Clover Moon by Jacqueline Wilson
‘Go back now, Thelma. I’ll carry on looking by myself. Please! You absolutely mustn’t lose your job,’ I said.
‘But I hate to think of you wandering back and forth like a lost soul searching for this place that no one’s ever heard of,’ said Thelma, looking worried. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if it even exists. It was definitely the Strand? There’s a place called Strand-on-the-Green. Could it be over there?’
‘I don’t know! Mr Rivers just said the Strand.’ I hadn’t been concentrating properly. I’d never in a million years imagined that I would run away – I’d needed to look after Megs.
I started thinking of my other sisters too, gentle Jenny and pert little Mary. Mildred was softer with them, but she still cuffed them when she was in a bad temper. She was even fiercer with Richie and Pete, beating them if they grew too rowdy. They were such silly boys, forever egging each other into mischief, but they weren’t bad lads. And what about dear baby Bert? What was I thinking of, leaving that poor little mite? Jenny seemed able to handle him, but she didn’t really have my knack, for all Bert had favoured her recently.
Perhaps I’d been truly wicked to walk out on all of them. If I were a truly good person I’d go back now and take my punishment.
But if I went back now I’d never have the courage to leave again. In a few years one of the big lads would start courting me and I’d end up in one room with a husband and babies of my own, trapped for ever.
I had to make the break now. I wanted a proper education and training. I needed to find Sarah Smith’s place. It was my only chance.
‘You go back to the theatre, Thelma. I’ll keep looking for it. I’ll find it. Mr Rivers wouldn’t have made it up. He said just off the Strand, I’m sure he did.’
‘Well, we’re nearly back at the Gaiety now. Let’s just run up and down one last lane, and then, if we still don’t have any luck, you’re blooming well coming back to the theatre with me. You can watch the show and then I’ll bed you down in the dressing room, and we’ll start looking again in the morning. It’s not safe to be wandering around on your own, especially when it gets dark. Drury Lane’s just up there!’ Thelma warned.
‘What goes on in Drury Lane?’ I asked.
‘It’s Gin Palace City, where all the bad girls hang out. They wouldn’t do you no harm – they’d like as not make a fuss of you – but you get all the riff-raff gentlemen sniffing around, and I wouldn’t put it past some of them to prey on a little rabbit like you.’ Thelma put her arm round me protectively.
We looked up at the next lane, which was very small and dark.
‘Little St Giles Lane,’ I said.
‘It’s little, all right. Never even noticed it before,’ said Thelma. She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s a bit whiffy too. Perhaps we won’t bother with this one. Don’t look like there’d be a respectable girls’ home in a dive like this.’
Even so I took several cautious steps into the lane, squinting up at the tall blackened buildings overhanging the narrow street. There was a brass plate on one of the doors. It shone brightly, clearly given a daily polish, which seemed strange in such a grimy street.
‘Come on, Clover,’ said Thelma, pulling at my coat.
But I took a step nearer so that I could read the engraving on the brass plate.
THE SARAH SMITH
HOME FOR DESTITUTE GIRLS
‘Look!’ I whispered.
‘Oh my Lord! You’re right, girl. This is it. I’d never have dreamed they’d have such a place here. Well, go on. Knock!’ said Thelma.
I reached out a hand but I couldn’t make myself grasp the polished knocker. I knew Thelma urgently needed to get back to the theatre and I desperately needed a bed for the night. But my hand wouldn’t move. I was suddenly terrified.
‘Give it a good old rap.’ Thelma sighed, seized the knocker herself and rapped loudly several times.
‘Ssh!’ I said, stepping back from the doorstep in alarm.
‘Well, we want them to hear us, don’t we?’ said Thelma. When no one appeared immediately she knocked again, even louder.
‘Thelma!’ I gasped. When the door opened I hid behind her.
A very small, elderly lady scarcely as tall as me peered at us through her spectacles. She glared at Thelma. ‘Be off with you!’ she commanded, though she only came up to Thelma’s splendid bosom.
