by Evie Grace
After breakfast, Mrs Coates announced that the Board was ready to see Mrs Matthews.
‘That’s you.’ Drusilla gave Catherine a dig in the ribs. ‘I’ll go with her in case she should forget her name.’
‘Oh no, you won’t,’ Mrs Coates said. ‘You’ll clear the dishes. You’re a regular – they won’t want to see you again.’
Drusilla smiled, revealing her blackened stumpy teeth as though delighted by the thought of her notoriety.
Mrs Coates went on, ‘Mr James Berry-Clay from the brewery is a fair and reasonable man. He sits at the head of the table. His younger brother, Mr Rufus, is less amenable. Just answer their questions as honestly as you wish.’
Catherine found herself in an office with a high ceiling and a view of the gravel pits through the window. She wished she was outside flying with the gulls across the scudding clouds, not standing in front of the five stern gentlemen who were seated at a table veneered with the finest walnut.
She took a deep breath. She wasn’t scared. There was nothing that people in authority could do any more to frighten her. She remembered standing in front of Mr Hadington – she couldn’t bring herself to describe him as her father – and begging him to act for Matty at the Assizes. If she could deal with him, she could cope with these men who were only sitting in their places by virtue of their birth, sex and good fortune.
The gentleman at the head of the table, dressed in a red and black patterned waistcoat, a black tailcoat and dark cravat, was about forty years old. She assumed that this was James Berry-Clay. He had broad shoulders and an air of confidence that matched his flamboyant copper hair and beard. The man beside him had less presence but bore a distinct resemblance to his neighbour. He had red hair as well, but less of it, and he seemed in bad humour. He picked up a piece of paper and read it through a monocle, a deep frown etched on his forehead.
‘This is a serious allegation. Mr and Mrs Coates were chosen for their compassion and efficiency of management,’ Mr James said. ‘Rufus, you were present at the vote.’
‘What efficiencies have we seen? Name me one. The bill for bread has doubled in the past month since we changed supplier.’
Catherine waited. They didn’t seem interested in her and she wondered if Mrs Coates had made a mistake and she wasn’t expected.
‘Which was the correct thing to do,’ Mr James said. ‘The old bread was mouldy and tainted.’
‘Good enough for these people.’
‘It was inadequate even for feeding the pigs.’
‘Meat has gone missing from the kitchens.’
‘Mrs Coates assures me that there’s been an error in accounting. She’s looking into it.’
‘You are a fool to trust her.’
‘She’s an honest woman.’ Mr James turned to Catherine. ‘Name?’
‘Mrs Matthews, sir.’
‘So you are another who makes a pretence of being married?’ Mr Rufus cut in. ‘I see you have no shame.’
‘I have nothing to be ashamed of.’ Catherine spoke out clearly.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘I have nothing to be ashamed of,’ she repeated.
‘I heard perfectly well the first time.’
‘In that case, why did you beg my pardon?’ She would not be cowed.
‘You are most impertinent. Where is the father of this child? Do you even know who he is?’
Catherine nodded.
‘Speak up.’
‘Yes, sir. I am certain of it.’ Her cheeks burned with humiliation. Hadn’t she suffered enough?
‘Why will he not support you? Why does he cast you onto the limited resources of the parish? Give us his name.’
‘I will not.’
‘Will not or cannot?’
‘I am a widow.’
‘There’s no need for this, Rufus,’ Mr James said. ‘Gentlemen of the Board, let us be charitable towards this poor unfortunate woman who has fallen on hard times.’
‘She has an attitude that may rouse the other inmates to dissatisfaction and rebellion,’ Rufus persisted.
‘We can’t possibly send her away on out-relief when she has no fixed abode, and I will not have the death of a baby on my conscience.’
