Brightling (13 page)

23

Every morning when Sparrow woke she reached out for Scaramouch. Then she listened for the sounds of someone else breathing. Nothing. She was alone. Still. She missed the noise and the silly jokes and sharing things with the girls. Now it was just her and three grown-ups – two who were jolly and loving, at least, but  …  it wasn't the same. It didn't feel quite right. As the days went by she thought often of Mary and Little Jean and her other friends at the Knip and Pynch Home, wondering what they were doing. It made her feel guilty having all this luxury to herself. She missed Hettie too, and worried Glori had got in trouble for losing her. Did the match-girls miss her as well? But it was good to feel so safe; it was like being wrapped up in tissue paper, living here. And she didn't have to work; all she did was read and sew and help in the kitchen. She knew that her friends would love to be in her shoes.

‘Don't get a cold sitting by that draughty window, will you?' Hilda said gently, as Sparrow sat staring out into the garden one day. ‘What are you looking at, anyway? See anything interesting, dearie?'

Sparrow shook her head. ‘Nothing. I was watching Bruno feeding the birds and looking out for Scaramouch,' she said. ‘I thought I heard a cat.' It was terrible not having him – like someone had cut off her leg.

‘It'll be that white tom from next door,' Gerta said. ‘Dirty old thing, he is.'

‘Probably,' Hilda said. ‘But it
could
be your cat, Sparrow, dearie, so go and look if you want.'

Sparrow shook her head. She'd already seen the white cat strolling up the path, as if he lived here. He had a fat, flat face and torn ears; nothing like Scaramouch. ‘That's all right, thank you, Hilda.'

She imagined she saw Scaramouch everywhere: in the garden shadows, creeping along the wall, lying on a branch in a tree. A squashed, velvet bag, lying on an armchair, looked so like him that she ran to pick it up and then almost wept when it wasn't. In the night she had to get out of bed time and time again to go to the window, thinking he was meowing outside or scratching at the windowpane to come in.

She even dreamed about him and sometimes the dreams were awful because they turned into nightmares where Scaramouch was locked up and was trying to reach her, but couldn't.

Where is he? Why hasn't he found me? she wondered for the hundredth time.

Sparrow stared hard at the privet hedge but without noticing the little glossy leaves and dark twigs; all she saw was the attic-nest and the girls gathered around the fire, mugs of hot chocolate in their hands and  …  Scaramouch. Scaramouch wearing a pink collar, sitting on Hettie's lap with the girls feeding him cheese and cream, and he was so fat and happy that he could hardly get up. He'd given up waiting for Sparrow. Hettie was his new special friend. He was sleeping on
her
bed now. He turned his big yellow eyes to look up into Sparrow's face.

‘
You left me!
' he seemed to say. ‘
So what can you expect?
'

Sparrow let out a big, long, sad sigh. No, she couldn't blame him; he must think she'd abandoned him. He must
hate
her!

‘I took Mayra's portrait out of Sparrow's room,' Gerta said, picking up her knitting and concentrating on it with a frown. ‘It could do with a new frame, I thought. Mr Reynolds in the square can do it.'

Sparrow spun round and stared at Gerta in surprise. So did Hilda. Bruno made a
huff huff
sound.

‘Why Gerta, that's not like you,' Hilda said. ‘You don't usually concern yourself with household chores  …  but thank you, that's very kind.' She looked at Sparrow. ‘But you'll miss it, dearie, won't you?'

Sparrow turned back to the window.

‘Yes, I will.' Which is why Gerta's moved it, Sparrow thought miserably. She doesn't like me; doesn't want me here.

‘I wondered if it was too upsetting for you,' Gerta said without looking up. ‘I saw how you stared and stared at Mayra. I believe looking at her so much might make you ill.'

Sparrow shrugged. How could a painting of a sweet face make you ill?

When Gerta went out of the room to fetch her shawl, Hilda came and sat beside Sparrow.

‘Don't think too badly of her,' she said. ‘Gerta finds you being here rather difficult, not in a nasty, mean way but, you see, before you came there were just the two of us girls and she doesn't like sharing me.'

‘They're very close,' Bruno added. ‘Sisters.'

‘I know. You don't have to apologise,' Sparrow said. ‘You're all so kind to me. So generous.'

‘Gerta was very sick when she was a little girl,' Hilda said, ‘and spent hours in bed, poor thing, and I looked after her. Later, when I lost my darlings, Gerta looked after me. She knows how  …  how fragile I am and all she's trying to do is protect me, Sparrow. She's not sure about –'

‘I know! It's my fault, I should have told you straight away that I was a match-girl,' Sparrow said. ‘I didn't mean to hide it from you, not really. It was just  … ' It had taken her days to tell them the truth. ‘It was just I thought you wouldn't let me stay and then  … '

‘It was probably the bang on the head that made you confused,' Bruno said, kindly. ‘Don't worry about it.'

