Christmas Eve in the Workhouse

by Catrin Collier

Chapter Two

  ‘Another five have just joined the queue. Would you go out and tell them it’s women and children first please, Beth?’ Glynis Leyshon asked. ‘I would send a porter but you have more tact.’

  Bethan went to the outside door that opened closest to the side gate. Alf Ridd, the duty porter, shook his head at the sight of her in overalls.

  ‘Where’s your cape, Nurse Powell? It’s wet and bitter out there, cold enough to freeze a brass monkey’s … nose … if you’ll pardon the expression.’

  ‘I’ll only be out there a couple of minutes, Alf.’

  ‘Here, take Nurse Jones’s cape. She left it here this morning.’

  ‘Of course, she’s on the maternity ward. She was running late and didn’t want Squeers to know?’

  Squeers was the nickname of the most feared sister in the hospital. She ruled the maternity ward and her trainee nurses with a merciless, acid tongue and inflexible adherence to the rules.

  Alf grinned. ‘You’re not expecting me to tell tales now, are you, nurse?’

  ‘Never, Alf.’ She draped the cape around her shoulders. Alf opened the door and freezing rain-soaked air blasted in.

  ‘I warned you.’

  She lowered her head and took a moment to brace herself.

  ‘Here, let me hold this over you.’ Alf opened an umbrella and moved protectively behind her.

  ‘You don’t have to come out with me, Alf.’

  ‘All part of the service.’ He followed her across the yard to the massive double gates. He pulled back the bolts and opened one side. Bethan walked out on to the pavement of Llantrisant Road. Icy rain stung her eyes and face and cut through her thick black worsted stockings. She was wearing more and warmer clothing than the vagrants yet none of them were protesting.

  The orderly nature of the queues waiting to gain admittance to the workhouse amazed her. When she’d transferred to the Graig Hospital from the Royal Infirmary in Cardiff, she’d expected pushing, shoving, and jostling from the paupers, not uncomplaining acceptance. It was as though life had beaten every spark of spirit and defiance from those desperate and destitute enough to see “indoor relief” as the only option open to them.

  She looked down the queue. She spotted Sheila Lark from Phillips Street, leaning against the high workhouse wall. Pale and trembling, she appeared oblivious to the weather and her surroundings as she nursed her small daughter Lynda under an old grey army blanket she’d wrapped around both of them.

  Bethan knew Billy Lark had broken his back in a pit accident a couple of months before. The fact that his wife and daughter were in the queue meant he’d died and the Parish Guardians would no longer pay the rent on the Larks’ house.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ She shouted to make herself heard above the wind and a rag and bone man’s horn. ‘We’ll do our very best to admit all of you as quickly as possible, but gentlemen, could we please ask you to allow the ladies who have children with them to enter first and after them, the single ladies. A male nurse will be along shortly to see to your admittance, gentlemen. Mrs Lark and any other lady with a child please come with me.’

  ‘Don’t see no frigging gentlemen here.’ A man with a broken nose, who was missing most of his teeth, spat a stream of phlegm that just missed Bethan’s shoes.

  The major pushed protectively in front of Bethan. He handed the paper bag he was carrying to one of his companions and balled his fists, ignoring the fact that one of them was bandaged. ‘You watch your mouth in front of the nurse, Tosser Tombstone.’

  ‘And you watch who you’re shoving around, Major.’

  ‘Fight and neither of you will be getting Christmas dinner tomorrow,’ Alf warned.

  Bethan retreated to the gate, Sheila Lark and half a dozen women with children followed her. She led the women across the exercise yard and into A Ward.

  ‘Ladies, children, if you’d like to undress and take a bath we’ll soon have you sorted.’ Sister Leyshon took Sheila Lark aside. ‘I heard your Billy died last night, Sheila. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘At least he died in his own bed, which is more than any of the rest of us Larks will.’ Sheila face was wet, but it was impossible to tell if it was rain or tears. Her eyes were bright, burning as she clung fiercely to her daughter.

  ‘The Guardians took the children?’ Sister Leyshon asked.

  ‘They came last night with the doctor just after Billy died. They said it was too late to do anything then but they were in the house before seven this morning with a pine box coffin for Billy. They took him away and said young Billy and Eddie had to go to Church Village Homes. They wouldn’t even let them take their clothes.’

