I SOBBED MYSELF into a stupor. I could not eat. I could not sleep. I became so fuddled I could barely stagger out of bed. Matron Bottomly and Matron Peters both declared I was faking illness, but I was burning with such a fever that the nurses were frightened and summoned the doctor.

‘There is nothing wrong with the child, Dr March,’ said Matron Bottomly. ‘She simply screamed herself into a passion. I have never known such a wilful child as Hetty Feather. She deserves a good whipping – though of course we would never lay a finger on any of our foundlings,’ she added hastily.

Dr March laid the back of his hand on my forehead, then listened to my chest. ‘The child is clearly ill, Matron, wilful or not,’ he said. ‘She’s a frail little creature and I fear her chest is weak. She must be kept here in bed, wrapped in wet sheets to lower her fever, and be fed an invalid diet of bread and milk.’

‘I think it is criminal to cosset such a wicked girl,’ Matron Bottomly murmured to the nurse, but she did not dare disobey the doctor’s orders. I was kept isolated in the infirmary. My fever left me after several days but I was still strangely ailing. I could barely sit up in bed. I ate nothing, took just a few sips of water, and lay with my eyes closed, not talking to anyone.

‘Come along, Hetty Feather,’ said Matron Stinking Bottomly. ‘Get up at once.’

‘Stir yourself, you lazy girl. We know you’re faking,’ said Matron Pigface Peters.

They pulled back the sheets but I didn’t move, though it was freezing cold.

‘Get on your feet!’ they screamed, and dragged me out of bed.

I stood shivering in my nightgown, while the room whirled violently round and round. The two shouting matrons whirled too, playing a crazy game of ring-a-roses before my eyes. I fainted clean away, cracking my head on the stone floor.

I came round to find blood trickling down my cheek and into the neck of my nightgown. The two matrons were the colour of the infirmary sheets, thinking I had died there and then. Dr March was hastily sent for again. He dabbed at the great gash on my temple, sighing, and told both matrons that it was dangerous to try and rouse me in such a manner.

‘But her fever is gone, I am sure. There is nothing wrong with her physically,’ said Matron Bottomly.

‘Ah, physically, maybe, though she’ll be groggy for a couple of days after that bang on the head. No, it’s what’s going on inside her head that concerns me.’

‘I’m all too aware of what’s going on in that red head of hers. Mischief, lies and total insubordination!’ Matron Peters murmured to Matron Bottomly.

Dr March sat beside me, taking my hand in his and patting it gently. I was so overcome by this unexpected kindness I started weeping.

‘There now, child. What is troubling you so? What is it you want?’

I swallowed, licked my dry lips and croaked, ‘I want Mama!’

‘Ah, I thought that might be the reason for this bizarre performance,’ said Matron Peters. ‘Well, want away, Hetty Feather. Your mother has been sent packing and she’s never coming back.’

I wept as the word never tolled in my head like a mourning bell. I lay in my bed. My head throbbed but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything, only Mama.

Then one morning I had a new visitor. I smelled lemon verbena soap and freshly ironed linen. I opened my eyes and saw the plain neat form of Miss Sarah Smith. She looked at me gravely.

‘Oh dear, Hetty,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You look like a little ghost!’

‘Miss Smith!’ I forced my head up off the pillow. The room lurched and tilted but I made a fierce effort to steady myself. ‘Oh, Miss Smith, you have to help me!’

‘What can I do for you, child?’

‘What can you do?’ I was so desperate I forgot to be polite and deferential. ‘You can get Mama back, that’s what you can do!’

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, my dear,’ she said.

‘Yes you can! You’re on the Board of Governors! You do all that charity work and publish all those books. They will listen to you. Listen to me! Mama didn’t do anything wrong–’

‘She had a child out of wedlock, Hetty,’ Miss Smith said quietly.

‘So did the mother of every foundling in this whole hateful institution!’

‘They all gave up their babies to the hospital. They didn’t sneak back here under false pretences.’

‘Surely that proves just how much Mama loves me. And I love her, and I cannot bear it that she’s been cast out like a common criminal and denied a character reference.’

Miss Smith tried to interrupt, but I went on talking, sitting bolt upright and shouting now. The infirmary nurse came rushing to restrain me, but Miss Smith stopped her.

