Clover Moon Read online

3

  WHEN I WOKE in the morning I found my hair had stuck to the pillow. I had to douse myself under the cold tap and rub hard to get rid of the dried blood. It hurt terribly. The children said I looked scary. When I sidled into Pa and Mildred’s room and looked in her precious mirror I saw what they meant.

  I had several gashes on my temple, which had swelled horribly at one side, giving me an odd lopsided appearance, and I had a black eye into the bargain. Even Mildred looked concerned when she caught sight of me. She made me stand in the daylight with her hand under my chin, having a good peer.

  ‘What have you done to yourself now?’ she said, as if I’d whacked my own head with a thimble.

  I stared at her.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that with those witch’s eyes. And don’t go telling tales on me to no one. It was all your own fault anyway,’ she said gruffly.

  Mrs Watson came calling, her baby in her arms, her little girl hanging on her skirts. She came to give me a scolding, but she was shocked when she saw the state I was in.

  ‘Merciful heaven, Mildred, what have you done to the child? You’ve bashed her about good and proper!’ she said.

  ‘Well, there’s a cheek,’ said Mildred. ‘You were the one who said she deserved a good hiding!’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t mean mark her like that. I was annoyed at the time because washing day’s such a trial – I was so tired with the baby not sleeping that I couldn’t bear the thought of having to do it twice. But it was only a piece of childish mischief all the same. I’m not even sure your Clover pulled the sheets down herself, though she was certainly the ringleader,’ said Mrs Watson. She peered at my face. ‘You nearly took her eye out, Mildred! What were you thinking?’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate! I just gave her a smacking,’ Mildred told her. ‘And it was well deserved because she ran off and stayed out all hours, probably hanging round that weird old doll-maker, and then she started sweet-talking her pa to get him on her side. She’s the craftiest little baggage. She needs sorting out or she’ll really go to the bad. I’m only doing my Christian duty as her stepmother.’

  ‘There’s nothing Christian about marking a child for life, and that’s what you’ve done, Mildred.’ Mrs Watson took my hand and squeezed it hard. ‘I’m sorry, pet. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.’

  ‘I’m sorry too, Mrs Watson,’ I said, enjoying the situation. Mildred was starting to look really worried.

  After Mrs Watson had gone she didn’t say anything more, but when she heard the street doctor calling for customers at the top of Cripps Alley she went hurrying out, purse in hand. She came back with a small blue jar.

  ‘Come here, you,’ she said to me. ‘Look what I’ve got you. A pennyworth of Arabian Family Ointment. Doctor says it’s the best for inflammation of the eyes. And it’s good for chapped hands too, which I blooming well need, seeing as I did two full washes yesterday.’

  She hooked my hair behind my ears and dabbed on the ointment.

  ‘Ouch! You’re hurting!’ I protested.

  ‘Well, keep still, you ungrateful little miss. I’m trying to make it better for you, aren’t I?’

  ‘It smells!’

  ‘Oh, Miss Hoity-Toity! I’ll shove it right up your nose in a minute if you keep up this nonsense.’ She slathered it on as if spreading dripping. ‘There, that should clear it up,’ she said. ‘Now, take the baby and get out from under my feet. I can’t stand to look at you. And don’t you dare go running to that creeping crookback or I’ll have your guts for garters.’

  Mr Dolly said the pills and potions the street doctor sold were all useless rubbish, likely to do you more harm than good, but the ointment did stop the throbbing just a little. I longed to go and see him but didn’t quite dare, not so soon. I wound a blanket about my shoulders and sat out on the doorstep instead, with Bert on my lap. Megs came and sat beside me. She kept giving my sore head worried glances.

  ‘It doesn’t really hurt,’ I said reassuringly.

  ‘It still looks funny,’ she said. She huddled against me. I could feel her shivering.

  ‘Here, it’s chilly today. Have my blanket.’ I eased Bert forward so I could shrug it off.

  ‘But then you’ll be cold, Clover,’ said Megs.

  ‘I’m warm as toast, truly,’ I said. I was actually burning. Perhaps I had a fever. I still felt addled inside my head, unable to think straight.

  Megs had been given the burnt porridge pot to scrape clean with a scrubber. The other girls were making the beds and sweeping the floors. Richie and Pete staggered outside with the mats to shake. I’d usually be inside, helping Mildred with the ironing, but she didn’t want me anywhere near her today.

