Hetty Feather (17 page)

'Yes, I can,' said Nurse Winnie.

She carried me out of the infirmary, along the
corridor, all the way to the boys' wing.

'Oh, Nurse Winterson, I love you dearly! Thank
you so much. I need to see my brother Gideon so
badly,' I said.

'I know you do, Hetty. I will make sure you
see him.'

She pushed open a door with her hip and we
entered a room with the familiar smell of carbolic
and sickness. There were boys in the beds, sniffing
and coughing, and a nurse bending over a boy at
the end, looking grave. She was startled at the sight
of us.

'Don't be alarmed. I have brought Hetty to see
her brother,' said Nurse Winnie.

'Gideon! Oh, Gideon, I'm here!' I cried.

But it wasn't Gideon lying in the bed.

'Oh goodness! It's
Saul
! But . . . is Gideon all
right?' I begged the nurse. 'My brother Gideon?
He's very frail, with a weak chest. Where is
he? Oh please, he hasn't died and gone to join
the angels?'

'Hush, child, keep your voice down. Saul is very
sick. But Gideon is perfectly healthy. He has not
caught the influenza,' said the nurse.

'You promise that's true?' I said, not certain I
could trust her.

'Hetty!' said Nurse Winnie. 'Now, dear, do you
have some words of comfort for your brother Saul?'

He was the
wrong
brother. I really wanted to
rush out of the infirmary and find Gideon so I could
see for myself that he was truly well – but I knew
that in the circumstances this would not be looked
on favourably. So I took a deep breath and stared
down at Saul.

He was lying wretchedly in bed, his curls damp
with sweat, his cheeks flushed with fever.

'Hello, Saul,' I said softly. 'It's me, Hetty.'

'I'm not sure he'll know you, child. He's very
fevered,' said the nurse.

But Saul's brown eyes were open, staring straight
at me. He knew me all right. He'd heard me burble
about Gideon. He knew I'd never have begged to
come and visit him. I suddenly felt terrible.

'Oh, Saul,' I said, wishing I could cry to look truly
sorry. 'Oh, poor Saul, you look so ill. I've been ill too,
but not as much as you. It must hurt so much. Here,
let me hold your hand.'

I tried to take it, but he pulled away from me.

'I know you don't like me, but never mind,
because I like
you,'
I said. I was lying now, but it
seemed only right and fair. 'You are my dear brother
and I wish I could comfort you. I wish Mother could
come.'

Saul's eyes filled with tears. I tried desperately
hard to think what it must be like to be him.

'I think Mother loved you best,' I whispered,
bending down beside him. I started stroking his
damp hair. This time he didn't try to push me
away. 'Yes, you were her special baby, her little
lamb, but then Gideon and I came along and she
had to attend to us. You got pushed out of the way.
No wonder you did not like us. But Mother still
loved you best. When she took you to the hospital
she was so sad. She could barely speak for days
after, she just moped in a corner, missing her special
boy.'

'Hetty, Hetty, try to
cheer
your little brother,' said
Nurse Winterson.

But Saul was smiling a little and I knew my words
were cheering him immensely. I stayed crouched
by his side, whispering to him about Mother, and
he stopped tossing restlessly and curled closer. His
hand was near mine, and this time when I took it he
clasped me back.

His eyelids starting drooping. When they closed, I
started uneasily, fearful that he might be dead – but
I could hear his laboured breaths and the wheezing
of his chest.

'Come, Hetty. He is sleeping peacefully now. I
must take you back,' said Nurse Winnie.

I staggered to my feet, stumbling over something
on the floor. It was Saul's crutch.

'He'll not be needing that any more,' said the sharp-
faced nurse ominously, tidying it into a cupboard.

I burst out crying then. It was almost as if she'd
taken Saul himself and stowed him in the cupboard.
I cried all the way back to the girls' wing, though
Nurse Winnie did her best to console me. She was
sorry for me, and doubtless frightened lest any other
nurse asked why I was crying so. I tried to stop,
because I didn't want to get her into trouble, but I
felt too sad. For all I prided myself on my picturing
skills, I'd never before imagined what it was like
to be Saul. I had pitied myself often enough, and
fretted about dear Gideon, but I'd never cared a jot
for Saul.

I resolved to be a true sister to him if by some
miracle he made a full recovery. I'd disguise myself
in breeches again and slip along to the boys' wing
on a regular basis. I'd make a great fuss of
both
my brothers. I'd wheedle sweets out of the Sunday
visitors and hide them away from the thieving big
girls. I'd keep every one for Saul and Gideon, and
take pleasure in seeing them suck them. They'd
give me sticky embraces, telling me I was their dear
sister Hetty.

