Hetty Feather (28 page)

'Your distinctive name has been on many
people's lips since your disappearance on the trip
to Hyde Park. You have even been mentioned in the
newspapers,' said Miss Smith.

'Really!' I said, rather thrilled. 'But how did you
know
I
was Hetty the foundling when you saw me
selling flowers?'

'Oh, come now! The foundling uniform is very
distinctive, even without your cap and tippet. And,
oh dear, what happened to your boots?'

'Two horrid boys stole them.'

'There, you see, you're not safe to be on the
streets. You need to be properly cared for in
the hospital.'

'They
don't
care for me there,' I sniffed. 'You
don't know what it's
like,
Miss Smith.'

'Yes I do. At least, I have an outsider's view. I used
to visit on Sundays with my brother, Peter, though I
always felt uncomfortable staring at all of you while
you ate your Sunday dinners.'

I stared at her: her pale, serious face, her plain
charcoal-grey dress. I remembered Harriet's beloved,
the man with the tie-pin in the shape of a P . . .

'Oh, I remember you now!'

'Yes, and I remember you, the cross little
red-haired girl with the big friend who fluttered
her eyelashes at my foolish fop of a brother,' said
Miss Smith, laughing. 'Don't look abashed, Hetty.
I think you had every right to be sulky in those
particular circumstances. But I
am
concerned that
you hate the hospital so. I have recently been invited
onto the board of governors because of my rescue
work with children and my books for the Religious
Tract society. I thought the Foundling Hospital an
excellent institution in most respects. The children
all seem well-nourished and healthy, their food is
fresh and simple, and I'm particularly impressed
that everyone receives a decent education and
proper training.'

'But all the girls are trained to be
servants,'
I said.

'There is nothing wrong with being a skilled
servant, Hetty,' said Miss Smith, shaking her head
at me.

I sniffed again, lolling back in my chair.
'You
wouldn't care to be a servant, Miss Smith,' I said
impatiently.

'I agree I would sooner be a writer,' she said.
'But I wasn't joking when I said that
you
could be
a writer too, Hetty Feather. You have a very vivid
imagination and a gift with words. Your invented
life history was immensely entertaining.'

'But you didn't believe me.'

'I think if your story was down on paper, you
might write with true conviction.'

'Do you think I could really have one of my stories
published in a
book
?'

'Not yet a while. I can't quite promise you that,
Hetty. We will have to see. You will have to work
hard, practising your art. Try writing for at least
half an hour each day. I
can
promise I will keep in
touch with you and do my best to help you.'

'But I have to go back to the hospital?'

'You do indeed.'

'Matron Bottomly will be so very angry with me,'
I said.

'I dare say – but I will do my best to protect you.'
Miss Smith gave me a most unladylike wink. 'I am a
governor now, Hetty. Your Matron Bottomly has to
answer to me.'

Miss Smith gave the money for our sumptuous
meal to the waiter, who had been hovering for quite
a while. I saw how much money it was.

'My goodness, writers must earn a great deal,
Miss Smith!' I said with keen interest.

'Do not get too excited, Hetty. Many writers earn
a pittance, or cannot sell their work at all. You might
well have to earn your keep as a servant while you
hone your craft.'

'I shall start honing for all I am worth,' I said. 'If
Ida is still talking to me, I shall beg her for a whole
stack of kitchen paper and start writing my story
straight away.'

'Ida?'

'She works in the kitchen and has been my dear
friend ever since I arrived at the hospital. But I have
not
been a dear friend to her. I don't think she will
like me any more now.'

'I am sure she will, Hetty, but just in case, it might
be prudent to make a little purchase before we take
you back to the hospital,' said Miss Smith.

She took me by the hand and let me up Regent
Street and along a little arcade. She stopped outside
a stationer's shop. There were wondrous marbled
notebooks in the window, patterned with swirling
combinations of colour, some sky-blue and purple
and pearly pink; some silver and emerald and jade;
some scarlet and vivid orange and gold.

'Oh!' I exclaimed, looking at them in awe. I ran
my finger over the glass window, following the flow
of the design. 'I know the pattern is abstract, but
does that swirling shape remind you of anything?'

