The Diamond Hunter Page 17

  ‘Let’s be frank,’ the woman continued. ‘Respectable Victorians want nothing to do with these darkies invading our shores. Really, why can’t they just stay where they were born? I mean, I’ve heard they can make docile servants, but really – can we truly trust these blackies in our homes?’

  ‘Well, to answer your first query, I think it’s because we didn’t stay where we were born, Mrs Collins. We enslaved a lot of their parents to work for us and many of the African children here have worthy parents who fought for England as soldiers, and —’

  ‘Oh, even so, Miss Grant, social inequality cannot be avoided. It’s all part of our empire’s structure . . .’

  Clementine stopped listening; she felt a strong urge to raise her parasol and bring it down on the woman’s head. Instead, she thought of Joseph One-Shoe; he had taught her how to employ the benign smile to hide her emotion and take control of it. ‘Only show emotion when you love someone. Hate is better to hide. It makes you powerful when you realise you are stronger than the lion within.’

  She leaned on his teachings now, quietening the roar of her lion. ‘Do you know any people from Africa or the Caribbean personally?’ Her voice sounded mild – interested, even.

  Mrs Collins stopped walking as though she were just about to step in a mess left by someone’s pet dog. ‘Good heavens, no!’ she said. ‘I see the coloured orphans here, of course, although I haven’t spoken to any. And an acquaintance of mine has a mulatto maid, who waits on me rather well, I must admit, but no, no, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be seemly in my situation to associate with adult blackamoors. Surely you don’t?’

  ‘I would – I do,’ Clementine took delight in replying. ‘I have,’ she added. ‘I used to live with an African man when I was small. He was Zulu. I considered him a father. I loved him, Mrs Collins – I still do love him with all my heart and I think of him each day.’ Her walking companion looked scandalised and dismayed at once. ‘And . . . I’m not sure, have you heard that I’m negotiating the adoption of an African child from this orphanage?’ That wasn’t strictly true, but it was not so far from the truth that she felt any remorse.

  ‘Whatever for?’ Mrs Collins uttered, having found her voice.

  Now she did laugh. ‘To give her a home – why else? To give her a life . . . a future.’

  ‘But you’re not married, Miss Grant.’

  That was the remark that Clementine felt gave her final permission to burn all potential links with this ghastly woman. ‘Mrs Collins, I do not need a husband to validate my position or my decisions – not now, not ever. And any man I agreed to marry would welcome the arrival of a child in need into his life. I wouldn’t allow myself to be involved with a man romantically if he did not at least have sympathy for my views, and I hope he would share them when it came to the welfare of young people in need – no matter their colour.’

  Mrs Collins looked at her blankly as they stood outside the dining hall. Clementine could hear the soft voices of children and the clink of cutlery against crockery, but she wasn’t so sure Mrs Collins could. Her next remark nearly made Clementine laugh out loud.

  ‘Er, will you be coming to the fireworks display, Miss Grant?’ she asked, as though Clementine had not said anything.

  Nothing had changed in two decades, it seemed: an African man would continue to be considered as a handy, perhaps even appreciated, servant but should not get above his station. Her only satisfaction was knowing that she and her parents had treated Joseph One-Shoe as not only a fellow miner but their family.

  ‘Fireworks?’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, you must. All the patrons will be in attendance on Guy Fawkes Night. The children are busy making guys to burn on a bonfire that I swear you’ll be able to see from Primrose Hill. Oh, it’s going to be splendid fun. Mr Collins and I shall certainly be there.’ She reeled off a list of names of other seriously wealthy people and their contributions. Clearly, this event was more about the pomp and ego of the patrons than pleasure for the children. It was a chance to show off their wealth and broadcast their philanthropy. ‘And, of course, Mr Collins is funding the fireworks,’ she added, trying her hardest to sound modest but failing.

  ‘Most generous. Mrs Collins, you’ve been kind in escorting me, but I should admit this is not my first visit and I rather like lingering and talking to the children.’

  ‘To the children?’ she repeated, aghast. ‘But I thought I’d introduce you to the dining hall team.’

