The Orphans of Ardwick

by Emma Hornby

  Pip wondered to whom the last room belonged but didn’t dare ask. She was certain that one wrong word or action and the three of them would be slung quick sharp back on to the street. She wasn’t taking the chance. Just what on earth they were doing here now, she hadn’t the faintest idea, but she for one wasn’t about to burst this unbelievable dream. They were in a house; all three! They were to sleep in this house. Had you ever heard the like! Cook must have a fever of the brain, or been struck with some other mode of illness that was affecting her thinking, surely? She’d said one night, but that alone was more than nothing. By, it was. It was the grandest gesture they had received in … well, ever. Pip wouldn’t forfeit this opportunity for anything. Nay, not she.

  The scullery maid shepherded them into a fair-sized room and closed the door. She disappeared and moments later, murky light flickered forth from a candle atop a small bedside chest as she lit it from the one she held. ‘Right, then. As Cook said, we’ve work to do so youse stay put here till she’s ready for you.’ She nodded to a neatly made bed against the far wall. ‘Sit yourselfs down, take the load off. Lord hisself only knows when we’ll be for finishing up downstairs the night. Mr Philip brought guests back – Mr Sutton-Shaw besides the rest – for drinks and songs. We can’t greet our beds till the family’s in theirs. You’re likely in for quite a wait.’

  Gazing at the pristine, cream-coloured coverlet and matching frilled-edged pillowslips adorning the cook’s bed, then looking down at her filthy skirts and the lads’ equally soiled trousers, a trickle of shame-filled horror ran through Pip. Tabby was heading back to the door and she hurried after her. ‘Please. Is there anything we can use to protect the bedding? Some sacking, mebbe? Our clothing, you see …’

  ‘Oh.’ The girl tapped her lips, eyes thoughtful. Then she shrugged. ‘It’ll not matter, I’m sure. Cook will understand. Just sit yourselfs down,’ she added over her shoulder, ‘sit yourselfs down.’

  The door clicked shut and the children were alone.

  For a long moment, no one moved. Neither did they, despite the scullery maid’s reassurances, make towards the bed. It didn’t seem right; they felt it as though of one mind. They simply stared around them. Besides the bed itself and the chest alongside, the room held a plain-top desk and hardback chair set beneath a window, from which hung cream and pale-green striped curtains, the material rough-looking but pretty. A dark-wood wardrobe and set of matching drawers stood by the opposite wall. On top of the latter was a large, navy and white washbowl and pitcher, a fluffy flannel folded neatly, a hairbrush and a bottle of something – toilet water by the look of it – as well as a small wooden box with flowers carved into its lid.

  Above was an only slightly cracked oval mirror. In the top right corner, held in place between it and the wall, was a portrait smudged and grimy with age. Hesitantly, Pip stepped nearer for a quick peep. She saw on closer inspection that it depicted a young girl with long ringlets wearing a plain frock, and a cheery smile just visible beneath a too-large bonnet that cast the rest of her face in shadow.

  ‘Cook’s child?’ murmured Simon over her shoulder.

  ‘Aye, mebbe.’ A frown touched Pip’s brow. ‘I wonder where she is now?’

  Simon didn’t have opportunity to speculate. ‘This room’s like a magic room in heaven, like what angels have. Ain’t it, Pip?’ breathed Mack.

  She glanced down and smiled. ‘It is.’

  ‘Are we going to live here, now, for ever and ever?’

  ‘Nay, lad. Just the night. But ’ere,’ she added quickly when his face fell, ‘just think, a night beneath a sound roof! And the morrow, afore we leave, happen Cook will send us on our way with a few scraps again, eh? We’ll find somewhere new, somewhere warm, like, and dry, and we’ll snuggle together and eat our feast and sing songs, for it’ll be Christmas when we waken. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’

  He shook his head, his bottom lip wobbling, and she hadn’t the strength to try and persuade him further, for her own eyes were stinging at the prospect of leaving here in a few short hours. She hugged him close and sighed. Then she motioned to the rag rug by the bed and the two of them settled down upon it, Simon following after some seconds. The blanket from the cook earlier, tucked under her arm, she now wrapped around them.

  ‘Feet hurt. They hurt bad.’

  Again, Pip sighed. ‘I know. I know. Try and snatch some sleep, good lad.’

