Mothering Sunday Read online

  The workhouse was divided into four sections, women in one part, then boys, girls and the men in the others. During work days some of the able-bodied men and the stronger boys were set to work oakum picking, which involved teasing out the fibres from old hemp ropes into threads; these were then sold to shipbuilders who would coat them with tar and use them to seal the lining on wooden ships. The rest of the men were put to work at bone crushing which, Sunday knew, was a particularly unpleasant job if the smell that issued from the large shed where the men were working was anything to go by. The bones were delivered daily from the local slaughterhouse and once they were crushed they would be sold to farmers for fertilizer. The luckier of the men and boys worked in the gardens growing the fruit and vegetables for the workhouse meals. The women and girls were also made to work hard at a variety of jobs. They had a sewing room where they made the workhouse uniforms. The more skilled needlewomen were set to making clothes for the better off of the parish or doing repairs; others worked in the kitchens cooking or cleaning or were sent to slave in the laundry. The inmates rarely came together apart from on Sundays when they were allowed to go to church, and Sunday had seen too many times the devastating effect this separation could have on families.

  Now, she hurried through the morning ritual and then was led with the other girls back to their dormitories where they hastily dressed and brushed their hair before making their beds. God help any of them who didn’t do it properly, for Miss Frost inspected their rooms each morning when they went down to breakfast.

  In the dining room they silently took their seats as the staff seated themselves at the top table with the housemaster and Miss Frost who led them in prayer. Today the matron from the sick bay was present, along with the head of the nursery, but sometimes one of the guardians might stay for a meal or even the vicar, Mr Lockett, on the rare occasion.

  ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,’ Miss Frost intoned.

  ‘Amen,’ the children chorused, then lifting their tin bowls and spoons they formed an orderly queue before the table where women were slopping dollops of porridge into each dish. When they reached the end of the table they each took a wedge of grey bread before resuming their seats and beginning their breakfast. It was utterly tasteless but Sunday cleared her dish. Anything was better than suffering hunger pangs and she had long since ceased expecting anything better. Each child had a tin mug full of watered-down milk, and all the time those at the staff table were being served with plentiful rashers of sizzling bacon and fried eggs with bright yellow yolks.

  One day when my mother comes for me I shall have a breakfast like that every day, Sunday thought and a little smile lifted the corners of her mouth, but then some instinct made her glance up, to see Miss Frost glaring at her, and she hastily lowered her head and began to chew on the bread.

  As soon as the meal was over Miss Frost rose from her seat and began to read out the list of duties for that day.

  ‘Small, kitchen duties,’ she rapped out when it came to Sunday’s turn and again Sunday stifled a smile. Her hands were already sore and chapped from scrubbing the floors the day before, but at least it was warm in the kitchen with her arms up to her elbows in hot water as she washed the piles of dishes. It could have been worse; she might have been allocated gardening duties, for summer or winter there were always jobs to do out there. Her favourite job was working upstairs in the nursery with the babies but she never told Miss Frost that, for she knew that had she done so, the woman would never have let her go up there out of spite. She was only allowed up there occasionally as it was.

  The children filed away to their various chores as Sunday collected a large wooden tray and began to pile the empty dishes onto it. She actually liked working in the kitchen. Some of the local women came in during the day to help the female inmates with the cooking and many of them were kind. They would chat to each other about their families and their homes and it gave Sunday an insight into what family life must be like; she would sigh and wish again that her mother and father had kept her.

  She was in the process of unloading the second tray of pots onto the side of the huge stone sink when Miss Beau suddenly appeared in the kitchen. Spotting Sunday, she hurried over to her.

  ‘Ah, I’m glad I’ve caught you, dear.’ She smiled. ‘I just wanted to let you know that Daisy is a little better today so you can stop worrying. Her fever has come down although I fear her back will be scarred.’ The smile disappeared then and she frowned. ‘I really don’t know why Miss Frost has to be so heavy-handed and I’ve told her so as well. Not that it will do any good.’

  ‘Thank you, miss.’ Sunday stared up at her adoringly.

  ‘Well, that’s all I came to say. I must get about my duties now,’ Miss Beau said then. ‘Oh, and make sure you wear your shawl when you go out for your airing. It’s bitterly cold out there. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t have some snow.’

  It was mid-morning before Sunday had washed and dried all the dishes and returned them to their rightful places and she raced upstairs to her room to fetch her shawl. The garment was a drab brown colour like the rest of the shapeless uniform she was forced to wear, but at least it kept her warm. She then went to stand in the hallway with the rest of the girls until they were led outside to a yard that was divided by a high wire fence through which they could see the boys also taking their airing in the other side.

  ‘All right, walk – no dawdling! The whole purpose of this is for you all to get some exercise,’ Miss Frost barked but then luckily she left them under the watchful eye of another member of staff who was not nearly as strict as she was whilst she went back into the building to enjoy mid-morning tea and biscuits with Mr Pinnegar. The girls, of various ages, began to stamp their feet and blow on their hands as Sunday sidled over to the fence hoping for a sight of Tommy, Daisy’s brother. She was soon rewarded when she saw him hurrying towards her.

