Catherine braced herself for rejection, but he finally nodded.
‘I know the matron; I’ll go and speak to her.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ Catherine said quickly, and escaped.
The following week, there was a letter waiting for her at home.
‘Open it then,’ Kate said excitedly. ‘What does it say?’
Catherine glanced at old John, snoozing in his chair.
‘I’ve got an interview,’ Catherine whispered, ‘up at Harton.’
Kate gasped. ‘Not the workhouse?’
‘Aye, in the laundry,’ Catherine said defiantly.
Kate snorted in disbelief. ‘You’d not last five minutes in a laundry. Got to be strong as an ox - I should know, I’ve done it.’
‘Done what?’ John asked, rousing from sleep.
‘Nowt,’ Kate said nervously.
Catherine faced him boldly. ‘I’ve got an interview up at Harton laundry.’
John’s craggy face went puce. ‘Harton? You’re not ganin’ to work there!’
‘Why not?’
‘ ‘Cos I say so, you cheeky bitch!’
‘The pay’s better than what I get from Mrs High-and-Mighty-Halliday - I know that from what Lily’s said.’
‘And she’ll be able to come home more often,’ Kate tried to placate him. ‘You miss her being so far away, don’t you?’
‘I didn’t ask for your opinion.’ John kicked the fender in a temper. He rose and glared at Catherine. ‘Me and your grandmother saved you from that hellhole, you ungrateful lass. It killed your grandma having to bring you up - but we did it, to save your slut of a mother and you from the workhouse. And now you say you’re ganin’ to work there! It’s a disgrace on the name of McMullen to have one of mine gan in such a place!’
‘It’s honest graft, Grandda,’ Catherine stood her ground, ‘and I’ll be gettin’ paid, not ganin’ cap in hand for relief work—’
Kate gasped and Catherine realised too late what she had said. In an instant, John had seized the steel poker and was brandishing it at her.
‘You dare say that to me face,’ he roared. ‘I only went there so as I could feed your grandma and her brats. McMullens don’t gan cap in hand to anyone!’
As he raised the poker, Kate barged between them and pushed Catherine towards the door.
‘Go, Kitty!’ she ordered, shoving her stubborn daughter out of the room.
‘I’ll kill her!’ John bawled as Catherine escaped into the street. But Kate barred the doorway with her bulk.
‘See what you’ve done with your big mouth?’ she barked. ‘Make yoursel’ scarce and don’t come back in a hurry!’
Catherine wandered the streets of South Shields until the pounding in her heart eased. She was shaken by John’s outburst, but all the more determined to win the job. His opposition was based on prejudice and fear. Kate’s derision that she was not strong enough for such work rankled too.
Yet, when the time came, Catherine had to screw up all her courage to walk through the forbidding gates of the soot-blackened brick fortress. This was the paupers’ prison, the place of no hope for the destitute and outcast. The long corridors were stark and echoing, the windows too high to afford a view. In the distance, she heard doors clang and the occasional shout.
Matron Hatch walked her through the large, noisy laundry. It clanked and hissed with huge rollers and presses, the air suffocatingly hot and dusty. Rows of young women (the paid laundry workers in pale blue overalls and the inmates in brown), stood sweating over the machinery. Catherine’s heart sank. She looked about nervously for Lily but could not see her.
‘Father O’Neill thinks you are a bright girl and a good worker,’ Matron Hatch said, as they reached her office. Her features were sharp, her brow furrowed under a starched white cap, her uniform immaculate.
Catherine nodded, hiding her surprise.
‘Can you add up?’
‘Aye, ma’am, I can.’
‘Do you have a school certificate?’
Catherine flushed. ‘No, but I’ve run me own business.’
‘Is your writing neat? Write something here for me. Then add up these figures.’
Catherine did so, puzzled as to why pressing sheets all day would require such skills.
Matron Hatch scrutinised her work, sucked in thin lips and announced, ‘Good enough, I suppose. I’m going to try you out as a checker, but only because Father O’Neill says you’re up to it. So don’t let the pair of us down, do you hear?’
