Brightling Page 4

  ‘That’s pretty, that stuff,’ Betty Nash said, idly fingering the fabric. ‘Tiny little daisies.’

  Sparrow looked up and glanced at it. ‘There was a girl at the orphanage with a dress made of that,’ she said.

  Betty stiffened. Tapper paused in his ripping.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Sparrow said. ‘I just said, it’s like her dress. Caroline Creevy, she had a dress made of that. She left last winter.’

  ‘Oh, really? Did she, dear, that’s nice,’ Betty Nash said. ‘Common stuff, that daisy pattern is. Very common.’ She pushed it away, deep into a bag. ‘You’re doing grand there, Sparrow, my lamb. Such nice stitches; such lovely, neat knots and you’re really good with their eyes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sparrow couldn’t help enjoying the sewing; her nimble fingers were expert at making tiny, neat stitches. She loved the way the spitfyres came to life in her hands; she knew she was good. Her spitfyres were so lifelike it wouldn’t be hard to imagine them flying.

  On and on she worked, until her wrists and neck ached and the tips of her fingers were sore from being pricked by the needle. She was sure that she’d done more than enough spitfyres but still the unfinished ones kept coming. The next time she glanced at the window it was getting dark. ‘Oh! It’s late. I must go,’ she cried, standing up. ‘Have I done enough?’

  ‘You can’t leave, lambkin. You must stay the night,’ Betty Nash said quickly. ‘The road isn’t safe at night. There are robbers and all sorts on the Stollenback road.’

  ‘No, I – I must go. I must get on. Scara— that old cat will be waiting for me.’ Sparrow piled the scraps of fabric and half-done spitfyres on the table. ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.’

  But now Tapper was standing too and he had his hand on her arm. Holding her.

  ‘It’s too dangerous, Sparrow,’ Betty Nash said. ‘Too risky. You really should stay.’

  Tapper moved quickly and drew the bolt across the door with a rumbling crash. ‘It’s dangerous out there,’ he said. ‘’Specially for little girls all alone, so.’

  ‘We couldn’t let you go, little lambkin poppet, not when it’s so late and so dark,’ Betty said. ‘We’d never forgive ourselves if anything happened to you.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘There’s a room for you upstairs. Here’s a candle, and the bed’s made up all neat and clean again,’ she said, smiling. ‘You need a good rest.’

  Sparrow stood her ground. ‘I want to leave,’ she said. ‘You can’t keep me here. Unlock the door, please.’

  Tapper was at her side and his hand was cold and heavy in the small of her back, like a stone. ‘So, now now, orphanage girl,’ he said. ‘Don’t be flighty. Course you want to leave, but trust us. Safer here than out there.’ She recoiled from him, hating his smell, hating him touching her, and moved away. But despite her attempt to go towards the door, Tapper guided her firmly up the narrow stairs.

  Sparrow was amazed at how strong he was. It was like pushing against a bar of iron.

  ‘No, please, please!’ Sparrow called back to Mrs Nash. ‘Don’t let him!’

  Betty plonked herself down in an armchair, grinning. ‘It’s for the best,’ she said, waving her grey plait at her and nodding. ‘Good night, my precious lambkin. Sleep well.’

  There was nothing Sparrow could do and, somehow, seconds later, she was pushed into a little room under the thatch and the door was being firmly shut behind her.

  Sparrow sank onto the bed beneath the low, sloping ceiling and stared around in horror. They had trapped her! Horrible, horrible people! They were forcing her to stay!

  She could hear Tapper and Betty muttering together downstairs. What did they want with her? She glanced at the bed. Who had slept here before? Feeling afraid, she got up and went to the small closet in the corner. Inside were two faded dresses. Small dresses, about her size. A shabby pair of badly worn-down shoes were tucked in below. She closed the cupboard and went back to perch on the edge of the hard, narrow bed. Next to the bed was a bucket to catch drips; there was a hole in the ceiling – the plaster was stained brown and looked soft from years of leaking. The bedside table had a drawer. Inside the drawer she found a thimble and a felt bundle of needles with spots of rust on the material. Or was it blood?

  She looked down at her own fingers – pricked and sore from all the sewing.

  Her mind was racing and her heart booming loudly in her ears.

