Sapphire Battersea Read online

  ‘So where do you live now, Bertie?’

  ‘I live at the shop – where else? I’ve got me nice little bed under the counter.’ He said it cheerily enough, but I imagined lying all night in the dark with meat dripping bloodily all around me. Perhaps I was more fortunate than I realized, living in the scullery.

  ‘When’s your afternoon off, then, Beautiful?’ Bertie asked.

  ‘I don’t think I get one.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll make sure of that. You watch.’ He sidled up to Mrs Briskett. He looked smaller than ever beside her huge bulk. ‘Like them lovely steaks, Mrs B? They were supposed to be going up to Letchworth Manor, but I swapped them round because you’re my favourite customer, and a lady line you appreciates quality.’

  ‘Hark at the lad! He’s got the patter, all right, even though he’s such a little squirt,’ said Mrs Briskett, chuckling.

  ‘You’ve got an extra kidney too – did you see?’

  ‘What are you after, lad? A slice of my steak-and-kidney pie?’

  ‘Well, now you’re tempting me! But I was just wondering if I could take your little maid here off your hands on Sunday, seeing as she’s a bit down in the dumps.’

  ‘No wonder – she’s a careless girl, and needs to be taught a lesson. And on Sunday she’ll be coming to church along with us.’

  ‘Of course she will, but what about after church? Can’t you spare her for an hour or two? I’ll bring her back rosy-cheeked in time for supper – how about that?’

  ‘How about you clear off out of my kitchen and stop distracting my little maid,’ said Mrs Briskett – but she didn’t say no.

  Bertie winked at me. ‘See you Sunday, then, Beautiful. I’ll come calling,’ he mouthed.

  I shrugged. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go off gallivanting with this cheeky Cockney lad, Bertie. He was clearly mocking me, calling me Beautiful. He had obviously forgotten my name.

  But when he clattered over, swinging his basket, he called, ‘Bye-bye, then, Mrs B. Bye-bye, Sarah Sew-a-fine-seam. And bye-bye, Miss Hetty Feather.’

  Mrs Briskett and Sarah tittered.

  ‘My, you’re a dark one, Hetty, setting your cap at Jarvis’s boy already!’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘I told you, I don’t want you to have no followers. It just causes trouble – and you’re not old enough anyway.’

  ‘I don’t want any followers,’ I said, but I found I was a little cheered all the same. I still had miles of stone flags to scrub, and my cut finger was throbbing more sorely than ever, but it didn’t seem such a terrible task any more. When I was done at long last, Mrs Briskett fried me a slice of yesterday’s currant cake in butter, dusted it with sugar and served it to me on a plate. It tasted truly delicious.

  I was set to more work straight afterwards, running up and down stairs tending the fires and fetching hot water. Then Mrs Briskett got it into her head that her saucepans weren’t quite clean, and I had to boil them all for half an hour on the range, then attack the enamel pans with a rag and Monkey Brand. It nearly broke my heart when she dirtied them all again cooking Mr Buchanan’s dinner.

  I was so tired and my hand throbbed so badly I could barely write that night, even though Mrs Briskett gave me another stub of candle. I fancied starting a made-up story, however, if Miss Smith thought my memoirs unpublishable. I picked up my notebook and wrote:

  Lady Sapphire was a very kind and liberal mistress. If the cook spilled milk in the kitchen, Lady Sapphire commanded her pet cats to come and lick it up forthwith, a task they enjoyed exceedingly. When the saucepans became just a little bit dirty, Lady Sapphire gave them all away to grateful poor folk and bought an entire fresh set because she didn’t want to work her servants unnecessarily hard as they were preparing a special dinner that night. Mr Jarvis the Master Butcher was invited, together with his lady wife, and for a special treat, his loyal but occasionally cheeky apprentice boy, young Bertie. He was very honoured, and bowed and scraped to Lady Sapphire excessively …

  I fell asleep pondering the number of Cs and Ss in excessively. I woke up with a crick in my neck and the candle burned out, and then barely slept the rest of the night because I was so worried that I wouldn’t be up at six to light the wretched kitchen range.

  I was so tired I spent the next day yawning my head off, and when I sat down for my bacon breakfast, I fell fast asleep at the table. But when Sarah went to sort the post I woke up with a start, because there was not one but two letters for me!

  I knew there would not be a letter back from Gideon. He very probably had not been given my letter, and at the Foundling Hospital we were only allowed to reply on Sunday afternoons. But I had a letter back from dear Mama!

  My own Hetty,

  I am so glad and releeved you have a good posishon, deary, and that theyre being quite kind and sweet to my own gurl. I daresay you will find the work hard, but you’re a sensible quik lerner and it makes my hert swell with pride to think of my gurl out in the world, erning her own living. How I wish I culd see you and give you a grate big hug.

  All love from your very very afectshonit mother.

  P.S. Excuse speling, it’s my week point.

  I held Mama’s letter to my chest, I rubbed it against my cheek, I ran my finger along every line, oblivious to Mrs Briskett and Sarah.

  ‘Ah, bless the child,’ said Sarah, sniffing. ‘How I wish my own dear mama were here to write to me.’ She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.

  ‘Now don’t you start, Sarah, you’ll set me off – you know I turn to jelly at the sight of tears,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Who’s your other letter from, Hetty?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Briskett,’ I said – although there was something faintly familiar about the firm bold print. I saw the postmark and gave a little gasp. I opened it up, and my eyes skimmed down the page to the signature at the bottom: Your ever-loving Jem.

  ‘Oh, my Lord!’

  ‘Well?’ said Mrs Briskett.

  ‘It’s from – from my foster brother!’ I said. ‘Do you not remember the young man waiting outside the hospital, Mrs Briskett? I didn’t recognize him at first, but it was really him! Oh, if only I had stopped for a few words! I did beg you, remember?’

  ‘You don’t consort with family and friends when you’re off to start in your first position, Hetty Feather,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘Now, put your letters away till later, and go and help Sarah turn out the bedrooms – and no dawdling neither, because there’s the potatoes and the carrots to peel, and two pounds of peas to pod, and all the Bramleys for my apple pie. He’s very fond of my apple pie, is the master.’

  I had to tuck Jem’s letter away under my apron, where it crackled unread all the long morning. I had to wait until after luncheon. Mrs Briskett found she was running short of sugar and needed cloves for her apple pie, so she sent me off to Dedman’s, the grocer’s.

  ‘Just find your way back into town and it’s the big shop on the corner. You can’t miss it,’ she said. ‘Mind you hurry back though, missy. No daydreaming!’

  She wound a shawl round me and watched me from the back door. I ran up the area steps and set off smartly, swinging my arms in a business-like fashion.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way, Hetty Feather! Featherbrain, that’s what you are! Go left for the town. Dear Lord, what shall I do with you?’

  I turned on my heel and walked back the other way, feeling foolish. Mrs Briskett watched me, shaking her head. I hurried to get out of her sight. It felt so very odd to be out alone after all those years of being cooped up in the hospital. It reminded me of the time I ran away, when Queen Victoria had her Golden Jubilee. I supposed I could run away now. Run away where though? Run away … home?

  I took the unread letter from under my apron, leaned against the park railings, and read it through.

  Dear Hetty,

  Yes, it WAS me at the hospital gates. I could not believe it when you walked straight past me. I had pictured our meeting for so long and I had always seen us running into each other’s arms. I was