‘I’ll do me very best, ma’am,’ Catherine promised, wondering what a checker did.
‘Call me Matron from now on. Come and I’ll show you where you’ll work.’
She followed her back into the steamy laundry and was shown a cubicle in the corner.
‘It’s your job to count all the laundry,’ she shouted over the din, ‘and keep an eye on the inmates.’ She nodded towards the girls in brown.
Catherine’s heart gave a jolt to see these workhouse women. They were the incarcerated, women less fortunate than Kate, doing the most menial tasks.
Matron continued, ‘You’ll live in, with a full day off a fortnight. Every other weekend you have to help out on the vagrants’ ward. Is that agreed?’
Catherine gulped and nodded.
‘As you are one of the officers, you must live in. Will that be a problem with your father or mother?’
Catherine looked alarmed. ‘N-no,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m living away from home at the minute.’
‘Good. So how soon can you start?’ Matron asked.
‘I have to give a week’s notice.’ As she said the words, she felt a soaring of her spirits. No more tugging her forelock to Mrs Halliday and her like. She was going to be a clerk with responsibility over others.
***
Catherine wasted no time in telling her employer.
‘A laundry?’ Mrs Halliday cried in a fluster. ‘What do you want to work in a laundry for? Heavens above! You’ll be wasted in such a place.’
Catherine went calmly about her work, while Mrs Halliday blustered on. ‘No, no, Louisa. If it’s the half-days you’re worried about, I’ll make sure you have your Saturday afternoons off.’
‘Me mam wants me back in Shields,’ Catherine said, which was not a lie but not the whole truth.
‘But you have a future here! In time, you could become an excellent lady’s maid.’
Catherine bit back the retort that she would never be anyone’s servant ever again. She was the daughter of a gentleman. Nothing Mrs Halliday said could dissuade her. When she packed her small bag and left by the servants’ entrance, she glanced back at the solid stone mansion surrounded by the fresh green of early summer.
‘I’m ganin’ to live in a house like this one day,’ she suddenly determined. ‘And I’ll not gan sneakin’ in the back way. I’ll walk right up the front steps, ‘cos it’ll be mine!’
‘Who you talkin’ to, Kitty?’ Sam asked, looking up from his hoeing.
She swung round, startled to think she had been overheard.
‘Just mesel’,’ she laughed, self-consciously.
He shook his head as if she were mad. Perhaps she was, for daring to think so far above her station. But she hungered for it. Deep down, the ambition to live this other life she knew she was born to smouldered like a new fire.
‘Take care of yoursel’, lass.’ Sam waved her away.
She shouted farewell, then left through the gates without a backward glance.
Chapter 8
For the first few weeks, Catherine doubted whether she should have taken the job at the workhouse. It was hot and noisy in the laundry during the summer months, and after nine hours her head pounded and eyes ached. The laundry workers were either shy or
sullen while her fellow officers viewed her with suspicion.
‘How come a lass like her gets the checking to do?’ Hettie, a bullish woman in her thirties, asked loudly in the officers’ mess where they ate. ‘She’s just turned nineteen. I’ve been working here sixteen years and I’m still a warder. And it’s not as if she’s got any education.’
Catherine carried on eating, forcing herself to swallow each mouthful. She and Hettie were sharing a small room together, and the waspish woman had made it plain she resented the arrangement.
‘Mind you, it’s like living with Saint Catherine - crucifix and holy pictures all over the walls,’ Hettie continued, making the others laugh. ‘Wearing out the lino with all that kneeling.’
Catherine smiled, as if she found it amusing too. ‘Just thanking Our Lady for giving me such a canny room-mate.’
This caused a few sniggers and Hettie to frown. Catherine knew by the hateful look she gave her that she was foolish to spark back, but she could not help it. She had done nothing to offend the woman and she would not be blamed for her youthfulness or willingness to work hard.