  His pitiful griping continued for some minutes and just when Pip had exhausted all avenues of comforting words of distraction, Simon spoke quietly.

  ‘’Ere, Bread, look.’ He pointed to the window where the curtains hadn’t yet been drawn, and to the dark sky beyond, stained in places with grey cloud. ‘You see? See the pictures? I reckon that’s a fish wearing a top hat. What says thee?’

  Pip could have hugged him. He could be thoughtful when he chose, loved this little lad deep down as much as she, however he tried to mask it. Their eyes met over the top of Mack’s head. She gave him a smile and he responded with his usual, ever so brief one.

  ‘I see, Simon, aye!’ Wide-eyed, Mack nodded. Then he yawned and snuggled into Pip’s shoulder.

  Again, she and Simon shared a look. Then as one, they too closed their eyes and settled down for what they knew would be the warmest, safest, most cosiest sleep any of them had known in a long, long time.

  The queer knowledge a body experiences when it’s being watched, as though the spy’s eyes are burning holes into your flesh, plucked Pip from her light doze. Under the cover of her shawl, through the hazy light of the near-spent candle, she saw Cook’s figure in the doorway. For a long moment, it remained still and, half afraid to move unless the woman had changed her mind and might order them from this room and house, so did Pip. Then the woman turned and disappeared. Pip heard her knock at Tabby’s room next door, then voices trickled through from the landing beyond:

  ‘You certain about this …?’

  ‘I’ve just been looking on the poor blighters sleeping. The rotten shame of it … Aye, I’m certain.’

  The scullery maid’s soft sigh floated on the air. ‘Well, it’s your call, I suppose …’

  ‘That’s right. Besides, you know how matters are, of my standing in this house. And neither Mr Philip nor that wife of his will alter my decision. The master will see to that once I’ve put him straight.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Thing is, they’re filthy and likely verminous. And that poor youngster has some problem with his feet, is pained, it’s clear to see. It’ll need addressing sooner rather than later if they’re not to infest the whole house and us along with it.’

  Curiosity momentarily left Pip as she felt embarrassment burn her cheeks. Then Cook spoke again and it returned, drawing her brows together in a puzzled frown:

  ‘Now I know you must be dead on your feet, lass, as am I, after the day’s toil. And I know it’s all the sleep we can snatch that we need right now, for the morrow shall be busier still. But I’d appreciate a helping hand if you’re for lending it? Them sorry mites in there are more in need than we at this moment in time. What says you?’

  Tabby answered without hesitation. ‘Aye, I’ll help, Cook. It’s no bother. What d’you want me to do?’

  ‘The house is all abed bar Hardman— Oh, here she comes, now.’

  The voices ceased and Pip heard the tread of the maid in question on the stairs. No words were exchanged between her and the other two servants, pleasant or otherwise. The housemaid walked straight past them and the room, and seconds later, her door opened then banged shut behind her.

  Cook’s voice, when she resumed her conversation, had dropped to a whisper, likely so Hardman wouldn’t hear, and Pip was unable to catch the words. Then Tabby’s light step descended the stairs to the kitchen and Cook appeared once more in her bedroom doorway. This time, she entered and closed the door behind her. She crossed the room to stand before the children, and again simply stared at them for a time. Then she sighed, stooped and spoke quietly
:

  ‘Waken, children. You hear me? Come on, that’s it, poor divils. Rub the sleep from your eyes and come with me. I’ll not keep you long, then you can rest easy again. That’s it, lass,’ she continued softly when Pip finally raised her head. ‘And you, lad, aye,’ she added to Simon, who had bolted awake. ‘Fetch the little one. Quiet, now. Come along.’

  Without another word, the cook hurried them down to the kitchen, Simon and Mack stumbling along behind Pip, dumb with tiredness. When they entered, the scullery maid paused in her task of dragging a bath before the fire to smile. Cook indicated the table, and Pip and the lads sat. They watched, silent with confusion, as the woman and girl filled the tin tub with the bubbling contents of a mammoth pot on the fire. They then added cold water from a pail nearby. Cook swished a hand through to check the temperature, nodded satisfied, then hung a large towel on the wooden rack above the mantel to warm. Then she put her hands on her hips and turned to the children.

  ‘Right, then. Who wants to go first?’

  Pip and Mack glanced at each other then to Simon. No one spoke, astonishment holding their tongues.

