The Girl in the Ragged Shawl

by Cathy Sharp

  ‘What do you mean?’ Eliza asked, though at the back of her mind she thought she knew. Men and women were strictly segregated in the workhouse, but the rules were broken sometimes and occasionally a man managed to sneak into their dorm. Eliza had once asked what was going on beneath humped blankets and Ruth had told her it was all for a bit of comfort and nothing to worry about, but Mistress Simpkins had spoken to her and Joe of rutting and made it sound bad and dirty, and Mags had the same tone in her voice. ‘Do you mean what men and women do for comfort?’

  ‘Lawks, but she’s an innocent,’ Mags said and shook her head. ‘You watch out the master don’t catch you in a dark corner or you might find out – and you won’t like it, girl.’

  ‘I’m called Eliza.’

  ‘Are you now?’ Mags nodded. ‘Well, if you answer to it, it will do.’ She put a glass of a whitish liquid in front of Eliza and a bun.

  Eliza sniffed at the glass. It smelled sharp and she sipped it, feeling the cool taste on her tongue. ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mags.’

  ‘It should stop you feelin’ sick for a bit,’ Mags said shrugging her broad shoulder. ‘Eat yer bun, because I want yer to start work as soon as yer’ve done. The bedrooms want turnin’ out and that means polishin’ as well as sweepin’ – and then there’s this floor to be scrubbed. I suppose yer know how to scrub and clean?’

  ‘Yes, I can scrub. Mistress didn’t give us polish but I can learn.’

  ‘If yer willin’ ter work ’ard yer’ll be all right ’ere,’ Mags said. ‘I’ll just put me pie in the oven and then I’ll take yer upstairs. You had best meet mistress fer a start. She may want her pot emptied and that will be one of yer jobs, Eliza. Yer’ll be workin’ from mornin’ ’till night and ’er upstairs will ’ave yer on the run all day if she gets the chance.’

  CHAPTER 6

  ‘How is your latest project coming along?’ Toby asked Arthur when they dined together at Toby’s club one evening in May. He was in a mellow mood. The weather had improved of late, he had spent a pleasant day riding in Richmond Park, and he had recently bought a horse he intended to race at Newmarket. ‘Have you made progress with your drive to reform that workhouse?’

  ‘Very little,’ Arthur admitted ruefully. ‘Master Simpkins promises everything but delivers little – however, I think him weak rather than truly evil. His sister is another matter. I just do not trust that woman. I have been talking with some of the other members of the Board about her conduct, but unfortunately they seem to think her exemplary in her behaviour.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘I fear that most of my fellow members believe that those unfortunates in the workhouse deserve their fate. They tell me the rules are strict because they need to be, and I cannot deny it – but I can smell the rottenness, Toby. I know things are wrong in that place, but until I have proof that she has broken the rules I can do nothing. I have no power to dismiss her without proof.’

  ‘Then pay the workhouse an impromptu visit on some pretext.’

  ‘Yes. I have been thinking of setting up a home for fallen women—’ He saw the wicked smile in his friend’s face and laughed. ‘No, not that kind of home, you idiot – a place where those who are destitute may go to rest, rather than the workhouse.’

  ‘You will find few to support you, though I might know of someone …’ Toby shook his head and smiled oddly. ‘You will have to wait and see.’

  ‘I wait with bated breath,’ Arthur murmured sardonically.

  Toby summoned a waiter to bring more wine, mulling over what his friend had said. He sipped the rich red wine that perfectly complemented their roast beef and nodded.

  ‘You mean to inquire at the workhouse for someone to work in this home? I’ll wager it will not be easy to find a woman who has not been corrupted in that hellhole.’

  ‘No one said any of it was easy,’ Arthur replied and smiled. He was thoughtful as he toyed with the delicate stem of his glass. ‘I’ve been wondering how that girl fares – the one I told you of before. I asked Master Simpkins and he told me that she was perfectly well, but I have not been able to put her from my mind.’

  ‘She cannot run your hostel for you, surely?’