‘What will poor Mama do? She can’t get a new position without a character reference. She’s only ever worked here – and three terrible years in the workhouse. What if they won’t take her back? Then she will be left to fend for herself on the streets. You dare ask me what the matter is! How do you think I feel, knowing my own dear mother is sitting in some mire-filled, squalid gutter, weeping–’

Oh, Hetty, you have such a majestic imagination! Don’t get too carried away now! I assure you, your mother is not weeping in any mire-filled, squalid gutter. I like that phrase! I might well borrow it for one of my books.’

‘Are you mocking me?’

‘Only a little. I understand your anguish, but it’s unfounded. Your mother, Ida, is well provided for. She has a new position already.’

‘You’re lying!’

The nurse gasped. ‘Hetty Feather, how dare you address the lady like that!’

‘It’s quite all right, Nurse. It’s good to see Hetty in a passion. It tells me that she’s on the mend already,’ said Miss Smith. ‘I suggest you go and attend to your other patients, while Hetty and I continue our little chat.’

When the nurse left, with obvious reluctance, Miss Smith put her pale plain face close to mine, looking me straight in the eye. ‘Do you really think I’m a liar, Hetty?’

I took a deep breath and then shook my head.

‘I will always tell you the truth. Your mother is safe and well, and has a good position. You must trust me.’

‘I do trust you, Miss Smith – but I don’t trust anyone else. They could be lying to you,’ I said.

‘Hetty, I took it upon myself to raise your mother’s case with the Board of Governors. We agreed that we could not possibly create a precedent by keeping Ida in our employ. Many other mothers would start seeking work at the hospital, and that would never do. We’ve always taken great care that no foundling should be singled out in any way, for treats or praise or special coddling–’

‘Hmph! I am constantly singled out for scoldings and slappings.’

‘Yes, and perhaps you deserve them, Miss Hetty Feather! Now listen to me, please. The matrons pressed for instant dismissal, and that was understandable – but it seemed to me singularly unfair to turn Ida away without giving her a good character. She’s been an exemplary worker in all her years here, even if it was for a particular reason. She’s been hard-working and cheerful, willing to lend a hand with anything. I wrote exactly that in her letter of reference.’

‘You gave her a character reference! Oh, Miss Smith, thank you, thank you!’

‘And I found her a new position too, as a general housekeeper to an elderly lady at Bignor-on-Sea on the south coast. She’s an acquaintance of an aunt of mine, an invalid who I’m sure will treat Ida fairly.’

‘But the south coast – that’s miles and miles away! I shall never see her! Couldn’t you have found her a closer position, Miss Smith?’

‘Sometimes I think you can never be satisfied, Hetty!’

‘Can we visit at all?’

‘I’m afraid the Board of Governors do not think that a wise idea. But I dare say you will be able to write to each other.’

‘Truly? I will get letters from Mama?’

‘Yes, I’m sure she will write to you every now and then.’

I’d never had letters before, apart from one from Polly. I’d written my weekly letter home to my foster family. I wasn’t sure Mother knew how to write, but Jem certainly did. He had taught me my own lettering when I was barely toddling. I had written for years, but they never once wrote back. Very few of the foundlings received letters, and yet in the junior school we all wrote once a week without fail.

My heart beat harder in my chest. ‘Will they give me Mama’s letters?’ I asked fearfully. ‘They don’t always give us our letters, I am sure of it.’

I wasn’t sure – but the expression on Miss Smith’s face told me that I’d hit on the truth.

‘I do believe there is a little censoring. I certainly don’t approve, but it’s done for well-meaning reasons. Apparently, letters from foster homes are frequently inappropriate or upsetting and would not help the children to settle down at the hospital …’ Miss Smith’s voice wavered.

I seized her hands. ‘That’s outrageous, Miss Smith, and you know it!’

‘Hetty, Hetty, calm down! I do agree with you, it is in most circumstances outrageous, but I do not think there is anything I can do to change matters. It is the custom.’

‘Then it’s cruel and pointless telling me Mama will write if I can’t receive her letters!’ I protested.

