Ragamuffin Angel (13 page)
‘I’m middling, Connie, if the truth be known, and much as I’m thankful for the good Lord’s sunshine this heat is taking it out of me. But I’m glad I’ve seen you like this. Perhaps we could sit a while and have a little chat before I go and offer my condolences to your grandmother?’
‘Aye, yes, Father.’ It was not said with any enthusiasm, and the reason for this became clear after they had seated themselves on a fallen tree trunk conveniently situated in the shade of a spreading’ oak tree at the very edge of the wood, and Connie said, ‘I suppose Father McGuigan told you what happened when he came to see us? Well, I’m not sorry, Father. I’m not. I don’t care what my mam did, she was a good person, and for him to say what he did –’
‘There, there, child. Don’t upset yourself.’ Father Hedley couldn’t tell her that he had secretly applauded her courage whilst being amazed at her temerity, and he had no intention of being hypocritical either, so he passed over the incident with a wave of his hand and a muttered, ‘I didn’t come to discuss that, Connie. That’s over and done with.’
‘Oh. Oh I see, Father.’
‘No, it was what you mentioned to me last time we met, about work of some kind. I suppose the need is all the more great now?’
Connie nodded. The funeral would take every penny they had but she was determined her mam would have a proper send off, especially after what Father McGuigan had revealed. It was only the heathen or the lowest of the low that didn’t provide for such; everyone knew that even the poorest of families would beg, borrow, steal or pawn every item they had – the clothes off their backs – in order to have ‘a good do’. Never mind the bairns were running around with raggedy backsides and they were weeks behind with the rent, proprieties had to be observed and folk knew that the payment for a special mass and a good wake for the newly departed meant dividends in the hereafter.
‘I’ll do anythin’, Father.’ She looked up at him as she spoke, and the warm creamy tint to her clear skin, the deep violet-blue of the heavily lashed eyes and the mass of shining golden hair brought fresh fear into the old priest’s heart. He didn’t want her to have to do anything; that was exactly what had happened to the mother and already Connie showed signs of a beauty that would eclipse Sadie’s. Mind, from when she was knee-high to a grasshopper Connie had had something Sadie didn’t have. He would have liked to have called it her faith, and perhaps her inner strength could be attributed to that in part, but she was a fighter too and he had recognised the Boadicea spirit very early on.
‘Well, work isn’t easy to come by, Connie, not for a young lass just leaving school, but I understand there’s a job as a paid helper in the workhouse laundry if you’re interested. Somehow’ – and now there was a twinkle in his eyes – ‘the matron is under the impression you are fourteen years of age.’
Connie stared at him, her eyes widening and her stomach swirling. The workhouse. Just the words had the power to create a dread that was more than legitimate if only a quarter of the stories she had heard were true. On the few occasions she had passed the extensive series of buildings between Hylton Road and Chester Road which accommodated over nine hundred people and had its own hospital, mortuary, farm and so on, she had, ridiculously, she admitted to herself, averted her eyes and hurried past as fast as her legs would carry her. And now Father Hedley was suggesting she work there. But what else was there? Nothing, absolutely nothing. And with her being so young, and the stigma attached to her mother’s name following her . . .
‘Thank you, Father.’ She forced a smile even as her blood curdled and made herself ask, ‘Who do I have to see?’
‘I’ll take you along there the day after your mother’s funeral, which I’ve arranged for Wednesday incidentally, but we’ll talk with your grandmother about that in a minute or two. You’ll be having an interview with the matron – Matron Banks – in the morning, and if she is satisfied you will begin work the next day. I see no problems.’
‘No, Father.’ No problems. No problems in voluntarily walking into the place that haunted young and old alike? ‘Thank you, Father.’
The post mortem recorded that Mrs Sadie Bell of West Wood Cottage died of a heart attack on Monday 19th June, 1905, and the day after the funeral, on Thursday 29th June – the same day the House of Lords rejected the bill for compulsory Sunday trading, much to the delight of the fervent church faction – Connie entered the grim confines of the Sunderland workhouse with Father Hedley.
