THE Tinker's Girl
Catherine Cookson
A reluctant inmate of a northern workhouse, was offered a position as a maid-of-all-work by the Shalemans at Toilet's Ridge Farm, a bleakly isolated farm near the Cumbrian border.
Before long, however, she was to discover she had exchanged one kind of drudgery for another,
for the Shalemans - Rose, invalid wife of Pug and mother to Bruce and Hal -
demanded much of her. If it had not been for Bruce's willingness; to defend her against the brutish Pug and Hal, she
would have gladly returned to the workhouse.
Then she became acquainted with Richard Baxton-Powell, but eventually his over-familiarity
made her realise that despite everything her future would owe more to the Shalemans than any outside influence.
-- The Tinker's Girl -- is the life and fortunes of a spirited girl who lived in an age when it was customary for servants to know their place. With its brilliant evocation of the period, it will be hugely enjoyed by Catherine Cookson's millions of readers throughout the world.
CORGI BOOKS
THE TINKER'S GIRL
A CORGI BOOK : 0 552 14038 4
Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd
PRINTING HISTORY
Bantam Press edition published 1994
Corgi edition published 1995
Copyright © Catherine Cookson 1995
this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78
of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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1. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
2. This book is sold subject to the Standard Conditions of Sale of Net Books and may not be re-sold in the UK below the net price fixed by the publishers for the book.
Set in 10/12pt Monotype Plantin by
Phoenix Typesetting, Ilkley, West Yorkshire.
Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd, 61-63 Uxbridge Road, Ealing, London W5 5SA, in Australia by Transworld Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd, 15-25 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170, and in New Zealand by Transworld Publishers (NZ) Ltd, 3 William Pickering Drive, Albany, Auckland.
Reproduced, printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks.
Jinnie Howlett stood at the end of the long table in the sorting room of the workhouse. This particular room was known as the 'dead store', because in its cubbyhole-lined walls it held the remnants of clothing and articles belonging to inmates past and present, mostly past, because clothing worn by new admissions was wry often in such a condition that it practically walked unaided to the incinerator.
The room had a peculiar smell, one that Jinnie had always termed a hot gingery smell, for the atmosphere would at times cause her to sneeze.
If there was any part of this workhouse she liked it Was this room, not for itself, but because in it she often found herself alone with Miss Caplin.
Miss Caplin was a seamstress, but she had also part-time duties, such as taking in admissions and seeing that they were stripped and bathed, then garbed in the uniform of the workhouse. In these duties, as in the sewing-room, she chose for a helper, as often as possible, young Jinnie Howlett.
Miss Caplin straightened Jinnie's straw hat, then gave a little tug at the collar of the long grey coat that came to the top of the child's boots. And quietly, she said, 'Now, Jinnie, you will remember all I've told you, because I cannot tell you often enough that if you are brought lack from this, your second place, you'll be kept in here for years,' and she moved her head from side to 8
side before repeating, 'years. Just think of Phoebe now, won't you?'
'Oh, yes, Miss Caplin. Oh yes, I'll think of Phoebe, poor Phoebe. But it was the truth I told you about that other place, Miss Caplin. I swear to God it was. He
... he crawled into my cupboard under the stairs and I screamed and . . .'
'Yes, yes, I believe you, every word you said. But as I've warned you, should that happen again, leave your mark on him, tear at his face and scream your hardest.
Now, as I've told you, I know of the farm you are bound for. I say I know of it, although I haven't seen it. But being up in the hills as it is, it will likely be a very raw place, in many ways. You have glimpsed the farmer. He looked a very odd man to me. But then you cannot go by outward appearances. I imagined he was rather stupid; not so his son; but they are men and you must always be aware of men. You understand that, Jinnie?'
'Oh yes, Miss Caplin, I do.'
'And you know why you are going: the wife at the farm is sickly and cannot see to meals and household chores. Well,' - she now gave a little smile - 'you'll be very good at household chores, but as for meals, I think it will be a matter of learning as you go along.'
'Well, at that other place I made breakfast, Miss Caplin, and I cooked bacon and made porridge.' Then after a pause Jinnie shook her head, and added, 'I'll never understand why she lied so, when she was so kind at first and showed me how to do things, such as cook, then to say that I had . . .'
'Yes. Yes.' Miss Caplin again straightened the young girl's hat, saying, 'Put it at the back of your mind. What you must remember now is what I have told you about my aunts. You will come across their cottage some way after you have passed through Whitfield. Max will point it out to you, as it lies in a tree-covered hollow and cannot be seen from the road. But, as I've told you, if anything untoward should happen again and you fear they are going to send you back--' she now wagged her finger as she emphasised, 'but not unless, mind, you must do your best to get away and make for the cottage, and my aunts will look after you until I come.
But, of course, as you know, I can only visit them on my leave day, once a month. So you might have to bide there, in hiding, for some time. Last week when I told them of the position you are taking up in the Shaleman farm' - she omitted to say that they had held their hands up in horror- 'they said they hoped you would be strong enough to tackle some farm work. Still, I understand it is a small farm, mostly sheep.'
