Clover Moon Page 3

  ‘What a good idea!’ I said. ‘Well, this one’s Hyacinth because of her eyes, and this one’s definitely Violet, and this one’s Marigold.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Mr Rivers. ‘You’ve got a fine little protégée, Mr Fisher. You must be very proud of her.’

  ‘I am indeed, sir,’ said Mr Dolly, putting his arm round my shoulders.

  I could feel him trembling. I knew he was terribly excited at the thought of selling one of these expensive dolls. I desperately hoped Mr Rivers wasn’t going to disappoint him. Very occasionally rich folk wandered into the shop and made Mr Dolly display every single doll, but then they shook their heads and said they needed to go away and think about it. They never came back.

  However, Mr Rivers was taking the task seriously. At first he seemed smitten with Hyacinth, and then he tried out Violet’s parasol to see if it worked properly, but he was eventually overwhelmed by Marigold’s dimples.

  ‘I think I shall choose Miss Marigold as she has such a charming expression,’ he said. ‘How much is she?’

  Mr Dolly took a deep breath. ‘She’s five guineas, sir.’

  I stared. I’d seen the price pencilled on the cardboard box. Mr Dolly had more than doubled it. Surely he’d made Marigold much too expensive! Mr Rivers was probably rich, but he wasn’t daft.

  He smiled. ‘She’s very costly, but she is a work of art,’ he said. ‘I’ll take her. Parcel her up, please.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Mr Dolly was blinking with emotion, his eyebrows working overtime. His hands shook as he laid the doll back in her box and smeared the price with a wet thumb. I went to the rag bag and started tucking old scraps of material round the doll’s head and outstretched fingers – the parts that might get chipped or damaged in transit. It was standard procedure, but it charmed Mr Rivers.

  ‘Oh, look at little Clover Moon! She’s tucking Marigold up in her bed just like a nursemaid, bless her,’ he said.

  ‘She’s a very caring child,’ said Mr Dolly.

  ‘She is indeed,’ agreed Mr Rivers. ‘And talented too. Very skilled with her paintbrush.’

  Mr Dolly raised his eyebrows at me enquiringly but didn’t comment.

  When I’d finished protecting Marigold I put the lid on the box, and Mr Dolly tied it tight with string. Mr Rivers had his wallet ready and handed over five pounds and five shillings, then shook Mr Dolly’s hand solemnly. He insisted on shaking my hand too, and thanked me profusely for my help.

  It was the very first time anyone had shaken my hand and I felt honoured. Then Mr Rivers strode out of the shop, holding the large cardboard box out in front of him, like a Wise Man with a precious gift for baby Jesus. (Mr Dolly didn’t give me religious instruction, because he said he wasn’t a Christian, but he’d shown me a book of reproductions of great paintings and the Nativity scenes had taken my fancy.)

  When the shop door was shut and locked Mr Dolly put his arms round me and we did a lurching dance around the room.

  ‘Five guineas for a doll I’d given up on selling!’ said Mr Dolly. ‘Oh, Clover, you’re definitely a plant of the four-leaved variety! You’ve brought me such luck, my little one! Here, my dear. Take the five shillings. You’ve more than earned it.’

  Five shillings! I’d never had so much money in my life. But I knew what would happen if I took it home. Mildred would find it, no matter where I hid it.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Dolly. But could you possibly keep the five shillings safe for me?’ I suggested.

  He nodded understandingly. He put the five pounds in his cash box, and the five shillings in a little embroidered purse in his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Here it is, safe about my person. I shall act as your personal banker. Come to me whenever you need to withdraw a few pennies! Now, let us have a celebration supper! You can stay a little while, can’t you?’

  ‘Of course I can stay, Mr Dolly!’ I said eagerly. ‘I don’t have to leave until eight, and then I’ll walk Pa home from the factory.’

  I played with Anne Boleyn while Mr Dolly cooked our supper on his spirit stove. He admired her newly painted features extravagantly.

  ‘I’m so impressed by your artistic skills, my dear, especially as it’s a first attempt. That little doll has such a pretty face!’ he said.

  ‘So are you quite sure you don’t want me as your apprentice, Mr Dolly?’ I asked artfully.

  ‘I wish I could take you on, my dear, but even if I did, I’m sure your family would object,’ he said, turning the lamb chop.

