Mothering Sunday Page 2

  ‘And who gave me my name?’ Sunday had asked.

  ‘Well, I think you were named Sunday for obvious reasons,’ Miss Beau informed her. ‘And you were given the surname Small because you were so tiny.’

  Miss Frost and Miss Beau were quite regularly at odds; the latter’s questions or forthright suggestions enraged the other woman. Miss Beau was the only one, as far as Sunday could see, who ever stood up to Miss Frost or dared to question her disciplinary methods or matters such as the children’s diets. Sunday sometimes wondered why her idol had never been dismissed. No doubt it was because Miss Beau was engaged to Mr Lockett, the local vicar, who gave the orphans religious instruction at Sunday School with his fiancée. Even the formidable matron wouldn’t dare to upset him, because he was a very influential man in the community.

  The girl was so deeply lost in her thoughts that for a moment she wasn’t aware of the approaching footsteps – and when she did become aware of them her heart began to pound with fear. Could it be Miss Frost coming back with her cane to eke out yet more punishment? Sunday was the only child in the workhouse who refused to show her fear of the sadistic housemother – and this usually caused her punishment to be much more severe than if she had cried and shown remorse as the others did. She often went without a meal or was whipped and she knew that she sorely tried Miss Frost’s patience, but she didn’t care and would rather die than weaken and shed a tear in front of her.

  Now she watched with trepidation as the key turned in the lock. As the door inched open, the gloomy light from the corridor filtered down into the room and suddenly there was Miss Beau, standing at the top of the stairs, holding a wooden tray.

  Sunday let out a long sigh of relief.

  ‘Oh, you naughty girl, whatever am I going to do with you?’ Miss Beau said kindly. ‘What have you done to upset Miss Frost now?’

  ‘I were only helping Daisy to scrub the floor,’ Sunday told her indignantly. ‘Daisy’s only little an’ there was too much for her to do all on her own.’

  Miss Beau tutted sympathetically as she handed the tray to the child.

  ‘Eat this up as quickly as you can so I can get the tray back to the kitchen,’ she urged. ‘Daisy managed to whisper to me where you were when I missed you in class, but if Miss Frost should catch me down here I shall be in trouble too, for flouting her authority.’

  Sunday obediently lifted the bowl and quickly drank the thin gruel before emptying the water glass. The gruel was lukewarm and salty but she was grateful for it. She then sat back with the chunk of bread in her hands to chew on when she was alone again.

  Miss Beau stared sadly down at her. Sunday knew that Miss Beau cared for her and seeing how she was picked on upset her.

  ‘Why can’t you try to be a little more subservient to Miss Frost, dear?’ she said now. ‘It would make life so much easier for you.’

  Sunday sniffed. ‘I don’t like bullies,’ she replied simply, and the teacher shook her head. The child had spirit and Verity Beau knew that it was going to take a lot more than Miss Frost to break her.

  ‘I have to go now.’ Bestowing one last smile on the girl she went back up the stone steps and slowly closed the door again. As the key turned in the lock, Sunday was left once more in darkness. Something warm with a long tail ran across her foot and she hastily kicked it out of the way. It was a rat, no doubt after any crumbs she might drop. She shuddered, then began to chew on her chunk of bread. At least her hunger had subsided and after all the cleaning she had done she was tired now. Eventually she lay down on the cold floor, using her unhurt arm as a pillow, and in no time at all was fast asleep, dreaming of the day when, with her best friends Daisy and Tommy, she would leave the workhouse for ever.

  Sunday had no idea how long she stayed in the punishment room. There was no way of determining night from day down there but she supposed that she had been there for at least a day and a night before she heard footsteps again, for her stomach was growling ominously.

  The door creaked open as Sunday peered up through bleary eyes to see Miss Frost staring down at her.

  ‘So, are you ready to do as you are told yet?’

  Sunday opened her mouth to tell her captor to go away but then thought better of it. Daisy might need her and she couldn’t help her while she was locked away. She was also afraid that Miss Frost might leave her there for ever if she didn’t agree with her.

  She forced herself to nod although it went sorely against the grain and the woman smiled a cold smile.

