‘Thank you,’ Rosie whispered as the man scrambled his way back to the towpath.
Staring at the paper in her hand, silent tears fell and Rosie wondered what on earth she would do now.
Packing her few belongings into a carpet bag, Rosie walked along the towpath amid the stares of the other boat owners.
She explained the situation to the man in the office who then slapped some money on the counter.
‘Yer mooring fees returned. If that boat belongs to the bank then they can pay its fees!’
Thanking him she turned to leave.
‘Miss ’arris, may I ask why you didn’t see this coming, begging your pardon?’ the man asked.
‘My “sight” doesn’t extend to myself – only others,’ Rosie answered, sadness heavy in her voice.
Wishing her good luck, he watched as she left his office. Life could be so cruel at times, he thought.
Rosie turned towards the town; she had to find a job as well as somewhere to live – this was easier said than done.
Walking down Holyhead Road towards the market, Rosie thought about Betty Johnson. A well-respected woman on the waterways, the wily old bird who had kept her secret of having the boat on a mortgage facility with the bank. She had set up the meeting with the fraudulent solicitor and duped Rosie out of her money. For all that, Rosie had liked the old woman. Now, here she was, owning a boat she couldn’t live on, she had no job and little money, and now no home.
Sighing loudly, she trudged on.
Having trawled the market place and the streets of Wednesbury all day with no hint of work anywhere, Rosie sat on a bench in the Allotment Gardens. She felt tired to the bone and leaning back, she closed her eyes.
‘Oi! You can’t sleep ’ere!’ a raucous voice yelled in her direction.
‘I was merely resting my eyes and my bones,’ Rosie answered as a little man came striding towards her, shovel in hand.
‘Ar well, you best be moving on afore I fetch a copper!’ the officious man spat.
‘The calling of a policeman will not be necessary,’ Rosie said as she stood to leave.
Walking away from the gardener she heard him shout, ‘And don’t you be coming back!’
Shaking her head, Rosie left the Gardens and walked aimlessly forward. Without realising she found herself back at Monway branch of the canal.
Suddenly a thought struck, she needed to let Bill Mitchell know what had happened. He needed to know where she was. Or did he? Rosie had set up an account at the bank whereby Bill paid in the money earned, after he’d taken his and the boys’ wages for working her boat. The arrangement had worked perfectly therefore, strictly speaking, Bill didn’t really need to know about her difficult situation. Rosie felt she didn’t want to cause anyone any more worry. She would be fine – once she found a job and a home.
*
Sarah Mitchell’s money had run out and in sheer desperation and fear of starvation she had accepted a workhouse ticket from the Relieving Officer.
She had been transported by cart to the Wolverhampton Workhouse where she had been given a uniform and scrubbed down with carbolic soap. The final indignation was having her hair shorn.
She had been assigned to the laundry where she pounded the washing in a large tub with a dolly – a milking stool attached to a broom stale. Then, pulling the uniforms out of the tub with a dolly stick she dropped them into a tub of cold water. Rinsing them through by hand she then wrung them out before passing them between the rollers of the mangle by way of a handle on the side. Another inmate whisked the flat uniforms away to be pegged on the washing line stretched across the yard.
As she worked, Sarah Mitchell couldn’t believe she’d come to this – the workhouse!
Feeding another uniform through the mangle she turned the handle and an evil grin spread across her face as she thought, this is what I want to do to you Margy Mitchell!
The bell clanged denoting the end of the work day and Sarah and the others trooped into the corridor which led to the dining hall. Standing in line with a tin cup, bowl and plate her nose wrinkled at the foul stench which heralded their meal was to be broth – again.
With water in her cup, stale bread on the plate and thin broth in her bowl, Sarah found a place at one of the long benches. Looking into her bowl now sat on the refectory table, she grimaced. It was lukewarm water with the odd vegetable floating on the top.
‘Not hungry, Mitchell?’ a voice asked.
Sarah looked up at the warden. A large woman in an immaculate uniform stared back with a sly grin.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Sarah said quietly as she picked up her spoon.