‘I beg your pardon! That’s no way to talk to a lady,’ said Thelma indignantly.
‘You’re certainly no lady!’ said the tiny woman. ‘How dare you come battering at our door, disturbing all my young girls. You’ve no business coming here dressed up like a dog’s dinner and flaunting yourself. Are you trying to lure my girls into your evil ways, is that it?’
‘How dare you!’ said Thelma, flushing deep pink. ‘Don’t you go telling me I’ve got evil ways! I’m a hard-working, decent girl, a dancer at the world-renowned Gaiety Theatre, I’ll have you know!’
‘A dancer at the theatre!’ said the lady, unimpressed. ‘Well, you’re certainly not welcome here. This is a decent God-fearing establishment.’
‘Yes, and I think God himself would be a-feared of you, you sanctimonious old trout!’ Thelma retorted. ‘I wouldn’t step over your doorway if you paid me a thousand pounds. I’ve simply brought this poor child here because she’s nowhere else to go.’ She stepped to one side.
The woman blinked at me in surprise, taking in my black mourning clothes. ‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘Well, you should have said sooner, miss. Hand her over then!’
I clung to Thelma, not at all sure I wanted to go in.
‘I’m sorry, I really have to scarper now, little rabbit,’ said Thelma. ‘But come and find me at the theatre if you really can’t stick it here.’ She thumbed her nose at the tiny lady and ran off, her bright skirts rustling, her scarlet boots pounding the pavement.
I stared after her helplessly.
‘Well, don’t just stand there, child,’ said the lady. She seized hold of my wrist and pulled me inside her establishment.
14
SHE SLAMMED THE front door and then took a key from her pocket and locked it. I couldn’t get out now!
‘My goodness me,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid that young woman is not at all a suitable companion, child. What were you thinking of?’
‘She’s my dear friend,’ I insisted.
‘Then you’re not a very wise little girl, and it’s just as well you’ve taken refuge here. How did you hear about our establishment?’
‘My friend Mr Rivers told me about you,’ I said.
‘About me?’
‘Yes. You’re Miss Sarah Smith, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am Miss Ainsley, the warden and head teacher,’ she said grandly, tossing her head as if she were six foot tall instead of less than five. ‘And your name is . . .?’
‘Clover Moon,’ I said.
‘Clover Moon and . . .?’
‘And I don’t think I want to be here,’ I said, clutching my sack for comfort.
‘I meant that you should say, “Clover Moon, Miss Ainsley,” for that is my name and that is how you should address me. And how can you say you don’t want to be here when you’ve been standing in this hallway for scarcely a minute! Come with me, child.’
‘No, I really mean it. I think I made a mistake coming here. Please can I go now?’ I asked.
‘Please can I go, Miss Ainsley!’ she said, confusingly. ‘No, of course you can’t.’
‘Am I a prisoner then?’
‘Silly girl! Of course not. You came here of your own free will, did you not?’
‘Yes, but now I want to go because I don’t like it here!’ I said.
‘You’re barely inside the front door. How can you possibly judge?’ said Miss Ainsley.
I peered around the bleak, bare hallway with its narrow strip of carpet and dim gaslight. The only thing you could say for it was that it was clean. The smell of carbolic was so strong it made my eyes water.
‘It smells!’ I
‘There’s no need to be so rude. We teach our young girls to be polite.’
‘You weren’t polite to my friend Thelma!’ I retorted.
‘She is clearly not a suitable friend for you, child. But I’m sure it isn’t your fault that you’re not more discerning. You cannot help the way you’ve been brought up. We are here to help you. Now follow me, if you please,’ said Miss Ainsley.
I wondered about trying to snatch the front-door key out of her pocket, but she was formidable, for all she was so small. I found myself following her meekly. As we passed a staircase I saw faces peering through the banisters, staring at me and whispering amongst themselves. One girl stuck her tongue out at me. So much for politeness! I waggled my own tongue vigorously back. Then I saw a little child at the end who made me catch my breath. She was small and scrappy, with short wispy hair and great big eyes. She was so like Megs that my heart turned over.