  Whose room had this been? Who had slept here before? Had Caroline Creevy been here? Where was she now?

  She heard mother and son creak up the stairs and doors open and close. The house grew silent around her. The candle was nearly finished; it was beginning to splutter, sending scary shadows over the walls. The thatch above her seemed to tick and breathe.

  How exactly had Tapper burned his hand so badly? Sparrow wondered. There was no fire in the scullery, no boiling water, nothing hot. She felt her pulse race suddenly.

  It had all been a lie.

  It had been a trap.

  She looked around desperately; she had to get out. Now!

  6

  Escape

  The door was locked; of course it was!

  Sparrow twisted the handle a few times quietly, gave up and sank back on the bed. Idiot! She was a stupid girl, really stupid. They had kidnapped her. They wanted to keep her here for ever, making those little spitfyres … But the travelling salesman was due to come tomorrow – he’d help her …

  No! She hit the bed. Of course he wouldn’t come! That had been another lie to make her work, to make her feel sorry for them. Mrs Nash had said it was Tapper who took the spitfyres to Stollenback to sell, anyway, not a salesman. They planned to keep her prisoner and make her sew for them for ever and ever until, like her predecessor, her fingers broke and bled and she … died?

  There was no window, no way of looking out. No means of escape.

  Sudden small, scuttling noises above her head made her catch her breath; and she slid into the corner against the wall, listening. It was a scratching, rustling sort of noise in the ceiling. Was it mice? Squirrels? A few crumbs of grey plaster trickled out from the stained and cracked patch on the ceiling. The scratching noise grew louder. It had to be a mighty big squirrel up there, she thought …

  Unless …

  ‘Meow!’

  Sparrow leaped forward. ‘Scaramouch!’ she whispered at the ceiling. ‘Puss? Is that you?’ Another soft meow told her it was. He was right above her. He must have got in through one of the holes in the thatch and now he was digging away at the soggy lathe and plaster in the ceiling, trying to get to her. She reached up to the gaping hole and began to pull at the soft, crumbling stuff. It must have been rained on for years, because it broke up in her hands, showering horsehair, thin strips of lathe, dust, twigs and cobwebs down on her head and the bed. She shook out her hair.

  ‘I’m OK,’ she whispered, shaking off the dust. ‘I’m fine. I’m here!’

  Scaramouch was just above her; she could almost feel his paws and claws as they dug overhead, but she couldn’t see him. Every time she stopped pulling at the ceiling, he called to her, encouraging her to go on. It didn’t take long to drag out all the soft, wet plaster and strips of old wood – then there was Scaramouch; his glittering eyes shining down at her with affection and mischief.

  ‘Meow!’

  He disappeared again and Sparrow felt the cold night air on her cheeks and caught a glimpse of the moon far above.

  ‘Meow!’ He was calling for her to join him.

  Very quietly, she pulled the bedside table over so it was beneath the ragged hole in the ceiling. She climbed onto it and pushed her way up into the cool, dark cavity of the roof. Moonlight flooded in through the hole. She couldn’t stand up because the twiggy thatch was too low. She knelt and began to dig and scrape at it, widening the hole where Scaramouch had come in. Seconds later she pulled herself through and was sitting on top of the cottage roof.

  Her heart was beating hard. She h
ad to catch her breath. Listen. Make sure no one was stirring in the house. Scaramouch flowed alongside her, already on the move.

  ‘Wait! Hold on!’ But he wouldn’t.

  Wide branches of the large old murgberry tree lay over the roof and Scaramouch immediately bounded into the leaves and headed for the ground.

  Sparrow clambered down the tree more slowly. The plump, red murgberry fruit burst against her skin, leaving a bitter smell. Typical that the Nashes would have a tree of poisonous, smelly fruit by their house, she thought.

  At last she was on the ground, her legs wobbling and turned to jelly from the climb. She glanced at the cottage; the windows were all dark and it was quiet.

  ‘Meow!’ Scaramouch was already on the move again.

  ‘Blimey, Scaramouch,’ Sparrow said, readying herself to follow him, ‘Stollenback won’t be going anywhere, you know. Here I come!’

