Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Read online

  We passed several little hamlets, and I stared at the small cottages and pictured Father and me living there together, with roses round our door, a cabbage patch amongst a tangle of red and purple flowers, and a fat pig grunting in a sty.

  I elaborated on this in my head, marrying Mina off to her horrible Stevens boy and grudgingly allowing Ezra to be brought up by us. I pondered over Katherine. I was in such a sunny mood to match the weather that I decided to be merciful. I wouldn’t conjure up a horrible death for her. No, she could become more and more fervently religious and shut herself up in a convent, married to Jesus instead of my father.

  I sighed happily and Father sighed back.

  ‘It’s lovely up here on the moors, isn’t it, Father?’ I said. ‘Imagine if we lived in a little house like that one over there!’

  ‘It must be so sad for these folk though,’ he said. ‘To live so near the sea and yet not even snatch a glimpse of it.’

  ‘But the sea is so cruel, Father. Your own father drowned, and your brothers too. I hate it that you have to go fishing every night. It’s so dangerous and cold and wet. People say I have a talent for writing. Perhaps one day I will come into my own and get my memoirs published, or some story, and make a fortune. Then you will never have to set out to sea again.’

  Father laughed, clearly not taking me seriously. ‘The sea is in my blood, Hetty!’ he said.

  ‘Well, the country is in mine,’ I said firmly. I knew my blood was red but I pictured it running green as grass in my veins, pumped by a heather-purple heart.

  I ran up and down, climbing little hills and jumping becks, while Father plodded on steadily.

  ‘Don’t use up all your energy, Hetty. We’ve a way to go yet, and then we have to turn round and trudge all the way home again,’ he warned.

  I would not heed him. I felt so buoyed up I could not control myself. I simply had to run and gambol and jump, until at last Father paused, his hand shading his eyes as he squinted into the sunlight.

  ‘That’s Benfleet Farm, over yonder,’ he said.

  I peered in the direction he pointed. I couldn’t see very much – a few fields in the midst of the moorland, a sprawl of ramshackle buildings, several tumbledown huts. Where was the farmhouse, the cow meadows, the dairy, the donkey?

  ‘Is this the farm where Mama lived?’

  ‘That’s right. Her folks didn’t own the farm. Her father was a farm hand there and her mother worked in the dairy, same as Evie, churning the milk into butter and making cheese. Benfleet cheese used to win all the awards at the County Show.’

  ‘But not any more?’

  ‘There’s only old Mrs Benfleet left now. Their only son was a simpleton, so there’s no one to run the farm. I believe old Samuel, your mam’s father – well, your grandfather – he does what he can, but he’s crooked with arthritis and can’t manage much.’

  ‘Oh, poor Grandfather,’ I said, picturing a frail, crippled old man limping his way to work. I imagined sitting him down in an easy chair, wrapping a shawl (knitted by me!) around his stooped shoulders, and then feeding gruel into his toothless old mouth . . . I could be such a comfort to him in his old age, a doting little nurse, a tender little helper. I sprang forward, eager to find him, even ready to forgive him for his terrible treatment of Mama. He must surely regret it now. He’d be haunted by the horror of casting his own daughter from his household. Surely he’d see me as a chance to make amends, to cherish his own flesh and blood.

  I vaulted over the five-barred gate. It was half hanging from its hinges. There were old milk churns lying on their sides and a rusted plough. A few scrawny chickens picked their way around the putrid slurry heap, and a tethered calf in an old shed mooed piteously. Poor old Grandfather – it was clear he could no longer manage—

  ‘Get off this land!’

  A terrifying scarecrow of a man came stumbling out of the shed, a pitchfork in his hand. He glared at me, his weathered old face turning purple with rage. His stringy grey hair grew down to his shoulders and his beard hung greasily to his chest. He wore corduroy trousers and jacket that were so old, the colour was scarcely distinguishable, a filthy grey-brown, his trousers hitched up below the knee with string.

  ‘Be off with you, you red-haired sprite of Satan!’ he shouted, flecks of spittle flying, and he started jabbing at me with his pitchfork, tearing at my dress.

  ‘Leave her be, Samuel! Stop that!’ Father shouted, rushing over to me.

  The old man spat in the mud at the sight of him. ‘You get away too, Bob Waters, or I’ll skewer you on this fork and roast you alive,’ he yelled.

  ‘Hold your breath, you mad old fool. You know very well I could knock you over with one blow,’ said Father, and he seized the pitchfork and threw it rattling across the yard. ‘Now calm down and listen to me.’

  ‘I’ll not listen to a single word from your forked tongue – I’ll tear it out first. You’re a fiend from Hell. You ruined my girl, you turned her mother mad, you blighted my life,’ the old man wheezed, shaking with fury.

  ‘I know you feel that way. I don’t blame you. I let poor Evie down, but I’m trying to make amends. See this girl, Samuel – she’s my child. Evie’s child. Your own granddaughter. She’s come all the way from London to find us. Won’t you calm down and greet her properly?’

  Samuel stopped in his tracks. He stared at me, his mouth opening and shutting, though no sound came out. He blinked his rheumy old eyes and looked right into my face while I tried not to flinch. ‘Evie’s child?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, I am Evie’s child. Hello, Grandfather,’ I said, smoothing my torn skirt.

  ‘Evie’s child,’ he repeated. He sucked in his breath – and then suddenly spat right in my face.

  I sprang back, shuddering, wiping the spittle from my cheek.

  ‘Don’t you dare spit at my girl,’ said Father.

  ‘Get her out of my sight then! I don’t want to look at the red-haired brat. She’s the cause of all our misery. She should never have been born,’ he hissed.

  ‘You are a cruel wicked man to say such a thing!’ I shouted. ‘And even more cruel and wicked to cast my poor mama out. I don’t think you can have a heart inside that wheezing old chest. No wonder it rattles so. You don’t have to worry. I wouldn’t have you for my grandfather for all the world.’

  I turned and ran. I was in such a hurry to get away that I lost my footing on the rickety gate and tumbled down, twisting my ankle most painfully. Father climbed after me and picked me up in his arms as easily as if I were a little babe.

  ‘I’m not crying because of him,’ I sobbed. ‘I’ve hurt my leg!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Father, patting me comfortingly.

  ‘You can put me down now. You will exhaust yourself, Father.’

  ‘Silly girl, you’re as light as a feather.’

  ‘Well, I’m Hetty Feather, am I not?’ I said, struggling to make a joke, though the tears were still pouring down my cheeks. ‘I am Hetty Feather – or Sapphire Battersea – or Emerald Star – or perhaps Hetty Waters now. But I know one thing. I will never ever count myself an Edenshaw, kin of Samuel. He might be Mama’s father but I would not deign to claim him as kinfolk.’

  ‘Well spoken, Hetty,’ said Father. ‘I should never have brought you here. I know Samuel has always hated me. But he has become sadly demented now. You must take no notice of the evil things he said. He has clearly lost his mind. Any other old man would welcome a lovely girl like you with open arms, Hetty, dear.’

  ‘As you did, Father,’ I said.

  It was a very long trail home. Father was very strong, but it was clear he was struggling after ten or fifteen minutes. I insisted that he put me down, but my twisted ankle was already swelling, sore in my hard old boot, and I could scarcely put it to the ground. I limped along, Father supporting me under my arm, but it was such a painful effort I was damp with sweat, though the wind was blowing harshly now and the sun was hidden by clouds.

  The direct route