She wished she could discuss it with Lily, but she hardly got a chance to talk with her old friend. They had smiled at each other on the first day and Lily had generously whispered good luck, showing no envy at Catherine’s superior position. Catherine had felt a flood of relief, soon followed by frustration at their lack of contact. She was staff, while Lily was rank and file. Lily was on ironing duties - a step above the inmates in the washhouse - and spent all her time behind the hot pipes and whirring leather belts of the ironing benches. At midday, Lily ate with the other paid workers and at five o’clock she went home.
She and Catherine had only snatched conversations when handing over piles of sheets ready to return to the hospital.
‘Hettie Brown’s jealous of her own shadow,’ Lily told her. ‘Steer clear.’
‘How can I when we share a titchy room together?’
‘Well, don’t cross her,’ Lily warned. ‘Once she gets her claws into you, she’ll make your life a misery. I’ve seen her make the inmates cry often enough - she used to be on ironing till Matron moved her to the hospital. Talk of the devil.’
Matron Hatch appeared at the door and Lily hurried away, leaving Catherine to check the stock of fresh ironing.
Awkward with the older women who made up the majority of the workhouse staff, Catherine threw herself all the more determinedly into her new job. After a full day’s work in the laundry, she often spent half the evening on the infirm wards with the elderly. It reminded her of attending to her bed-bound Grandma Rose as a child, and it did not frighten her when the old people babbled in confusion or wandered about looking for their front doors and people long dead.
One Saturday, Matron told her, ‘We need someone to accompany the women to the cottages this afternoon, Miss McMullen. I’d like you to go.’
Catherine nodded in agreement, wondering what cottages.
‘You must supervise them and make sure there is no unseemly behaviour. They assemble at the main gate at two o’clock. Miss Brown will be on duty with you.’
Catherine’s heart sank. The unexpected outing would no doubt be ruined in Hettie’s company. Still, she was intrigued to discover where they were going, and perhaps, away from the workhouse, she could win Hettie’s friendship.
The women who gathered in the sunshine, in their drab brown uniforms and woollen stockings, looked young. Some were smiling and joking, an air of expectancy about them.
‘Keep quiet, or you’ll be left behind,’ Hettie commanded, and silence quickly followed.
She looked at Catherine in satisfaction and winked. Encouraged by her sudden friendliness, Catherine smiled back. An old army ambulance chugged up to the gates and Hettie shooed the women on to the makeshift bus.
‘We’ll sit at the front,’ she told Catherine and arranged herself neatly into the seat close to the driver.
‘How far is it?’ Catherine asked.
‘Half an hour or so,’ Hettie said, then turned away and spent most of the journey chatting to the driver. The sixteen women behind spoke occasionally in whispers, drawing the censure of Warder Brown. By now, Catherine did not dare ask Hettie what the trip was for, in case she ridiculed her in front of the others.
The bus took them out of the town and followed the coast south. Catherine was so mesmerised by the swaying cornfields and the distant hazy cliffs that it came as a surprise when the bus swung up a rough road and drew to a halt. About them were long, one-storey huts arranged around a bare courtyard, where hens pecked in the dust. Beyond, she glimpsed a vegetable patch.
‘You’ve one hour,’ Hettie called out. ‘Anyone acting daft gans straight back on the bus.’ The women got up quickly, their excitement palpable. ‘I’ll lead them in,’ Hettie said to Catherine, ‘you follow at the back and make sure no one scarpers.’
One woman, whom Catherine recognised from the laundry, raised her thick eyebrows in the only hint of defiance. ‘Scarper where?’ she muttered.
The driver settled to read his newspaper while Hettie marched her wards into a long, low hall. At the door, Catherine noticed a group of girls standing around with a skipping rope, staring at the visitors in curiosity. The laundry worker smiled at them, but got no response.
‘Poor bairns,’ she murmured to Catherine, ‘they’ve got no mams.’
‘How do you know?’ Catherine asked in surprise.
The woman gave her a strange look. ‘They’d be waiting inside if they had, wouldn’t they?’ She stepped closer. ‘Miss, do you have any sweets on you?’