'It looks like feathers, Hetty,' said Miss Smith.
'How felicitous! You must select one of the notebooks
– and perhaps you need a pen?'

'I have an excellent quill pen given to me by my
long-lost friend, Polly. Oh, Miss Smith, might I have
my very own bottle of ink?' I asked.

We went inside the stationer's and I deliberated
deliciously over each and every notebook. Perhaps
the purple was the prettiest, the shades of green the
most pleasing to the eye – but I chose the notebook
with scarlet and orange swirls picked out in gold,
because it was as bright as the hair on my head.

The stationer parcelled it up in a special canvas
satchel, with a bottle of black ink in its own
little leather pouch for safe-keeping. Miss Smith
and I had only been acquainted for a matter of
hours, but I threw my arms about her and kissed
her pale cheek.

She hailed a hansom cab and asked the driver
to take us to the Foundling Hospital. I clutched my
wondrous present and tried to feel brave – but when
we drew up outside the great gates of the hospital, I
was trembling.

'Courage, Hetty,' said Miss Smith.

The gatekeeper boggled as we climbed out of
the cab. 'Oh my Lord, it's the missing child!' he
exclaimed.

'Indeed it is,' said Miss Smith. 'Come along, Hetty
dear. Let us seek out Matron Bottomly and tell her
your sad tale. Now, Hetty, quick, give me a very brief
and
truthful
resumé of the last two days.'

I told her about going to see the wrong circus in
Hyde Park, and my omnibus journey to Hampstead
Heath, and my encounter with Madame Adeline,
and my night under the bush, and my begging in the
street, and my ride on the elephant in the Zoological
Gardens, and my alarming encounter with the
weird gentleman, and my rescue by dear Sissy and
subsequent night in her room in the condemned
house. I kept it utterly concise, with no picturing
whatsoever, but we had to take three turns of the
grounds before my tale was fully told.

'My goodness, Hetty, you've certainly had
your fair share of adventures. My poor fictional
heroines lead very dull lives by comparison!' said
Miss Smith.

'Matron Bottomly will be so angry. She will
lock me up in the punishment attic for a week,' I
said fearfully.

'Wait and see, child,' said Miss Smith. 'Come now,
let us confront her.'

We went in through the girls' entrance. The
infant foundlings were all filing off to the privies
after their darning session. They stopped and stared
at me, clutching each other.

'Oh, wonders!' Nurse Winnie cried, dashing up
to us. 'It's Hetty Feather back from the dead! Oh,
Hetty, God be praised, you're safe!' She seized hold
of me and whirled me round, then gave me a kiss on
both cheeks.

'There, Hetty! Now tell me, is she one of the
cruel nurses who beat you?' said Miss Smith as
we proceeded along the corridor towards Matron
Bottomly's room.

'Nurse Winnie is a darling,' I admitted. 'But
wait till you meet Matron.
She
will not be thankful
I am back from the dead. She will very likely
wish
me dead. And buried. And burning to a crisp
in H-e-l-l.'

Miss Smith knocked on Matron Bottomly's door
and pulled me inside. Matron Bottomly's head jerked
up at the sight of me. Her mouth opened comically.
She took in my ragged, unkempt state, my missing
cap and tippet and apron, my filthy bare feet. She
took a deep breath.

'Hetty Feather!' she said. 'I
knew you
would be
the child to bring disgrace to the Foundling Hospital!
If you only knew the trouble you've caused! We have
never had a child run away before.'

'Oh no, you are very much mistaken!' said Miss
Smith quickly. 'Do let me introduce myself, Matron.
I am Sarah Smith, newly elected to your board
of governors – and very happily I rescued Hetty
myself. She did
not
run away, I assure you. She
was captured by a band of brigands at the funfair
at Hyde Park. They chloroformed the poor child
and kept her trussed up in an attic, ready to be
shipped overseas.'

Miss Smith leaned forward and hissed
dramatically, 'The white slave trade! But I happened
to be in the area reporting on slum dwellings and
I heard her desperate screams. I rescued her and
she begged me to take her back to the hospital. I
hope no long-term harm has been done to her – but
I fear her confinement will prey on her mind. She
must never be confined in a locked room again, her
nerves would never stand it.'

