Brightling (4 page)

‘Oh well, dear, you'd better come and help me in the scullery,' Betty Nash said, finishing her food at last. ‘Tapper won't be any use, will he?'

There was a deep stone sink in the narrow scullery and it was already filled with murky water. Sparrow rolled up her sleeves and began to wash the plates and forks. Through the window she thought she saw Scaramouch creeping along the wall beneath the trees. She longed to join him.

‘ …  The thing is, Sparrow,' Betty was saying, ‘I've got to finish sewing the spitfyres tonight. There's a travelling salesman coming along first thing in the morning to collect them. Fifteen he wants, and that's what I've promised, but now Tapper's hurt he won't be able to sew. What can I do?'

Sparrow clamped her mouth shut. No, no, no! She would not stay and help. She wanted to leave. She went quickly to the other room and opened the front door. Scaramouch was there, thank goodness, his tail curled neatly around his front legs as he watched her from his perch on the wall.

‘I'm sorry, but I must go,' she told Betty.

Tapper came back in, with his hand wrapped up in a grubby bandage.

‘There, there, poor little boy,' Betty said. ‘You go and sit down, dear. Does it hurt an awful lot, your poor hand?'

Tapper nodded. ‘So, what shall we do, Ma? What can we say to that travelling man when he comes in the morning? Fifteen spitfyres to finish and we've only done three, so?'

Betty Nash began to cry. ‘We'll manage somehow. We have to.' She adjusted her spectacles and dabbed at her eyes with the ends of her plaits. ‘I'll just have to try and do the sewing myself, even though I can hardly see a thing, I'm so blind. Perhaps I can manage one or two. Heavens above! We'll starve; we'll have nothing to eat all week. Not a crumb. Not a morsel.'

Sparrow stood on the doorstep, the sun on her face, her back cold. She felt herself being sucked back into the cottage, into the arms of the Nashes  … 

‘Don't cry, Ma, please don't take on so!' Tapper said. ‘We'll get by.'

‘I'll do it!' Sparrow spoke quickly, stepping back into the room and shutting the door. ‘Of course I will. Please don't cry, Mrs Nash. Please don't.'

They were all thanks and praise. Within a minute they had lit the oil lamp beside her, striking a real match so there was no messing around with a tinderbox, and supplied her with needles and thread and scissors. They piled fabric and some half-finished spitfyres onto the table beside her.

‘What a lambkin of a girl,' Betty said. ‘How big-hearted she is to help poor old Betty.'

Sparrow gritted her teeth. ‘It's nothing,' she managed to say. ‘Nothing.'

She set about the work with Betty on one side and Tapper on the other, watching every stitch.

The spitfyres were in various stages of completion. Some still needed stuffing and Tapper began to rip up some flowered cotton into small strips for the wadding.

‘That's pretty, that stuff,' Betty Nash said, idly fingering the fabric. ‘Tiny little daisies.'

Sparrow looked up and glanced at it. ‘There was a girl at the orphanage with a dress made of that,' she said.

Betty stiffened. Tapper paused in his ripping.

‘What's the matter?' Sparrow said. ‘I just said, it's like her dress. Caroline Creevy, she had a dress made of that. She left last winter.'

‘Oh, really? Did she, dear, that's nice,' Betty Nash said. ‘Common stuff, that daisy pattern is. Very common.' She pushed it away, deep into a bag. ‘You're doing grand there, Sparrow, my lamb. Such nice stitches; such lovely, neat knots and you're really good with their eyes.'

‘Thank you.' Sparrow couldn't help enjoying the sewing; her nimble fingers were expert at making tiny, neat stitches. She loved the way the spitfyres came to life in her hands; she knew she was good. Her spitfyres were so lifelike it wouldn't be hard to imagine them flying.

On and on she worked, until her wrists and neck ached and the tips of her fingers were sore from being pricked by the needle. She was sure that she'd done more than enough spitfyres but still the unfinished ones kept coming. The next time she glanced at the window it was getting dark. ‘Oh! It's late. I must go,' she cried, standing up. ‘Have I done enough?'

‘You can't leave, lambkin. You must stay the night,' Betty Nash said quickly. ‘The road isn't safe at night. There are robbers and all sorts on the Stollenback road.'

‘No, I – I must go. I must get on. Scara— that old cat will be waiting for me.' Sparrow piled the scraps of fabric and half-done spitfyres on the table. ‘I'll be fine. Don't worry about me.'

But now Tapper was standing too and he had his hand on her arm. Holding her.

‘It's too dangerous, Sparrow,' Betty Nash said. ‘Too risky. You really should stay.'