‘Please, who is that little girl – that one up there?’ I asked Miss Ainsley.
‘You’ll be able to meet the other girls at supper. You must be interviewed first, and we will have to attend to your person too.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, alarmed.
‘Ssh now. Enough questions. I hold to the view that little girls should be seen and not heard,’ she said, turning and nodding at me.
‘I’m not a little girl, I’m eleven. And if I don’t ask any questions I won’t get any answers,’ I said.
‘Now you’re being impertinent. One of our rules here is that you learn to respect your elders and betters.’
She was clearly my elder but I didn’t feel she was my better at all, though I decided it might be wise not to press the point. She took me into a small room at the end of the corridor, again unusually bare, with just a table and two stark wooden chairs. There was an accounts book and a pen and inkwell on the table. That was all. No ornaments, no knick-knacks, no velvet cloths or lace, no potted plants, no needlepoint cushions, no pictures on the walls.
Megs and I used to sneak off, exploring the streets near the church where she now lay buried. Richer folk lived there – some even seemed to have a whole big house to themselves. We’d creep up the garden paths and peep in between the cracks in the lace curtains. We marvelled at all the fancy stuff crammed into each room. We played we were grand ladies, choosing furniture for our own big house, though we were often chased away by angry maids waving brooms and brushes at us.
This was a big house and yet they had less stuff than we had at home. Mildred took great pride in her mantelpiece clock, even though it had long since broken, and the twin china dogs that guarded it on each side. On the wall we had a picture of the Queen cut from an illustrated paper. Once, when Pa was in a silly mood, he had made all us girls curtsy to the black-and-white Queen, and then he did a curtsy too, which made us all laugh.
I’d once loved Pa with all my heart. I still loved my brothers and sisters. Was I really better off in this strange bleak house with no family at all?
Miss Ainsley pointed to one of the chairs and I slumped down on it, suddenly realizing I was exhausted.
‘Come now, sit up straight – head up, shoulders back,’ said Miss Ainsley, hitching herself up on to the chair opposite. She opened the large accounts book to a blank page in the middle, dipped her pen in the ink and then looked at me enquiringly.
‘What was your name again, child?’ she asked.
‘Clover Moon.’
‘You should say, “Clover Moon, Miss Ainsley.” Please try to remember. You say you are eleven years old? Give me your birth date.’
‘I don’t rightly know,’ I said truthfully. ‘Pa said I was born in the winter near Christmas, but he doesn’t remember the date.’
‘Surely your mother knows?’
‘My mother died,’ I said flatly.
‘Is that why you’re wearing mourning now?’ she asked, in a slightly gentler tone.
‘Mother died when I was small. I’m in mourning for my sister. She was only buried today,’ I said, my voice wobbling.
‘That’s very sad for you, dear. But try not to be sad for long. Your sister will be happy playing with the angels in Heaven now,’ said Miss Ainsley.
I was sure Megs would sooner be down on earth playing with me, but I didn’t argue.
‘Is that why you’re here?’ asked Miss Ainsley. ‘Can your father no longer look after you?’
‘Pa hasn’t ever really looked after me,’ I said.
‘But did he actually turn you out of the house? I have to be clear. We cannot accept girls if they are still wanted at home.’
‘I’m not wanted,’ I said.
‘You’re sure this is the case?’ Miss Ainsley persisted.
‘Look,’ I said, and I pushed my hair back and showed her the weals on my forehead.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she said. ‘He did this to you?’
‘My stepmother. But he knew. And he didn’t stop her. They don’t want me. They didn’t even want me to go to my sister’s funeral. They didn’t want her either.’ I started crying. I wasn’t crying for myself, I was crying for Megs. They hadn’t even noticed she had the fever. She might have died in her bed before they’d realized anything was wrong. I was the only one who had loved Megs. And she was the only one in the family who had truly loved me.