  The night sky was awash with stars. The moon hung like a yellow hook, low and gleaming. It was cold, and sparkles of frost glittered on stones and blades of grass. They walked for hours.

  ‘Mustn’t stop yet,’ Sparrow said. ‘Keep going, keep going as long as we can. They might be coming after us, those two.’ And the thought of the menacing Tapper creeping up behind her and catching hold of her collar with his filthy, cold fingers made her hurry, even though she was exhausted and all she wanted to do was sleep. She began to dream about getting into a bed with a soft, fresh pillow and closing her eyes.

  Although she couldn’t see very clearly, she sensed the countryside changing around her and the fact that hedges and woods and sometimes buildings now surrounded her. Still she didn’t dare stop and find shelter, not yet.

  Suddenly she paused. ‘What was that?’ she whispered.

  They both stood still.

  She was frozen, staring backwards into the blackness of the path behind them. ‘Oh, no! Scaramouch, is that them? Is Tapper coming?’

  But it wasn’t footsteps she could hear. No, it was something swishy, sighing, like the beating wings of a giant bat. Sparrow knelt down beside Scaramouch and they both stared up into the sky.

  The sound grew louder and louder, as if great sheets of card were beating the air. A burst of golden orange and yellow, high above, was so surprising that Sparrow gasped out loud. In the splash of brilliant light she saw –

  Spitfyres!

  Two magnificent flying horses were in the air above her and Scaramouch, gusting out clouds of fiery breath. Their vast, leathery wings moved in unison, creaking gently, flapping lazily, effortlessly, as they flew over the treetops and came towards her. The spitfyres were ridden by sky-riders wearing goggles and tight-fitting clothes.

  Hoooosh! One spitfyre blew out again and the air was alight with dots of gold and silver and red-hot sparks, which dazzled and glittered, hanging in the dark. The sky-riders must have spied her crouching there because they waved and, even from this distance, Sparrow could see they looked exhilarated and happy. She waved back.

  The spitfyres flew round in a circle above them. They tipped their wings so they were almost flying on their sides and then righted themselves, breathing out clouds of gold as they flew. Slowly they spiralled up into the air, gaining height with every turn until they were nothing but bright specks in the sky, like stars, and disappeared.

  Sparrow sighed. She felt she’d seen the most wonderful thing ever and was very sad and very content at the same time. She glanced at Scaramouch. His eyes shone and his fur seemed to sparkle. It made her feel sure the spitfyres had thrilled him too.

  ‘How far to Stollenback?’ Sparrow asked Scaramouch as they walked on. ‘I hope not far. When we get there, I’m going to find some work and lodgings and some kind people to live with. Then we can write to Mary and Little Jean and all the other girls and they can come and live with us too. It will be wonderful. And we’ll find Sampson’s of Stollenback, won’t we? Sparrow Sampson. That sounds good.’

  ‘Meow.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  7

  Pynch

  Miss Knip sat at her desk, her long fingers pointed in a steeple shape, thinking. Two days had gone by since Sparrow left and still she had not hatched a plan that suited her. Every time her eyes closed, she saw a large heap of shining, golden coins; so many coins that they were slithering over each other and tumbling down, sliding over the edge of the table and rolling on the floor. Her vision was so real she almost bent down to pick them up.

  Sparrow must be connected to the family whose name was in the locket. There could be no doubt at all; her likeness to the woman in the portrait was so strong. But now Sparrow had vanished. She had to find her. How was she going to do it? Miss Knip imagined herself too fragile to go traipsing off across the country, then searching the streets of Stollenback. She was certain that Sparrow would have gone there. Miss Knip knew how important that stupid shawl had been to the orphan. A few words with snivelling Little Jean and her suspicions were confirmed. Stollenback it was. And then, once Sparrow was found, she’d put the second part of her plan into action – to extract as much money from Sparrow’s family as she could! But first, who could she send to find the girl?

  Her door opened and Mr Pynch came in.

  Mr Pynch was large in belly and head, both body parts being fat and pale and blobby. He had stringy hair and a wet mouth that tended to hang open like a forgotten drawer. For a few moments Miss Knip considered him as a possible candidate to send to Stollenback, but rejected the idea swiftly.

