Sapphire Battersea by Jacqueline Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

sleep for weeks – and I cried in the daytime too because the cook in that kitchen was a truly terrifying creature. That temper! If you chopped the carrots unevenly or curdled the custards, my goodness, she’d start throwing the saucepans at you. The copper ones, mind, so if you didn’t duck sharpish you’d be knocked unconscious.’
    I blinked at Mrs Briskett in alarm.
    ‘Don’t look so fearful, Hetty Feather. That was in the bad old days. Little servant girls are treated with kid gloves now. I won’t be throwing any saucepans, so long as you try hard, keep quiet and mind your p’s and q’s.’
    I nodded, though I wasn’t at all sure what my p’s and q’s might be. Problems and queries? I seemed to have a lot of both.
    I stared out of the sooty train window as the train chuntered its way out of London. At first I saw ugly great factories spouting thick smoke, then mile after mile of terraced rows of dark little dwellings – but soon these started to thin out. Now I saw green fields and trees all about us.
    ‘Is this the country?’ I asked, wondering if I might possibly be near my dear foster home.
    ‘No, no, we’re only in Wimbleton – it’s a while yet. We’ve a few stations to go through before we get to Kingtown. That’s where Mr Buchanan has his establishment. It’s a big fine house too, though not
quite
as large as Waterloo Station.’ Mrs Briskett chuckled at my foolishness.
    ‘Is Mr Buchanan a kind man?’ I asked timidly, wondering if I might somehow cause offence again by my mild enquiry.
    Mrs Briskett remained relaxed, undoing her bonnet strings and giving her grey hair a good scratch. ‘Excuse me, dear. My best bonnet’s very fine but it certainly sets me itching. Mr Buchanan? Oh, he’s kind enough, though he has his little ways, of course. He’s a very important writer, you know. You’ll often see his articles on education in the newspapers, and there’s a whole shelf full of his books in the best bookcase.’
    ‘Might I be able to read one?’ I asked.
    Mrs Briskett looked at me, her head on one side. ‘Can you read then, missy? Proper reading, great long sentences? I’ve worked with several little girls from the workhouse and they couldn’t read to save their lives.’
    ‘I’ve been reading fluently since I was four years old,’ I said proudly. ‘My brother Jem taught me.’
    I shouldn’t have mentioned his name. I felt my lip quivering.
    ‘Well, I’m not sure it’s suitable for you to be reading Mr Buchanan’s books, though they are all written for children, I believe. It will tickle him to know you’ve asked – but I don’t think there’ll be any time for book-reading, Hetty Feather. You’ll be helping Sarah and me from six in the morning till ten at night.’
    I didn’t like the sound of this work regime at all!
    ‘I do so love to read. Could I not read when I go to bed?’ I said.
    ‘I’m not having you ruining your eyes and wasting candles,’ said Mrs Briskett. ‘And if you’re doing your job properly, you’ll be fast asleep the moment you clamber into your bed.’
    ‘Perhaps I could read during my recess?’ I said.
    ‘
Recess?
’ said Mrs Briskett, as if she didn’t understand the word.
    ‘My playtime,’ I said.
    The hospital had divided our days rigidly – mostly work and very little play, so it was always particularly important.
    ‘Playtime!’ Mrs Briskett chortled. ‘Oh, Hetty Feather, you’re going to be the death of me! You’re not a schoolgirl now. There won’t be any playtime for you, my girl. It will be work work work, seven days a week, with Sunday afternoons off
if
you’ve been a good girl.’
    I listened, chastened. It was upsetting to to discover how little I knew about everyday life. The matrons had told me they were preparing me for work, but they had only taught me to darn and scrub floors. These did not seem very useful accomplishments . An hour’s darning or scrubbing had seemed interminable. How was I going to keep