  ‘No, not at all, but there was a woman who looked after her. A woman called Ruth who seemed to care for the child. If she is still there I might question her, consider if she would be suitable.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’ Toby nodded and studied his wine. ‘I am pushing for my father to bring forward that Bill in the Lords, to raise the age of consent – and I’ve got them talking in the clubs about setting up a commission to look into the problem of child prostitution, but these things take time, Arthur. There is already a movement afoot to help women who have been abandoned by their fathers, husbands and their community for some small misdemeanour and forced into prostitution, but these same worthy gentleman do not wish to admit that children are being abused. Some of those who should support the movement against it are throwing obstacles in the way and I fear I know what is behind their reluctance.’

  ‘I daresay they are culprits themselves in some cases.’

  ‘Yes, though it disgusts me I must admit you are right.’ Toby frowned. ‘Sometimes I despair of this society we live in, the hypocrisy and lies – but I am doing my best to educate them where I can.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve done wonders stirring up the press.’ Arthur smiled at him and raised a delicate wineglass in salute. ‘Tell me more of your plans, my friend. My house is a small matter compared to what you attempt. We must stir the conscience of the nation. Child labour must be abolished, at least until the age of fourteen. Only last week I heard of a six-year-old child being forced up chimneys to clean them.’

  ‘Good grief, I thought that had been outlawed in 1840,’ Toby said, frowning.

  ‘Yes, so did I, and the Chimney Sweepers Regulation Act of 1864 made the punishments for using children under the age of twenty-one more severe – but it still happens, as do so many other terrible crimes against young children. It is a disgrace in a civilised country like ours.’

  ‘You know I agree. Has the culprit been punished?’

  ‘He has been fined ten pounds, reprimanded and threatened with imprisonment should it occur again.’ Arthur frowned. ‘But that is only one case – and the trouble is that poverty often makes the parents agree to give their children to a master who may ill-treat them. When they have too many children to feed and clothe it must seem the least of many evils – indeed, their only option.’

  ‘Furnish me with the details and I will speak to others who think as we do,’ Toby promised. ‘Now then, Arthur. My father has a musical evening next week – and I insist that you attend to bear me company for unless you do I may die of boredom.’

  Arthur laughed and inclined his head. ‘Yes, I shall come for I would not have you despair of me, Toby. Your father is a good man and he has been generous to the cause.’

  ‘Also, there is someone I would like you to meet.’

  ‘Ah, I see – male or female?’

  ‘A lady,’ Toby said and arched one mobile brow. ‘A very beautiful lady, Arthur, but not, I must tell you, in the first flush of youth. I understand she suffered a tragedy in her family some years ago and has been caring for her father until his death – a worthy woman, but also good company.’

  ‘Am I to take it that you have intentions or is it that you hope to interest me in the fair sex?’

  Toby laughed and shook his head. ‘Neither, for she is not my type and I know it would be useless to present her to you as a wife – but as someone who might take an interest in your work, perhaps.’

  ‘You have succeeded in arousing my interest,’ Arthur said arching an eyebrow. ‘And now, my friend, a hand or two of whist before we call it a night?’

  Eliza tumbled into bed beside Mags and was soon fast asleep. She’d been working from the moment she entered the butcher’s house until it was finally time for bed. First of all his wife had had her running errands
for more than an hour and when she finally exhausted all her requests, Mags set her to scrubbing the cold stone floor.

  It was hard work, for it had not been done in weeks and Eliza had to empty and fill four buckets with hot water. As soon as she mopped one bit of the floor the water turned a reddish brown and went greasy, the smell making her stomach turn. Every time she went out into the yard to tip the hot water down the drain she retched, though little came up for she’d been offered nothing to eat after the bun and cool drink. It was only when all her work was finished that she was told to come to the table. Mags had set the table for supper and there was a large ham-and-egg pie she’d made earlier, boiled potatoes and a dish of pickles to go with it. Mags gave Eliza a piece of moist crust and some egg and potatoes but did not place any meat on her plate.

  Eliza took her place shyly down at the end of the table. Master sat at the end and his son Pike at his right hand; next to him was a thin man with sparse grey hair that hung from a bald patch on his pate and was lank with grease. He was the outside man and Eliza had seen him scrubbing the yard with a heavy broom to get rid of the blood from the slaughtered animals.