  ‘Where’s our Daisy then?’ he asked anxiously, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘It’s all right. She’s in the sickbay because she had a fever but she’s over the worst now,’ Sunday assured him.

  She watched his face fall and wasn’t surprised; he was fiercely protective of his little sister. At eleven, Tommy was tall for his age, although he was dangerously thin, and had deep-brown eyes and unruly hair that had a tendency to curl. He was two years older than Daisy, and a year older than herself. ‘Do yer promise?’ he said.

  Sunday nodded solemnly. ‘Cross my heart. She’ll be back here before you know it. But are you all right, Tommy?’ She stared at his latest black eye. Scuffles often broke out in the boys’ quarters, but noting her concern he grinned.

  ‘I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me – I can take care o’ meself.’ He winked at her boldly as if to add emphasis to his words but then as he thought of his little sister lying in the sickbay his face crumpled.

  He looked so miserable that Sunday’s heart went out to him. Both he and Daisy had taken their mother’s death very badly. Tommy looked remarkably like his sister. Daisy also had curly brown hair and brown eyes, and if Tommy had been a girl Sunday thought it would have been difficult to tell them apart.

  ‘Will they let me go an’ see ’er?’ he asked then.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Sunday said honestly, ‘but if she’s better you’ll get to see her at church – so it’s not so bad, is it?’

  His bottom lip wobbled perilously and Sunday felt like ripping down the fence that separated them so she could give him a cuddle.

  ‘Look after her for me, won’t you, Sunday?’

  ‘Course I will,’ she mumbled, feeling helpless.

  He brightened slightly then as he told her, ‘I’ve been in the workshop today learning carpentry and I’ve really enjoyed it. I think I might like to work with wood when I get out of here . . . If I ever get out of here, that is.’ He glanced at the dismal surroundings, the cold grey walls that made them all feel as if they were in prison and
the horrible wire fence that separated them. Even the sky overhead was grey today.

  ‘You will get out,’ she promised. ‘We all will one day and we’ll go to work on a farm. We’ll look after the animals and grow our own food and never be hungry and no one will ever hurt us again.’ She flushed slightly following her outburst as he stared at her intently, praying that what she had said would come true.

  The moment passed and all she could do was watch as Tommy walked away, his shoulders sagging.

  I will get us all away from here one day, she silently vowed as she too turned and began to walk about the yard.

  Chapter Three

  Over the next few days, Sunday waited patiently for Daisy to return to their dormitory. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and now everywhere was under thick snow, which looked pretty but made the daily airing even more miserable. Many of the children came down with bad coughs and colds but still the dreadful monotony of the workhouse routine went on. Rise at 6 a.m., wash in the icy cold wash-room before hurrying back to the dormitories to get dressed, empty the disgusting chamber pots and rinse them thoroughly, (each child was responsible for doing their own from the age of three onwards), breakfast in the unheated dining room, then on to chores before the daily airing. After that it was more chores until lunchtime then lessons for two hours in the afternoon with Miss Beau.

  Because it was her favourite time of the day, Sunday almost skipped into the room where Miss Beau taught them, her face alight. The teacher was already there and today she had a treat for them. She was going to read to them from Charles Kingsley’s The Water Babies.

  ‘Please take your seats, children, and then I’ll begin,’ Miss Beau invited and there was a scraping of chair legs on the floor as the girls hastily did as they were asked. This was just one of the things Sunday loved about Miss Beau. She never ordered you to do anything, she always asked. Soon the children were lost in a fantasy world as Miss Beau read the beginning of the story to them. Eventually she closed the book. ‘There, wasn’t that lovely? I’ll read you some more tomorrow. But now who can tell me what happened in the first chapter?’

  Sunday’s hand fluttered in the air but Miss Beau wasn’t surprised. Sunday was always one of the first ready with an answer, and the teacher was impressed with her keen young mind and her ability to learn.

  When the lessons were over the girls returned to their chores. And so it went on until at last, exhausted, the children were sent to bed for lights out at seven o’clock sharp.

  ‘And it will be woe betide any of you if I hear so much as a whimper,’ Miss Frost warned as she hovered in the dormitory doorway. Thankfully, by then many of them were so tired that they slept like the dead anyway beneath their scratchy blankets.

  Sunday’s patience was finally rewarded one day when she entered the dining hall to see Daisy sitting waiting for her. Her first instinct was to fly across to her friend and give her a hug, but knowing that this would only bring Miss Frost’s wrath down on her head, she instead demurely took her seat beside her, daring to give the child’s hand a little squeeze beneath the table. Daisy looked desperately pale and winced each time she moved so Sunday knew that her back must still be hurting her, but the child never uttered a word of complaint. She didn’t want to risk more of the same.

  The day brightened somewhat when Miss Frost announced after prayers that the guardians would be joining them all for a meal later in the week. ‘We will also be welcoming a new guardian, so I shall expect you all to be on your very best behaviour,’ she went on.

  ‘Why does everyone always look so happy when they know the guardians are coming?’ Daisy whispered, keeping her head low.