‘If you have your way every time, we’ll have the whole of the population of Swale requesting admission to the workhouse. We must make an example of every weak-minded woman to prevent others falling prey to their base urges.’ Rufus’s eyes flashed with passion and his cheeks grew high with colour as though he were growing excited at the thought of conquering any number of ‘weak-minded’ women himself. ‘I see them on the wharves at night, larking about with the seamen with no reference to their virtue. I see them walking arm in arm along the street outside the brewery with their once maidenly attributes exposed for all to see.’ There was a bubble of spit on his lips. ‘The churchmen do nothing to stop this expression of debauchery.’
One of the other men grunted and shifted in his seat. Another tapped the end of his cane against the table.
‘Gentlemen, I humbly request that we move matters along. I have a meeting at the Customs House in less than a half-hour.’
Mr James cleared his throat and turned to Catherine.
‘Young woman, you will enter the main workhouse where you will be entitled to three hearty meals a day in return for your labour until such a time as you will be required by the demands of confinement to move to the lying-in ward. There you will bring forth your child into the world under the protection of the Union.’
Under the protection of the Union? The words echoed around inside her head like thunderclaps.
‘What will happen to my baby?’ she asked, her voice tremulous.
‘It will likely die or end up an orphan, like the rest of them,’ Mr Rufus said harshly.
‘I apologise for my brother’s thoughtless words,’ Mr James interrupted. ‘He is wrong to condemn you without knowing your story. Go now. Mrs Coates will set you to work.’
Immediately, she was set to work in the oakum room with eleven other women. She was given a spike, an empty basket and instructions to fetch some of the tarry old rope from the baskets in the corner by the door before she sat down at the end of one of the benches.
‘Come and sit here, my dear.’ Drusilla patted the place beside her and Catherine found that she had no choice other than to sit there where there was more room for her.
‘Show Mrs Matthews what to do,’ Mrs Coates said.
‘Your hands will be cut to pieces by the end of today. You have to use the spike to untwist the old rope into strands then unroll them between your fingers.’ She showed her how to spread them across her knees to turn the corkscrew spirals into a loose mesh. ‘Then, when you’re finished, you put ’em into your basket so Mrs Coates can keep an eye on how much you’ve done. No slackin’.’
‘What is the purpose of this?’ Catherine asked quietly.
Drusilla smiled. ‘To keep us out of trouble. To make us suffer for being penniless, homeless and desperate. No, it’s to make caulkin’ for the boats at the shipyard.’
As they worked, the women talked, telling their stories of how they’d been forced to turn to the Union, how their families had been split up at the gatehouse and their husbands had been sent to work outside on the wharves and in the brickfields.
‘What about your children?’ Catherine asked.
‘I’ve lost two little ones,’ said the woman sitting on the bench beyond Drusilla.
‘I’m sorry.’ She wished that she hadn’t enquired, but the woman wanted to talk about them, a girl and a boy, twins who died soon after birth.
‘It was God’s will. At least He gave them breath that I might say goodbye to them.’
‘You will have others,’ another of the women said. ‘Mine was with me until he was six months old.’
‘My son was sold by the beadle to a shipbuilder,’ said yet another. ‘He guts fish, and cleans the decks of the ships that bring oranges and silk in to Faversham.’
‘How did you end up here, Mrs Matthews? Where is your husband?’ Drusilla asked.
‘I’m a widow,’ Catherine said, sticking to her story.
‘Such a terrible thing,’ Drusilla sighed sarcastically.
Catherine didn’t respond until later when they were in the women’s ward, preparing for sleep.
‘I wish you would hold your tongue,’ she said. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘It’s all right, miss. Your secret’s safe with me, although there are one or two here whose husbands were sentenced with our men, who might recognise you from before. Look at you. You behave all meek and hard done by, but you aren’t the only one to have suffered. My life will never be the same again without Jervis. Any heart that I had has been torn out.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine said.
‘We all have our burdens to carry, but life goes on. You have to make the best of it, and take advantage of every opportoonity that comes your way. Jervis l’arned me to be ruthless, not shilly-shally about. I’ll let you know when anything of interest comes my way.’
