Noel Streatfeild - Thursday’s Child

‘If you behave like somebody you will be treated like somebody. Never allow anyone to suggest that because you do not know who your parents were you are in any way inferior to others more fortunately placed.’

‘You needn’t worry,’ said Margaret. ‘I never will. But what I think is that it will help if everybody can see I’m someone who has a mother who cared that her baby was properly dressed. How can people know that if they don’t see the clothes?’

The rector held out a hand to Margaret and she came to him.

‘It is my hope that some day your mother will come and claim you. You do not know and I do not know what terrible thing happened to her that forced her to leave her baby on the church steps. Nor do we know what new misfortune has deprived her of money, but I believe – and I pray for this night and morning – that one day her fortunes will change and then she will come to me and say: “Where is my Margaret?” Then I shall ask: “First, madam, describe the baby clothes you left for the child, otherwise how do I know you are her mother?”’

‘Well, truthfully,’ said Margaret, ‘it’s not likely the wrong mother would want me. What for?’

The rector smiled.

‘How do we know?’ he teased her. ‘Some day you may prove to be the heir to a great fortune. Remember Thursday’s child has far to go.’

‘Or,’ Hannah suggested, ‘you might become famous. I’m always telling her, sir, she might write a book. You ought to hear the stories she tells me of an evening, and all out of her head.’

‘So you see,’ said the rector, ‘I must keep the baby clothes for the day when your mother claims you.’ He got up. ‘Now I must get on with your affairs. I will arrange for the carrier to call here on the 27th.’

Hannah still had the wicker basket which she had brought to Saltmarsh House. Now she gave it to Margaret. To make her an ‘underneath’ trousseau she had raided the old ladies’ cupboards. There she had discovered an unused length of flannel, part of a roll bought to sew Miss Selina into one winter when she had pleurisy, and there was a voluminous cambric petticoat once worn by Miss Sylvia and other useful bits and pieces. She had sewn the clothes at night after Margaret was in bed, so it was the night before she left that Margaret saw them for the first time after they were packed in the wicker basket.

‘Three of everything,’ Hannah said proudly, lifting layers of tissue paper. ‘Three plain cambric petticoats. Three pairs of drawers with feather stitching. Three scalloped flannel petticoats. Three linings in case at that orphanage they make you wear dark knickers. Three liberty bodices and three nightdresses – all fine tucked.’ Then Hannah drew back yet one more piece of tissue paper. ‘And here for Sundays is a petticoat and a pair of drawers edged with lace.’

Margaret gasped. Then she threw her arms round Hannah.

‘Lace! Oh, darling Hannah, thank you. It’s like being a princess. When we go to church on Sundays I’ll be sure to see my frock sticks on my heel so everyone can see the lace.’

Hannah was shocked.

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. What you have to remember is you were spoke for by an archdeacon so don’t shame him.’ Then she turned back to the wicker basket. ‘Your Bible and Prayer Book are in the bottom. I’ve tucked your stockings in wherever there is room, but on the top are your hankies, your brush and comb, your toothbrush and one nightie so you can get at them easy if you arrive late. And in a corner down at the bottom is that tin of mine with the cat on it you’re fond of. I’ve filled it with toffees.’

Suddenly it all seemed terribly final. Although most of Margaret had accepted that she was going to the orphanage, another part of her had refused to believe it. Could she really be going away from the rector and Hannah and all the people she knew and loved? With a howl she threw herself at Hannah.

‘Must I go? I’ll work in the house much more than I ever have before. I’ll like dusting, truly I will, and I’ll hardly eat anything at all.’

Hannah, her eyes dimmed by tears, gave Margaret a little push.

‘Don’t, my darling. Don’t. It won’t do no good.’ Then she knelt down and closed the wicker basket and fastened round it a leather strap.

The orphanage was poor. The endowment, which a hundred years before had seemed more than sufficient to dress, feed and house a hundred orphans, was now quite inadequate. Charitable people subscribed and sometimes held bazaars and jumble sales to raise funds, but there was still barely enough to keep the home going. The matron, who was a hard woman and in any case disapproved of spoiled orphans, kept the expenses down as low as they would go, largely by saving on food. ‘What won’t fatten will fill’ was one of her favourite sayings. As a result, Miss Jones, called assistant nurse but really assistant everything, who had been sent to meet Margaret and the other children, was very conscious of the lightness of the bag in which was her own and the orphans’ dinners to be eaten in the waiting room. A stale loaf of bread, some margarine, one ounce of cheese per person and a bottle of water.

Miss Jones was already in the waiting room when Hannah and Margaret arrived. She scarcely looked at them but fixed horrified eyes on the wicker basket.

‘I hope that is not the child’s luggage. You were informed no luggage was to be brought.’

Hannah had measured up Miss Jones. ‘That’s a jumped-up Miss Nobody,’ she thought. Out loud she said:

‘No young lady I have charge of goes away without baggage and they’re not doing so now, and don’t forget Margaret is no common orphan, she was spoken for by the archdeacon whose brother is one of the orphanage governors.’

Miss Jones never saw the governors, her life was ruled by Matron, of whom she was terrified. But it was common knowledge in the orphanage that even Matron had to listen to the governors. Perhaps if this child – to whom she had taken an instant dislike – knew a governor it was better to leave the question of her baggage to Matron. She looked coldly at Margaret.

‘You are, I suppose, Margaret Thursday.’

‘That’s right,’ Margaret agreed. ‘Of course, Thursday isn’t my real name. I was called that because that was the day the rector found me and …’

Miss Jones pointed to the bench on which she was sitting.

‘That’s enough talking, sit down quietly.’ Then she said to Hannah: ‘You can go now.’

Both Margaret and Hannah forgot Miss Jones. They gazed at each other with stricken faces.

‘Oh, my dear pet!’ said Hannah, holding out her arms. ‘Oh, my dear pet!’

Margaret put down the basket and ran to her.

‘Hannah! Hannah! Don’t leave me.’

Hannah, with tears rolling down her face, knelt and hugged her.

‘You got some stamps,’ she whispered, ‘the rector gave you. Bear it if you can, dear, but if you can’t you write and something might be thought of.’

Margaret hugged Hannah tighter.

‘Don’t leave me. You can’t! You can’t!’

Hannah knew every minute she stayed made things worse for Margaret. She freed herself from her clinging arms and, blinded by tears, stumbled towards the door. Margaret tried to run after her, but Miss Jones had stood enough. She grabbed Margaret by the wrist and picked up the wicker basket.

‘Sit down and behave yourself. I never saw such a display. You wait until Matron hears of this.’

‘Hannah! Hannah!’ screamed Margaret.

But Hannah was gone and the door had shut behind her.

Miss Jones was furious. There were others in the waiting room and they were looking pityingly at Margaret. It was too much, making her look like the wicked stepmother in a fairytale when really she should be admired.