‘Hush now!’ She held my hands tightly and put her face close to mine. ‘I have given Ida my own address. I will tell her to send all letters to me. I will bring them to you on a regular basis and I will post your replies. That way you will know that the letters are being sent – if, of course, you trust me?’

‘Oh, Miss Smith, of course I trust you!’ I said, and I threw my arms around her.

‘Now, now, Hetty, compose yourself. Still, I am pleased to see you are almost back to your old self – in a furious rage one moment and in a fever of excitement the next,’ she said, laughing at me. ‘If you’re truly grateful–’

‘I am, I am!’

‘Then you must get better quickly and be a good, polite, hard-working girl for your entire future stay at the hospital.’

‘I’m not sure I can quite manage that,’ I said truthfully.

Miss Smith laughed again. ‘Well, do your best, dear,’ she said. She called to the nurse. ‘I think you’ll find that Hetty is on the mend. I have a feeling she’ll be able to get up tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll definitely be her old self by the end of the week. Isn’t that right, Hetty?’

I nodded emphatically. My head ached, and I still felt weak and dizzy when I tried to get up, but I persevered. I ate as much gruel as I could to get stronger, although it didn’t taste the same without Mama’s loving sprinkles of brown sugar and spoonfuls of cream.

I was still punished when I returned to the schoolroom and my own dormitory, but I didn’t care. I listened to the scoldings of Matron Stinking Bottomly with my head held high. What did I care if she thought me deceitful and dishonest and a disgrace to the whole hospital? I even held my tongue when she said bad things about Mama. I knew she was simply trying to goad me into flying at her, and then she could legitimately fling me in the punishment room. I knew now that Mama was well provided for and would be writing to me, and that special secret knowledge kept me silent and seemingly obedient.

I performed all the extra housework tasks the matron set me. I did not even murmur when she had me scrubbing out the privies.

Sheila came across me performing this unpleasant task. She would normally have laughed delightedly to see me scrubbing with one hand and holding my nose with the other, but this time she hovered anxiously. Then, to my astonishment, she took up another brush and started scrubbing too.

‘Whatever are you doing, Sheila?’ I asked.

‘What does it look like?’ said Sheila. ‘Ugh! This is disgusting!’

‘But why are you helping me? You, of all people?’

‘Because I feel badly about you and Ida. I think it was all my fault that Matron Peters came downstairs, poking her nose in. I tripped on the stairs when I was following you. I think she must have woken then.’

‘Oh! But even so, you didn’t tell on me.’

‘I wouldn’t tell on my worst enemy,’ said Sheila, scrubbing.

‘I thought I was your worst enemy,’ I said.

‘Well, there you are, then, I still didn’t tell,’ said Sheila proudly.

‘You’re definitely not my worst enemy any more. If you carry on helping me perform this disgusting task, I shall have to recategorize you. You will be a dear friend,’ I said.

Sheila went a little pink. ‘I’m not sure about that, Hetty! But I do feel especially sad that you’ve lost your mother all over again. And Ida would be a lovely mother–’

‘She is, she is!’

‘You must be so worried about her now.’

‘I am. But Mama is strong-willed and very determined. I have a feeling she is safe and in good hands now,’ I said.

I did not want to tell her about Miss Smith’s reassurances. Sheila might be almost my friend now, but I wasn’t sure I trusted her totally.

‘I wish I could discover my mother,’ said Sheila sadly. ‘Do you think you will ever see Ida again, Hetty?’

‘Of course! When I am fourteen I will leave this hateful hospital, and I will search the length and breadth of England until I find her again!’ I said fervently.

Miss Smith came to the hospital a few days later, supposedly to check on the state of my health and mark the progress of my memoirs. (She had bought me my beautiful red Italian notebook and encouraged me to start my life story on its smooth creamy paper.) We usually sat in the corner of the schoolroom when Miss Smith visited, under the watchful eye of my teacher, Miss Morley – but this time Miss Smith said I still looked very pale. She fancied a turn in the gardens would do me a power of good.

Miss Morley did not dare protest, because Miss Smith was on the Board of Governors and a well-known, powerful lady to boot.

