Hetty Feather (27 page)

'I'm always hungry,' she said. 'But you get used
to it.'

I wasn't sure I would ever get used to this. Selling
flowers had been a novelty yesterday, but now it was
so tiring and tedious.

'Buy my sweet flowers, sir. A posy for your
lady, only a penny. Go on, sir, there's a gent,' I'd
gabble, but nearly always they walked straight past,
ignoring me. I didn't have to rub soot under my eyes
or adopt a mournful expression – I am sure I looked
genuinely ill and exhausted.

'Please, oh, please buy my flowers,' I begged, but
I could have been a sparrow cheeping for all the
attention I attracted. Then a plain lady in charcoal
grey paused nearby. She watched while Sissy and I
accosted each passing gentleman. I wondered why
she was lingering. Did she want a nosegay to brighten
her severe outfit? I smiled in her direction.

'Would you care to buy a posy, ma'am?' I asked.

She shook her head and I drooped a little more.

'Are you a regular flower-seller, child? I do not
recollect seeing you here before.' She was looking at
me strangely. 'What are you doing here?'

'She's with me, missus. She's all right,' said Sissy
protectively.

'She looks a little tired,' said the lady.

'I am, ma'am,' I said. 'If you buy some flowers,
we will be able to buy a bite to eat. We have had no
breakfast today, nor dinner.'

'Are you both very hungry?' she said. 'I have an
idea. Perhaps you would like to accompany me to a
nearby teashop?'

My heart jumped. A teashop! Oh, how I longed for
a cup of tea and a bite to eat! But Sissy was looking
dubious.

'We ain't got the wherewithal to go in no teashop,'
she said.

'I will happily pay for you,' said the lady.

'Oh, Sissy, please, do say yes!' I begged.

She still seemed reluctant. 'What's the catch,
eh?' she asked.

The lady smiled. 'Yes, you're right, Sissy, there
is
a catch. I would like to ask you a few questions.'

'What about?' Sissy looked alarmed. 'Look,
missus, we bought our flowers fair and square from
Covent Garden Market. I've got a regular pitch. We
don't get no hassle from no one, not even the police.
We're totally honest and respectable. We never go
off with no gentlemen.'

'I'm sure you're right. I'm not here on any official
business, I promise you. I'll be frank. I'm a writer. My
books are published by the Religious Tract Society.
They are stories of street children very much like
you.'

'What's your name then?'

'Sarah Smith.'

Sissy looked at me. 'You read books, Hetty. Have
you ever heard of her?'

The only children's writers I knew of were
Mr Andersen and the two Mr Grimms. I'd had no
idea that ladies could write storybooks. I looked at
Sarah Smith with great interest. She was staring
back at me.

'So you can read, Hetty?' she said. 'Who taught
you?'

Ah. I had to be a little careful now. I could not
breathe a word about the hospital or she'd act like
Madame Adeline, and want to take me straight
back.

'My brother Jem taught me, ma'am,' I said,
truthfully enough.

'And where is he now?'

'I lost him long ago,' I said sadly.

'So what is your name, child?'

'Hetty Feather, ma'am.'

She nodded as if she approved of my name. 'Then
do please come with me, Hetty. And you too, Sissy.
I simply wish to ask you a few questions to use
as background for a new story of mine. I'm
thinking of calling it
A Penny for a Posy.
Do you
like the title? It will be all about little flower-sellers
like you.'

'Could you put us
in
your story, ma'am?' I asked
excitedly. 'Could you use our names? Oh, I should so
like to be in a real storybook.'

'I don't want
my
name in no storybook,'
said Sissy.

She made it clear she was only accompanying
me on sufferance. We made our way out to the busy
thoroughfare of Regent Street. I thought we would
go to a humble teashop full of working folk, but Miss
Smith made for the door of a grand restaurant, all
great glass windows and gilt decoration.

'We can't go in there. We'll get chased away,' said
Sissy. 'It's much too grand for the likes of us.'

Certainly the waiter at the door was looking
us up and down and glaring. Sissy was neat
enough in her print dress, but her hair was
straggly and she wore men's boots with their soles
flapping. I looked even worse by now, my hair
a-tangle, my brown dress dirty and crumpled, my
bare feet filthy.