  A pig had been killed right in front of the kitchen window that afternoon and its squeals of fright and pain had made Eliza bite her lip hard to hold back the tears. When she’d looked out at the man gutting the dead pig, she’d seen him grin at her evilly and felt her stomach clench with fear, but Mags told her to take no notice of him.

  ‘Jake is mean and likes his work, but he’s afeared of the master,’ Mags told her. ‘He wouldn’t dare lay a hand on you or me, don’t you worry. I’d soon hit him wiv me rollin’ pin and master would thrash ’im.’

  Eliza had nodded but she didn’t like the way Jake looked at her across the supper table and was glad he wasn’t sitting next to her. When she cleared the dishes into the scullery later, after everyone had finished eating, he came up behind her suddenly and grabbed her.

  ‘What’s yer name, little brat?’ he sneered. ‘Give us a kiss then…’

  Eliza whirled on him, holding the carving knife she’d been about to wash in the hot water and coarse soap. ‘If you come near me like that again I’ll stick this in your guts like you did that pig!’ she said fiercely and had the satisfaction of seeing him turn pale.

  ‘I’ll tell the master of you,’ Jake threatened.

  ‘You do that,’ Mags said from behind him. ‘Yer know what yer’ll get so you’d best stay clear. If he doesn’t thrash yer, I shall!’

  Jake snarled and spat on the floor but slouched out of the scullery.

  ‘He grabbed me from behind,’ Eliza said, more indignant than upset. ‘Dirty old man.’

  ‘Aye, he is that and yer’ve made an enemy of him so yer ’ad best steer clear of ’im, girl.’

  ‘I shall,’ Eliza vowed and turned back to her work. The hot water stung her hands, which were already red and sore from scrubbing the floor. She made a note to wipe them thoroughly when she’d finished, because they would become very sore if she did not take care of them.

  ‘I’ll give yer a little drop of pig grease to rub into yer hands,’ Mags said. ‘It will stop them cracking between the fingers.’

  Eliza wrinkled her nose, because the thought of it had turned her stomach again. After she’d washed and dried all the dishes, Eliza was told she could go to bed and Mags gave her a pewter chamber-stick with a lighted candle.

  ‘I’ll be up shortly,’ she told her. Use the pot under the bed if you need it – you can empty it in the morning.’

  Eliza nodded, for it was a job she’d often been given in the workhouse and she was accustomed to carrying slops to the ditch, though she would not have wanted to visit it at night, for if she’d slipped into it she might never have got out of the foul murk.

  The bed was cold in the tiny room under the eaves where she and Mags were to sleep. Eliza missed Ruth’s warm body beside her and the companionable snuffles of the other women in the workhouse. Her eyes were wet with tears as she turned over in the bed, which was actually softer and smelled better than the mattress she’d lain on in the workhouse. She was asleep when Mags came to bed and eased her over to one side and she did not stir.

  Ruth lay sleepless in her bed, missing the warmth of Eliza next to her and wondering where her friend was and how she was faring. She hadn’t realised how much she would miss the girl and her hatred for Mistress Simpkins increased. It made her realise that she was wasting her life here in this awful place and she determined to get out of it somehow.

  Hearing one of the older women cry out, Ruth got up and took the lantern to investigate. Meggie Stevens was staring up at her oddly, one side of her face twisted and her mouth open, dribble running over her cheek.

  ‘There, lass, it’s all right,’ Ruth said and stroked her cheek. She’d seen the elderly taken like this before and knew it was the result of a hard life. Meggie should have been sitting by a warm fire to see out her days, not picking over rags in the cold all day.

  ‘Help m-me …’ The thin hands clawed at Ruth’s hands as Meggie’s mouth worked and no sound came out, but Ruth could not call help for Meggie until the morning and by then it would likely be too late. All she could do was to sit with her and soothe her as best she might.

  Watching the life fade from Meggie’s eyes, Ruth was determined that she would leave here somehow. She would not stay here until she died, alone and sick, in this friendless place.

