Perhaps Mama would have left whether I existed or not. Perhaps she had taken against such a life. She had never spoken of it – perhaps because she hated to think about it. She must certainly have hated that father of hers.
‘I met my grandfather yesterday,’ I said.
‘Aye, I heard that – and I very much doubt he welcomed you with open arms. He’s gone soft in the head, has he not?’
‘He’s not soft, he’s very, very hard. He treated Mama dreadfully – and he called me a devil’s child and spat on me and tore my dress,’ I said. ‘I shall give up any claim on him to be my relative.’
‘Well, I’d certainly agree you’re better off without him,’ said Lizzie.
‘Lizzie, do you think I’m better off here, with Father?’ I asked earnestly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I love him, and I know Mama loved him too, and I thought I should be truly happy if I could live with him as his daughter – but now I’m wondering.’
‘Has Katherine been really hard on you?’ said Lizzie sympathetically.
‘Well, I think it’s her nature to be hard on everyone,’ I said. ‘I know she doesn’t want me here. But it’s not just that. I don’t really feel I belong here. I don’t suppose you understand.’
‘Oh I do, I do. I don’t feel I belong here either. I don’t think like the other women and yet I don’t care to be in the company of men – leastways, not the men who prop up the bar of the Fisherman’s Inn every night and drink themselves into a stupor. I’ve often thought of leaving, but I had my boys and I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d walked out on them. Or maybe I was using them as an excuse and I simply didn’t have the courage . . . No matter. It’s too late now to start a new life. I’ve nowhere to go, and I’m sure no one else would ever employ me.’
‘What about me, Lizzie? Do you think I should start a new life?’
She set my knitting aside and put her arm round me. ‘You’re the only one who can make that decision,’ she said. ‘All I know is I shall miss you terribly if you move on from here.’
‘And I would miss you too, Lizzie. You are my only friend in Monksby, apart from Father,’ I said earnestly.
I lay awake half that night, my mind whirling, trying to think what to do with the rest of my life. I felt so bewildered, almost ashamed. I had so longed to find a family, but now that I had succeeded, I still wasn’t happy.
I still think I would have stayed, in spite of my doubts and anxieties – but in the morning I received the letter from Jem that changed everything.
‘Hetty has a letter from her sweetheart!’ Mina crowed. ‘Let me read it too, Hetty!’
‘Certainly not, it’s private,’ I said, elbowing her away. This letter was stark and to the point.
My dear Hetty,
Please brace yourself. I have very sad news. Father’s heart has failed and he passed away two days ago. Mother has taken it very bad and is not herself at all. We are burying Father on the nineteenth at twelve o’clock. Please say a prayer for him at noon. I am so sorry to have to be the one to tell you this.
I am very glad for your sake that you have found your father – but I wish you were here.
This scrap of letter is written with much love from your loving brother Jem.
P.S. I wish you could come home.
It was enough. I hobbled out of bed and limped to the window. I looked out at the gulls flying overhead, greedily waiting for the boats to come in. I squinted at the sunlight, and fancied I saw the first mast bobbing over the horizon.
‘Keep safe, Father,’ I whispered. ‘And please understand. I love you, but I have to go. My first family needs me.’
9
IT TOOK ME a matter of moments to pack my few possessions. I left my nightgown out, I took my sharp little scissors and carefully unpicked the swirly S and B embroidered on the yoke. Then I threaded my needle and quickly satin-stitched a fine big L for Lizzie. She was much larger than me, but my nightdress was suitably voluminous and should still cover her decently.
I suppose by rights I should have gifted my nightdress to Katherine, seeing as she was my stepmother and had kept me under her roof – but I couldn’t find it in my heart to give her anything. I had a petticoat to give to Mina and a glass marble I’d found on the sands for Ezra. I wished with all my heart that I had something of value to give Father. In the end I snipped off a lock of my hair, tied it with green ribbon, and put it in a little envelope. I wrote carefully on the front:
To my dear father. Here is a lock of my red hair. Please keep it twined about your heart. With the greatest love and affection from your firstborn daughter Hetty.