  ‘Come along then. There is work waiting to be done. You know the saying “idle hands make work for the devil”. But first you must clean yourself up. You smell like a sewer.’

  It was hardly surprising, Sunday thought, seeing as there was only a bucket to use as a chamber pot. It was half-full now and the smell rising from it in the confined area was overpowering.

  ‘Bring that with you,’ the woman snapped. ‘And make sure it is emptied and thoroughly washed out.’

  Sunday lifted it, feeling as weak as a kitten, but she didn’t say a word. She knew all too well that Miss Frost only needed the slightest excuse to push her back into the room and leave her there again.

  Once she had lugged the heavy bucket upstairs she found that it was afternoon. There was no sign of any of the children so she assumed they would all be at their lessons with Miss Beau. She trudged outside to the privy block and emptied the contents of the bucket then washed it out at the pump as she’d been instructed before heading for the grey stone wash-house. Normally she would have loved to be out in the fresh air but she was so cold that her teeth were chattering and she just wanted to get back inside. She was almost halfway there when she realised that she would need some clean clothes so she darted back to the dormitory that she shared with Daisy and six other girls. Like the rest of the building the dormitory was a bleak place. It contained eight iron beds on which lay thin straw mattresses and one ragged blanket each, four on either side of the room. Between each bed was a small wooden locker to house the girls’ meagre belongings, and on the end wall was a window set high up, through which the wind whistled. There were no pictures or ornaments of any description to soften the austere surroundings but Sunday didn’t miss them for she had never known any different. She had expected to find the room empty at this time of the day so was shocked to see a slight form huddled beneath the blanket on the bed next to hers.

  ‘Daisy, is that you?’ she asked, instantly forgetting what she had come there for.

  A tiny voice moaned, ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what are you doing in here at this time of day? Are you feeling ill?’

  There was no answer so Sunday approached the bed and gently drew back the blanket.

  ‘Oh, poor Daisy – what’s happened to you?’ The child was naked save for her faded cotton bloomers, and angry red weals made a striped pattern across her back.

  ‘It . . . it was Miss Frost,’ Daisy whimpered. ‘She punished me for allowing you to do my work for me.’

  Sunday swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat before tenderly placing her arm about the skinny shoulders.

  ‘For as long as we’re here I’ll try to protect you, Daisy, and one day we’re going to get out of here,’ she promised in a voice that trembled with rage. ‘We’ll go somewhere where Miss Frost can never hurt any of us again, you just see if we don’t!’

  There was such determination in her friend’s voice that Daisy allowed herself to believe her as the girls clung together, drawing what comfort they could from one another.

  Chapter Two

  Miss Beau was tidying the empty schoolroom later that afternoon, for her pupils had returned to their chores, when a little voice interrupted her and she spun around to see Sunday standing in the doorway, nervously wringing her hands. For most of the time the child put a brave face on things but just now and again something happened to remind the kindly teacher that Sunday Small was just a little girl.

  ‘Miss Beau, will you come and look at Dais
y, please? She’s in a lot of pain and I don’t know what to do for her.’

  The young woman was just about to leave for the day and it was the first chance Sunday had found to get her alone for a private word.

  ‘What do you mean, dear?’ Verity asked. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  Sunday licked her lips and glanced furtively around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard before whispering, ‘While I was in the punishment room Miss Frost caned her for allowing me to help her with her work. She didn’t seem too bad yesterday but now I think she’s running a fever and she’s very poorly.’

  Miss Beau’s pretty face darkened as she replied, ‘I see, then you go about your work, Sunday. I don’t want you getting into even more trouble. I shall go and check on her.’

  Sunday let out a huge breath of relief before she hurried back to the entrance, dropped to her knees and began the unenviable task of scrubbing the foyer floor again. A thankless task, for no sooner was it done than people traipsed in from outside and it was dirty again. Today, however, Sunday was so concerned about Daisy that she was glad of the diversion, and at least Miss Beau was going to look at her now. When she had told Miss Frost earlier on that she feared Daisy was really ill, all she’d got in return was a good clout around the ear.

  Keeping one eye on the stairs, Sunday worked on and at last Miss Beau reappeared, heading purposefully for the housemaster’s office. Sunday rose and tiptoed after her, hiding behind the stairs and able to hear all that followed.