It was my turn to marvel at Miss Smith's
picturing. I practically applauded when she
insisted I must not be locked up! I'm not sure how
much Matron Bottomly truly believed – but Miss
Smith was a governor and she could not accuse her
of lying.

'I feel Hetty Feather is a child of enormous creative potential.
I have given her a notebook in which to write. I shall come and visit her
regularly and examine her work,' said Miss Smith. 'I am sure I can rely on
you, Matron Bottomly, to make sure Hetty is not parted from her notebook.
I know you have her welfare at heart.'

Oh, glorious and devious Miss Smith! Matron
Bottomly still hates the very sight of me, but she
allows me to write write write in this notebook! She
has
not
locked me in the punishment attic – though
I'm sure she was sorely tempted when Madame
Adeline paid a visit to the Foundling Hospital to
make sure I'd returned safely!

I have been writing my own story this past
year. Miss Smith has been writing too.
A Penny
for a Posy
has already been published. I have my
own copy, dedicated thus:
To Hetty and Sissy – and
in memory of Lil.
Miss Smith tracked them down
and paid for a doctor to attend poor little Lil, but
sadly he could not help her. However, Miss Smith's
rescue organization has found Sissy decent lodgings
away from her father, and she is now being trained
as a milliner, making neat nosegays for bonnets, so
her story ends happily too.

This is
my
story and I promise it is not a work
of fiction. I have tried hard not to exaggerate
or embroider too much. Miss Smith says very
complimentary things about my writing, but says
I have a tendency to be too fanciful. But sometimes
the truth is stranger and more wondrous than
fiction. I have kept the very best part till last.
I
have
found my mother!

I wonder if you have guessed who she is?

I had a very thorough bath the day I returned
to the hospital and was given a brand-new uniform
and new boots too. I walked into the dining room for
supper and a general hubbub broke out, with girls
clapping and crying, because everyone had been
convinced I'd disappeared for ever. Even Sheila and
Monica clasped me close! Little Eliza was beside
herself, leaping up at me like a little monkey, her
arms about my neck.

However, it was Ida who reacted most
dramatically. She took one look at me, turned
white as a sheet, and fainted dead away. She had
to be carried bodily out of the dining room by two
nurses and taken to her room. Her shoe fell off
as she was dragged away. I snatched it up and
cradled the ugly black brogue as if it was Cinderella's
glass slipper.

'I must return Ida's shoe,' I mumbled to a nurse,
and fled from the dining room, even though I had
not had my supper.

I followed the nurses and poor Ida through the
kitchens and down a long corridor to the cramped
servants' quarters. Ida's room was as small as the
punishment attic and almost as bare. The nurses
laid her down on her truckle bed. Ida murmured
my name.

'Yes, yes, Hetty Feather's here. She has scared
us all but she has turned up like a bad penny,' said
one nurse.

'Fancy you taking on so, Ida! You've a kind heart,'
said the other nurse. 'There now, you'd better rest.
Come along, Hetty, leave Ida to recover.'

'Mayn't I stay for five minutes, just to make sure
she doesn't swoon again,' I begged. 'I was so very
mean to Ida and I feel so bad about it now.
Please
let
me tell her how sorry I am.'

The nurses laughed at me, but let me stay.

'Oh, dear Ida, please be all right,' I whispered.

I smoothed the hair off her forehead and stroked
her temple. Her eyes opened. They looked very raw
and bloodshot.

'Oh, Ida, your eyes look so sore,' I said, concerned.
'Have you been crying?'

'Of course I've been crying!' Ida said. 'I've been
fair demented these last two days. I've been out
searching the streets both nights trying to find
you. I thought I'd truly lost you and I couldn't bear
it. I feared you'd run away because you thought I
favoured Sheila, when I was simply making a fuss
of her to spite you.'

'And no wonder! I was so horrid to you. Please
forgive me, dearest Ida. You mean the whole world
to me,' I declared.

Fresh tears welled in her poor eyes.

'Oh, Ida, don't!' I said, and I hugged her hard,
burying my head in her bony shoulder.

Her hands reached up and she wound her fingers
in my red hair. 'My little Hetty – my own child,' she
murmured.