  ‘How’s about biggest to smallest? That way, I can spend more time on the little ’un once you two are done, see what’s the trouble with his young feet?’

  Again, silence. Cook jerked her chin questioningly.

  Simon finally found his voice. ‘You want me to get in there?’

  Cook nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘No offence, lad, but you smell like summat the dogs have coughed up,’ piped Tabby, then shrugged when Cook gave her a stern look. ‘Sorry, but it’s true!’

  Simon, proud to a fault, was always quick to take umbrage; biting her lip, Pip awaited his temper. It never came. Neither did he question Cook’s motives. He gazed in disbelief, then a look passed over his face, something akin to understanding mixed with excitement. He rose. Within seconds, his clothes were in a heap around his feet.

  Pip blushed scarlet, Mack giggled, but Cook and Tabby appeared unfazed.

  He crossed to the bath, lowered himself into the steaming clear waters and lay back with a long sigh.

  ‘There, that’s it,’ Cook said mildly. ‘Though by hell, it’s fortunate me and the lass, here, are from farming stock and have seen it all afore from the beasts of the fields, else you might have given us a merry fright.’ Then she took quick stock of his emaciated, dirt- and sore-riddled body and the amusement faded from her eyes. She nodded to Tabby, who handed Simon a flannel and small block of soap. ‘Scrub yourself good and proper, now, good lad.’

  Pip still had no notion of why all this was occurring but Simon seemed to, and if he trusted this was for the good then so did she. He always knew best. As he did as he was bid, the cook and scullery maid took his clothes to task. Cook filled a broad wooden pail with more water, grated in flakes from a different bar of darker soap and after working up a lather, plunged the clothing in. She then rubbed into them a foul-smelling disinfectant, likely to kill the lice, paying particular attention to the seams.

  ‘Tabby? Stockings off, lass.’

  Once in her bare feet, the girl hopped into the pail and, holding on to Cook’s shoulders for balance, proceeded to perform an on-the-spot jog, pounding the grime from the clothing with each step. Working quickly, they then transferred the suddy garments to another pail waiting nearby filled with clean water and rinsed everything thoroughly. One by one, they took an end of each item, twisted it between them into a sausage shape to wring it out before placing it beside the towel to let the heat from the flames do its part.

  When Cook disappeared with Simon’s boots and a brush, presumably to clean them of the years’ worth of muck, and Tabby, on instructions from the older woman, made through the green baize door for the house proper and the master’s dressing room, Pip sidled up to the bath.

  Dropping to her knees, she rested her elbows on the cold metal rim. ‘What does it mean, Simon?’

  He stared at her and ran a hand through his damp hair. ‘I think she’s for inviting us to stay on.’

  ‘You mean …?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Her breaths came in short gasps. ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Why else go to all this bother?’

  ‘But …? I mean, how will Cook pull this off? Surely the household will notice us? Hardman for one definitely will—’

  ‘By, I’ve missed a reet good tub soak. A dip in t’ River Irwell on occasion ain’t the same, somehow.’ He sank further beneath the water.

  Normally, he held steadfastly to making no reference to his past. However, he’d spoken with such feeling, Pip couldn’t help asking, ‘Aye?’

  He stared straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard her. Then he closed his eyes. ‘Let’s just see how matters play out, eh? Anyroad, the cook looks to know what she’s doing.’

  Pip studied his face for a moment, now a lovely shade of cream with pink cheeks from the cleaning he’d given it. He looked calm. And contented, aye, a side to him she’d never known before. Usually, he was on edge, furrow-browed and quick-eyed, almost feral, alert to possible opportunity or danger, as were they all. You had to be, had to look after your own well-being just to survive when you had no one in the world to do it for you. ‘Is that what you want, lad? To stay?’

  His head snapped around to face her. ‘Don’t thee?’

  A note of worry lingered behind his eyes and she smiled. ‘Aye, aye.’ She knew his thoughts ran as hers did – they were a trio and would always be. Where one went, the other two wouldn’t be far behind. They couldn’t be separate beings, now, after everything they had faced together, the protective love they had for one another. The very notion was inconceivable.

  ‘’Ere, and me!’

  She turned to grin at an offended-looking Mack sitting swinging his legs, thumb planted firmly in his mouth. ‘Course and you, daft boy. Lord, just think of it!’ she added, looking back to Simon and grasping his wet shoulder. ‘Us, here, together—!’