Tapper moved quickly and drew the bolt across the door with a rumbling crash. ‘It's dangerous out there,' he said. ‘'Specially for little girls all alone, so.'

‘We couldn't let you go, little lambkin poppet, not when it's so late and so dark,' Betty said. ‘We'd never forgive ourselves if anything happened to you.'

‘But –'

‘There's a room for you upstairs. Here's a candle, and the bed's made up all neat and clean again,' she said, smiling. ‘You need a good rest.'

Sparrow stood her ground. ‘I want to leave,' she said. ‘You can't keep me here. Unlock the door, please.'

Tapper was at her side and his hand was cold and heavy in the small of her back, like a stone. ‘So, now now, orphanage girl,' he said. ‘Don't be flighty. Course you want to leave, but trust us. Safer here than out there.' She recoiled from him, hating his smell, hating him touching her, and moved away. But despite her attempt to go towards the door, Tapper guided her firmly up the narrow stairs.

Sparrow was amazed at how strong he was. It was like pushing against a bar of iron.

‘No, please, please!' Sparrow called back to Mrs Nash. ‘Don't let him!'

Betty plonked herself down in an armchair, grinning. ‘It's for the best,' she said, waving her grey plait at her and nodding. ‘Good night, my precious lambkin. Sleep well.'

There was nothing Sparrow could do and, somehow, seconds later, she was pushed into a little room under the thatch and the door was being firmly shut behind her.

Sparrow sank onto the bed beneath the low, sloping ceiling and stared around in horror. They had trapped her! Horrible, horrible people! They were forcing her to stay!

She could hear Tapper and Betty muttering together downstairs. What did they want with her? She glanced at the bed. Who had slept here before? Feeling afraid, she got up and went to the small closet in the corner. Inside were two faded dresses. Small dresses, about her size. A shabby pair of badly worn-down shoes were tucked in below. She closed the cupboard and went back to perch on the edge of the hard, narrow bed. Next to the bed was a bucket to catch drips; there was a hole in the ceiling – the plaster was stained brown and looked soft from years of leaking. The bedside table had a drawer. Inside the drawer she found a thimble and a felt bundle of needles with spots of rust on the material. Or was it blood?

She looked down at her own fingers – pricked and sore from all the sewing.

Her mind was racing and her heart booming loudly in her ears.

Whose room had this been? Who had slept here before? Had Caroline Creevy been here? Where was she now?

She heard mother and son creak up the stairs and doors open and close. The house grew silent around her. The candle was nearly finished; it was beginning to splutter, sending scary shadows over the walls. The thatch above her seemed to tick and breathe.

How exactly had Tapper burned his hand so badly? Sparrow wondered. There was no fire in the scullery, no boiling water, nothing hot. She felt her pulse race suddenly.

It had all been a lie.

It had been a trap.

She looked around desperately; she had to get out. Now!

6

The door was locked; of course it was!

Sparrow twisted the handle a few times quietly, gave up and sank back on the bed. Idiot! She was a stupid girl, really stupid. They had kidnapped her. They wanted to keep her here for ever, making those little spitfyres  …  But the travelling salesman was due to come tomorrow – he'd help her  … 

No! She hit the bed. Of course he wouldn't come! That had been another lie to make her work, to make her feel sorry for them. Mrs Nash had said it was Tapper who took the spitfyres to Stollenback to sell, anyway, not a salesman. They planned to keep her prisoner and make her sew for them for ever and ever until, like her predecessor, her fingers broke and bled and she  …  died?

There was no window, no way of looking out. No means of escape.

Sudden small, scuttling noises above her head made her catch her breath; and she slid into the corner against the wall, listening. It was a scratching, rustling sort of noise in the ceiling. Was it mice? Squirrels? A few crumbs of grey plaster trickled out from the stained and cracked patch on the ceiling. The scratching noise grew louder. It had to be a mighty big squirrel up there, she thought  … 

Unless  … 

‘Meow!'

Sparrow leaped forward. ‘Scaramouch!' she whispered at the ceiling. ‘Puss? Is that you?' Another soft meow told her it was. He was right above her. He must have got in through one of the holes in the thatch and now he was digging away at the soggy lathe and plaster in the ceiling, trying to get to her. She reached up to the gaping hole and began to pull at the soft, crumbling stuff. It must have been rained on for years, because it broke up in her hands, showering horsehair, thin strips of lathe, dust, twigs and cobwebs down on her head and the bed. She shook out her hair.

‘I'm OK,' she whispered, shaking off the dust. ‘I'm fine. I'm here!'