We went down the stairs and out through the back door, a forbidden joy in itself. We girls went outdoors to ‘play’ every day, but we had to cluster in the front courtyard, where the big girls strolled and the little ones skipped. All our school-work and training happened indoors: reading, writing, counting, sewing, serving, scrubbing – so that we would be competent servants by the age of fourteen.

The boys were going to be soldiers so they were encouraged outdoors. They did Physical Education every day. They marched up and down, they swung their arms, they ran on the spot. They did not have to perform a single household task. Instead they were marshalled out into the gardens, where they dug and hoed and watered our potatoes and turnips and carrots, our cabbages and kale, our peas and beans, our blackberries and gooseberries.

There were all the senior boys now, digging away in their shirtsleeves. Although they were under the supervision of Old Joe the gardener, they were calling to each other and whistling merry tunes as they worked – while we had to work in total silence. If we so much as whispered, we were punished.

‘Oh, lucky, lucky boys!’ I said to Miss Smith.

‘I agree with you, Hetty. Boys seem far more free and fortunate than girls, no matter what their station in life.’ She stared over at a tall thin boy standing by himself. Two sturdier fellows were slyly pelting him with potatoes whenever the gardener’s back was turned. The boy did not shout or swear or try to retaliate. He simply stood there like some anguished martyred saint, accepting this punishment.

‘Poor lad,’ said Miss Smith. ‘It doesn’t seem much fun for him.’

I watched with a heavy heart, biting my lip to stop myself crying out. I knew the boy. He was my dear foster brother, Gideon. I wanted to rush to protect him. I still loved my strange, shy, solitary brother so much, though we scarcely saw each other now that we were at the hospital.

If only I could give the two tormentors a taste of their own medicine. I looked down at the freshly turned earth beside the path. I bent down and grabbed a handful, squeezing it into a muddy lump.

‘No, Hetty, no!’ said Miss Smith.

‘I have to,’ I said, and hurled my clod.

It landed most satisfactorily right in the face of the biggest boy. He gave a muffled shriek – unable to cry out loudly with a mouthful of earth. I hoped there were big juicy worms wriggling right down his throat. He bent over, coughing and gagging, while his friend whirled round and round in comical anxiety, wondering from whence the attack had come. All he could see was a stern lady and a small female foundling demurely taking the air in the gardens.

Gideon looked over too, and saw me. I was dressed in our hideous brown uniform, but my cap could not contain all my flaming red hair. I hoped he would wave and smile when he recognized me, but he hung his head and looked more miserable than ever. I had meant to help, but I had only shamed him.

‘Oh dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have done that,’ I murmured.

‘Yes, you should be ashamed of yourself, Hetty. Such behaviour!’

‘Pointless, stupid behaviour,’ I agreed, sighing.

‘I am sure Matron Bottomly or Matron Peters would feel you should be severely punished in some particularly painful way. They might think that depriving you of all post is a suitable punishment,’ said Miss Smith.

I put my hand in hers. ‘But you are not a matron, you are my own dear Miss Smith, and you are going to give me my post, are you not? Oh, do I truly have a letter from Mama?’

Miss Smith patted the pocket of her skirt and smiled at me. We went round the corner to the greenhouses, out of sight of the gardener and all the boys. She reached into her pocket and offered me a small white envelope.

I carefully wiped my muddy hands on the back of my uniform and took it. I was shaking now, my fingers clumsy. I unpeeled the flap, trying not to tear it at all, because it was so very precious – and then pulled out the letter.

18 Saltdean Lane

Bignor-on-Sea

Sussex

My deer little Hetty – no, my brite bloo-eyed Sapphire!

I miss you so my darling child, but if it wernt for the ake in my hart I wuld be happy for I am now working for a lovly old lady Miss Roberts and she is a deer to me, much sweeter than those meen old matrons.

It is a butiful place here. The see is such a site. How I wish you wer with me to take the air and run on the sands. But be of good cheer, you will be out of the hospital befor too long, and then when I have savd enuf muny we will be togever forever deerest child.

With all my love

Your mama Ida

P.S. Please furgiv the look of this letter. I am not used to putting pen to paper and I canot figure out how to spel all the wurds.

I read my letter again and again, though the dear words blurred because my eyes filled with tears.

‘Is Ida well?’ Miss Smith asked quietly.