  ‘It’s ’cos on the days they join us we get to have a slap-up meal,’ Sunday whispered back. ‘The staff here wouldn’t want ’em to know what muck they usually serve us, would they? At least we get to eat decently once a month.’

  After breakfast, Miss Frost began to read out the list of chores and told Sunday that she was to be on sluice duty in the elderly bedridden women’s quarters. The girl couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose. It was a duty usually assigned to someone who had upset the housemother and she wondered what she might have done to deserve this now? She didn’t argue, however; all the children knew that it was futile: Miss Frost’s word was law. Daisy was then told that she was to scrub the floors . . . and as Sunday recoiled in shock, to her great great relief Miss Beau spoke up at that point.

  ‘Do you think that is wise?’ she questioned, staring at the older woman fearlessly. ‘Daisy is only just out of the sickbay and I fear that all that bending and stretching will do her back no good at all.’

  Miss Frost’s chest swelled with barely suppressed rage but after a few moments she plastered a smile on her face and said smoothly, ‘Of course, you are quite right, Miss Beau. I was forgetting. Sunday and Daisy may exchange duties.’

  Daisy’s face fell a mile but Miss Beau wasn’t done yet.

  ‘I feel lifting all those heavy chamber pots may be too heavy for her too. May I suggest that you put her on light kitchen duties for the next few days? After all, we wouldn’t want her back in the sickbay when the guardians are due to visit, now would we?’

  All the children held their breath as Miss Frost clearly struggled with herself, but once more she managed to rein in her feelings. ‘Of course,’ she answered in a clipped voice. ‘Cissie Burns, you will do sluice duties. Daisy, you go into the kitchen until further notice.’

  Even then Miss Frost’s humiliation at having her authority challenged wasn’t complete, for Mr Pinnegar, who was seated beside her at the head table, piped up, ‘Actually, I would like to have Cissie in to clean my office this morning, Miss Frost.’

  The matron looked shocked but, recovering herself, she turned to him and simpered, ‘I’m sure I can allocate that task to one of the younger girls, Mr Pinnegar.’

  Cissie was now approaching fourteen years old and was blossoming into a very attractive young woman, a fact that clearly hadn’t escaped the housemaster’s attention. Soon she would be found a place to work, probably in one of the big houses in the town or on a nearby country estate where she would be employed as a maid. Sunday saw Miss Beau shudder when the housemaster looked towards Cissie and licked his lips.

  He answered, ‘No. I insist, Miss Frost. Cissie is stronger than the younger girls. See that she reports to my office immediately after breakfast.’

  Clasping her hands tightly at her waist, a habit she always adopted when she was annoyed, which seemed to Sunday to be for most of the time, Miss Frost reluctantly nodded. ‘Very well, sir.’ Then, addressing Cissie who had risen to her feet and whose face was beetroot red, she rapped out, ‘Report to Mr Pinnegar’s office straight after breakfast, Burns.’

  The housemaster leaned back in his seat and leered as Cissie shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. All the girls knew to steer clear of the housemaster, especially as they got older, and now poor Cissie was filled with dread. She didn’t argue, however; she knew that she must do as she was told.

  Sunday chewed on her lip feeling heart sorry for the girl and relieved that Mr Pinnegar had never looked at her. She just hoped that Cissie would be strong enough to fend off his unwanted advances. Miss Beau looked none too pleased with the latest developments either but having already upset Miss Frost she wisely chose to remain silent.

  ‘Poor sod,’ Sunday muttered to Daisy as they left the room side-by-side and then they separated to go about their chores.

  It was bedtime before any of them saw Cissie again and Sunday couldn’t help but notice her red eyes and trembling lip as they hastily changed into their nightclothes in the freezing dormitory.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered as Cissie removed the ugly calico cap they were all forced to wear during the daytime. It was a rule Miss Frost had invented, insisting that it helped to slow the spread of head lice, or nits as they were called. The caps were tied with coarse ribbons beneath the chin and everyone had a sore patch th
ere because of them. Now, as Cissie removed hers, her hair fell to her shoulders in thick auburn waves.

  ‘I’m all right, thanks,’ she whispered back as she pulled her dress over her head and hastily yanked on her nightdress – but not before Sunday had noticed the bruises appearing across her buttocks and her small breasts.

  Then Miss Frost appeared and, staring at Cissie, she barked, ‘Your hair is becoming far too long, Burns. Report to me first thing in the morning for a haircut. The rest of you, into bed immediately before I turn the light out.’ The light she was referring to was a solitary oil lamp that stood on a table below the small barred window which was the only source of natural light. The girls obediently tumbled into bed and the woman extinguished the light, plunging them into darkness.

  ‘Now, not a peep out of any of you,’ she threatened as she marched to the door, her full skirts rustling. Seconds later the darkness was complete as she slammed the door and they heard the key turn in the lock. Once the sound of her footsteps had receded, Sunday leaned up on her elbow and hissed, ‘The mean old bitch. She’s only takin’ the scissors to your lovely hair ’cos she knows old Pinnegar has taken a fancy to you.’