  ‘Ah, Miss Beau. What can I do for you, dear lady?’ Sunday heard Albert Pinnegar enquire sweetly. His table was loaded with all manner of treats and as Miss Beau pictured the disgusting food that was served to the children every mealtime she eyed him disdainfully.

  ‘I fear young Daisy Branning is very ill,’ she told him. ‘She’s running a high fever and I believe she should be in the sick quarters.’

  ‘What concern is that of mine, Miss Beau? I suggest you inform the housemother.’ The workhouse master popped a sweetmeat into his mouth and licked his fingers noisily.

  ‘That is not possible,’ Miss Beau replied, clearly trying her best to hide her feelings as she stared at his plump figure. His waistcoat was straining across his fat stomach and the buttons on it looked in danger of popping off at any second. He was quite short and almost as far round as he was high with a bald head, a large red nose and a thick handlebar moustache that was usually full of morsels of food. All in all, he was quite repulsive. ‘I believe the fever was caused due to a severe beating,’ the teacher went on.

  ‘A beating?’

  ‘Yes. Miss Frost thrashed Daisy the day before yesterday and it appears she was a little over-zealous.’

  At that precise moment Miss Frost herself appeared as if she had been conjured up by black magic. ‘Is something amiss?’ she enquired. ‘If so, you should have come to me to discuss it, Miss Beau, rather than bother dear Mr Pinnegar.’

  ‘It’s Daisy Branning,’ Miss Beau informed her tersely. ‘She should be in the sick quarters. Her temperature is dangerously high.’ She would have liked nothing better than to be able to tell the matron what a wicked woman she was, but Miss Beau had long since learned that if she gave vent, it was inevitably the girls who would suffer.

  ‘I see.’ Miss Frost turned to the housemaster with a simpering smile. ‘I’m afraid I had no choice but to chastise her,’ she explained. ‘Daisy would try the patience of a saint. Nevertheless, if she needs medical attention you may rest assured that she will receive it. But now, Miss Beau, isn’t it time you left?’

  Clenching her teeth, Verity Beau nodded, turned abruptly and blindly left the office without seeing or acknowledging Sunday on her way out.

  All the way home Verity fumed as she thought of the way the workhouse children were treated. If only she could do something about it! Miss Frost was clearly in awe of Albert Pinnegar. He resided in a small cottage in the grounds of the workhouse and it was common knowledge that the matron idolised him, though what she saw in him Verity had no idea. The thought of the pair made her shudder but once again she was powerless to do more than she was already doing. She couldn’t afford to lose her job.

  With a sigh, Verity moved on across the frosty ground. She had lived in a small rented room in a terraced house in Henry Street for some years, but all that would change soon when she married dear Edgar and would go to live in the vicarage with him. The thought brought a smile back to her face. The Reverend Edgar Lockett was the kindest of men, handsome too, and sometimes she could hardly believe that he had looked upon her as suitable wife material. Verity had become orphaned herself in her late teens and for a time had gone into service in one of the big houses on the outskirts of Nuneaton as a governess before taking a post teaching the girls in the workhouse. As the years passed by and she realised she was fast approaching thirty, she had sadly resigned herself to becoming an old maid, but then she had met Edgar when she started helping out at the Sunday school, and everything had changed. Edgar was some ten years older than herself and had tragically lost his first wife in childbirth some years before, but there had been an instant rapport between them. She had been so happy when he had asked for her hand last summer and now Verity could hardly wait to become his wife. They had already discussed her post at the workhouse. Edgar understood that she was very fond of some of the children there and he was happy for her to continue volunteering for a few hours each week, in her capacity as the vicar’s wife.

  Verity’s footsteps quickened as she remembered it was Wednesday – the night she helped Edgar with choir practice in the church hall – and she went on her way feeling a little better and humming softly, vowing that she’d go to see Daisy first thing in the morning.