‘Oh, she sounds very well and likes her position, but she is missing me and, oh my goodness, I am missing her,’ I said, holding Mama’s letter to my chest.

I did not want to show it to Miss Smith because it was so precious and private, and I could not bear her to see that Mama had a little difficulty with her spelling. Miss Smith seemed to understand. She brought out another envelope from her pocket with a blank piece of paper inside, and a sharpened cedar pencil.

‘I thought you might care to reply straight away,’ she said.

‘Oh, Miss Smith, you are such a dear friend!’ I said.

We sat down together on the old brick wall. Miss Smith started jotting things down in a small notebook, intent on writing another of her stories, while I scribbled hastily to Mama.

The Foundling Hospital

Oh, Mama, dearest, most special Mama in the entire world,

I am missing you so enormously much. I cannot believe fate has been so unkind to us, tearing us apart again in this way – though if I had been more cautious and Sheila less nosy (though she is sorry now), we would still be together. How lovely of you to write to me. It is such a relief to know you’re in a good house with a kind lady – though heavens, Satan himself would seem kind compared with those wicked matrons.

I was taken poorly when you had to leave the hospital, but the doctor was gentle, and Miss Smith was wonderfully reassuring, and I am totally better now, though my heart aches too and I long to have your dear arms around me.

With all my love,

From your own daughter Sapphire (the most beautiful name in the world because you chose it specially for me).

Mama and I have been writing to each other ever since. I have all her precious letters in little bundles tied with silk. Nurse Winnie gave me a yard of narrow green silk ribbon as a secret present when I helped her with her sewing classes for the little ones.

‘Remember your first darning lesson when you were five, Hetty?’ she said, smiling at me. ‘You were all fingers and thumbs, you poor little mite, and sewed the toe of your stocking tight to the heel!’

‘I was a very stupid little girl, Nurse Winterson,’ I said.

‘No, no, you were bright as a button. There was always something distinctive about you, Hetty. I knew you would go far.’

‘How far is that?’ I said, sighing. ‘So far that I will scrub people’s floors and dust their mantelpieces for the rest of my working life?’

‘I have a feeling you won’t be a servant for ever,’ said Nurse Winnie. ‘And even if you are, you will still lead a very different life from here. Servants have days off, you know. You will be able to do as you please. And pretty servant girls have followers.’

‘I dare say – but I’m not the slightest bit pretty,’ I said. ‘I am the smallest, skinniest girl in my whole year and I have bright red hair.’

‘I think your hair is a beautiful colour, dear,’ she said – and the next time I helped her she gave me the green ribbon. ‘To tie up your bonny red hair,’ she sang, pulling one of my plaits.

Dear Nurse Winnie! She was the only person in the whole hospital I cared for now, apart from Eliza, my little sister. Eliza was brought to my old foster home in the country when she was a babe. I was sent off to the hospital before I turned six – and five years later Eliza followed me.

I had greeted my little foster sister joyfully, desperate for news of home. It was a hard blow when she spoke of our brother Jem so fondly. I had adored Jem passionately when I was a tiny girl. He had cared for me tenderly and played with me patiently. He had even taught me to read and write … He had been like a mother and father to me as well as a foster brother. I’d hoped that one day, far in the future, he’d be my dear husband too. When I played dressing up as a bride, Jem had kissed my finger and promised that he’d put a ring on it one day.

I had believed him utterly. I had thought of him as my Jem, but when little Eliza chatted away innocently enough, I realized that he was her Jem too. He had played all the same games with her. I could not bear it. I felt he had betrayed me. I stopped writing loving little messages to him in my weekly letters home. There seemed little point in writing anyway, as he never bothered to reply. Though perhaps he had written? Miss Smith had actually admitted that many of our letters were confiscated.

Tears sprang to my eyes when I thought of Matron Pigface’s trotter-fingers fumbling with my precious letters, tearing them to shreds and tossing them into the fire. I wondered what Jem would have written …

No, what did I care? I had been a silly little child and he had been a kindly lad, that was all. It was ridiculous to believe that our love had been real. I would not be wearing my green ribbon for Jem, or for any other young lad, come to that. I did not want foolish followers. I only cared for Mama.