But the next morning I heard the boys' nurse
whispering to Nurse Winnie. I heard Saul's
name – and I knew he was dead. I started crying
anew.

'Oh, Hetty, you have such sharp ears! You poor
lamb, I am so sorry. Still, at least you were able to
say goodbye to him,' said Nurse Winnie.

'I can't bear it if he's really dead,' I sobbed. 'I
haven't had time to make him like me!'

'Of course he liked you, Hetty. You were a lovely
sister to him. You must try not to grieve so. He will
be happy now in Heaven. He will be there with our
dear Sarah.'

I tried to imagine Saul and Sarah playing
together in white angel nightgowns. I did not think
Saul would care for Sarah. Her nose would run
and she would start wailing. He would provoke her
and prod her with his crutch.

'Nurse Winterson, will Saul be lame in Heaven?'

'No, that is the joyous thing. God will cure him.
Saul will be able to run around on two strong legs.
Isn't that wonderful?'

'Why couldn't God cure him
here
?' I said.

'Oh, Hetty, you're such a child for questions,
even when you're ill,' said Nurse Winterson,
sighing hard.

They let me out of the infirmary the next day.
Polly greeted me with a great hug.

'I thought you might die and then I couldn't bear
it,' she said fervently.

'I think I
nearly
died. Sarah did – and my
brother Saul.'

'Will you go to their funerals?' Polly asked
in awe.

I rather hoped I
would
go. I had never been to
a funeral, but it seemed to be a very grand and
sombre occasion – and anything was better than the
monotony of the hospital routine. I think they must
have
had
funerals, but I wasn't invited. We sang a
special hymn in chapel on Sunday – and that was
the last time their names were ever mentioned.

Christmas was coming but I didn't know whether
to get excited. I asked Harriet how it was
celebrated at the hospital.

'Christmas is rather like a special Sunday,' she
said, which depressed me utterly.

I hated the long cold hours in chapel. I'd started
to hate Sunday dinner too. I still simpered so that
the ladies and gentlemen would give me sweets, but
the big girls were wise to me now, and stole them
all from me the moment I stepped outside the
dining room.

I tried looking to Harriet for protection, but she
had developed a ridiculous passion for one of the
younger gentlemen visitors and hung back, blushing
and smiling, frequently the very last foundling out
of the dining room.

He wore a gold tie-pin in the shape of a P, so
Harriet spent entire
hours
wondering if he was a
Philip, a Peter or a Paul.

'I think I heard his wife calling him
Peregrine,'
I fibbed, making up the silliest name I could
think of.

'Nonsense, Hetty! And that lady isn't his
wife,
she's far too old, years and years older than him.
She might even be his mother, though I rather think
she is his older spinster sister.'

She was a very plain, pale, serious-seeming
lady who always wore plain charcoal-grey dresses
with no adornments – so perhaps Harriet was
right.

She certainly seemed convinced he was fancy-free
and conducting a full-scale flirtation with her, though
as far as I could see he didn't so much as glance in
her direction. But she was happy to dream.

'Will all the ladies and gentlemen gawp at us
when we eat our Christmas dinner too?' I said.

'Oh yes!' said Harriet happily. 'And they will be
in the chapel for the Christmas service with the
choir and the
tableau vivant.'

'What's a
tableau vivant
?' I asked.

'Oh, it's very pretty, a representation of
the Nativity. I hope each year that I might get
picked as Mary. I would so love to play the virgin
mother in all her holiness with everyone gazing –
especially
him.'

I knew all about the Nativity. Every Christmas
time Mother hung up a big picture of baby Jesus in
the manger, with all his visitors adoring him.

'So is this
tableau vivant
like a play?'

'There are no words, Hetty, and you have to keep
very still. It's like a living picture.'

This wasn't such good news. It didn't sound as
if anything
happened.
I longed for drama, angels
proclaiming at the tops of their voices, innkeepers
turning away the holy couple, wise men processing
with their exotic gifts.

'How do we know who is who if no one moves or
says anything?' I said.

'Don't be so silly! They wear special costumes.
Mary has a beautiful dress of brilliant blue and a
long white veil,' said Harriet, sighing wistfully.
'Imagine!'

Oh, I could imagine. I suddenly understood.
Harriet had been wearing an ugly brown dress and
a ridiculous cap since she was five years old.

'I do hope you get to be Mary,' I said. 'Or if not,
perhaps
I
could be Mary?'

My heart beat fast at the thought. I pictured
myself in that blue dress, felt the soft bright
silk on my arms, the long veil brushing past my
shoulders.

'Oh, Hetty!' said Harriet, and I saw she was
trying not to laugh. 'You are much too little. And
you have red hair.'

I was rather put out by this. Harriet was meant
to be my friend.