  Back in her dormitory in the workhouse, Sunday was lying in bed staring morosely at Daisy’s empty bed. She missed her little friend more than she could say but at least Daisy was in the best place now. While she was in the sick bay she would be excused work duties and the wounds on her poor back would receive attention. Shivering, Sunday snuggled further down beneath the holey blanket. One of the other younger girls in the room had started to sniffle and soon the sniffles turned to full-blown sobs.

  ‘Shush, Susan,’ Sunday urged her, but it was too late. The door was already opening and Miss Frost was marching towards the weeping girl’s bed. Sunday screwed her eyes up tight and pretended to be asleep. The girl was beyond her help for now.

  There was the sound of a faint tussle then suddenly everything became silent again. Sunday was aware of someone standing at the end of her bed and she lay as still as a stone. She heard Miss Frost sniff then the housemother stalked out of the room and relocked the door, leaving a foul smell behind her that Sunday recognised all too well. The rag that the woman used to quieten the children by pressing it across their nose and mouth would have been soaked in some bitter-smelling stuff, and little Susan would be out for the count for the rest of the night now. Her entire family was in the workhouse after losing their tied cottage in Bedworth when Susan’s father had been crippled in a pit fall.

  Sunday waited until she was quite sure that Miss Frost had gone before sneaking out of bed and hurrying across to the child, sighing with relief to find that, although comatose, Susan was still breathing. She remembered an incident from the previous year when one little girl had not woken up after such treatment. When sent for, the doctor simply said that she had died of a weak heart and her small body had been interred in the graveyard at the back of the workhouse. However, Sunday had always had her own doubts about why the girl had passed away that night. Now she always tried to soothe the ones who were becoming upset, in order to try and avoid such a situation happening again but sometimes, like tonight in Susan’s case, she didn’t succeed. Thank goodness Susan was a strong little girl.

  Sighing, Sunday glanced towards the window and to quiet her anxiety allowed herself to indulge in her favourite daydream. One day soon her mother would come to claim her and would take her to live in a sple
ndid house surrounded by sweet-smelling flowers and green, green grass, where birds sang in the trees and the sun always shone. They would have wonderful things to eat every single day; she would never be hungry again and in that beautiful place she would be treated like a princess. The lonely girl had convinced herself that her mother had wanted desperately to keep her, but that some circumstance had made it impossible. Perhaps she had been too ill to keep her when she was born but was recovered now? And one day, Sunday told herself, she will come and we’ll live happily ever after. On that happy note her eyelids drooped and at last sleep claimed her.

  The harsh ringing of a bell brought Sunday snapping awake early the next morning and she blinked. Surely it couldn’t be six o’clock already?

  ‘Come along, all of you. Let’s have you into the wash-room.’

  Miss Frost looked exactly as she had the evening before and Sunday wondered if she had even been to bed. Her greying hair was pulled back into the usual severe bun, and in her dark clothes and with her hook nose she reminded the child of one of the huge blackbirds that sometimes flew into the workhouse garden.

  The girls hastily fell out of their beds and formed a line, blinking the sleep from their eyes before following Miss Frost along to the austere wash-room. A row of tin bowls full of ice-cold water with a slice of carbolic soap, a wash rag and a rough piece of huckaback to dry themselves on placed at the side of each one was waiting for them on a long trestle and the woman pointed at them, barking, ‘Get to it now.’

  The girls stumbled in their long drab nightgowns in their haste to do as they were told and within minutes they had all stripped naked to the waist and were shivering as they scrubbed themselves down from top to toe in the freezing water. It was either that or feel the length of the evil-looking split cane Miss Frost was slapping against the sides of her long black bombazine skirts. There was no room for modesty here. Saturday evening was the ultimate humiliation, when they were each forced to strip completely naked and sit in the rows of tin hip-baths spaced along the opposite wall whilst whichever members of staff who were on duty that night scrubbed at their hair with vile-smelling soap before wielding the dreaded lice combs. The least sign of lice and the girls’ heads would be shorn like lambs. It was worse still for the older girls who had begun their courses. They would throw their bloody rags into a soak bucket in the corner that would be taken to the laundry the next morning, and many of the younger girls found the sight frightening. Strangely, this routine didn’t overly concern Sunday, for she had never known anything else. But she knew that some of the girls who were newly admitted often cringed with misery and embarrassment.