  I didn’t try to argue further. I knew he was right. Mildred hated me spending so much time with Mr Dolly. She didn’t like him teaching me and said he gave her the creeps. Even Pa wrinkled his nose at the very sound of his name and claimed he didn’t trust him.

  They were both fools. Mr Dolly was the sweetest, kindest, cleverest man in all the world. The smell of his chop was making my mouth water, but he only had one, though he was frying a good pound of sliced potatoes and onions in his pan. When he dished up he took a couple of plates, cut the chop lengthwise and distributed all the vegetables equally.

  ‘Here you are, child. Get it down you,’ he said, offering me the plate.

  ‘I can’t eat your supper, Mr Dolly! Especially half your chop!’ I protested.

  ‘I’ll be buying a big steak tomorrow! Now eat, dear. You deserve it. Heaven knows, you look as if you could do with a good meal. What does that Mildred feed you, bread and scrape?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty much,’ I said.

  She gave Pa meat for supper every day because he’d done a hard day’s work at the factory, while she had a kidney or a slice of liver because she said it was good for the growing baby, but us children mostly made do with hunks of bread and the dripping from the Sunday roast. She’d sometimes give her own kids a rasher of bacon, even little Bert, but never Megs or me.

  If I did the cooking I always tried to slip a slice to Megs, and I frequently stole currants and sultanas and sugar and dabs of butter from the pantry, squashing them all together like a patty – a treat we called Clover Cake. Megs stayed skin and bones though, her cheekbones sharp in her little face.

  Halfway through my supper I pretended to be full, hoping to take a portion home for Megs in a paper poke, though smuggling it past Mildred would be difficult, but Mr Dolly insisted I ate up every mouthful or he’d take offence.

  When I sat back at last, my stomach tight as a drum, Mr Dolly gave me a tiny glass of ginger cordial for my digestion. He sat back in his easy chair, having a little smoke of his pipe. I downed my drink, pretending it was gin. Mr Dolly soon nodded off, snoring softly. I carefully knocked out his pipe and washed up the dishes. Then I played a game with Anne Boleyn, making her a little house out of an old box, and a bed and quilt and pillow with scraps from the rag bag.

  Mr Dolly was still fast asleep when I heard the sound of the factory hooter. I took off his old slippers, covered him with a plaid rug, tucked him up carefully and then slipped away.

  The streets were full of men and women trudging homewards from the sauce factory, reeking of onions and pickle and vinegar. I shivered to think I’d be one of them in the future. I slipped in and out of the crowds, searching for Pa. It seemed an impossible task. He had a slouching walk, his head bent, hands in his pockets, thinning hair lank, his face sallow, his work clothes shabby, his boots down at heel. This description fitted almost every man in the street. Every time I called ‘Pa’ at least twenty heads turned in my direction.

  I searched until the crowd had thinned to a few stragglers shuffling along. I was sure I must have missed Pa. He’d be home now and Mildred would have told tales, trying to work him up into a rage against me. But then I spotted a familiar slight figure turning into Cripps Alley. I ran wildly to catch up with him before he got home.

  ‘Pa!’

  He turned and waited for me under the gas light. He gave me a tired smile, his mouth barely moving. ‘Is that you, Clover?’ he muttered.

  ‘Of course it’s me, Pa,’ I said, run
ning up to him.

  ‘What are you doing out this late, girly?’

  ‘Looking for you! I wanted to walk you all the way home but I couldn’t find you. Did you have a hard day? Is your back bad? Would you like to lean on me to walk down the alley?’

  ‘Oh, that’s very kind of you, sweetheart,’ said Pa, grasping my shoulder. ‘My little walking cane,’ he added fondly.

  We walked up the cobbled lane together. All the washing had been taken in, apart from Mrs Watson’s. It dripped on us as we ducked underneath. She must have washed it all over again. My own reddened hands itched in sympathy. I felt really bad for her now.

  Pa sighed to himself as we neared our house. I remembered Mr Dolly’s words.

  ‘Do you ever try to figure out how to get rich and lead a different kind of life, Pa?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’ He bent nearer, as if he hadn’t heard me properly. I smelled ale on his breath. He must have downed a swift pint on his way home. ‘How am I going to get rich? You tell me, girl. I can’t see any way off this treadmill, unless I get myself a gun and rob a bank. Then I’d rot in prison, and Mildred and you and all your brothers and sisters would end up in the workhouse.’