  ‘I’ve met them previously. I don’t have a lot of time in London this visit but I do want to see some of the children. I didn’t wish to sound churlish and decline your generous offer to walk with me, but the truth is I am a regular visitor.’

  ‘But why? I mean, why do you want to spend time with the children and not the people who make this generous place function?’

  ‘Because I enjoy them, Mrs Collins. I am planning to set up a similar orphanage in the north and I want to find out exactly what the children need, what they want, what they aspire to.’

  ‘Miss Grant, it’s my understanding that the children here are already destined for service. We shouldn’t fill their heads with aspirations.’

  Clementine smiled in a way that she knew would make Joseph proud, and gave a small shrug. ‘That’s how this orphanage operates, and it does a very good job of training its girls and sending them into domestic service. But I want to work on education as much as training, perhaps find out which little girls want to be artists or writers; I want to find out if they have a talent for sewing and might like to become seamstresses in charge of their own businesses, or run their own guesthouses because they’re good at management.’ She took private delight in seeing Mrs Collins’s complexion blanche. ‘I shall be helping boys as well – those who dream of being builders, merchants, businessmen.’

  Mrs Collins looked faint. ‘Turn them into us, you mean?’

  ‘To give them opportunity. A chance to fulfil their potential, to make the most of their inherent talent. I want to see how we can give children hope. Anyway, forgive me for carrying on. Thank you again – I’m glad we met,’ she said, holding out a polite gloved hand. ‘I shall definitely attend the fireworks and admire your family’s display.’

  That seemed to brighten her companion. ‘The pleasure’s mine, Miss Grant.’

  Clementine was glad they parted on a smile but she was convinced Mrs Collins would be talking to all those in her network about the opinionated visitor from the north with her strange ideas. Clementine didn’t think she could care any less and continued her way through to the dining hall. It wasn’t noon so the dinner bell was yet to be sounded but girls were busy setting tables, and she spotted several familiar faces.

  The orphans were kitted out in their strict uniform of black tunics with white aprons and white cotton bonnets to keep their hair tidy. It made her smile to see her favourite, who risked a shy wave and then giggled with her best friend. They were a striking pair. Nel, with skin like the polished Whitby jet Her Majesty favoured, and her companion, Amy, with the palest of freckled skin. They both possessed shocks of hair: one the colour of boot polish, the other like a ripe carrot.

  ‘Morning, Miss Grant,’ they chorused, and the other women and girls in the room turned and curtsied.

  ‘Good morning, everyone.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t let me interrupt you.’

  One of the supervising adults walked down the rows of tables to meet her, beaming across a rosy-cheeked moon of a face that spoke only of generosity.

  ‘I was passing,’ Clementine fibbed. ‘Hope you don’t mind me calling in, Sally.’

  ‘You are always welcome, Miss Grant. How are your plans going in Northumberland?’

  ‘I think I might have found some premises. I won’t lie – I’m excited.’

  ‘Would you like to meet with any of the girls?’

  ‘I would love to chat to Nel and Amy, and perhaps Dolly, if she’s around?’

  ‘She’s helping out the back but, please, would you like to s
it in the small garden – it’s not raining – and I’ll send the girls out? Dinner’s in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Thank you. Er, Sally?’ She reached into her leather holdall. ‘I’ve brought some Yorkshire toffee for the girls. Will you see that they all get one or two, please?’ She knew Sally would make sure the girls got their fair share, which is why she had not left it at the reception. ‘I also want to reward the children helping me but without making the others feel left out. I’ve got a very tiny gift for the three girls, if that’s all right?’

  ‘How kind. Of course. Doesn’t hurt to feel special now and then.’

  They shared a knowing smile and then Clementine wandered out into the yard.

  Suddenly small hands were gripping hers and she found herself flanked by Nel and Amy, both talking rapidly and excitedly. Neither of them wore coats; she suspected they didn’t own more than a shawl to keep out the wintry cold. If they felt the chilly nip of October, it didn’t show, but she still felt guilty for wearing gloves.

  ‘Slow down, girls. Come and sit with me. I have a gift for you.’