  ‘They won’t need them there, Sheila.’

  ‘They’ll have to wear workhouse grey like here?’

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you what the Parish Guardians are like, Sheila. They’ll take whatever they can from your house and sell it to defray the cost of your and the children’s keep. Did you ask anyone to keep a few things for you?’

  ‘Mrs Powell came up last night from Leyshon Street after the Guardians left. She took what little I’d saved, mainly the children’s clothes and a couple of photographs and books Billy had bought and I’d hidden. Mrs Powell said the Parish Guardians wouldn’t dare set foot in her house, not with her brother being a policeman.’

  ‘I know Megan. She’ll look after your bits and pieces for you until you get out.’

  ‘I can’t see us ever getting out …’ a sob tore from Sheila’s throat.

  ‘Eddie and Billy will be fine in Church Village. Only children between ten and sixteen are sent there. Billy’s what – twelve now?’

  ‘Yes, and Eddie’s eleven.’

  ‘I’ll ask around, see if there are any colliers looking for boys to train. If Billy and Eddie find work you could all be out of here in a month or two.’

  ‘They sent Judy and Mattie to Maesycoed Homes. I could hear them screaming all the way down the Graig Hill and into Factory Lane. Mattie’s only four and Judy six. They’ll have to stay there until they’re ten. That’s years away. Billy and Eddie are close to them and they won’t be allowed to see one another. The Guardians said visiting isn’t possible between here and Maesycoed and Church Village … and now they’ll take Lynda away from me. Women aren’t allowed to keep their babies after they’re six weeks old. She’ll have to go to J ward …’

  ‘You getting into a state isn’t going to help you or the children, Sheila. Let’s get you bathed, dressed and, ready to see the doctor.’

  ‘They said Billy would be taken to the mortuary here. Will I be able to see him before they bury him?’

  ‘We’ll try and arrange it,’ Glynis promised.

  ‘It’s unfair,’ once Sheila started talking she couldn’t stop. ‘My Billy never missed a shift until the accident. I went to the Parish Guardians the day after they brought him home on a stretcher. They wouldn’t give me a penny towards food or rent until I’d sold everything we had. After three weeks I went back. All we had left in the house was the bed Billy was in and the children’s bed and they made me sell that. They said we should have had more savings. What working man with a family has savings?’

  ‘None in this day and age, Sheila,’ Glynis agreed.

  ‘I'm not saying the Parish Guardians don’t have a job to do. It was kind of them to let Billy die at home. But if he could see me and the kids now – separated – he’d be so angry with me …’

  ‘No he wouldn’t, Sheila. He’d see a brave woman making the best of a terrible time. Things can only get better for you and the children. Now get undressed so we can settle you in here.’

  Sheila finished undressing herself and Lynda and climbed into the bath.

  Bethan looked through the grey workhouse smocks and found two that would fit them. She set them aside, helped Sheila wash Lynda, dried the child, waited for Sheila to dress, checked their hair for nits, and took them through to the doctors in the Committee Room. As the door was closed she showed them to a row
of chairs.

  Voices echoed from C Ward where the male vagrants were being ‘processed’. She recognised those of the senior male nurse, Ted Harris, and the vagrant who’d spat at her.

  ‘I don't care whether you had a bath and haircut five minutes before you came in, Tommy Tombstone. You’re getting a shave, haircut, and bath right now,’ Ted ordered.

  ‘No shave. I've had this beard and moustache since before you were born, Ted Harris …’

  ‘All the more reason to shave it off now,’ Ted snapped. ‘Jimmy, the razor.’

  ‘Come near me with that razor and I’ll knock you into the middle of next week.’

  ‘Do that, Tommy, and it’ll be a cell for you. They don’t serve meat, potato, and veg dinner in gaol. Or Christmas pudding and custard after. So what’s it to be?’

  ‘Have it your own bloody way, you lot always do … and there’s no need to put more of that foul-smelling stuff in the bath or attack me with that nit comb.’

  ‘Swear again and you’ll be out through that door. Alderman and councillors are serving dinner tomorrow so you’d better be on your best behaviour.’

  ‘Why? The crache are only the crache because they’re rich. Their ancestors stole more money than mine …’

  ‘All you need to know is they’re paying for your dinner tomorrow, so be grateful.’

