disappointment to you but I do hope you still have a soft place in your heart for

  Your own dear bad Hetty

  I addressed the letter to Miss Sarah Smith, Board of Governors, Foundling Hospital, Guilford Street, London town, and stuck a stamp in the corner. I wrote STRICTLY PRIVATE in capitals across the flap of the envelope. I didn’t want one of those nosy matrons prying! I walked back down into the village and posted the letter in the big scarlet box at the corner of two streets.

  Then I walked along Home Lane to my new home. The door opened for me. Folk here did not seem to bother with locks and bolts. But Father was no longer lying slumbering in his armchair. He was gone – and Katherine was there in his place, with Mina sitting on the arm of the chair. Their heads were together and they were muttering furiously to each other, clearly plotting something dire.

  I shivered but I stuck out my chin and faced them fair and square. ‘Where’s Father?’ I said.

  ‘He’s not your father,’ said Mina.

  ‘Yes he is – and I hope to prove it to you shortly,’ I said.

  ‘Stop spluttering this nonsense,’ said Katherine. ‘Now be on your way. You’re not wanted here.’

  ‘My father wants me. He has invited me to stay,’ I said. ‘I went to fetch my possessions.’

  Katherine sniffed at my fine suitcase. ‘We’re not a lodging house. We haven’t got room for you. Look around! Do you see a spare bedroom? Do you see a spare bed for that matter?’

  ‘I am looking around – and I see a highly ungracious, hard-hearted woman who wilfully refuses to do as her husband bids her,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to tell him that you’re trying to send his own daughter on her way?’

  ‘Pa’s not here to tell, so you just push off,’ said Mina fiercely. ‘I’m his daughter, not you.’

  ‘So be off,’ said Katherine, and she took up a broom as if she were literally going to sweep me out of the house.

  My heart started thumping hard inside my chest. Katherine looked as strong as an ox and Mina was already bigger than me. If it came to a pushing match it was clear who would win.

  I thought Father must have gone back to the harbour to negotiate on last night’s catch of fish – but then I heard a snore from upstairs.

  ‘If you lay a finger on me I’ll shout my head off and Father will come running,’ I said. ‘He wants me to stay here, and I shall.’

  Katherine stared at me. She was gripping the broom so tightly she seemed ready to snap it in two. ‘You’re a curse on my house. I won’t rest until I’m rid of you,’ she said, and she spat at me.

  It didn’t land on my dress, as I think she had hoped. It landed short by several inches, falling on the scrubbed floorboards, where it glistened like venom.

  ‘You truly are a fishwife,’ I said, and I took my suitcase and lugged it up the narrow staircase, leaving them both.

  I went into the smaller bedroom, divided into two by a curtain. I snatched a pillow from one bed, a quilt from the other. Then I went into the big bedroom. Father lay flat on his back, still in his trousers and socks, though he’d discarded his gansey and lay there in his undershirt.

  I stood quietly watching him for a while, an