‘The match-girls were kind and  …  I liked them. I didn't want to get them into trouble,' Sparrow said. ‘It's hard on the streets, Hilda, when you can't even afford a scrap of pie. Honestly.'

‘I can imagine,' Hilda said, patting her hand and smiling sweetly. ‘Poor girl.'

‘Now, Bruno, have you found out anything more about her?' Gerta asked him later, when they were alone.

Bruno shook his head. ‘The shop takes up such a lot of my time. D'you know, I think I'm almost ready to retire. I'm too old for toys  …  and this sort of detective work's not easy  … '

‘Why don't you just ask Sparrow the name of this orphanage she says she's come from?' Gerta said. ‘For goodness' sake, Bruno, don't be such a wet.'

‘I don't want her thinking we're checking up on her,' Bruno said miserably. ‘She's a dear girl and I want her to trust us.'

‘Well, I'm not ashamed and embarrassed about checking up on her,' Gerta said. ‘If you won't protect dear Hilda, I must. I'll ask her straight away.'

And she did. Sparrow gave her the information gladly and Gerta wrote down
Knip and Pynch
in her notebook. ‘You never know,' she added, ‘they might have some information about where you came from, your
real
family. That would be helpful, wouldn't it?'

‘Oh no, they won't know anything,' Sparrow said. ‘There was nothing to know. And Miss Knip absolutely hated me. She won't care where I am or what happens to me. Honestly, I'm the last person she wants to hear about.'

‘You still don't have much colour, Sparrow. Peaky. Would you like to go for a walk into Sto'back with me?' Hilda said one day. ‘We could go and see Bruno in the shop. The exercise will do us both good. You can help me post some pamphlets too.'

Hilda's face was full of cheery hopefulness and she positively lit up when Sparrow said she'd love to.

When Sparrow had recovered from her three days in bed, she had found her old clothes washed and neatly folded, and since then Hilda had given her new dresses, a red coat, soft brown boots, books and lovely soaps, everything a girl could wish for.

She could not replace the Butterworths' two little dark-haired daughters, she knew that, and she wasn't going to try. She did love Hilda and Bruno now, how could she not? But she worried that she wasn't very good at showing her love. She'd had no practice. When she had Scaramouch back and maybe had found out who she really was,
then
she would be able to be more loving, she imagined. And more lovable too. At least, she hoped so.

The weather had taken a turn for the worse and it was bitterly cold. Sparrow snuggled her chin into her coat collar as they walked down the road. They slipped the folded-up pamphlets through the letterboxes of each house as they went. They were about animal welfare, Hilda had told her. She was on a committee about stopping animal cruelty; it had become her main concern in recent years. Sparrow was too interested in being out in Stollenback to look closely at the leaflets and she dropped them through the letterboxes as quickly as she could.

She didn't recognise any of the streets. The roads were cleaner and wider and there were more window boxes and bigger gardens than in the area around Miss Minter's nest. Small trees, clipped into lollipop shapes, lined the main streets and the houses were freshly painted and well cared for. Large, bright posters advertising
ZIPPO'S CIRCUS
had been plastered on the walls, showing Zippo in a top hat and flourishing a whip.

‘Our shop is just down here, dearie,' Hilda was saying, as they turned into a side street. ‘It used to be busier round here; it's a bit run down now. Bruno is thinking of giving up, you know. It's all getting a bit much at his age and –'

Sparrow suddenly stopped dead. ‘Oh, no!' she cried.

‘What is it, dearie?' Hilda exclaimed, her face full of concern. ‘Are you ill?'

‘There, that shop!' Sparrow's heart was suddenly beating twice as fast as normal. Her mouth was dry. She pointed at an empty old shop, whose shutters hung crookedly off their hinges.

Sampson's of Stollenback.

24

Sparrow shivered from head to foot. Her dreams were dashed!

‘What on earth is the matter?' Hilda cried. ‘You didn't want to go there, did you? Sparrow, dearie, I can take you to a much better shop and find you something pretty if that's what you want.'

The shop looked empty and unused. The dirty windows were lined with yellowed newspaper; a pile of old leaves and scraps of paper had blown into the doorway. A
CLOSED
sign, festooned with cobwebs, hung in the doorway in front of a blind.

‘It's not that,' Sparrow said weakly. She couldn't explain.

‘There, there,' Hilda said, hugging her. ‘Come to Hilda. Can you tell me, dearie?' she said. ‘I hate to see you all upset.'