  ‘Knip, guess what?’ Pynch said, coming in and dumping himself down by the fire, oblivious to the cold look Miss Knip gave him.

  Miss Knip’s thoughts were elsewhere and she ignored him.

  ‘That big old cat’s gone. Barton said it snuck out. Said it hared off like a, like a hare, I suppose.’ He chuckled. ‘Without the long ears.’

  Miss Knip stood up as though a spring had unsprung beneath her and let out a little scream. ‘The cat!’

  ‘What’s the matter? Knip? You’ve gone white as a blancmange, you have.’

  Miss Knip had forgotten about Scaramouch. How had she not noticed the cat’s disappearance? she wondered. Because she’d been so busy thinking about her plans and the money she might make, of course. ‘I meant to keep it in for a couple of days,’ she said. ‘I thought it might go after Sparrow.’

  ‘It has.’

  ‘Sparrow would have been lost without it,’ she said, ‘which would have made me happy.’

  Pynch laughed. ‘Naughty, naughty, Knip!’

  ‘But if it caught up with her,’ Miss Knip went on, thinking aloud, ‘it will make her easier to trace. People will remember having seen a girl with a cat, especially such a big cat.’

  ‘That cat was a weird old thing anyway,’ Mr Pynch said, helping himself to a bun from a plate on the table. ‘You know it came here with Sparrow?’

  ‘Did it? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You weren’t here then, were you?’ He crossed his podgy legs and leaned back in his chair. ‘See, you don’t know everything, Knip, old girl, though you think you do. Yes, the cat came into the Home the same day as the baby and sat by its cradle day and night. We could hardly shift it to get near the little thing … Ah, squidgy little Sparrow … She wasn’t scrawny like most of them, but fat as butter, and clean. They aren’t usually clean, are they?’

  ‘No.’ Miss Knip was hardly listening.

  ‘It smelled good enough to eat, did that baby,’ Pynch went on dreamily, stuffing another bun into his mouth. ‘Ah, me. Eleven years ago. They don’t make babies like that any more.’

  ‘I want you to take over here tomorrow. I’m going on a little journey,’ Miss Knip said suddenly, coming to a decision.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Journey. Someone I need to see. Business.’

  ‘Leaving me on my own?’ Pynch looked worried. ‘What am I going to do? What’ll I do with all those girls?’

  ‘Just wallop them, like you usually do,’ she said.

  8
r />   Pies

  Sparrow and Scaramouch walked for three days, scavenging fruit from orchards and hedges, and sleeping where they could; once in a ruined cottage and once in a scratchy haystack.

  As they walked on, the lane grew wider and was well worn now by carts and horses and people. They passed farms, barns and sheds, and soon they came to clusters of cottages and then houses and busy streets. They were near the town at last. Stollenback.

  Sampson’s of Stollenback, Sampson’s of Stollenback. Sparrow repeated the name as if it were some sort of spell. She must find Sampson’s.

  ‘You can’t imagine what it’s like,’ she told Scaramouch, ‘not knowing who you are, where you come from. It puts you at an unfair disadvantage. It leaves you dangling, like something on a string.’

  ‘Meow.’

  ‘No, well, I don’t suppose you know who your mother and father are either,’ she said, ‘but you don’t care, do you?’

  ‘Meow.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think so. But I do care. I want to know who I am. I can’t be me unless I know where I come from, who my parents were. I hope I was wanted, Scaramouch. I’d like to know that; I’d like to know anything, anything about the real me.’

  Scaramouch flicked his tail and tipped his ears backwards and forwards.

  Sparrow had managed to convince herself that knowing something about her parents was all she needed, but what if she discovered that they had never loved her and never wanted her at all? How could she cope with that? Best not to think about it, she told herself, looking around. Chin up, Sparrow.

  The houses of Stollenback were ancient. Their walls were timbered in black, criss-crossed over the white-painted stonework. The roofs were steeply pitched. The buildings were crammed in, this way and that, along the roads. Their wooden shutters were painted bright colours and decorated with cut-out shapes of flowers, stars, diamonds and even spitfyres. The balconies were crammed with faded plants and doorways were surrounded with tubs of greenery now tinged with red and brown. Horses and carts, fine carriages and bicycles competed for space on the road.