'I could stand on a box. And my hair wouldn't
show much underneath my veil,' I said, a little
sulkily. However, I had another idea. 'Or as I am
really little, perhaps I could be baby Jesus? I could
crouch inside a box, and be like baby Jesus in
the manger.'

This time Harriet couldn't help laughing heartily.
'You are so comical, Hetty! You couldn't possibly
pass as Jesus! No, they have a
real
baby, one of the
new foundling babes from the nurseries. Last year
it cried so loudly that it almost drowned out the
singing of the choir.'

'I could do that. I am very good at crying,'
I said. 'Who chooses the children for the
tableau
vivant
?'

'I'm not sure,' said Harriet. 'Perhaps the matrons
and the nurses?'

I had no chance at all if Matron Pigface Peters
had any say. But dear Nurse Winnie would surely
put in a good word for me.

'Or maybe it's the teachers,' said Harriet.

Aha! Miss Newman was too strict a teacher
to have obvious favourites, but we all knew she
favoured Polly and me because we were the cleverest.
Perhaps she would pick both of us? I thought hard
about costumes. I did not wish to be a shepherd or
a guest at the inn. Their costumes would be very
commonplace. But the wise men would surely
wear fine gowns of velvet and brocade – and if
they were kings, they should have golden crowns on
their heads!

'Oh, Harriet, we could be the three wise men!'
I said. 'You could be the big one and you could be
first to bow down to baby Jesus and give him a big
present. And then Polly could be the middle-sized
wise man and give a middle-sized present. Then I
could come last and be a teeny tiny wise man with a
very teeny tiny present.'

Harriet laughed so hard that tears rolled down
her cheeks. 'It's not
Goldilocks and the Three Bears,
Hetty! You are so funny! And besides, we are girls,
so we only play the lady parts. The boys always play
the wise men.'

'But that isn't fair!' I reckoned it up, counting
on my fingers. 'There are heaps and heaps of men
parts. There are only two lady parts, Mary and the
innkeeper's wife. Unless – is an angel a man or a
lady?'

Harriet did not look sure. 'I think an angel can
be either,' she said.

'Then I could be an angel and wear a long white
nightgown. Oh, and I could have
wings,
great
feathery wings. Do you think I could have wings
that really fly?'

'Pigs
might fly before they let you be an angel,
Hetty,' said Harriet. 'Everyone says how fierce and
bad you are. And you fidget so. You could never
be part of a
tableau vivant
where you have to
stand still as still throughout the entire service.
Now stop plaguing me about the
tableau vivant.
Tell me, did you happen to notice the exquisite
cravat my gentleman was wearing this
morning?'

But I was in a sulk and did not want to discuss
Philip-Peter-Paul-Peregrine. I didn't care if he was
choked by his own exquisite cravat. I just wanted to
be in the
tableau vivant.

I told Polly all about it that night.

'We could both be angels, Polly. Well, perhaps
not the big special angel who tells the wise men
about Jesus.'

'Gabriel,' said Polly.

'Yes, that one. But there are lots of
other
angels
– the hymn says,
A host of heavenly angels,
and I'm
sure a host means a great deal. So we could be small
angels, baby ones—'

'Cherubs,' said Polly.

'Yes, cherubs!' I thought back to the Nativity
picture at home. 'There were definitely cherubs at
the Nativity. They were up at the corners, flying
above the stable, but they didn't have any clothes
on, just little wisps.'

'We would have to wear clothes, Hetty,' Polly
said firmly.

But we weren't chosen to be angels, wisps or no
wisps.
Monica
was picked to be a small angel. We
were astonished. She was such a thin, colourless
girl with very little personality. She just echoed
everything Sheila said. Sheila seemed equally taken
aback, convinced that she would make a far superior
angel. She started to tease and torment Monica – but
Monica didn't retaliate. She had become irritatingly
holy since being chosen.

'You're making Jesus very unhappy calling
me silly names and pinching me, Sheila,' she
declared. 'I shan't play with you any more until you
say sorry.'

'I'm not a bit sorry,' said Sheila, marching off.
'I'd far sooner play by myself.'

She stood stamping her feet and glowering
in a corner of the playground while Monica
smiled in a maddening saintly way and struck
angelic poses. I walked arm in arm with Polly
past Sheila and felt almost sorry for her. A
truly kind child would have invited Sheila to walk
with us – but I am afraid I am only kind when I
want to be.

I definitely tried to be kind to my real friends. I
decided I wanted to give a Christmas present to Polly,
to Harriet, to Nurse Winterson, and to Ida. I did not
have any money apart from Jem's precious sixpence,
safely hidden inside the knob of my bedhead. I did
not have an opportunity to go shopping in any case.
I had not been outside the grounds of the hospital
since arriving.