‘It's just that, it's just  …  when I was brought to the orphanage, as a baby, I was wrapped in a shawl, a very lovely shawl, which I've left at the match factory, and the cloth came from here. It was all I ever had, Hilda, the only clue about who I really was, and I always hoped  …  I always hoped that maybe I'd find this shop and someone would be here who knew about me or  … '

‘Don't fret,' Hilda said. She looked at the shop and back at Sparrow's unhappy face. ‘Come on, dearie, let's investigate,' she said brightly.

Hilda marched up and knocked loudly on the door. Nothing. Not a sound.

They pressed their noses against the dirty windows and rattled the door.

‘Maybe round the back?' Sparrow suggested.

‘Let's try next door first,' Hilda said, ‘before we get arrested by the guards for clambering over walls and breaking into other people's property.'

There was a small, wonky cottage next door, with a window of thick glass like the bottom of a bottle. Dark red hollyhocks, frozen and browned by the sudden cold snap, grew so abundantly around the doorstep that they almost blocked the tiny green door.

Hilda knocked loudly. No one came. ‘It could be empty too,' Sparrow said, ‘and anyway, it was a long time ago. Eleven years.'

Hilda knocked again, even more loudly. ‘I won't give up,' she said, ‘and nor must you.'

At last the front door was pulled open. It squeaked and groaned as it scraped over the uneven stone floor. A little old man wearing large, tortoiseshell glasses, peered up at them.

‘Good afternoon!' Hilda said cheerily. ‘I'm Hilda Butterworth and this is Sparrow and we would like to ask you some questions about the shop next door.'

The man smiled, showing one single tooth in the top of his jaw. ‘Oh, yes,' he said, in a quavering voice. ‘Sampson's, that was. It's been empty for years.'

‘Do you know anything about the people who lived there?' Hilda asked. ‘Did anyone there have a baby?'

The old man chuckled hoarsely. ‘I should say so,' he said. ‘Loads of babies. Barrow-loads of babies. 'Bout ten years ago, that was.'

Hilda and Sparrow exchanged a meaningful look.

‘Please might we come in for a moment?' Hilda asked. ‘We'd like to talk to you.'

The old man led them inside to a tiny parlour and sat them down at a round table. ‘I can't hardly see,' he said, striking a light on his tinderbox. ‘I'm going blind and deaf, I am. A touch of that magic horse elixir, that's what I need.'

‘Brightling, you mean? That doesn't work,' Hilda said sharply. She glanced at Sparrow. ‘And it's illegal. And dangerous.' Hilda took out one of her pamphlets and passed it to him. ‘You really should read that,' she told him. ‘Read that when we've gone, and see what you think then.'

‘But have you tried it? Have you?' the old man said, undaunted. ‘I've heard it makes old men like me leap around like young goats!' He chuckled as he lit the lantern. ‘I'd like not to creak when I bend  …  If only I could get my hands on some! If, eh? And who's going to put an ancient old crock like me into the dungeons for having it, eh? I'd like to see 'em try!'

The lantern glowed yellow and the gloomy room came slowly into view – large, dark furniture, a big oak grandfather clock and dusty pictures.

‘Now,' the old man went on, ‘what was it you two lovely young ladies wanted to know?'

‘Everything about Sampson's,' Sparrow said. ‘Everything, please.'

‘It is important to us,' Hilda said, ‘Mister, Mister  … ?'

‘Fred Fardell's the name,' the old man said. ‘Well, what can I tell you?' His eyes were like owl eyes behind his thick glasses. ‘Let me think. Let me think what you'd want to know  …  Mrs Sampson was a nurse. She took the babies in for the mothers and fathers that couldn't care for them – boarders, you understand – just until better times. Barrow-loads of babies, there were  …  She was a nice woman, Lydia Sampson, with a lovely smile for everyone, always a smile for me. Gave me cakes too. Soft heart. I remember her very well.'

Had nice Mrs Sampson looked after her? Sparrow wondered. Been kind to her? It would be good to think that just once in her past someone had been kind to her; it would make up for so much of the horridness later, in the orphanage.

‘Her husband, Mortimer, was the weaver. Oh one of the finest in the town – such soft and silky stuff he made. But he took sick and died. It was that terrible Swamp Fever that hit the town.'

Hilda let out a little gulping noise and quickly dabbed her eyes with her hanky. ‘I remember that time,' she said quietly.