'We are too shabby, miss,' I said.

'Nonsense,' said Miss Smith, taking our hands.
She led us into the restaurant, giving the waiter
haughty directions. 'We would like a table for three,
please. Could we have the menu brought straight
away? My companions are very hungry.'

The waiter bowed reluctantly and ushered us to
a table right in the corner. He held the chair out for
Miss Smith and then hesitated. Miss Smith coughed
reprovingly. The waiter sat Sissy and me down too,
though he grimaced, as if he'd been asked to seat
two monkeys at the zoo.

He made a particular to-do over Sissy's flower
basket, trying to take it from her. Sissy hung onto it
determinedly.

'I'll put these in the cloakroom for you, miss,'
he said.

'No, you don't! I want them where I can see them.
Anyone could help themselves in the cloakroom,'
said Sissy.

'Yes, that basket will be fine at our feet, under
the table. The flowers smell heavenly,' said
Miss Smith.

The waiter did as he was told, though he raised his
eyebrows and sighed. Sissy jutted her chin out and
glared back at him, but she was biting her lip and
fiddling with a lock of her lank hair. She stared at the
gleaming knives and forks on the white tablecloth
before us, clearly unused to copious cutlery.

The waiter handed us three large menus. Sissy
stared at hers, blinking rapidly.

'What would you like?' said Miss Smith. 'You can
have anything on the menu. What's your favourite
food, Sissy?'

Sissy shrugged her shoulders, seeming
ungracious because she simply did not know what
to say. I glanced down the long list of items, utterly
astonished at the choice. I'd had no idea you could
select whatever you wanted in a restaurant. I would
have liked to linger over my choices, picturing each
dish, but I knew I had to help Sissy as tactfully as
possible. The words on the menu were just elegant
squiggles to her.

'If you please, I would like the steak-and-kidney
pudding,' I said. 'Would you like that too, Sissy?'

Sissy nodded dumbly.

Miss Smith summoned the waiter back and
ordered two meat puddings for us, and a little
fish for herself. Then she poured us a glass of
water each from a crystal carafe. Sissy and I drank
thirstily while Miss Smith sipped. She started
asking Sissy questions, perhaps trying to put her at
her ease.

'How long have you been selling flowers, Sissy?'

'Since I was little.'

'And what do you do in winter, when fresh flowers
are in short supply?'

'Sell oranges.'

'Is your mother a flower-seller too?'

'No, miss, she sewed stuff.'

'What sort of a seamstress was she?'

'I dunno.'

'And what about your father?'

Sissy sniffed, not bothering to reply. Miss Smith
persisted gently, but Sissy's answers became more
and more monosyllabic.

Then our dinners arrived and all our attention
was taken by the steak-and-kidney pudding, a great
soft suet mound stuffed with choice meat and oozing
with gravy. There were potatoes too, and carrots and
peas, a big plateful.

I waited cautiously in case Miss Smith wanted to
say grace, but Sissy simply sat, stunned.

'You may begin, girls,' said Miss Smith.

I picked up my knife and fork and Sissy copied
me, though she held the knife in her left hand and
the fork in her right. I did not like to tell her in case
I embarrassed her. She struggled with her cutlery
but still managed to eat with gusto. I was surprised
to see the inroads she'd made on her pudding almost
immediately. Then I realized she'd transferred half
of it to the napkin on her lap. I guessed she wanted
to take it home for Lil. I hoped it wouldn't ooze
gravy too soggily.

'Now, Hetty, it's your turn to sing for your supper,'
said Miss Smith. 'Tell me about your life. How did
you come to be a flower-seller? What did you do
before that? Start right from the beginning.'

Sissy looked anxious, but I smiled serenely. I felt
Miss Smith had been short-changed by Sissy, who
hadn't provided her with any telling details for her
Penny for a Posy
story. I decided to do my best. I
could not tell the truth of course, and relate my
own
story. I could picture a much more colourful tale.

'I was born in the country, but my dear mother
died when I was born,' I began. 'Father went to pieces
and started drinking. It wasn't so bad when he came
home merry, but he could get into fearsome tempers
sometimes and we all trembled in our beds.'