  ‘So lucky me,’ I said to Bert. ‘No chores at all. We’re free as birds, aren’t we, Bertie? You’re a little bird. My little duck.’

  ‘Duck!’ said Bert. ‘Duck!’

  ‘Oh my! Did you hear that, Megs? Bert said duck. He really did. Say it again, Bertie! Duck! Say duck!’

  ‘Duck!’ said Bert.

  ‘Oh, you clever little boy. Listen to your brother, Richie, Pete. He can say duck!’ I said.

  ‘We can say duck too, silly. Anyone can say it,’ said Richie. ‘Duck, duck, duck!’

  ‘Duck, duck, duck!’ Bert repeated, and made us all laugh.

  ‘Let’s play a game so that Bert can join in too,’ I said. ‘It’s a bird game. We’ll each choose a bird, and then, when I point, you have to say your name and flap your wings. We’ll do it ever so quick, but we’ll slow down for Bertie because he’s little. You play too, Megs. You can be a little sparrow.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a little sparrow,’ said Pete. ‘I want to be a big, big, big bird.’

  ‘Then you can be an eagle,’ I said. ‘They’re the biggest of all.’

  ‘I want to be an eagle,’ said Richie, predictably enough.

  ‘You can be a hawk. Oh, how all the little mice and rabbits tremble if they sense you flying overhead.’

  So we started the game, and then Jenny and Mary came running out and joined in too. Jenny was a beautiful white swan preening herself, and Mary was a speckled hen clucking at the top of her voice. Soon Jimmy Wheels came bowling along and I declared he was a kingfisher, the most beautiful and brightly coloured of all the birds.

  I’d turned the pages of Mr Dolly’s Book of British Birds but it was a struggle thinking up new birds when half the children in the alley joined in. The twins five doors down were two cuckoos, and pretty blonde Angel was a yellowhammer who said, ‘Little bit of bread and no cheese.’ Angel’s baby sister was too little to say anything at all, so she was just a fledgling who cheeped whenever she wanted. I added a parrot and a hummingbird, though I knew they weren’t British, and Sukey down the alley and Daft Mo were very loud in their interpretations. Sukey squawked alarmingly and Daft Mo hummed furiously even when it wasn’t his turn.

  The rules of my game fell by the wayside but it didn’t seem to matter. Little Bert cried, ‘Duck!’ every time I pointed at him, extremely pleased with himself. I lifted him up and down, making his stubby legs dance on the cobbles, and after a minute or so he was trying to do it himself, practically performing a polka, though he tipped forward if I let him go.

  Halfway through our noisy game I became aware that a strange man was leaning against the wall at the top of the alley. He kept looking at us and then seemed to be writing rapidly in a notebook. He was in the shadows so I couldn’t see him properly. I wondered if he was the police, making notes of our whereabouts.

  The police hated all us alley folk. They’d arrested all three of Old Ma Robinson’s boys for thieving, they’d kept Peg-leg Jack in the cells many a night for drunkenness, and they were forever harassing Daft Mo’s big sister because she liked to go off with gentlemen.

  Then the stranger edged a few paces nearer. He wasn’t the police. I recognized his floppy scarf and his fancy waistcoat and crumpled suit. It was Mr Rivers, the gentleman who’d bought Marigold for his daughter!

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p; I sat Bert on his bottom, still ‘ducking’ merrily, and ran up the alley towards him.

  ‘Mr Rivers! Hey, Mr Rivers!’ I called.

  He looked up from his page and then did a double take. ‘My word, it’s the little apprentice. Miss Clover Moon!’ Then he gasped as I crossed the alley into a patch of sunlight. ‘Dear goodness, what’s happened to your face, child?’

  I’d completely forgotten. My right hand went to my head, hiding the gash and my black eye. ‘Nothing, sir,’ I said stupidly.

  ‘That’s the worst case of nothing I’ve ever seen.’ He took hold of my hand and gently prised it away from my face. ‘Who did that to you?’ he asked. ‘By God, I’ll report them and have them thrown in prison.’

  I shook my head. ‘No one did it,’ I said quickly. ‘I just fell. My bootlace was dangling and I tripped. I’m an awful clumsy girl.’