Father broke down when he carefully spelled out the words. ‘I want to keep you, Hetty,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that you will never come back. I cannot bear to lose you already, not when I have only just found you.’
‘I will come back to visit you, Father, I promise,’ I said. ‘But my other family need me now. Poor Jem – he sounds distraught in his letter.’
‘You are a good kind girl, Hetty. I’m proud of you. But you’re still only a little sprat. You can’t travel the length of the country all by yourself.’
‘Yes I can! I travelled here, didn’t I? I shall just get on a train – a series of trains,’ I said.
‘Aren’t you afraid to travel on one of those great roaring monsters?’ said Father.
‘Oh, Father, of course not,’ I lied, showing off a little. ‘I’m not a baby. And I’ve been on lots and lots of train journeys.’
I had only been on four such journeys in my life, and my heart still pounded whenever that great puff of steam surged out of the chimney. Father looked at me doubtfully. I realized that my great brave father might be scared himself.
‘You are so like your mother, Hetty,’ he said softly. ‘So fearless and independent. She must have been so proud of you.’
I felt the tears pricking my eyelids, but I was determined not to cry now. I wanted Father to think me brave as a lion.
He went over to his shelf of blue-bound Dickens, reaching over the top of the volumes. He picked out a small purse that had been hidden behind them. He opened it and started counting coins.
‘No, Father! I don’t want your money!’
‘But the railway fare will cost a fortune!’
‘I have money saved, truly I do – more than enough.’
I had earned a shamefully large amount showing myself as a mermaid at Mr Clarendon’s Seaside Curiosities. I had spent less than half on my travel up to Monksby. I had prudently kept enough so that I could always return if I failed to find Father. And now I had found him and I suddenly wavered, wondering if I should stay after all.
‘It means all the world to me that I have found you, Father,’ I said, feeling my tears spill at last.
‘It means the world to me too, Hetty,’ said Father, and his own eyes were suspiciously bright. ‘Please take at least one of these sovereigns, even if you won’t take the whole purse.’
‘What would Katherine say if she thought you were giving me your precious savings?’ I said. ‘Truly, Father, I can’t possibly take even a penny from you.’
‘Then . . . then take a book,’ said Father, seizing hold of David Copperfield.
‘No, I can’t! That’s the story you like to read yourself!’
‘I can read another. I have the whole set.’
‘But it will spoil your set if one volume is missing!’
‘Yes, it will. So you must come back to Monksby and return it one day,’ said Father, pressing David Copperfield into my hands.
‘You are the dearest father in all the world – of course I will return it!’ I said. ‘And meanwhile I will read it and treasure it and think of you.’
We embraced, both of us clinging a little. Father stroked my hair, so that my pins scattered and my locks tumbled around my shoulders.
‘My girl,’ he whispered. Then his voice broke and he set me to one side abruptly and went out of the room so I
should not see him crying.
He should have gone to bed after his long night at sea, but he walked me to the station instead. I said goodbye to Katherine at the fish stall. Her eyes bulged and her mouth opened like one of her own fishes when she saw I was really going, suitcase packed with all my possessions.
‘Goodbye, Hetty,’ she said. Perhaps because she was in front of all her friends, she took my hands and squeezed them hard. ‘Take care, my dear,’ she added.
Her own hands were slimy with fish guts and I had to fight not to wipe mine clean on my dress. For Father’s sake I managed to parrot a few silly phrases: ‘Thank you for having me – and thank you for tending my ankle – and for trying to teach me so many things.’ I wanted to say, Thank you for being the worst stepmother in the world and I hope I never see your ugly fish-face again – but I managed to hold my tongue.