  All she could hope was that her beloved Eliza was in a good place.

  Eliza wasn’t sure what she’d done to make her master so angry. It was just three weeks after she’d arrived that he seemed to turn against her. Up until that morning, he’d hardly noticed her, merely warning her to get on with her work if he saw her standing idle in the kitchen for a moment. He might clout her ear in passing or shout at her, but he shouted at everyone. She’d been tending his wife, helping her to wash and change her linen and was carrying her pot out to the midden when Fred Roberts grabbed her arm, causing her to slop some of the urine over his boots.

  ‘Now see what you’ve done, you clumsy wench,’ he muttered, clearly furious. ‘Look where yer goin’, girl!’ He brought his hand back and clouted her at the side of the head, making her senses swim. Even as she struggled against her tears, he hit her again.

  Eliza knew she must apologise, even though it wasn’t her fault. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Shall I wipe your boots?’ She held her tears back, turning away to look for a cloth.

  ‘I’ve been helpin’ to kill a bullock,’ he grunted. ‘I can’t wear these in the shop. I’ll take them orf in the scullery and make sure you give them a good clean.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Eliza looked at the boots and saw that they were covered in blood and excrement from the beast that had been killed that morning. She gulped, trying to keep down the vomit that rose up her throat; even after three weeks of working in the stink of blood and stale fat, her stomach still rebelled at the thought of the animals being slaughtered in the yard or the sheds.

  ‘Don’t look at me as if I’m something out of the midden,’ Fred said and gave her another cuff round the ear. He glared at her menacingly. ‘Get orf and do yer work or I’ll really thrash yer. I can’t afford ter keep yer eatin’ yer head orf and not earnin’ yer bread.’

  Eliza turned her head away and hurried off to tip her pail into the stinking ditch. It was nearly filled to the top and the smell got worse every day; it would have to be emptied by the night-soil wagon soon or it would overflow into the yard. She wasn’t sure whether the midden stank worse or the tannery at the end of the lane.

  Feeling the sour taste of vomit in her throat, Eliza retched, wiped her mouth and hurried back to the house. She had to scour the pot before she took it back to the bedroom, because Mistress Roberts was fussy about smells and would send her to do it again if it did not smell sweet. After that, Eliza must clean those filthy boots, scrub the floor and then help Mags with the washing, because it was a Monday and the housekeeper washed all the sheets
once every two weeks in the summer, and once every two months in the winter.

  ‘If I leave it any longer the fleas will bite us to death,’ Mags said. ‘If I had a decent back yard I’d wash once a week, but there’s nowhere to hang washing, except in the kitchen and I hate steam all over the place.’

  ‘We had a big laundry and we hung the washing from lines high above our heads.’ Eliza described the workhouse laundry to Mags who nodded and looked envious. ‘Mistress told us to wash the men’s clothes one week and the women’s the next, but the water turned brown afore half of it was done and we had to rinse it forever.’

  ‘Aye, you would with that lot,’ Mags agreed. ‘Mistress needs her sheets changed twice a week. We ’ave to do hers separate, ’cos she won’t have them wiv his stuff.’

  ‘She told me to do all her personal things careful and gave me some of her special soap so I could wash her nightgowns and undergarments in the sink rather than the copper.’ Eliza looked at her. ‘Does she never get up? She can get out of bed easy when she wants.’

  ‘Aye, but if he knew that he’d have her flat on her back, so it’s best to let him think she’s ill, Eliza.’

  ‘Yes …’ Eliza had begun to understand what Mags meant. She’d heard grunting noises coming from the big walk-in pantry when the master followed Mags in there and she’d hovered outside, not daring to go in. When he left, Eliza went to the pantry and found Mags settling her flannel petticoats.

  ‘Did master hurt you?’

  ‘Nay, not hurt exactly,’ Mags said. ‘I don’t like it, but ‘tis easier to put up with it than refuse him …’ Mags had fixed her with a warning stare. ‘Don’t let him catch you in a dark place, girl. He’ll hurt you far more than he does me.’