The warden walked away with a nasty chuckle.
‘Bloody ’ell you nearly copped it there!’ whispered the woman sat next to her.
‘What can she do?’ Sarah asked full of bravado.
‘See that stick her’s carrying? Well ’er can beat yer brains out with it!’
‘It wouldn’t be allowed,’ Sarah said quietly.
‘Oh no? Who would stop her? The matron don’t give a damn. Her gets paid ’er wages whatever ’appens.’ The woman drank the dregs of her soup from her bowl.
Sarah was horrified. She could be beaten severely and no one would care.
The woman went on. ‘Tek my advice and keep yer ’ead down whilst you’m in ’ere.’
‘How can I get out now? I’m stuck here,’ Sarah said keeping a keen eye on the patrolling wardens.
‘Sign yerself out. After three ’ours they have to let yer go. But, if you get out, where will yer go? What will yer do?’ the woman asked.
Sarah shook her head; she had no idea, but one thing for certain was, she was leaving this horrid place.
‘How do I sign out?’
‘See the matron,’ the woman answered then yelled out as the warden’s stick caught her a sharp blow to her back.
‘Eat – don’t talk!’ the warden hissed then walked on.
‘Sorry,’ Sarah whispered, horrified at the abuse she’d witnessed.
The woman shook her head and sniffed back her tears.
The following morning the inmates were up before the birds began their dawn chorus. After a breakfast of thin porridge made with water, a dry stale crust and a tin cup of tepid water, Sarah approached the warden.
‘I want to see the matron,’ she said.
‘Well you can’t, Matron is busy!’ the warden snapped.
‘It’s my right to request to be signed out!’ Sarah snapped back.
Pushing her nose into Sarah’s face the warden rasped, ‘You don’t have any rights in here! Now get to work or you’ll feel this across your back!’ She waved her stick as she stepped back.
‘Please, may I see the matron?’ Sarah tried a different tack as she cowered a little.
‘Better. I’ll see what I can do.’ The warden pushed Sarah away from her with her stick.
Walking to the laundry, Sarah was sure she’d be out of that dreadful place by the afternoon.
The next day, Sarah rose and waited in line for breakfast. Spying the warden walking towards where she now sat, Sarah stood. She saw the warden’s eyes narrow as she spoke.
‘Yesterday I asked to see the matron and I still haven’t been granted an audience.’
The dining room instantly became silent as the inmates watched intently.
The warden strode to stand next to Sarah and pushed her face forward. ‘Well the matron is busy like I told yer before!’
‘Please… I need to leave this place and it’s your job to inform the matron I want to sign out,’ Sarah said with yet more false bravado.
She heard the gasps of the women surrounding her and as she took a look around the room she saw all eyes cast down swiftly. She’d get no help there.
The warden laughed loudly. ‘You trying to tell me ’ow to do my job now?’
Sarah shook her head as she saw the baton in the woman’s hand being raised.
‘No, I just meant…’ Sarah croaked as fear began to c
onstrict her throat.
‘I don’t care what you meant! You keep yer mouth shut, do you ’ear me?’ The warden’s face was red with anger.
‘I… I…’ Sarah began but her words ended in a scream as the baton caught her sharply across her back. Tears sprang to her eyes as she looked to the other wardens patrolling the dining room, but they just turned away.
The warden who had struck her used her baton to push Sarah’s plate and cup to the floor.
‘Look at that mess yer’ve made – clear it up – NOW!’
As Sarah bent to retrieve the cup and plate she screamed out as the baton landed again. She scooped up the items and dropped them onto the long table.
‘Fetch the mop and get that porridge cleaned away!’ the warden said with another swing of her stick.
Sarah howled and clutched her upper arm where the blow had caught her sharply, then she scuttled away.
By the time she returned with mop and bucket, the dining room was empty save for the evil looking woman. Keeping her eyes down, Sarah mopped up the remains of her breakfast.
‘That’s better. Now get to work!’ The warden banged her stick on the table making Sarah jump.