I said fond farewells to Mina and Ezra with more sincerity. Father waited with my case on the harbour wall while I limped over the rocks to Mina. I gave her a hug.
‘You will have your bed to yourself now, Mina. Be a good girl – and don’t go near Matthew Stevens for many years!’ I gave her the petticoat and she admired its frills and popped it under her dress there and then.
Father had us stop at the dame school to see Ezra – but I knew it was a waste of time looking for him there. I didn’t want to get him into trouble for truanting, but Father didn’t seem too disturbed when we found him at last on the beach round the bay, playing pirates with his friends in the old wreck of a cobblestone boat. He was too busy and boisterous to calm down and say goodbye to me properly. He just snatched the marble and said, ‘Shiver me timbers!’ in a silly voice, while all the other little boys laughed. Then he put the marble in his eye and capered about, leering comically. Father remonstrated, but I made excuses for him.
‘Let him be, Father. You know what boys are like.’
‘I know only too well,’ he said. ‘Come on, then – we haven’t got all day to wait for Ezra to calm down and recover his manners.’
We walked away, me hanging onto Father’s arm because my ankle was starting to trouble me a lot. I turned as we climbed the stone steps up to the harbour. I saw Ezra far away take the marble out of his eye and wave it at me. He was shouting something, but I couldn’t hear what it was.
‘Goodbye, little brother,’ I said, laughing a little.
We had one more stopping point before the station, and that was to see Lizzie at the Fisherman’s Inn. She saw my suitcase and her whole face crumpled.
‘Oh, Hetty, you’re not really going, are you? Oh Lord, was it because of some of the things I said?’ she cried, rushing to me.
‘No, no, Lizzie – my foster father has died. I want to go to the funeral and help the family a little,’ I assured her. ‘I have come to return your shawl. It has kept me so warm these past few weeks. You have been such a kind friend.’
‘Please keep it, Hetty. Truly, it is a gift for you. I want you to have it,’ she said.
‘Well, we both know I’m never going to be able to make my own – or if I do, it will be all over holes from dropped stitches,’ I said, laughing shakily. ‘But very well, I will keep your shawl, Lizzie, and when I feel its warmth around my shoulders I shall pretend it’s you, with your arms around me.’
‘Oh, you’re such a girl for saying sweet things. Stop it – you’ll make me cry. I shall miss you so,’ said Lizzie.
‘You mustn’t cry! Especially as I have a present for you! It’s not new, I’m afraid, but I have fashioned it so that it can only belong to you now.’
I shyly took my nightgown out of my case and handed it to her.
‘Oh, Hetty, I can’t take your nightgown!’
‘It’s not my nightgown – look!’ I showed her the large curling L I had fashioned on the yoke. ‘There, you see? L for Lizzie.’ I held it up against her anxiously. It trailed on the ground when I wore it but it barely reached Lizzie’s calves. ‘I am afraid it is a little short – and it might prove a little tight too. If it’s truly uncomfortable you can always cut the yoke away and stitch it onto another nightgown. I was planning to make you one but I did not have the time,’ I said.
‘It’s just beautiful, Hetty. I’ve never had such fine, lovely linen, not even on my wedding night.’
We kissed each other, and then Father called to me from outside, because he’d seen the first puff of smoke from the train. It was far away in the hills, but we had to run to the station, Father carrying my case. I was limping so badly now he was practically carrying me too. The train was already at the platform belching steam, ready to go, but Father shouted to the station master, begging him to wait for one more passenger.
I hastily paid for my fare to York, where I’d get the connecting train down to the south, and then ran along the platform to the third-class carriages. There was just time for Father to open the door and lift me in, thrusting my suitcase after me. The train started chugging away. We had not had time to embrace or even say goodbye. I struggled frenetically with the window, tugging at the leather strap, while Father ran alongside the train.
‘I love you, Father!’ I shouted. ‘I’m so glad I found you!’