Sissy stared at me, astonished that I was
appropriating
her
father. I carried on determinedly,
picturing for all I was worth, inventing a cruel
stepmother who sent me off to work in a loathsome
factory when I was only eight, and a grasping landlord
who cast us out into the streets. I told of two evil
women, Miss Peters and Miss Bottomly, gin-soaked
old harridans, who harassed us most dreadfully. To
give my story a little variety I had a magical episode
when I joined a circus and performed nightly in a
magnificent equestrian act.

I continued this alternative life history throughout
my steak-and-kidney pudding, and talked non-stop
through a plum tart and custard, and then a cup of
real coffee and a little dish of chocolates.

Sissy stayed silent and open-mouthed, only
fidgeting when I told Miss Smith the prices of flowers
and my favourite Covent Garden supplier, because
I was clearly getting a few of my facts wrong. I was
not deterred, however. So long as I spoke fluently,
filling in many little details, I was absolutely certain
I was convincing.

Miss Smith seemed to think so anyway. She took
copious notes in her black notebook.

'There!' I said eventually, feeling that I had
certainly earned our splendid dinner. 'Will you put
some of my story in your book, Miss Smith?'

'I am very tempted,' she said, closing her notebook
and smiling at me. 'However, I think
you
should
write your story, Hetty. You are far more inventive
than I am. I rather suspect your story is pure fiction
from beginning to end, but twice as interesting for
that very reason.'

I blinked at her. 'What – what do you mean?'
I said.

'She means she knows you're telling whopping
great lies, Hetty,' said Sissy, standing up. She had
her napkin of suet pudding carefully tucked under
her shawl. She reached for her flower basket. 'Come
on, little 'un. Time to scarper.'

'No, wait, Sissy! I haven't paid you for your
time,' said Miss Smith. She fumbled in her
reticule and brought out two silver half-crowns and
a little card.

'This card has my name and an address on it.
It is an office off The Strand where we are setting
up a rescue society for young girls on the street. If
you show anyone the address, they will be able to
direct you there. You will always be sure of a warm
welcome – and if you ever find yourself in need of
new accommodation or an alternative occupation,
we will do our best to help you. Now off you go, my
dear. Thank you so very much for taking care of
Hetty, but she is in my charge now. I will take her
back to the Foundling Hospital.'

I stared at her. How did she
know
? I hadn't
breathed a word to her about the hospital. I looked
at Sissy. 'You didn't tell her, did you?'

'Of course I didn't,' said Sissy. She looked at
Miss Smith. 'She can't go back there, miss. They're
dreadful cruel to her there – they whip her and lock
her up in attics.'

'Do they, Hetty?' said Miss Smith. 'Answer
truthfully now.'

'They will quite
definitely
lock me up if you take
me back there now!' I said.

'We will see about that,' said Miss Smith. 'Don't
worry about Hetty, Sissy. I promise I will make sure
she's all right. You have clearly been very kind to
her and looked after her well, but I don't think she
could survive on the streets without you.'

'I'll say!' said Sissy. She pocketed Miss Smith's
coins, eyes gleaming at the thought of what they
could buy in the way of treats for Lil.

'Take the card too, please. And do not hesitate to
use it,' said Miss Smith.

'Thank you kindly, miss.' Sissy took the card and
then lugged her flower basket off the floor. 'Have a
posy, do. And you truly won't be too hard on Hetty?
She was only romancing. She tells lovely stories –
she can't seem to help it.'

She handed Miss Smith her biggest bunch of
roses, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and then
lumbered out of the restaurant with her basket,
taking care to bump into the supercilious waiter on
her way out.

I could not bear to see her go. I got up to run
after her, but Miss Smith had hold of me.

'No, Hetty.'

I started crying. 'Poor Sissy truly does have a
dreadful father, and they don't have enough food,
and there's a little sister, Lil, but she is very ill and I
think she is dying,' I wept. 'I swear I'm not picturing
now, Miss Smith.'

'I know. Sissy seems a brave, resilient girl, but
she certainly has a very hard life. But tell me, Hetty,
do you really want that life for yourself? You know
you don't belong on the streets.'

'Perhaps that's true – but I
don't
want to belong
to the hospital,' I said. 'I still don't understand how
you knew I came from there.'