‘There there.’ Miss Ainsley looked uncomfortable at my tears, but she felt up her sleeve and brought out a white handkerchief. ‘Here now. Mop your face, dear. Well, it seems we have grounds enough to accept you into our small community. Let me continue taking your particulars, Clover Moon. Have you ever attended a school?’
I wiped my face, blew my nose and shook my head.
‘You must say, “No, Miss Ainsley,” if the answer is negative,’ she said, busily writing. ‘Don’t look so despondent. We will give you intensive lessons here, and within a few months I’m sure you’ll be reading simple stories and able to pen a short letter. Most of our girls make excellent progress.’
‘I can read!’ I said. ‘I can read great long complicated stories. I haven’t ever written a letter, but I’m sure I could if I tried.’
‘Are you sure you can really read and write, Clover?’ Miss Ainsley asked. She passed me a spare sheet of paper from the back of the book and gestured to the pen and ink. ‘Show me.’
I’d never used a proper pen and inkwell before. Mr Dolly had always given me pencils. I had a little difficulty getting the right amount of ink on the pen nib. First I didn’t get enough, so that no words came out on the paper at all, and on my second attempt I overdid things and made a great blot on the page. Miss Ainsley didn’t comment, but I saw her raise her eyebrows.
I gritted my teeth, dipped the pen again and started writing:
I was prepared to write a whole page praising dear Mr Dolly, but Miss Ainsley cut me off.
‘That’s enough, child. You do indeed have a very clear hand, and you spell well too,’ she said. ‘How about Arithmetic? Are you equally competent at your sums? Do you know your multiplication tables?’
Mr Dolly had failed to introduce me to them, and when Miss Ainsley wrote a series of figures in a special pattern I didn’t know how to make sense of them. I felt foolish and hung my head, but when she asked how much change I would have if I bought two tuppenny-ha’penny cakes and one penny bun and gave the baker a shilling, of course I could tell her at once that I’d have sixpence change.
‘But what sort of cake costs tuppenny-ha’penny?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘Is it a little cake or a big cake? Cherry tarts only cost tuppence and they’re the best kind of little cake, but all the big family-sized cakes – seed cake and fruit cake and Victoria sponge – they all cost at least threepence, sometimes much more.’
‘Are you being impertinent, child?’ Miss Ainsley asked sharply.
‘No, I’m just telling you,’ I said.
‘It’s not your place to tell me anything. I am the adult. It is my place to instruct you,’ said Miss Ainsley. ‘Y
She continued to test me. I stopped seeming bright. I faltered in Geography. Mr Dolly had frequently entertained me with stories of extraordinary lands with vast deserts and dense jungles, and I could name every creature in his picture book of exotic animals – but I couldn’t name a single capital of any country for Miss Ainsley. I didn’t shine in History either. I could chat for hours about the Tudors – and of course name every one of Henry the Eighth’s wives – but I didn’t know the date when any monarch came to the throne.
My needlework didn’t pass muster either. I could alter an outfit to fit my sisters, but when Miss Ainsley took a woollen stocking from the table drawer and asked me to start darning the heel I couldn’t handle the clumsy needle and had no idea how to patch the hole neatly.
She seemed most shocked by my ignorance of the Bible. I’d seen tattered copies when the Bible-thumpers came down our alley shaking their tambourines and telling us we were all damned unless we changed our wicked ways. The alley folk were insulted and told them in no uncertain terms to clear off. The boys even threw rubbish at them. Richie and Pete thought this great fun.
I’d heard of God and Jesus Christ, but mostly because folk round our way used holy names as curse words.
‘Don’t you know any Bible stories? Not even Noah’s Ark? Or Daniel in the Lion’s Den? Or the most important story of Adam and Eve and how this world started?’ Miss Ainsley asked incredulously.
I shook my head. ‘My friend Mr Dolly told me many wonderful tales, but he didn’t have much time for the Bible. He said he didn’t care for a god who allowed little children to be crippled,’ I said.
Miss Ainsley breathed in deeply. ‘You seem to have a knack for picking the wrong kinds of friends, child.’