‘Keep safe, Hetty. And stay in touch,’ he panted. Then, when he was almost out of sight, he paused and called, ‘I love you too!’
I flopped back onto the hard seat, sobbing. There were two old men sitting staring, sucking their pipes.
‘My father and I are very fond of each other,’ I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, settling my skirts about me and rubbing my throbbing ankle.
They sucked on silently, so I decided to ignore them. I extracted David Copperfield from my suitcase and opened the volume at the first page.
‘This is a present from my father. He is a very well-read man,’ I said proudly.
Father wasn’t quite as well read as I thought. The first few pages were well-thumbed, and crumpled at the corners, but after Chapter Two the pages were all silky smooth, clearly untouched.
I felt a pang when I remembered how he said it was an excellent story, one he’d read many times. I felt sadder when I got to the Yarmouth passages and met Peggotty’s family, who all lived in a fishing boat on the beach. Father would have loved Mr Peggotty and Ham, and sympathized with their travails at sea. Perhaps when I visited him again, I would bring the book and read him my favourite passages aloud?
When I arrived at York it was past lunch time, but I discovered I only had two minutes to leap from the little train and hurry across the platforms to the great big express train bound for London. My ankle was aching and my suitcase bulky and cumbersome, so I only just made it. I had no father to help open the carriage door and haul me up. I had to scramble up by myself, and slipped and banged my shins horribly on the step.
The carriage was very crowded and no one made room for me. I had to squeeze myself between two fat women who tutted and fussed and talked to each other over my head, complaining about my manners, simply because I had the effrontery to want to sit down. I sat there, thoroughly scolded, my stomach rumbling, but David Copperfield was a wonderful diversion and kept me totally entertained for countless uncomfortable hours.
I actually winced and whimpered out loud when Mr Murdstone beat young Davy – making the stout ladies start and look at me in alarm, clearly wondering if I were taken ill. Mr Murdstone’s cruelty as a step-parent was so all-encompassing that Katherine seemed almost warm and welcoming by comparison. I could not help wondering if I should have tried harder to get along with her. Perhaps Father was right, and given time we’d have learned to tolerate each other, if not actually feel true affection. I pondered this, chin in my hands – but then smelled the still powerful fishy taint on my fingers and knew it was an impossibility.
When my eyes blurred after reading twelve chapters of very small print, I hunched down even smaller, drawing Lizzie’s shawl tight around me, and, lulled by the regular judder of the train, tried to communicate with Mama. I could not will her to spe
ak to me. Sometimes I could hear her voice, sometimes not. I badly wanted her approval for my sudden departure. I was afraid she might not think it a wise decision. Mama had fidgeted and sniffed disapproval when I’d told her tales of my foster family, convinced they had not given me the greatest start in life – but she would have criticized any family, for she felt nothing was good enough for me. She would surely have found fault with a nursery at Buckingham Palace.
Perhaps she was silent now because she felt I was making a grave mistake spending the last of my money on a journey clear across the country to attend the funeral of a man I scarcely remembered – a father figure to me, but not my real father. Mama might be wondering how I could bear to leave my own dear father when I had discovered him so very recently.
‘Speak to me, Mama!’ I looked up and saw the fat ladies staring at me, and realized I’d spoken aloud.
They did their level best to edge away from me, concerned that they were sitting next to a mad person. At least it gave me a little more room.
It was dark by the time we reached London at last. There was a great hustle and bustle in the vast station. I was caught up in it, and at first I was only concerned to find a ladies’ room where I could relieve myself and wash my face. Then I purchased a meat pie and a cup of tea, and ate and drank with relish.
I looked around and wondered where to go next. I was worn out and my leg hurt and my head was spinning with all the noise and jostle and bright gaslight of the station. I knew I had to find my way to Waterloo to catch a train out to the Surrey countryside. I was not sure how to do this. I plucked up the courage to tug a kind-faced lady by the arm and asked her, but she advised taking a hansom cab.