  With happy squeals they made themselves comfortable on a bench beneath a gnarled apple tree. She removed two tiny parcels from her bag and Amy began to weep upon being handed one.

  Nel didn’t shed a tear; instead she laughed a deep sound of pure delight to be given something precious of her own, and Clementine was reminded of Joseph One-Shoe’s chuckle. She had already spoken to the orphanage’s hierarchy about taking Nel back to Northumberland as soon as they would release her into Clem’s care. But as she’d watched her with Amy over recent visits, it was fast becoming clear the girls were inseparable, and to take Nel from Amy might cause unhappiness for two children who’d already had enough sorrow in their lives.

  ‘You don’t have to open them now. They’re little ribbons. A beautiful green one to go with your eyes, Amy, and Nel, I picked red to perfectly set off your gorgeous skin and hair. I can show you how to tie it into your curly hair.’

  They both threw their arms around her without encouragement, hugging so hard she had to untangle herself from them. Clementine felt a pang of fresh guilt that she had thought a ribbon to be of little consequence – after all, she’d had ribbons aplenty since she’d arrived in England, in an array of colours to match an equally daunting array of outfits.

  ‘Am I coming to the new home yet, Miss Grant?’ Nel asked, her soulful eyes searching Clementine’s.

  ‘As soon as you turn ten.’

  Amy’s tears threatened again.

  ‘Amy, please don’t cry. You will be coming with us, I promise.’ Clementine nodded encouragement, then lifted a finger. ‘No more tears. This is surely happy news?’

  Amy couldn’t stop the well, and Clementine watched the little girl reach out to take Nel’s hand. She was struck by the arms across her lap, the black skin bright and strong against the pale, and she was again reminded of Joseph and how her tiny hand would sit in his large fist. This was a sign, wasn’t it? She had to return to Africa. Lay to rest those thoughts about him that refused to be quiet.

  She smiled at her resolve and then at her two young charges. ‘I thought I could make you joint prefects. I could use your help.’

  Amy’s eyes, the colour of faded grass, lit. ‘Thank you for letting us stay together! I think I’d die if I didn’t have Nel to sleep next to.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare pull you apart,’ Clementine admitted. ‘All right, go on with you now. You have chores. What is the month?’

  ‘October,’ they chorused.

  ‘All right, then. And when is your birthday, Nel?’

  ‘I do not know, Miss Grant. Miss Jackson decided I shall be ten in May.’

  ‘And I’ll be ten in April,’ Amy hastened to add.

  ‘Excellent. As soon as you’re both ten you will be allowed to come back with me. Next time I visit we’ll talk about our uniforms. Maybe they don’t have to be this colour . . . dark green, perhaps?’

  She laughed at their excited cheers.

  Another girl, mature and graceful in her movements, arrived. ‘You wished to see me, Miss Grant?’

  ‘Off you go, lovely girls,’ she said, giving Nel and Amy a final hug. ‘I’ll see you soon. My, Dolly . . . you’ve grown since I last saw you.’

  The worried expression relaxed slightly. ‘Miss Jackson had to order a new uniform for me. She said it would have to see me through.’

  ‘When do you leave?’ She patted the bench and Dolly sat down gently beside her. She struck Clementine as a watchful gazelle, big-eyed and elegant. Dolly was from the Caribbean. She spoke with a lilt that had a musical quality.

  ‘Early next year, Miss Grant. I am being sent to work as a maid for a family in Wales.’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘I am grateful. I am nearing fourteen and I have had nearly eight years here. It is time to give up my place to another girl who needs help.’

  It sounded rote, as though Dolly had heard the sentiment over and again from the adults around her. It hurt Clem’s heart. She’d always liked this youngster – something about her stillness and peace as much as her generous manner.

  ‘If you could do anything, Dolly, with your life, what would it be?’ The girl, on the cusp of womanhood, was tall and willowy. Her features had a haunted quality, her eyes seeming to look beyond the world she walked in. Those dark eyes cast themselves downwards to stare into her lap. ‘No one’s here but us, Dolly,’ Clementine pressed her. ‘You can tell me.’