Scaramouch was just above her; she could almost feel his paws and claws as they dug overhead, but she couldn't see him. Every time she stopped pulling at the ceiling, he called to her, encouraging her to go on. It didn't take long to drag out all the soft, wet plaster and strips of old wood – then there was Scaramouch; his glittering eyes shining down at her with affection and mischief.

‘Meow!'

He disappeared again and Sparrow felt the cold night air on her cheeks and caught a glimpse of the moon far above.

‘Meow!' He was calling for her to join him.

Very quietly, she pulled the bedside table over so it was beneath the ragged hole in the ceiling. She climbed onto it and pushed her way up into the cool, dark cavity of the roof. Moonlight flooded in through the hole. She couldn't stand up because the twiggy thatch was too low. She knelt and began to dig and scrape at it, widening the hole where Scaramouch had come in. Seconds later she pulled herself through and was sitting on top of the cottage roof.

Her heart was beating hard. She had to catch her breath. Listen. Make sure no one was stirring in the house. Scaramouch flowed alongside her, already on the move.

‘Wait! Hold on!' But he wouldn't.

Wide branches of the large old murgberry tree lay over the roof and Scaramouch immediately bounded into the leaves and headed for the ground.

Sparrow clambered down the tree more slowly. The plump, red murgberry fruit burst against her skin, leaving a bitter smell. Typical that the Nashes would have a tree of poisonous, smelly fruit by their house, she thought.

At last she was on the ground, her legs wobbling and turned to jelly from the climb. She glanced at the cottage; the windows were all dark and it was quiet.

‘Meow!' Scaramouch was already on the move again.

‘Blimey, Scaramouch,' Sparrow said, readying herself to follow him, ‘Stollenback won't be going anywhere, you know. Here I come!'

The night sky was awash with stars. The moon hung like a yellow hook, low and gleaming. It was cold, and sparkles of frost glittered on stones and blades of grass. They walked for hours.

‘Mustn't stop yet,' Sparrow said. ‘Keep going, keep going as long as we can. They might be coming after us, those two.' And the thought of the menacing Tapper creeping up behind her and catching hold of her collar with his filthy, cold fingers made her hurry, even though she was exhausted and all she wanted to do was sleep. She began to dream about getting into a bed with a soft, fresh pillow and closing her eyes.

Although she couldn't see very clearly, she sensed the countryside changing around her and the fact that hedges and woods and sometimes buildings now surrounded her. Still she didn't dare stop and find shelter, not yet.

Suddenly she paused. ‘What was that?' she whispered.

They both stood still.

She was frozen, staring backwards into the blackness of the path behind them. ‘Oh, no! Scaramouch, is that them? Is Tapper coming?'

But it wasn't footsteps she could hear. No, it was something swishy, sighing, like the beating wings of a giant bat. Sparrow knelt down beside Scaramouch and they both stared up into the sky.

The sound grew louder and louder, as if great sheets of card were beating the air. A burst of golden orange and yellow, high above, was so surprising that Sparrow gasped out loud. In the splash of brilliant light she saw –

Spitfyres!

Two magnificent flying horses were in the air above her and Scaramouch, gusting out clouds of fiery breath. Their vast, leathery wings moved in unison, creaking gently, flapping lazily, effortlessly, as they flew over the treetops and came towards her. The spitfyres were ridden by sky-riders wearing goggles and tight-fitting clothes.

Hoooosh!
One spitfyre blew out again and the air was alight with dots of gold and silver and red-hot sparks, which dazzled and glittered, hanging in the dark. The sky-riders must have spied her crouching there because they waved and, even from this distance, Sparrow could see they looked exhilarated and happy. She waved back.

The spitfyres flew round in a circle above them. They tipped their wings so they were almost flying on their sides and then righted themselves, breathing out clouds of gold as they flew. Slowly they spiralled up into the air, gaining height with every turn until they were nothing but bright specks in the sky, like stars, and disappeared.

Sparrow sighed. She felt she'd seen the most wonderful thing ever and was very sad and very content at the same time. She glanced at Scaramouch. His eyes shone and his fur seemed to sparkle. It made her feel sure the spitfyres had thrilled him too.

‘How far to Stollenback?' Sparrow asked Scaramouch as they walked on. ‘I hope not far. When we get there, I'm going to find some work and lodgings and some kind people to live with. Then we can write to Mary and Little Jean and all the other girls and they can come and live with us too. It will be wonderful. And we'll find Sampson's of Stollenback, won't we? Sparrow Sampson. That sounds good.'

‘Meow.'

‘Exactly.'