Catherine felt in her pocket and pulled out a humbug. ‘That’s all I’ve got.’
‘Ta, miss.’ The woman beamed as if she had given her something precious.
As they stepped through the door, Catherine caught sight of two rows of children, one line of girls in starched white pinafores, one of boys in grey shorts and jumpers. They stood waiting, craning to see who came through the door, their faces brightening as they saw someone they knew. At the far end, a nurse clutched a pair of babies.
Realisation hit Catherine like a hammer. This was the workhouse orphanage. These children must belong to the women. This was a visit; an afternoon in which to pretend to be a mother, to not be an orphan, to say all that had to be said. She stopped in shock. How often did they get to see their children? Once a fortnight, once a month? Not long enough to do anything. But then, no doubt, that was the point, as far as those in authority were concerned. Not long enough to be of influence, to taint their offspring with their wickedness.
The women lined up opposite, waiting for Hettie to stop talking to the children’s matron and give them permission to start their visit. The hall clock struck a quarter to three.
‘Right then, one hour.’
The tense silence broke as the mothers rushed forward and hugged their children and the hubbub of chatter began. The smaller girls and boys climbed on to their mothers’ knees and let themselves be cuddled. The older ones were more awkward, shifting legs, twiddling hair, biting nails.
Some mothers handed over small treats they had managed to save from their rations, or twists of sweets they had bribed staff to buy with their meagre pocket money. The young women who fiercely cradled their babies seemed the happiest, their crooning almost frantic.
Catherine looked on appalled. She felt wretched, nauseous. This could so easily have been her and Kate. Would she have rushed to embrace her mother, or shrunk from her in shame? She could tell by the resentful looks of some of the older children that the moralising of their guardians had poisoned any love. Their unmarried mothers were sinful, beyond saving. They must grow up away from them or risk going the same way.
The laundry woman was trying to engage her sullen son. He scowled at her from under dark eyebrows just like hers.
&n
bsp; ‘Feeding you well, are they? Are you workin’ in the gardens still? Must be canny to work outside this time o’ year. Hot as hell in the laundry—’
He gave her a look of alarm and she glanced round quickly to see if anyone had heard. Catherine pretended she had not. The woman ploughed on with the one-sided conversation, the boy giving occasional grunts. Eventually, she produced Catherine’s boiled sweet like a trump card and handed it over. She lapsed into silence, watching him suck.
The hour dragged on and one of the babies grew fractious. Glancing at the clock, the mother bounced her desperately, but she began to howl louder.
‘Hand her back,’ the nurse ordered, ‘it’s nearly time for her feed.’
‘Just a minute more,’ the mother pleaded, not letting go.
Hettie intervened. ‘Give her over.’
‘But I haven’t had me hour,’ the woman wailed, bursting into tears.
Hettie wrestled the baby from her and pushed her away. ‘Get back on the bus, or I’ll make sure you don’t come next time.’
The young woman pressed her hands against her face, sobbing as her baby was taken away.
‘Witch,’ the laundry worker muttered. Suddenly she stood up. ‘Haway, give the lass back her bairn. She’s not had her time.’
There was a stunned silence in the hall, apart from the weeping mother. Then Hettie was marching down the hall, barking orders.
‘You can get out now, Jenny McManners! Time’s up for all of you. Line up by the door!’
Murmurs of disbelief rippled down the hall.
‘Do as I say, or you’ll not be here next month,’ Hettie threatened.
The matron clapped her hands. ‘Come, children, say goodbye to your mothers.’
The smaller ones started to cry and cling on. Some of the women burst into tears too. Briefly, Jenny seized her son and hugged him. Catherine saw how the boy gripped his mother in return, just for an instant.
Suddenly, Catherine’s throat flooded with tears. It was too cruel on the children. Whatever their mothers had done, none of them deserved to be treated like this. She glared at Hettie, as she bowled up the hall, shoving the women towards the door and pushing the children away. Catherine was so angry and upset she could not speak. She stood, clenching and unclenching her fists.
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