This meant I had to make my presents. I certainly
wasn't a competent needlewoman. Besides, I had
no materials. But I was an opportunistic thief.
I was sent in disgrace to Matron Peters's room
for cheeking one of the nurses. While standing
there being seriously scolded, I saw she had a
Chinese bowl of dried lavender and rose petals on
her little table. This gave me a wonderful idea. I
edged nearer and nearer the bowl, my hands behind
my back.

When Matron Pigface consulted her punishment
book to check just how many times I had been in
trouble, I grabbed a big handful of dried flowers and
stuffed them up my sleeve.

I worried a little when I said my prayers at night,
in case thieves went straight to Hell, so I told God
I was very sorry. But it didn't stop me snatching a
torn apron from the mending basket the next day,
and hanging onto my needle and thread instead
of handing them in to Nurse Winterson after our
darning session.

I made four little lavender sachets with my stolen
snippets. I tried to fashion them into hearts, but
they were woefully lumpy and lopsided. I wanted to
sew long loving messages on each, but I didn't have
the skill or the time, so I simply stitched each name.
Ida was mercifully short, and Polly was simple
enough. I had to write Harriet in very tiny stitches,
but even so her name had to wind round the edge
of her heart. I could not possibly attempt Nurse
Winterson in its entirety, and I was fast running out
of time, so she had to make do with a hastily stitched
NW. She seemed delighted all the same, and kissed
me on the cheek. Harriet kissed me too, and gave
me her own presents. She had fashioned me a very
little dolly out of scraps of wool. She was too small
to cuddle close so was no real substitute for my rag
baby, but I was still very grateful and gave Harriet
many kisses back.

Polly had a present for me too – a pen! She had
found a jay's feather in the playground and fashioned
the end into a proper quill.

'I can't quite figure how to get any ink,' she said,
a little anxiously. 'It would spill if I tried to smuggle
some from the classroom inkwells.'

'Never mind, Polly. I can write secret stories in
invisible
ink, or perhaps I could prick my finger and
write in blood, though it would have to be a very
short
story. But I
love
my quill pen.'

'And I love my scented heart,' said Polly, and we
gave each other a fierce hug.

Ida gave me a present too. I was rather hoping
for one, but I thought it would be some delicious
titbit, maybe another slab of toffee or a little
iced cake.

'Here, Hetty,' she whispered at Christmas
Eve supper. 'Don't open it until tomorrow
morning, now!' She dropped a little square parcel in
my lap.

Definitely
a cake, I thought, my mouth watering.
I hoped it would have extra-thick icing, and maybe
yellow marzipan too, and a surplus of cherries. I was
in such a greedy daze of anticipation I almost forgot
I had a present to give to Ida too. I fumbled up my
sleeve where I had hidden it.

'Are you looking for a handkerchief, Hetty?'

'No, no. Where's it
gone
?' I said, wriggling and
scrabbling.

Ida's present had gone right up my sleeve and
down inside my dress. I tapped my front. There it
was, a little lump above my own real heart. I edged
it up towards the neck of my dress.

'Is it moving? Oh dear Lord, have you got a mouse
down your dress?' Ida squealed, backing away from
me.

'No, silly Ida! It's
your
present.'

'You have a Christmas present for me?'
said Ida.

'Yes. Ssh!' I said, peering round to make sure we
weren't being observed. I scrabbled down my dress.
'I haven't got any fancy paper to wrap it with, so
you will see what it is right this instant. Perhaps
you can wrap it up yourself and try to forget what
it is, and then when you open it on Christmas day it
will come as a splendid surprise. Ah!'

I fished the lavender heart right out into the open.
It had got squashed out of shape during its journey
up and down my frock and my stitches seemed
very big and uneven. I offered it shyly, hoping Ida
wouldn't laugh at my efforts.

Ida didn't laugh; she
cried.
She stared at the
crumpled heart in her hand and tears welled in her
eyes, spilling down her cheeks.

'Oh, Ida, don't cry. I'm sorry it's such a small and
shabby present. I will try harder next year,' I said
earnestly.

'It's a
wonderful
present – so kind of you, Hetty –
oh, bless you, child,' Ida mumbled, and then hurried
away to the kitchen, forgetting her serving tray in
her haste.

Sheila glared at me. 'What have you done to make
Ida cry, Hetty Feather?'

'I have made her
happy,'
I said stoutly, though I
wasn't quite sure if this was true.

I couldn't wait till Christmas morning to open
my present from Ida. I got up in the middle of the
night, clutching my precious small parcel. I tiptoed
the length of the dormitory to the washroom. I knew
where the nurses kept a candle and matches, in case
a child was taken poorly in the night. I took the
candle into a corner and lit it with a match. Then I
sat down cross-legged and opened my parcel.