Snatching up the mop and bucket, Sarah fled the room.
Later in the laundry she thought about the dreadful woman who had beaten her in front of everyone in the dining hall. As she worked she began to formulate a plan. She knew if that woman struck her again, she would not be responsible for her actions. She knew she had to get out of this accursed place and soon.
One week later, Sarah Mitchell was still awaiting an audience with the matron. The bullying warden, she suspected, had done nothing about her request.
After breakfast one morning she marched along the corridor towards the matron’s office. A warden was walking towards her, but Sarah maintained her resolve, despite the fear of being found out.
‘Where are you going?’ the warden asked sharply.
‘Matron wants to see me, ma’am,’ Sarah said, her eyes lowered to the floor.
‘What for?’ The warden asked, tapping her stick against her long blue skirt.
‘I don’t know until I get there… ma’am,’ Sarah answered.
Feeling put out that she had not discovered the reason for the inmate visiting the matron, the warden yelled, ‘Well ’urry up, don’t keep ’er waiting!’
Sarah scurried off knowing the warden was watching her. Tapping on the office door she heard the matron bid her enter.
‘Yes, what is it?’ the matron asked not looking up from the newspaper she was reading.
‘Begging your pardon ma’am, but I would like to sign myself out,’ Sarah said then held her breath.
The matron sighed and pushed a form towards Sarah. ‘Fill that out and sign it.’
Releasing the breath slowly Sarah grabbed the pen and scribbled on the paper.
‘Go to the stores in three hours, you will be given your own clothes, and then you are free to leave.’ The matron resumed her reading of the newspaper.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Sarah said and rushed from the room for fear of the matron changing her mind and keeping her in this dreadful place.
Only three hours to wait and then she’d be free! As she walked back to the laundry she began to think about what she would do once released.
She had to find a job, anything would do – even clearing horse manure from the cobblestones would pay a wage.
Once in the laundry Sarah pummelled the washing with gusto. Three more hours, then she would walk out of the workhouse gate a free woman. One thing she was certain of – she would never come back here. She would die of starvation first!
Nineteen
The mooring officer stood on the towpath and shoving his two forefingers into his mouth he gave the loudest whistle he could manage. Those working the boat decks turned to look at him, others popped their heads through the hatchways at the sound. Hooking an arm, the officer then pointed to the ground. He had called a meeting.
With the people gathering around him, he explained his reason for calling the ‘cut-rat’s together. He nodded as women gasped then requested they pass on the information in order for the appropriate people to be informed. That nice young girl, Rosie Harris had been duped out of her money, lost her boat to the bank, and was now roaming Wednesbury homeless and penniless.
The boat owners returned to their work amid quiet mutterings.
It was as Rosie returned to the canal side that a woman called down to her. ‘Hey Rosie, come aboard and share a meal with us.’
‘Thank you no, I have eaten already,’ Rosie lied.
‘Then come and do me a “reading” will you, gel?’
Rosie nodded and scrambled aboard. ‘Tea’s just made, you’ll ’ave a cup?’
‘That would be most welcome.’ Rosie smiled.
As the two women sat drinking their tea, the woman spoke quietly. ‘We all ’eard what ’appened. I ain’t half sorry, cocker.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Well anyway, the “grapevine” is working so I’ll bet the “Pride of Wednesbury” won’t be long in the coming.’ The woman pulled out some cake offering Rosie a big slice.
Knowing it would be rude to refuse, Rosie tucked in hungrily. Between bites she said, ‘I don’t want the Mitchells to lose the chance of work because of me.’
‘Do you think anyone on the “cut” will see you without? Don’t you know ’ow well thought of you are? Your reputation is known in every town between Birmingham and Wolver’ampton!’ The smile the woman gave was warm and comforting.
‘Oh! I… I had no idea!’ Rosie stuttered.
‘Right well now you know, ’ow’s about that “reading”?’ The woman’s hand shot towards Rosie and they both laughed as the familiar shudder crept its way up Rosie’s spine.