  ‘But when you were younger, Pa? When you first fell in love with my mother, say? Did you not have schemes and ambitions?’ I persisted.

  ‘I dare say I did,’ he admitted. ‘I thought we’d perhaps settle in the country, somewhere fresh and clean, and I’d find some kind of farm work. I was stronger in those days, and took a fancy to working on the land. We said we’d rent a little cottage, get a few sticks of furniture and work for a farmer until we could start up a smallholding ourselves. We wanted to grow vegetables to sell at market, and keep some animals – a few cows and some hens.’ Pa laughed. ‘Your mother fancied having a little donkey! What use would a donkey be? I ask you. You can’t milk a donkey or sell it for meat. But she stuck to her guns. She wanted that donkey. She even had a name for it – David Donkey! She was always naming things, your ma. You take after her, Clover.’

  ‘Do I really, Pa?’ I said. ‘And did she ever get David Donkey?’

  ‘No, of course she didn’t. We both worked in the factory to save up for a year or so, but then you came along and your ma was too poorly to work for a while, and then she had Megs and . . .’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘I so wish we could all have gone to the country, Pa,’ I said.

  ‘It was all a pipe dream. And it’s too late now, anyway. Mildred would never budge. When we were courting I tried taking her out for a day in the country and she was bored silly – said there was nothing there but a lot of trees and hills. She couldn’t see the point of it.’

  ‘Yes, well, what else would you expect from her?’ I muttered.

  ‘Hey, hey, I heard that! Don’t you be so disrespectful of your mother!’

  ‘Stepmother. And she disrespects me all the time!’

  ‘Well, you need to be put in your place, miss. You’ve got a sharp tongue on you, and sometimes you don’t even need to say anything. You just look with those great green eyes of yours, making it plain enough what you think,’ said Pa.

  ‘I can’t help my thoughts, Pa,’ I said.

  ‘You can hide them! Do yourself a favour. You’re permanently in the doghouse with our Mildred.’ Pa peered down at me in the dark. ‘Is that why you’re not home, getting the little ones tucked up in bed? Have you had another set-to with her?’

  ‘No, Pa,’ I said – because I hadn’t had a set-to with Mildred yet.

  The moment Pa and I were in the door I made a rush for the stairs. Mildred had to get Pa’s dinner on the table, so I hurried Richie and Pete up to their narrow mattress. The girls were already in bed and the baby in his cot, though he was wailing fitfully.

  I picked him up and gave him a cuddle. ‘It’s all right, little Bert, Clover’s here. There now. My, you’ve got yourself worked up into a state. You’re all of a quiver.’

  ‘He kept fretting for you,’ Megs whispered. ‘And I did too. Oh, Clover, Mildred’s in a right lather about you. She had to set to and help Mrs Watson do her sheets all over again and now she’s furious. I’m so scared!’

  ‘Don’t be, Megsie. Pa’s home now, and she’ll never risk giving me a beating in front of him.’

  I laid Bert down in his cot and he curled up with a sigh and was almost instantly asleep. I pulled my ragged frock over my head, kicked off my broken boots and climbed into bed.

  ‘Budge up, girls, make room for me,’ I said. Jenny and Mary turned over sleepily and I squeezed in, nestling against Megs.

  I was nearly asleep when the door burst open, and I heard the harsh rustle of Mildred’s skirt and apron as she strode across the room. She felt in the dark for the edge of the bed and then seized hold of my arm.

  She didn’t say a word. She just jerked me upwards, took aim and whacked me hard about the head, five or six times. She was wearing her brass thimble. I felt blood trickling from my temple. I pressed my lips tight together to stop myself crying out.

  She threw me down on the bed again so hard that I bounced, and all my sisters along with me. Then she stalked silently out of the room.

  ‘Oh, Clover!’ said Megs, in tears. She patted at me in the dark. ‘You’re wet!’

  ‘It’s just a smear of blood. I’m all right really,’ I said thickly, though my head was still ringing and I was half stunned.

  Jenny and Mary sat up too, murmuring sympathetically. Then Pete climbed on to our bed, starting to cry.