  ‘Ever so. I can play humble.’

  ‘Shut your cake hole, Tommy.’

  ‘It’s a long time since cake was put in my hole …’

  Alf Ridd escorted an old man into the corridor. ‘Sit there, Fred. The doctor will see you as soon as he’s free. He’ll give you something that will set your chest right.’

  ‘Thanks, Alf.’

  Alf smiled at Bethan. ‘That Tommy Tombstone will argue with St Peter at the pearly gates when he tries to delouse him.’

  ‘Why do they call him Tommy Tombstone?’ Bethan was curious.

  ‘Because he’s only got one tooth in his head, Nurse Powell. In the front.’

  The air was dark warm and fetid underground. Uncomfortably close, even before tempers started fraying.

  ‘I tell you I heard that pit prop crack not five minutes ago.’ Coal cutter William Powell nodded sending the light fixed to his helmet wavering in the darkness.

  ‘It’s Christmas Eve …’

  ‘Christmas Eve or not, Lewis, if Will said he heard a crack, he heard a crack,’ Evan Powell broke in.

  ‘What the hell do you expect me to do about it, Evan?’ Lewis demanded

  ‘Send for a repairman.’

  ‘Harry Jones and his assistants are working flat out replacing props in the east seam.’

  ‘So you’ll let this new seam collapse because Harry’s busy?’ Evan countered.

  ‘I’ll take a look at it, Mr Lewis, if Will and Mr Powell take these props down to Mr Jones,’ David Williams, Harry’s senior apprentice, volunteered.

  ‘What are you doing in this seam, boy?’ Lewis growled.

  ‘We,’ David pointed to two fellow apprentice repairmen, ‘were sent to pick up new props from the stores.’

  Will and Evan didn’t wait for Lewis’s permission. They grabbed the props and headed down the seam.

  David ran his hands over the wooden prop William had insisted was unsafe.

  ‘Can you feel anything?’ Lewis asked.

  ‘Will’s right. It’s shifted and recently. There’s a fresh vertical crack I can slip my little finger into.’

  Before David finished speaking another crack rent the foul atmosphere, sending the prop juddering and making the men around them jump.

  ‘Did you hear that, Lewis?’ Evan asked. He and Will had returned and were watching David.

  ‘I heard it,’ Lewis snapped.

  ‘Harry said he’d be along as soon as he’s finished what he’s doing, David.’ Evan saw the colliers looking to Lewis, who hesitated but not for long.

  ‘Evacuate!’ he barked.

  ‘If that prop goes, we’ll lose this new seam,’ Evan warned. ‘That’ll be six months work wasted.’

  ‘If you get me a couple of props, Mr Powell, Will. I’ll shore up either side of this one and maybe save the shaft.’

  ‘You’re an apprentice, David and you’re what … fourteen?’

  ‘Fifteen, Mr Lewis.’

  ‘He’s been working with Harry for the last year and he’s taller and fitter than most full grown men down here,’ Evan pointed out.

  ‘All right, do what you can, boy. Evan, Will, take two men with you to fetch those props. David, if there’s another crack – run.’

  ‘I don’t think he needs anyone to tell him that.’ Will headed for the stores.

  David opened his tool bag.

  Will and Evan returned with a prop, and two colliers’ boys dragged a second prop behind them.

  Evan set his end of the prop at David’s feet. ‘How can Will and I help?’

  ‘By pushing this as close to the existing prop as we can get it, Mr Powell.’

  David hauled it upright with Will and Evan’s help. He didn’t release his grip until it was wedged tight against the ceiling of the shaft. Only then did he begin securing the two props together, ensuring the bulk of the weight was transferred from the damaged prop to the sound one.

  ‘What about the other prop, David?’ Will asked.

  ‘I’ll erect it midway between these and the next one. There must be a fair amount of strain coming down for this one to crack – unless there was a fault in the timber.’

  ‘Harry taught you well, David,’ Evan complimented.

  ‘He’s a good teacher, Mr Powell.

  ‘Praise indeed from an apprentice.’ A light approached. Evan and David made out the broad stocky figure of Harry Jones, the senior repairman behind his head lamp. ‘Problems, boy?’