  ‘What’s together?’

  Pip scrambled to her feet at the cook’s voice, the woman having returned without their noticing. ‘Nowt. Nowt, Cook.’

  ‘You ready next, lass?’ she asked, motioning to the tub, and Pip nodded. ‘And how are you getting on, lad?’ she asked of Simon.

  ‘All right. Ta.’

  ‘Good. Now, where is that girl … Ah, here she comes. Come on, dawdle-Lil,’ she told Tabby as she entered with a bottle in her hand.

  ‘All right, all right. I had to take my time, didn’t I, couldn’t be dashing about the house at this hour!’ The girl handed the bottle over. ‘The master didn’t hear me. He’s sleeping soundly.’

  ‘Good lass. Aye, glory be to God, that glass of mead he took with his meal will help him rest easy the night.’

  ‘I don’t know how he sups that stuff. The alcohol part, aye, I like, but honey …?’ Tabby pulled a face. ‘It’s foul, that’s what.’

  ‘Aye well, the master likes it, so less of your mealy-mouthness,’ Cook said over her shoulder as she crossed to Simon, and didn’t see the tongue that Tabby poked out at her back, nor her grin, but Pip did. She and the scullery maid shared a smile.

  Simon was eyeing suspiciously the bottle Cook held. ‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’

  She pulled out the cork, sniffed the contents and nodded. ‘Head back, lad.’

  ‘Nay, not likely. You ain’t pouring no poisons on me.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft. This ’ere’s but a little borax and olive oil mixed with water, will cleanse that raggedy mop of yourn. And ay, if it’s good enough for the master’s luscious locks, I’m sure as ninepence it’s swell enough for thee!’

  Pip was amazed. Surely any other servant in the land bold enough to make free use of their master’s possessions without so much as a by-your-leave would be out on their ear if caught. Yet the cook didn’t seem fazed by the prospect in the slightest. Just what was the deal, here, beneath this roof? She’d never heard anything like it.

 
; ‘Aye, this is the pleasant part,’ continued Cook, liberally soaking his hair. ‘It’s the delousing next, my lad – vinegar and water followed by the comb.’

  Tabby was hovering nearby with the towel and when Cook had finished with Simon’s head, amidst his growls and grumbles, she tossed it to him then reached on tiptoe to pluck down his clothes. She wrapped a rag around the handle of a flat iron that had been on the heat, spat on it, sending it sizzling like bacon in a pan, and quickly smoothed it over each garment with a deftness that belied her tender years.

  When Simon had crossed to the corner of the room to dress, Cook and Tabby set about the tub with a fresh batch of water. Pip swallowed hard – her turn next. She couldn’t recall when she’d bathed last and, if she was honest, she was a little afraid.

  ‘Off with ’em, lass.’

  Pip’s fingers automatically travelled up to clutch at the bodice of her dress.

  ‘No time for modesty, lass. Left untreated properly, you’ll infest the whole house. All right, all right,’ Cook added kindly, lifting her eyes to the heavens, ‘the lads, here, will look away, I’m sure. That ease your fretting?’

  Pip nodded, yet still bit her lip uncertainly, making no attempt to undress. Then she caught a reassuring nod from Simon across the room and relented. ‘Aye, Cook. All right.’

  Whatever her worries, she needn’t have harboured them. The moment she slithered in and the silky waves hugged her skin, she quivered out a blissful sigh. By, it felt like a summer sun’s embrace, it did. The heat made her eyes grow heavy but the desire to wash away the grime pushed through and as Cook and Tabby gave her clothing the same treatment as Simon’s, she scrubbed herself with gusto. Then Cook was approaching her this time with the bottle from the master’s room.

  Eyes closed, she allowed the deft fingers to cleanse her matted locks. The touch felt comfortingly familiar and a wonderful sense of remembrance took hold of her. She envisioned her mother, her dark head tilted in smile, her soft hands undertaking this very action before the fire in the small room they once called home. From a far-off place, she heard her mother’s gentle humming of long ago, saw in her mind’s eye her mother envelop her in the scrap of towel, lift her from the water and sit hugging her before the flames until she was dry. They would talk and laugh quietly and after she was dressed, her mother would run a brush through her hair, exclaiming gently in admiration of its loveliness, before plaiting it neatly …