‘That's when it all went wrong,' Fred went on. ‘Lydia couldn't manage the nursery without her husband. All but one baby went back to their mothers. All but one. Then Lydia died too. That flu again or a broken heart, I don't know. The good die young, that's what they say, isn't it?' He looked reflective for a moment, then grinned. ‘I must be a pretty bad chap then, eh?' he chuckled. ‘I'm so old. Heh heh heh! Oh! There was another nurse, Pocket or Porridge or Picket or something. Such a plain and needy thing. Stayed there for a while after Lydia went, with this one baby, but she couldn't manage. She was no nurse and she couldn't cook, neither. I remember something, I remember  … ' He tapped his wrinkled brow while Sparrow held her breath, certain it was important to her. ‘Something about this baby  …  Lydia had said the mother would come and pick the baby up. But she never came back for that baby. Yes, that was it! Nanny Porrit – now, look at that! Her name just sprang into my old head! Nanny Porrit was left with this baby and she took it to an orphanage because she didn't know what else to do with the wee mite and this orphanage was over the swamps somewhere, on the way north to Nollenback where she had family.'

Hilda and Sparrow stared at each other, wide-eyed.

‘The Knip and Pynch Home is between here and Nollenback,' Sparrow said. ‘You see,' she explained to Fred Fardell, ‘I think I was one of those babies – which means I'm not a Sampson at all. I'm trying to find out who I am and I only have this Sampson's shawl. Do you remember the baby's name?'

Fred shook his head. ‘Don't remember if it was a boy or a girl, even,' he said. ‘I know the mother was young and Porrit thought she might have run away – she was a dancer or something in a show. I'm sure there were some sparkles or sequins or something involved. I'm not sure. And birds.'

‘
Birds
? Was the baby's name Sparrow?' Hilda asked him.

Both Hilda and Sparrow stared at him so hard Fred Fardell had to lean away. He shook his head. ‘
Sparrow
? It could have been, perhaps it was. I don't remember.'

‘Well, thank you, Mr Fardell, you've been so helpful to us,' Hilda said. She slipped him a card with their address. ‘If you do remember anything else, anything else at all, perhaps you'll come and see me?'

‘Certainly I will,' he said. ‘Certainly.'

‘Thank you for everything,' Sparrow said, getting up. ‘I think – I hope – that baby was me!'

‘Can't say I recognise you,' he said, giving her a wink.

As they left, Hilda slipped some coins onto the table for him.

Hilda put her arm through Sparrow's as they set off again. ‘That was interesting, dearie, wasn't it?' she said. ‘Now we're getting somewhere. We must find this Nanny Porrit. It all feels right; it all fits in. Don't worry, Sparrow. We will leave no stone unturned until we find out exactly who you are! We'll tell Bruno everything and he will help us. Look!' Hilda finished. ‘Here's our shop.'

Butterworth's was a double-fronted shop selling all sorts of toys. The windows were crammed with dolls and doll houses, jigsaws, birdcages, beads, bicycles and trucks. There was a train running on a track going in and out of wooden-brick arches and around big, soft bears and under a rocking horse. Hanging on invisible wires from the ceiling, hundreds of spitfyres bobbed and spun against a painted blue sky. Sparrow went cold inside at the sight of them – they were exactly like the ones she'd been made to sew by Betty and Tapper Nash.

They went inside. Bruno was sitting at the wooden counter, mending a clockwork mouse. ‘Hello, girls!' He jumped up. ‘How grand to see you! Goodness, Sparrow, wearing that new coat, and your colouring – you look just like someone  …  someone I used to know.' He faltered, looking pointedly at his wife. He coughed. ‘Well, well, now  … ' and he held out his arms to her.

Sparrow ran and hugged him. ‘It's only me,' she said.

‘Of course it's you. Just you, and I don't want anyone else either.' Bruno waved his arms at the surrounding toys. ‘Take your pick, Sparrow. Choose something from my shop. Anything at all.'

As far as she knew, Sparrow had never had a toy in her whole life and now she felt she was too old to enjoy one, but she looked at them anyway, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

‘What about a spitfyre?' he said, plucking one of the models from the ceiling. ‘They're all made by hand. Look at the tiny stitches! They're very pretty.'

Sparrow shuddered. ‘Mrs Nash and Tapper made them, didn't they?' she asked.

‘Why, goodness me, how do you know that?' Bruno asked.

Sparrow told them about her night at the Nashes' house and how they had tricked her and locked her in her room and how she was sure others had been kidnapped and kept there before.

‘Why, that's terrible,' Bruno said. ‘Kidnapping! Forcing girls to make these things! I will never buy any more from that lad again. I never did like him. I've a good mind to go to the guards and tell them what you've told me but I feel sorry for his old mother. She depends on him, you see.'

‘I would like a spitfyre anyway, thank you, Bruno,' Sparrow said, afraid she'd sounded ungracious. She slipped it into her coat pocket. Little Jean would love it, or Hettie, if she ever saw either of them again.

‘Tapper hasn't been in these last couple of weeks  … ' Bruno went on.

‘But how extraordinary,' cried Hilda. ‘I saw him in town just the other day! In Middle Square!'

Sparrow felt her blood freeze in her veins.

Tapper,
here
?

Was he looking for her?