  I wasn’t lying to save Mildred. I’d have loved her to be marched off to prison. I’d have been happy if they locked her up and threw away the key. But it wouldn’t be Mildred who got taken away, it would be me. There used to be a man in the alley who beat his children every night, so badly that they sometimes bled right through their clothes, and his wife told on him, and the police came, but they didn’t arrest the man. They took the wife and children away instead and put them in the workhouse.

  I didn’t want to end up in the workhouse. I’d heard such tales about it. I’d sooner deal with five Mildreds than one workhouse matron.

  ‘You tripped?’ said Mr Rivers.

  ‘Yes, sir. Definitely, sir,’ I told him. ‘Did your little girl like her doll Marigold?’

  ‘She absolutely loves her! I’m very grateful to you, Miss Moon.’

  ‘So why are you here in our alley? You don’t live near here!’

  ‘That’s right. I’m taken with the area though,’ he said.

  ‘You must be daft, sir! It’s rough round here. Look!’

  ‘It’s very . . . picturesque,’ said Mr Rivers.

  ‘Are you taking notes about us?’ I asked, pointing to his notebook. ‘You’re not going to report us, are you?’

  ‘Of course not, Clover. I’ve not been taking any notes. I’ve been sketching,’ he said.

  ‘Sketching?’ I didn’t believe him. Why would anyone want to draw anything round here? Especially Cripps Alley! It was dark and dank, the terraced houses tumbledown, the cobbles greasy, the air full of smuts from the chimneys. The gutters were choked with rubbish and worse, and the rats were so bold they darted right over our bare legs.

  ‘I’ve been sketching you and all the other children,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘They can’t all be your brothers and sisters, Clover . . .’

  ‘Half of them are. And the rest are like family too,’ I said. ‘I keep them all in order and make up things for them to play.’

  ‘Do you let the other girls play with Anne Boleyn?’

  ‘She’s not my doll, sir. Children like us don’t have proper dolls,’ I said. ‘I made rag babies for Megs and Jenny and Mary once, but Mildred gave them to the rag-and-bone man because she said they’d been bad.’

  ‘Mildred?’

  ‘My stepmother.’ I pulled a terrible face.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘Is she a bit of an ogre?’

  I glanced over my shoulder. Our front door was open and Mildred had big ears that poked through her hair. She could sometimes hear us all the way down the alley. ‘She’s ever so kind,’ I said loudly, but I shook my head vigorously at the same time.

  Mr Rivers was quicker on the uptake than I’d thought. He pointed to my sore head and mouthed, ‘Did she do that?’

  This time I shook my head seriously because I couldn’t risk him causing trouble.

  ‘Let’s see your sketch then, sir,’ I said, to distract him.

  He opened up his notebook and showed me. I stared at the page in awe. He’d drawn us children playing our bird game. He had us all set down perfectly on the page.

  ‘Ah, look at little Bert, grinning away because he’s learned to talk! And you’ve got Megs just right, hanging her head and looking worried in case she forgets she’s a sparrow.’ I squinted at the little bunch of children, looking for the big girl in charge of them. ‘But where am I?’

  Mr Rivers pointed. It was a shock. I knew what I looked like. I’d glanced at myself often enough in Mildred’s mirror and in the windows in big shops, but I’d always been on my own. In Mr Rivers’s picture I wasn’t a big girl – I was as little and wispy as Megs, and my hair was matted and my face all lopsided.

  ‘Oh, I look awful! Rub me out, please!’ I begged.

  ‘You’ll like this sketch better, even though it’s done from memory,’ said Mr Rivers. He flipped the page back and I saw a picture of Mr Dolly’s shop. There he was, all bent over because of his poor back, but smiling as he talked to Mr Rivers. The door through to the workshop was open and you could see a girl waving a little wooden doll around. She had a big smile on her face and somehow she looked almost pretty, in spite of her tangled hair and ragged clothes.

  ‘I do like this one better!’ I said. ‘You’re so good at drawing, Mr Rivers. You could almost be a proper professional.’

  ‘Well, actually I am,’ he told me. ‘I mostly do portraits. You know, paintings of people.’

  ‘Like the paintings of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus in Mr Dolly’s book?’ I asked, awed.

  ‘Well, probably not quite as good as those, if they’re reproductions of Old Masters. But several of my portraits hang in galleries and I show at the Royal Academy every year,’ said Mr Rivers.