*
The gypsy caravans had formed a ring and its occupants sat around the central camp fire. Jake Harding had decided they would move on the following day. He sat brooding, his eyes watching the dancing flames, his mind elsewhere.
‘Jake, young Rosie is in trouble.’ An old woman came to sit next to him breaking into his thoughts.
Jake jerked his head round a frown wrinkling his brow.
‘I saw it, Jake.’ She nodded in confirmation.
‘Where is she, Queenie?’ the young man asked.
‘I don’t know exactly. I saw boats, then Rosie carrying her bag,’ the woman said quietly shaking her head.
‘What trouble?’
‘Not that sort – she ain’t with child. Her heart is breaking though, Jake, her hurt is bone deep.’ Queenie sighed then continued, ‘Someone has done her a great wrong, lad; also there’s been a death.’
Jake nodded and thanked the woman for the messages from her ‘sight’.
‘So, lad, where am we off to tomorrow?’ Queenie asked, knowing full well they’d be searching for Rosie Harris.
‘She could be anywhere…’ Jake said almost to himself. ‘I don’t know which way to go. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do!’ His elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands.
Queenie patted his back. ‘You will – by the morning you will know.’ Leaving him, the woman limped over to her vardo to retire for the night, complaining about her arthritis as she went.
Jake was the last to go to bed. Throwing dirt onto the remains of the fire he then climbed into his ’van and lay on his bunk.
What trouble has Rosie got herself into? Who had wronged her so badly? Why was her heart breaking? Jake rubbed his hands over his face as he lay in the dark. He needed to find her. He had to discover what was making her so sad and, he must find a way to put everything right again.
With breakfast finished the following morning, the group looked at Jake, their Bandolier, and waited.
Standing tall he called, ‘Strike camp. We need to get to Wednesbury – Rosie Harris needs our help!’
All at once people began to tether horses in their braces, pots and pans we
re stored away and low chatter ensued as the business of leaving the heath in Bilston began.
In Wolverhampton, the morning was clear and bright although the autumn chill was making itself felt. Bill and his sons ate breakfast while the coal in the fire box burned and the steam level slowly rose.
John said he would cast off while Frank took the steering, their father was left to wash up the breakfast dishes.
Suddenly there was a shout from up top and John came hurtling down the three steps.
‘Dad! Dad, come on – come on!’ Grabbing his father’s arm, John dragged him up on deck.
Frank was standing at the side of the boat looking out onto the towpath. He turned as his father and brother joined him and tilted his head.
‘Bloody hell! Sarah?’ Bill gasped.
His once proud and haughty wife stood looking at him. She was a shadow of her former self. Her hair was closely cropped to her head; large eyes stared from her skull, and her clothes hung from her rail thin body.
‘Bill,’ she said quietly before crumpling into a heap on the towpath.
The boys leapt from the boat closely followed by their father. Between them they carried Sarah onto the boat. The boys shot below to make tea and food for their mother as Bill made her as comfortable as he could on deck.
Opening her eyes Sarah looked into the face of her husband and a tear escaped the corner of her eye.
‘Sarah. What in God’s name has happened to you?’ Bill whispered.
‘Workhouse,’ Sarah whispered back.
‘Oh Christ! Sarah, I’m so sorry.’ Bill felt wretched. ‘Come on,’ he said as he helped her into the boat’s belly where she gratefully accepted hot tea and bacon and eggs.
The twins stared at their mother as she shovelled the food into her mouth, all previous finesse gone. Once finished and with more tea Sarah spoke.
‘Thank you, boys… my goodness how you’ve grown!’
Looking at each other then back to their parents, they were both thinking the same thing – now what?
Sarah related her tale of being thrown out of their tied house; of how she could find no work and eventually had accepted the ticket into the workhouse.
The boys stared as they listened and Bill hung his head in shame. He had done this; it was he who had brought his wife to this pitiful state.
The Girl on the Doorstep: from the bestselling author of The Workhouse Children (A Black Country Novel) Page 14