  David explained the steps he’d taken to bolster the damaged prop.

  Harry walked around the repair David had effected and checked the site David had chosen to place the second prop. ‘OK.’

  ‘I did OK, Mr Jones?’ David asked.

  ‘Carry on, boy.’

  ‘You don’t want me to change anything?’

  ‘You’ve taken charge, you get on with it, David. I see the coal cutters in this shaft can afford to take it easy, Evan?’

  ‘Only when Lewis has cleared the shaft. Back to work, Will.’ Evan shouldered his pick. He smiled when he heard Harry shout to Lewis on his return to the east shaft.

  ‘You and your coal cutters can go back now, Lewis. The boy’s made it all nice and safe for you.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Those garlands are beautiful, Mary. Wherever did you get them?’ Megan Powell complimented when she walked into the back kitchen of Mary McCarthy’s two-up-two-down in Leyshon Street. Mary was balancing on a kitchen chair, pinning her daughter’s home-made Christmas decorations along the picture rails.

  ‘I made them, Auntie Megan,’ Mary’s daughter Colleen said proudly.

  ‘Made them? How on earth did you manage that, you clever girl?’

  ‘Yesterday Mam and me painted newspapers red and green. This morning after we made sure the paint was dry, we cut the paper into strips and glued them. Sean wanted to help, but he’s too little.’

  ‘He painted as well, Colleen.’ Mary stepped down from the chair and scooped up her year-old son from the rag rug where he was playing with a saucepan and wooden spoon.

  ‘Not proper painting,’ Colleen, who was nearly three, declared.

  ‘You didn’t paint very proper either, miss, when you were his age!’ Mary put the drawing pins she’d been using on the mantelpiece out of Colleen’s reach.

  ‘I’m very impressed with the garlands and the tree.’ Megan admired at the small fir tree Mary had put on top of the cupboard in the alcove next to the hearth. It was decorated with stars and moons cut from food tins.

  ‘Cup of tea, Megan?’ Mary invited.

  ‘Only if you’re having one.’

  ‘I could do with one.’

 
; ‘I’ll fill the kettle.’ Megan lifted it from the range, opened the door, and went to the outside tap. She beckoned Colleen forward.

  ‘Here,’ Megan delved into her pocket and pulled out two pennies. ‘I was just in Mrs Davies’s in the Post Office and I noticed she’d reduced the last of her Christmas chocolates.’ She lowered her voice. ‘There’s a sixpence between those two pennies, get something nice for your mam from you and Sean. Knock on my door and our Diana will take you.’

  Colleen rushed back inside. ‘Auntie Megan’s given Sean and me a Christmas penny each. Can I go to the Post Office with Diana, Mam?’

  ‘You can go, but only if you put your coat and scarf on,’ Mary shouted as Colleen ran down the passage.’ Mary sat down and settled Sean on her lap. ‘You spoil her, Megan.’

  ‘She’s a good kid, she deserve spoiling, especially at this time of year.’ Megan opened the ring on the range and set the kettle on to boil. ‘Here,’ she dug into her overall pocket, pulled out three parcels and set them under the tree. ‘From Father Christmas.’

  Mary looked at them. ‘One for me as well?’

  ‘You deserve a treat, working all the hours God sends, mending, washing, and pressing Wilf Horton’s second-hand clothes for his stall on the market. By the look of the bags under your eyes I’d say you haven’t slept the last couple of nights.’

  ‘You know the market at Christmas. People are so desperate to buy presents they’ll hand money over for any old rubbish. Some of the evening dresses Wilf had me altering came out of the ark, but when he picked up the last load he said he’d sold the lot and people were still asking if he had any left.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, the price of new clothes in the shops. Sit down and put your feet up.’ Megan took the teapot, caddy, and two cups and saucers from the shelf next to the stove. ‘You let Wilf run you ragged.’

  ‘It’s just busy at this time of year. I’m grateful to Wilf. If he hadn’t given me work I can do at home the kids and me would have to go to the workhouse after Sean was killed in the pit. My widow’s pension doesn’t even cover the rent.’

  ‘Don’t I know it, although it’s got a lot easier since our Will started down the colliery.’ Megan was a war widow who’d only managed to bring her children up by cleaning the Graig Hotel every morning and taking in lodgers.