  I didn’t know what the Academy was, but I was impressed by the word royal. ‘You mean you show for the Queen?’ I asked him.

  ‘I suppose I do, although I don’t know how often the royal feet ever step over the threshold,’ he said.

  ‘So will you paint these pictures of us playing, and me in Mr Dolly’s shop, and hang them in the gallery?’ I asked incredulously. ‘So that all the rich folk will look at them?’

  ‘No, these are sketches to go in a children’s book.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, disappointed.

  ‘But think how many children will see your picture, Miss Moon. The book is by Sarah Smith and she’s very popular. It will sell thousands of copies. She’s written many books about little street Arabs.’

  ‘Street Arabs?’ I repeated.

  ‘It’s a stupid phrase,’ said Mr Rivers, looking uncomfortable. ‘I mean children in poor circumstances.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s us. We’re all poor in Cripps Alley,’ I said. ‘Why does this writer lady want to tell stories about poor children? Why doesn’t she write about rich children and all their fancy clothes and their toys and their cakes and sugar candy and plum puddings?’

  ‘She thinks poor children are most interesting. And so do I. Though cakes and sugar candy and plum puddings sound very appealing. What do you eat, Miss Moon? You’re very thin. Do you get three proper meals a day?’

  Well, that was a laugh. Mr Rivers might have had a good education but he didn’t know anything. Still, I didn’t want him pitying me.

  ‘Last night I had lamb chop and fried onions and potatoes,’ I said, truthfully enough. ‘I’m just naturally thin, sir.’

  ‘It looks as if all your brothers and sisters are naturally thin too,’ said Mr Rivers, peering down the alleyway.

  The children had stopped playing the bird game. The boys were playing chase, not letting Jimmy Wheels join in, though he was faster than any of them. The girls were in a little huddle, arguing over a piece of knotted ribbon. Megs was sitting on the step by herself, sucking her thumb. Bert was crawling about the gutter, investigating the rubbish.

  ‘I’d better go, sir. They always get in a pickle if I’m not there to sort them out,’ I said.

  ‘You really are a regular nurserymaid, Miss Moon,’ said Mr Rivers.

  ‘I’m just used to children, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Do you think you’ll have lots of little ones of your own one d
ay?’

  ‘Absolutely not! I’m not even going to get married. When I’m old enough I’ll go to Mr Dolly’s and work there. I’ll be surrounded by lots of children, but they’ll be silent ones, and they’ll never need their napkins changing,’ I said.

  Mr Rivers laughed. ‘You’re a card, Miss Moon. You take care of yourself as well as the other children.’ He tilted my head on one side, peering at it carefully. ‘It’s such a gash. You must make certain it doesn’t get infected. Go and give it a good wash with lots of hot water and soap, and get this Mildred of yours to put on a clean bandage,’ he advised. ‘Tell her I said so. And if by any chance you happen to “trip” again, perhaps you should go to my author friend Sarah Smith. She runs an establishment for destitute girls who are down on their luck – it’s just off the Strand in the West End. She will protect you.’

  He clearly didn’t believe I’d tripped accidentally.

  ‘Go on, little one,’ he said, and gently steered me down the alley.

  I didn’t protest. I walked back towards our house, giving the boys a lecture as I passed, telling them they had to play with Jimmy Wheels or I’d slap them so hard about the legs they’d have to wheel themselves about too. I snatched the ribbon away from the squabbling girls and tied it on to Megs’s head, and I picked Bert up and set him on my hip, poking a sodden shred of newspaper out of his mouth.

  Then I turned round and looked back up the alley.

  Mr Rivers was still looking at me anxiously. ‘You’ll do as I say, won’t you, Miss Moon?’ he called.

  I nodded several times, and he waved and headed out of the alley. Of course I couldn’t do as he suggested. Mildred would certainly whack me about the head many more times, whether I asked for it or not, but I wasn’t going to go running to this strange place for destitute girls. It sounded like a genteel version of the workhouse and I didn’t fancy it at all.

  I couldn’t even keep my wound clean. We didn’t have any soap and we only had hot water when Mildred lit the copper on washdays. I couldn’t dunk my head in that along with the sheets or I’d boil like a piece of beef. We didn’t have any bandages, clean or otherwise, and if I told Mildred a gentleman was watching out for me she’d only think the worst and beat me black and blue.