  ‘It was all my fault! You should have told on me, Clover. I should have got the whacking,’ he sobbed.

  ‘Oh, give over, little man,’ I said, sitting up to give him a cuddle. The room suddenly tilted sideways, as if Mildred had seized the whole house now. I felt my stomach lurch too. I scrambled out of bed and fumbled for the pot beneath it. I was horribly sick, losing all my chop and potato.

  ‘Oh, Clover,’ Megs said, over and over, holding my hair out of the way.

  ‘It smells,’ Mary complained.

  ‘And I need to wee now,’ said Pete.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, hold your tongues,’ I said weakly, leaning against the bed. The room was still whirling and I wasn’t sure I could see straight, though it was difficult to tell in the half-light. ‘Jenny, take the pot and tip it out in the privy,’ I said.

  ‘Why can’t Megs do it? She’s second eldest,’ she said.

  ‘You know Megs won’t ever go to the privy after dark,’ I said. ‘Take it, Jenny.’

  ‘I can’t. It’ll make me sick.’ Jenny started to grizzle.

  Pete was still crying. Bert woke up again and started a steady dreary wail.

  My head felt as if it was bursting. ‘I’ll do it then,’ I said, trying to pull myself up.

  ‘You mustn’t, Clover!’ Megs protested. ‘If Mildred sees you she’ll start hitting you again.’

  ‘If Mildred sees me I’ll throw the pot of sick all over her,’ I said.

  That made them all start giggling feebly. I felt a little better, as if I’d really done it. I stood up, took hold of the pot and walked purposefully out of the room, pretending I wasn’t afraid.

  Out in the hallway I could see the flicker of candlelight through Pa and Mildred’s half-closed door, and hear the sound of Mildred’s footsteps as she walked backwards and forwards, muttering to herself angrily.

  ‘Only crazy people talk to themselves,’ I whispered into the dark, though I suppose that meant I was crazy too.

  It was an effort to think straight because my head was hurting so. Maybe Mildred’s blows had truly damaged me. Perhaps I was like Daft Mo, who’d been dropped on his head when he was a baby. Who would look after me if I couldn’t talk straight or do any chores? Maybe I could live with Mr Dolly. I could sit on a chair in the shop, not saying a word, just like one of the dolls. Mr Dolly would paint my cheeks pink and my lips red and keep my hair well brushed.

  I walked stealthily down the stairs, holding the pot at arm’s length. I c
ould hear Pa snoring in the living room. I slipped into the kitchen, opened the back door and crept out to the privy.

  Megs wasn’t the only one frightened of going there at night. It was too dark to see if there were any spiders or rats lurking. The not knowing was somehow worse than seeing them.

  I stood shivering in the back yard, my legs suddenly locked.

  Pull yourself together, Clover Moon!

  I stumbled over to the privy, darted inside, emptied the pot and then ran out again. Done! I let myself back into the house, swilled out the pot at the sink, and then tiptoed towards the stairs. I didn’t make a sound, but Pa’s snores stopped. He peered at me blearily, holding up a candle.

  ‘Is that you, Clover?’

  ‘Yes, Pa.’

  ‘What are you up to now?’

  ‘Just emptying the pot, Pa.’

  ‘What’s that mark on your head?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He walked unsteadily towards me, holding an empty glass. Perhaps he’d had another drink or two with his supper. He held out his hand and felt my forehead. Then he looked at the blood on his fingers. ‘How did it happen?’ he asked.

  I didn’t answer, just looked upwards, where the floorboards were creaking as Mildred paced.

  I wanted Pa to go storming up the stairs and yell at her, even though I knew she’d hate me more than ever and batter me senseless when Pa was at work.

  But he didn’t do it. He just shook his head sorrowfully and took a swig from his glass, even though it was empty.

  Mildred stopped pacing. ‘What you doing, Arthur? Come up to bed!’ she yelled.

  He walked past me and left me there. I hunched up on the floor, clutching my head, waiting until the room upstairs was still and silent. Then I crept up myself. Megs was still awake. She put her arm round me and I lay against her, my head burning hot.

  I went to sleep and dreamed of Pa and our mother in a cottage in the country, cows and hens and a donkey in the garden, and Megs and me picking flowers. We were so happy, just like a family in Mr Dolly’s story books.