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dear. I never dreamed you thought you could publish such a work!’
    ‘I know it’s a little childish in parts because I wrote most of it years ago – but I can polish it a lot, maybe rewrite sections. Oh, Miss Smith,
surely
it stands some chance of publication?’
    ‘It’s a wonderful piece of work, Hetty, but only as a private journal. It is not
fit
for publication. Be reasonable ! Only recollect the things you’ve written about Matron Peters and Matron Bottomly!’
    ‘But they’re true, every last word – I swear it!’
    ‘I dare say, but there would be the most terrible scandal if such a fiercely condemnatory document about such a well-respected charity were published!’
    ‘Well, surely a scandal would be good. It might sell more copies!’
    ‘Hetty, you’re incorrigible! You can never publish your memoirs – they’re much too bold, too personal, too passionate, too violent, too bitter, too unladylike, too ungrateful, too every single thing!’
    ‘Then why didn’t you tell me this years ago?’
    ‘Because I felt it was very good for you to have a private outlet for your pent-up feelings. I know how hard it’s been at the hospital. It’s been exceptionally good for you to develop a writing discipline. You have remarkable literary skills, far beyond your age and station, but you must channel them carefully if you ever hope to write for publication. Oh, please don’t upset yourself so, dear!’
    I had started crying bitterly, utterly cast down. I had so believed my memoirs would be published and make my fortune so that Mama and I could live together without serving a soul.
    Miss Smith lent me her lacy handkerchief. When I continued to cry, she put her arm round me and mopped my face herself. Her kindness softened me, and I tried hard to stop sobbing.
    ‘There now, perhaps you really
will
be a writer some time in the future. But not yet a while, my dear. You can accept this perfect position with Mr Buchanan and be patient. I am sure you will observe good writerly habits if you work in his establishment.’
    ‘I’d sooner work for you, Miss Smith,’ I said.
    ‘If you were my servant, I’d expect you to go “Yes, missus,” and nod obediently every time I spoke to you,’ said Miss Smith.
    ‘Yes, missus,’ I said, bobbing her a curtsy – and she burst out laughing.
    ‘I scarcely recognize this new persona, Hetty! Carry on in a similar vein at Mr Buchanan’s like a good sensible girl. You really must try to act humbly and do as you’re told. I’m starting to feel a little worried about Mr Buchanan. There he is, thinking he’s taken on a meek little foundling girl who will be very grateful for her good position. You are a
little
grateful, aren’t you, Hetty?’
    ‘Yes, Miss Smith,’ I said, because I supposed I was grateful to
her
. I did not see why I should be grateful to anyone else. Even after nine years’ hard training at the hospital, I still did not see
why
I had to be content to be a servant.
    Every Sunday in the chapel we sang:
     
    ‘
The rich man in his castle
    The poor man at his gate
,
    God made them, high or lowly
,
    And ordered their estate
.’
     
    Why did I have to be stuck being lowly? Why couldn’t Mama and I be rich women in our castle?
    ‘You wait, dearest Mama,’ I whispered as I sat in bed my last morning. ‘I will earn our fortune with my writing one day, no matter what Miss Smith says. Then we
will
have our castle. Well, maybe not a
castle
exactly, but a grand villa with our own pretty bedrooms, where we will live very happily and harmoniously together, just the two of us. We will be rich enough to have a whole troop of servants, but we won’t employ a single one. We will not want any poor girls working for us. We will look after ourselves splendidly. I will clean for you, Mama, and you will cook for me, and we will be private and cosy and comfortable.’
    I slid out of bed and walked down the long dormitory, past all the sleeping girls. I tiptoed out onto