  ‘I would be a nurse . . . or a nun.’

  ‘A nun? Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting that. Nursing, though, that’s superb.’ Clementine paused to think on this. ‘What if I said I might intervene and see if we can’t find a way of getting you some training in that field?’ It wasn’t entirely responsible for her to be offering this, but she was committed now. Dolly’s gaze lifted to meet hers. It was filled with fresh hope.

  ‘Why do you do this for us?’ And before Clem could answer, she added: ‘There are white children here but you have always been so especially kind to me, and I know Nel considers you her very special friend.’

  ‘My closest friend was African. A Zulu warrior. My father worked in the mines and I lived there as a very little girl.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He . . .’ She’d never said it aloud to anyone. Dolly waited, her forehead creasing in a frown. ‘Well, he died.’ There, it was out of her now, and yet it felt wrong. She’d learned within a year of arriving back in England that he had passed away but little comfort had been offered.

  Clem could remember that day very well – Uncle Reggie reading the morning paper, her scraping butter across newly toasted bread. He’d suddenly folded down one corner of his page to glance at her.

  ‘Clem, darling?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Reg? Are you going to read me something interesting from today’s news?’

  ‘Not today, Clem. But I wanted to tell you something important.’

  She had waited, anticipating that he was about to tell her they were off on a big journey, or he was going to London and might not be able to take her, or what might she think of having a pony for her next birthday.

  ‘You know you were asking me recently about that Joseph Black-Shoe fellow in Africa?’

  ‘I ask you all the time, Uncle. And his name is Joseph One-Shoe.’

  ‘Well, darling, I do have some news that arrived in a letter last week, but it’s not very happy, I’m afraid. You see, there was a mishap.’

  Mishap. She didn’t know this word, so she waited for more.

  ‘Apparently he ate something poisonous. It’s something called casseeva —’

  ‘Cassava,’ she corrected, trying to absorb what this revelation meant.

  ‘Oh, well, I don’t know. I’m told the Africans like it but that it’s dangerous. It made him very unwell and he didn’t survive.’

  ‘No, Uncle Reggie, that can’t —’

  ‘Now, darling, don’t go upsetting
yourself. It’s not as though you have seen him in a long time, or ever would have.’ He stared down around the corner of the newspaper. ‘Africa is much too far away for a little girl and I certainly have no intention of returning, so please, for me, accept this unfortunate news and let it go.’ He sighed at her crumpling expression. ‘Tears are fine, Clem, if you must,’ he said, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a large handkerchief. ‘Here you are. Why don’t you take your toast up to the nursery and I’ll have Jane send up some cocoa. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You said cocoa was only for night-time.’

  ‘Did I? Well, I make the rules so that means I can break them for my favourite girl in the whole world, doesn’t it? Off you go, darling. If Nanny complains, tell her I said it was all right for you to take food up. Walk carefully up the stairs, darling, that’s the way,’ he said as she walked obediently, tentatively, towards the breakfast room door. ‘And, Clem?’

  In her sorrow and disbelief she turned back to him.

  ‘There’s a new aquatic circus in London – that means water, darling. Loads of fun. And look!’ He withdrew something from an inside pocket of his jacket. ‘We have tickets! Not front row or we’ll get wet, but only a few rows back – the best seats in the house. Get packed, we’re going tomorrow.’

  And that was that. Joseph One-Shoe was dead – what a shame, but how about we cheer up at the circus?

  She’d thought of that moment so many times since but forgave herself because she had been so young. Her only anchor was Uncle Reggie, but she’d never forgotten Joseph. And she had never fully accepted that he’d died, because if anyone knew how to prepare cassava and be wary of its toxic properties, it was Joseph. There must have been some mistake.

  Over that miserable cup of cocoa in the nursery that day, Clementine Grant had decided not to speak of Joseph One-Shoe again to anyone but her inner self. He was her secret – and her secret self at eight had decided that one day, when she was old enough and had saved enough, she wouldn’t rely on anyone else to take her to Africa. She would take herself and she would either find Joseph, or his grave, and prove once and for all what had really happened.