Free Tattycoram by Audrey Thomas

Street, where our small cottage stood.
    The bells of St. James began to ring just as I rushed through the open door. “Mother! Mother! I’m home” (even in my excitement, being careful to set down my basket with its surprise). “Oh Mother! Mother! Mother!”
    She turned to me with a look of such joy it set me weeping as we ran to one another. “I’m home,” I murmured, kissing the top of her head, “I’m home.”
    Hand in hand we made our way to the church, with Father, for once, following close behind. I was re-introduced to theMisses Bray, who were gracious and asked questions; the rector shook my hand, and the women of the village — many, on this special Sunday, with daughters home — gathered round to greet me.
    I looked carefully at the other girls, a few of whom were already married with a baby in their shawls, but most of whom were domestic servants in the big houses in Shere, Gomshall, Peaslake and Albury. Although their manners might be rougher than mine, and their speech also (living with Mr. and Mrs. Dickens had done wonders for my speech), I envied them their nearness to their families.
    I saw the grave of my dear grandfather and spent a few minutes with the little dead babies, especially Hannah, whose place I had taken.
    Back home, my mother exclaimed over the simnel cake and declared she had never seen anything so beautiful — it looked too good to eat.
    I laughed. “Father and I will eat it then.”
    I gave her the new collar and cuffs, which of course looked “far too good for the likes of me,” and gave my father a twist of tobacco, for Mother had told me he’d taken up the habit after Grandfather’s death.
    Mother kept wiping her eyes with her apron and saying she was being silly, then wiping her eyes again. She was overjoyed to hear I could stay for two nights.
    â€œThis must seem very small to you,” Father said that evening, “this house, this village — after London.”
    â€œNo, oh no. This is where my heart is. This is home.”
    In the spring of 1839, Mr. Dickens told me there was to be a grand concert at the Foundling to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the hospital. He and Mrs. Dickens and the Hogarths were taking tickets, and, he wondered, could he purchase a ticket for me?
    â€œI know you sang in the chapel choir, Hattie, and Fred hears you singing in the nursery and in your room at night. I thought you might enjoy the concert; it will be selections from
Messiah
.”
    I did not hesitate. “Thank you, sir, but no.”
    â€œIf you are worried about the children, Fred is not going, and since the concert is in the afternoon, he would be happy to keep an eye on them, I’m sure.”
    â€œI would rather not, thank you, sir.”
    I could see that he was not pleased with me, and I did not know how to explain without seeming ungrateful. My stomach churned just to think of going. It was not that I now thought of myself as above the children in the hospital — how could I? — but I tried not to dwell on my life there or why I had been admitted. Each time I reported to Mr. Brownlow at Whitsun and had to walk through those heavy gates, I was in such a state of agitation that I thought I would faint. It was ridiculous, I knew, for I was not really mistreated there and indeed had been a favourite of the sewing mistress. Perhaps I was afraid that once in, I would not get out again.
    I felt so deeply about the place that still I always walked on the other side of the street on my way to Southampton Row. Sometimes I glanced across, briefly, at the statue of Thomas Coram, which towered over the entrance, and felt I owed him an apology for such revulsion. After all, I might have died in the workhouse if I had lived at all. So as much as I longed to hear the glorious music of
Messiah
, and to see my old choirmaster, Icould not bring myself to go, even at the risk of offending Mr.