In the ensuing silence Jinnie sniffed and said,' Oh, I'm goin' to miss you, Miss Caplin. Nobody's been good to me like you have.' And Jane Caplin had the urge to thrust out her arms and draw the slim figure into a tight embrace, for there were times when she saw this child as the daughter she had been deprived of through the machinations of a loving father.
What she did now was to cup the thin face in her hands and say softly, 'I'm going to miss you, too, Jinnie.
But we'll keep in touch through my aunts. As I've told you before though, don't mention their name to your new master. It is better that you pretend you know no-one.'
Jinnie was nodding her head and was about to speak again when the door was thrust open. A tall, bony woman stood there, and in a tone that matched her expression, she said, 'Matron's waiting for the tinker's girl.'
Jinnie did not immediately move towards the labour mistress, but she stared at her for a moment before turning again to Miss Caplin and saying, 'Goodbye, Miss Caplin. Goodbye.'
'Goodbye, Jinnie.'
'Put a move on, girl!'
Jinnie forced herself to cast her eyes downwards as she passed the woman, for if she hated anybody in this workhouse, it was the labour mistress who had, from the day she first entered the place at the age of seven, always refer
red to her as the tinker's girl. She still held a vivid memory of this woman ordering two inmates to carry her father from the cart, and into what was called the hospital block. And when she wouldn't let her follow them, she had screamed and fought her, only to be silenced by repeated slaps across the face.
And although the guardians had sold the cart, the old horse and what remained of the merchandise, instead of giving her father a decent funeral, he was buried as a pauper. She had been told that what money had come from the sale of his belongings would be needed to support her until she was able to work for herself.
And, two years before she had been sent out to work for herself, only to be returned in disgrace.
Followed by the labour mistress, she walked across the yard and into the main hall and approached the matron, who was standing behind a table on which was an assortment of clothes. When she neared it she dipped her knee and waited. But the matron did not speak until the labour mistress was by her side. And it was to her she turned and said, 'Count them out,' while pointing towards the articles of clothing on the table.
'Two calico nightgowns, one shift, one petticoat; one print dress, one pair of calico bloomers, two white aprons, one coarse; one habit shirt; one pair of stockings, one pair of working clogs, six body pads.'
On touching the last item, the labour mistress spread out the six pieces of calico to the ends of which were attached lengths of tape. And lastly she reached out and brought forward a small Bible.
Now the matron spoke to her, saying, 'You're very lucky to be given a second chance, you know that?'
'Yes, ma'am,' Jinnie replied immediately.
'And if you are brought back again, well, you know what to expect, don't you?'
'Yes, ma'am.' The reply came sharper this time, and it caused the labour mistress and the matron to exchange a quick glance, as if astonished at the attitude of this troublesome girl, who should really be on her knees thanking the matron for her clemency.
Jinnie now watched the labour mistress thrust one article after the other into a small hessian sack. And it was when she came to the pieces of linen that she spoke, saying, 'Mind you wash these out every month
. . . boil 'em.'
Jinnie did not reply. To her, those pieces of linen still evoked a terrifying experience, for it was something that happened to older girls, but . . . but never happened to her. It was Miss Caplin who had reassured her that nothing bad or sinister was happening to her; only that nature was beginning its long and tiresome process towards procreation.
Again the matron was speaking to her. 'You may be a long way off, but don't forget I'll have my eye on you.'
Jinnie had an immediate picture of one of the matron's bulbous eyes stretching into a long way off. And as her imagination often did, it made her want to smile or even giggle.
The hessian bag was now thrust at her and she was swung round by the labour mistress's heavy hand and pushed towards the double door at the end of the room.
At their approach a female inmate pulled the doors open, and Jinnie almost did smile when she caught sight of the farm cart with Max standing by the horse's head.
The matron, too, had come to the door and here admonished her, saying, 'You're very lucky you haven't got to shank it all the way. If he' - she now nodded towards Max - 'if he hadn't been already detailed to fetch a beast from The Hall at Whitfield, you would have had a trail before you. Anyway, beyond Whitfield, you will be met. He knows all about it.' She again nodded towards Max. And now she added, 'Well, get away! Get away!'
The very big man approached Jinnie and, taking her bundle from her, threw it on to the high seat; then putting his hands under her oxters, he hoisted her after it and, without a word to either of the women who stood watching him, swung himself up into the seat with an agility that defied his height and bulk. He made a sound in his throat, and the horse jerked the high-backed cart forward. And so he drove Jinnie Howlett out of the main gates of the workhouse.
Jinnie did not speak to the man at her side for some time, but she looked about her. She was out in the open, the real open. She was free again! 'And oh, dearest Lord,' she actually prayed, 'don't let me ever go back.
Please! Please!'
The man at her side looked down at her and a smile spread over his great, flat-featured face. The eyes were spaced widely apart and now seemed to be of an indeterminate colour, whereas at other times, when she was to see him in a temper, they would appear to be almost black. His nose was large and the nostrils were wide.