They were shown to the matron’s office by a female inmate clothed in the ugly workhouse uniform of grey shapeless dress, white apron, starched cap, and big, stout, hideous boots, and Connie was immediately aware of the faint odour that seemed to permeate the air. It was unpleasant but as yet she couldn’t put a name to it, and it had the effect of sending the butterflies in her stomach into a further frenzy.
‘Ah, Father Hedley.’ Matron Banks was sitting writing at a large, solid-looking oak desk as their guide opened the door after a respectful knock, and as she raised her head and smiled, her rather dour features mellowed somewhat. When she rose to her feet Connie saw that although the matron was dressed in a uniform of a kind, the beautifully cut, if severe, black dress was of the finest material and the small buttons that fastened the bodice were mother-of-pearl. ‘And this must be Miss Bell? Do please be seated.’
The only smell in the matron’s office was the perfume from a large vase of freshly cut flowers on one corner of the desk, and with the sunlight streaming through the window which took up most of the facing wall, and the other two walls lined with bookcases, the room was not unappealing. But it didn’t quieten Connie’s unease, and when Father Hedley said, with a reassuring pat on her shoulder, ‘I’ll leave you to it. I have an appointment at The Little Sisters of the Poor Home shortly, I’m on the board you know and we need to finalise the old people’s summer outing,’ she felt like the last friend she had in all the world was leaving her.
Connie was still standing in front of the great desk when the door had closed behind Father Hedley, and when Matron Banks said again, with a wave of her hand, ‘Do be seated, Miss Bell,’ she sank down on to one of the two hard-backed chairs placed strategically three feet apart from each other and eighteen inches either side of the corners of the matron’s desk.
‘Father Hedley speaks highly of you.’ There was a long pause and Connie was aware that she was being scrutinised intently; it was with some effort that she resisted the impulse to fiddle with the collar of the plain blue serge dress she was wearing. It wasn’t a summer dress, and with the high neck and long sleeves it was stifling in the fierce heat of the June day, but it was the only garment she possessed that was nearly new and smart, having been bought at a fraction of the original cost from one of the second-hand stalls in the Old Market for her mother’s funeral.
Oh, her mam . .
. Connie swallowed hard and tried to answer the matron’s questions as clearly and succinctly as she could, but all the time the knowledge of where she was – the very place her mother had fought so hard to keep her family from entering – was making her stomach churn.
. Connie swallowed hard and tried to answer the matron’s questions as clearly and succinctly as she could, but all the time the knowledge of where she was – the very place her mother had fought so hard to keep her family from entering – was making her stomach churn.
‘And I understand your birth certificate is missing? That your late mother lost it?’
Connie nodded. If she had spoken the truth she would have said she wasn’t even sure Sadie had ever registered her birth; the fact that her mother had been unable to read or write and the remoteness of the house in the wood made that eventuality all too probable, in spite of the law stating that all births had to be registered within forty-two days.
‘Do you want to ask me any questions?’ The matron’s tone had softened somewhat in the last ten minutes or so. She knew this girl’s background and she had been more than a little wary of employing her – she already had enough trouble among both the inmates and her officers with regard to discipline and standards being upheld, and she couldn’t afford any looseness or immoral behaviour to infiltrate the ranks – but the slim and quite startlingly beautiful girl in front of her was not at all what she had expected. In fact she was a pleasant surprise. Matron Banks prided herself on being a good judge of character, and from what she could ascertain the mother’s profligacy had not tainted the daughter.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I don’t think so, Matron Banks.’
Connie coloured and repeated quickly, ‘I don’t think so, Matron Banks.’
‘Then let me tell you a little about the workings of the institution. The accommodation is for 938 persons, and the children are lodged and boarded apart from the adults and educated at neighbouring schools. The same wise principle which has caused the Guardians to keep the children apart from the adult inmates, and the consequent contamination, has made them discard the uniform for the children so that they are spared the stigma of a special workhouse brand. The Guardians feel they are breaking new frontiers in this liberal approach.’