Catherine knew what she meant, but she wouldn’t play any part in an unlawful act. No doubt Drusilla would set her up as revenge for what she reckoned Matty had done to Jervis.
She wished her goodnight before she lay down on the straw mattress and pulled the thin blanket over her shoulders. She prayed for Matty and their child before she fell into a deep sleep.
In the following weeks, she toiled hour upon hour in the workhouse until the oakum turned her skin brown and the stench of tar seeped into her body. She washed her hands before meals, but no matter how hard she scrubbed, nothing could make the stain and smell go away. Even more dispiriting was the fact that as soon as one pile of rope was done, Mrs Coates ordered the delivery of another.
One day in October, the Union came round to inspect the workhouse, staff and inmates. Mr James was among them, discussing a problem with the food in the corridor outside the oakum room. Catherine was inside, sitting on the bench alongside Drusilla. She was seven months gone and her belly ached with the weight of the baby. She could see the group through the open door and hear their conversation.
Mr Rufus was berating the beadle and Mrs Coates.
‘You seem barely qualified to run a brothel, let alone an institution such as the workhouse.’
‘I assure you we are the most honest people you could find in Faversham,’ Mrs Coates said.
‘We are the salt of the earth,’ said the beadle.
‘So why, whenever we inspect the place, do we find problems? The ledgers never match up with the numbers of occupants actually resident. Neither do the invoices and payments for the victuals. Today, there are three sacks of flour unaccounted for.’
‘It is hard to keep track when we have so many in-and-outs,’ said Mrs Coates. ‘There are those who return to the outside to drink and sin, then come back to us when they can no longer cope.’
‘Maybe, brother, you should take heed of Mrs Coates’s words,’ Rufus said. ‘We are a laughing stock. The regime here is said to be less harsh than anywhere else in Kent. By providing kindness and food in abundance, we’re encouraging those who are more than capable of supporting themselves to take advantage of the state.’
‘For every one who takes advantage, there are ten or twenty who would die if left to fend for themselves,’ Mr James said. ‘Look at the number of lunatics and elderly, and the homeless. Why shouldn’t they have a life that is more than an existence? Why should they be denied shelter, food and drink? It’s against my conscience to apply more deprivation than there already is to these miserable people.’
‘If you struggle so much with your conscience, you should go to the Board for a vote so that I can take the burden from you.’
‘You know that will never happen.’
‘I do believe that you show more consideration to these people than you do to your wife.’
The group moved on, leaving the women who were picking oakum to gossip about what they had just heard. Catherine kept her views to herself. It was true that life inside was better than she’d thought possible. She’d lost her freedom, her life being ruled by the sound of the workhouse bell, but there were compensations. They had candles and coal fires so they could boil a kettle. They had enough food of adequate quality, access to a medical officer and plenty to occupy them.
Mr James reminded her a little of the way Pa had used to be before John had had his accident. She wondered how the Rooks were, if John missed her at all, and what had happened to Wanstall Farm. Had the Nobbs family actually got their hands on the tenancy? There was no news of their fate, and unless she exposed her identity, she had no way of finding out. It upset her, but it was having no news of Matty that hurt the most.
Chapter Fifteen
The Littlest Feet
It was the beginning of December and Catherine was beginning to wonder if the baby would ever come. One afternoon as she was unrolling a fresh section of rope in the oakum room, a pain caught her around her belly. She gasped and pressed her hand to her stomach.
Mrs Coates looked up from her table where she was writing notes into a ledger.
‘Are you in some kind of trouble, Mrs Matthews?’
Catherine found that she couldn’t speak.
‘Put your work down and make your way to the lying-in ward.’
‘I shall stay a little longer,’ Catherine insisted after she’d managed to breathe through the pain. If the truth were told, she was frightened. She’d heard the moans and screams from the top floor of the Union as the women laboured to give birth to their babies. She’d heard the stories of how the nurse dragged them out, some dead and some alive, from their mothers.