Only his mouth appeared normal; it was full-lipped. But the words he spoke were uttered in a manner that was in keeping with his main features, for his language was disjointed, his words tending towards a stammer.
Yet, whatever he uttered always had a reasonable meaning. And now he said, 'Good!' The word came from deep in his broad chest and had a ring to it.
To this Jinnie answered quickly, 'Oh yes, Max. Good, good. D'you know where I'm goin', Max?' She did not have to space her words in order to make him comprehend, and he nodded, saying, 'In hills, High
. . High Farm.' And then, taking one hand from the reins he put his thumb and first finger about an inch apart, which gesture indicated the size of the farm.
And at this she said, 'Small.'
His head bobbed.
She looked ahead now and more to herself than to him, she said, 'I hope I like it, and . . . and I hope they like me, and ... I don't have any trouble.'
At this his hand came out again and he patted her shoulder, saying, 'Somethin' f-f-for you. Somethin'
saved.' And then he swept his hand forward as if shooing flies from the horse, as he said, 'Later.'
At this Jinnie said quickly, 'You'll tell me later?'
'Aye.'
There were times when Jinnie felt she could read Max's mind; at least, the meaning of his stilted speech always seemed clear to her.
Max was the only man she had ever been allowed to speak to. He was the only man to be allowed anywhere near the women's quarters. Likely it was because he was considered harmless. He had been born in the workhouse, and she knew of his strange history from old Aggie McMahon, who had brought him into the world.
It would appear that thirty years ago a woman had been brought in raving, so much so, she had to be put into a strait-jacket before being flung into the quiet room. The very thought of the quiet room made Jinnie shudder, for she herself had once been sent there. That was the day after her father was buried. However, they had soon had to haul this woman out because she was about to give birth to a child. As Aggie said, Max was a huge baby. He could have been six months old when he was born, so big was he. And that was why he had grown into this huge man. When the time came to have him christened, Aggie had told her, the woman had returned to some kind of normality. Yet, she must still have been odd, for she had insisted that his name was Maximilian and that he was a descendant of a Roman emperor.
Aggie said there had been nothing on the woman to say who she was or where she had come from, but that her clothes were highly respectable and that she wore bloomers, a garment rather like knickerbockers, only made of soft material. Anyway, she died when her child was ten days old and she was buried, like many another, in a pauper's grave. Max, as he became known, grew rapidly and was thought to be mentally deficient.
But from when he was put on the farm at five years old, it was discovered that he could count. This emerged when he implied that the hens weren't laying so well, and he counted out the discrepancy on his fingers. The farmer, who was also the labour master, told the parson, whose weekly visits were mainly intended to instil the fear of God into his wretched congregation, about the ungainly child he had under his control, one who must have a bright spot somewhere because he could count, and that no-one, to his knowledge, had shown him how to do it. It was from then that the parson had taken an interest in the child. After reading a Bible story to the Sunday school he would point out the letters to Max, whose ability to remember them was eventually accepted as pr
oof that he couldn't be entirely mental. That he wasn't at all mental, Miss Caplin had herself already discovered some time before. As for Jinnie, she had never thought of him other than as a normal man who was unfortunately handicapped in his speech. And she had known for a long time that if she really loved anybody other than Miss Caplin in that dismal, work-wearying place, it was this man. He had, in a way, taken the place of the father she had lost; even seeming to possess the same warm disposition. Yet she had heard of an incident in which he had developed a deep rage which had quickly turned to violence. A dog on the farm had attached itself to him, and when, one day, Max found an inmate, who was decidedly mentally ill, ferociously kicking it, he had almost throttled the man, and had, so she understood, then lifted him bodily and thrown him against the wall.
For this he was put into the quiet room for a time, and his mental state was again questioned. It was only the fact that he stood in good stead with the labour master-cum-farmer that he wasn't transferred to menial tasks, such as stone-breaking, or midden cleaning.
After about two hours the cart passed through Haydon Bridge and turned into the road that led through Langley and past the old smelting mills. It was as they came to a green sward opposite the dam that Max pulled the horse to a halt, saying, 'Rest . . . eh?'
'Oh yes, Max. It's lovely here, isn't it?' She pointed to the water shimmering in the sunshine. 'I've never seen anything like that, it's beautiful.'
As the horse began to munch the fresh grass at the side of the road, she flopped down from the cart and, rubbing her hands over the ground on each side of her, she said, 'Oh, 'tis lovely, lovely.'
Max too stood gazing across the water; then letting himself slowly down on to the grass at her side, he said, Something f-f-for...' And now he wagged his forefinger at her before bringing out the word, 'you.'
'Something for me?'
He bowed his head deeply; then putting his hand into the inside of his three-quarter-length coat, he drew out a small case about seven inches long and two inches wide, and as he began to mulch it between his hands, he said,
'Leather . . . st-stiff long time.'
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