The matron paused, obviously expecting some appreciative comment, but Connie merely nodded quietly. The poor children, and the poor parents. It was awful.
‘On a Saturday, and of course with permission and with an officer present, the inmates may receive visitors. These may be family or friends from outside the confines of the institution, or perhaps a husband from the male side visiting his wife, or a parent visiting a child. It is doubtful that you would be asked to perform this duty as you will be working in the laundry, but occasionally it might be necessary to stand in for an officer who is ill. You understand me?’
Connie managed a ‘Yes, Matron Banks,’ this time.
‘In a moment, Mrs Wright, the assistant matron, will get someone to show you round the officers’ mess and sitting room, the recreation room, kitchen, and the officers’ accommodation which consists of individual bedrooms. All this is quite separate to the inmates. Then you will see the inmates’ kitchen and dining hall, the hospital and the infirm wards, the nursery, the chapel, the laundry, the dormitories and so on. The laundry staff have every Sunday free from eight in the morning until ten in the evening, one Saturday a month off, and every other evening from half-past five to ten o’clock. You will be paid two and fourpence a week which will be reviewed in six weeks if you prove satisfactory, and given four meals a day.’
Another pause and a hasty, ‘Thank you, Matron Banks.’
‘I understand you wish to take up employment as from tomorrow?’
‘Yes, Matron Banks.’ After the funeral they had been left with just a couple of shillings and their vegetable patch, plus the odd egg or two from the hens and the milk from the goat, on which to survive.
‘Then you may still take the Sunday leave this week.’
This last was spoken in the manner of one bestowing a great concession as the matron picked up a large brass bell from the desk in front of her and rang it. The door opened immediately to reveal Connie’s previous escort, who must have been waiting outside for the summons, and as the girl shuffled into the room the matron’s voice changed to one of cold authority when she said, ‘Show Miss Bell to Mrs Wright’s office, Maud.’
Once outside the matron’s office Connie followed the shambling figure in front of her down the narrow corridor to a door some fifteen feet on the right, and there Maud stopped, her voice nasal as she turned and said, ‘’Er’s in ’ere,’ before continuing on her way, head and shoulders bent and looking with every step as though she was going to trip over her own feet.
Oh, what was she going to do? What was she going to do? She’d never be able to stand working in this place. Connie stood looking at the brown-painted door as her mind raced and the smell assailed her nostrils again. And then she wet her lips rapidly, her back straightening as she breathed in deeply and lifted her hand, knocking sharply on the wood.
Mrs Wright turned out to be a large, stout personage who looked more like a man than a woman, but under the iron-grey scraped-back hair and bristling moustache her manner was not unfriendly. Within moments one of the young junior officers Mrs Wright had summoned to conduct Connie arrived, and so the tour of the many areas of the workhouse and its grounds, which consisted of endless corridors, confusing sections leading one into another, iron staircases and door after door after door began.
Connie thought the officers’ communal areas and the small individual bedrooms were nice enough, if a little stark and austere, but it was when she and her guide left the staff quarters and progressed into the workhouse as a whole that the smell got stronger and the atmosphere became one of gloom and doom.
The laundry itself was a huge barn of a place, and the machinery was old and noisy and worked by line shafts and endless leather belts clicking above the vulnerable heads of the workers. A massive mangle with several cylinders stood in the centre of the room, and either side of this machine there were big tables piled high with wet washing waiting to be squeezed and pressed.
Behind the mangle at the far end of the room stood enormous wicker baskets containing the dirty and soiled linen waiting to be soaked in the poss-tubs and beaten with the poss-sticks – great wooden beaters on four legs which measured four feet high. To the front of the mangle were lines of long wooden benches, above and to the back of which ran big metal frames. These supported the flexible gas pipes leading to each individual flat iron of which there were five per station.
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