‘Go on, ducks,’ Mrs Coates said. ‘Babies don’t wait.’
Drusilla snatched up the rope that Catherine had already picked through and took it for her own work, but she didn’t care. She struggled upstairs to the ward where the nurse showed her to a bed. There were two new mothers there already. One held a weakly baby in her arms while the other was curled up on a mattress with her newborn swaddled in a grey sheet alongside her.
‘That’s Mrs Wilson,’ the nurse said. She was older than Catherine, and had a squint and long bony fingers. ‘I’m afraid she hasn’t got long for this world.’
Catherine recoiled. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t feel safe.
‘You must lie down,’ the nurse said as another wave of pain took Catherine’s breath away and swept her into the realms of hell. She was barely aware of what was happening as she laboured for seven hours with the jangling of the workhouse bell marking the time. At midnight, her baby was born.
‘It’s a girl,’ the nurse said.
Catherine waited for the cry. Would it come? Suddenly, there was a whimper and then a wail. The nurse placed the bawling creature against Catherine’s breast and bustled away to attend to Mrs Wilson. Catherine held her daughter close, examining every detail of her face. At first she seemed like a stranger, but gradually, she made out Matty’s features in her shock of brown hair and the breadth of her forehead. She counted her fingers and noted the rash of tiny milk spots across her nose. A fierce wave of love flooded her heart.
‘You’re beautiful,’ she whispered as the infant continued to cry. ‘Please, God, have mercy on you and let the world treat you kindly. How I wish your papa was here to greet you.’ How she wished he was here at her side to support her and love her for the rest of their lives, as he’d once promised.
‘She has an excellent pair of lungs,’ the nurse said, returning to the bedside.
‘Why won’t she stop crying?’ Catherine tried to latch her onto the breast, but she turned away.
‘Your milk is too thin,’ the nurse o
pined. ‘I’ll send for some bread and meat from the kitchen.’
‘She’s too young for that,’ Catherine said, alarmed.
‘Of course she is.’ The nurse smiled. ‘It’s for you. You need to build up your strength. Don’t worry – your milk will come in.’
A groan from the bed opposite distracted her. The nurse took a mirror from the pocket of her apron and held it to the mother’s mouth.
‘She’s gone.’ She closed the mother’s eyes. ‘God rest her soul. Annie, go and inform the beadle.’
Catherine said a silent prayer, hoping that she hadn’t suffered.
Annie, the girl who was assisting on the ward, carried out her errand before reappearing later with a bowl of meaty stew and bread. Catherine forced herself to eat it by the light of a lantern while the nurse sat with the orphan baby, offering him milk from a bottle. Eventually, she fell asleep with her baby at her breast.
The first bell of the morning woke her. Two men came to collect the body of the lately departed mother. The orphaned baby started to cry most terribly. Foul miasmas emanated from the blankets, and the fire in the grate belched thick black smoke. Catherine couldn’t bear it any longer. She rose and dressed.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ the nurse asked.
‘Back downstairs. I’ll be needed in the oakum room.’
‘Not today. You must stay here until baby’s feeding and your health is secure. Childbed fever can strike at any time for up to at least a week after confinement.’
‘I’m just as likely to fall ill here as anywhere else,’ Catherine said. More so, she thought.
‘You need rest. I forbid you to return to work until I say so. It’s the rules.’
‘Aren’t rules made to be broken?’ she asked, recalling the gateman’s words.
‘Of course they aren’t.’ The nurse looked shocked. ‘They’re there for a purpose: in this case, to keep mother and child safe.’
‘I can make my own decisions.’
‘You can on the outside, but not inside while you’re enjoying the hospitality of the Union. You will remain on the ward, unless you want me to call for the beadle to have you turned out onto the street.’
