Workhouse Child

by Maggie Hope

  Twenty-One

  ‘The women in our family seem to have a habit of falling down the stairs when we’re expecting.’

  The voice came in and out of Lottie’s consciousness. It was a familiar voice but she couldn’t quite place it. She tried but it was too much of an effort. She relapsed back into the grey nothingness.

  ‘I thought she moved her eyelids there,’ Eliza went on. She gazed at Lottie’s white face on the pillow. ‘The lass looks a bit vulnerable when she’s not hiding behind her glasses.’

  ‘Is she going to be all right, Mam? You should know.’

  Thomas had been gazing unseeing out of the bedroom window at the street leading down to the river Tyne, hidden in the distance. Now he turned and approached the bed and stared down at his wife’s face. A blue vein showed through the skin of her forehead and there was a small rosy bruise on one cheekbone. There was no other colour at all.

  ‘You should ask the doctor that,’ Eliza replied.

  ‘But you should know,’ Thomas insisted. ‘You’ve nursed women in childbed long enough; ever since I can remember.’

  Eliza didn’t answer immediately. She was thinking of that long ago time when Thomas was born, when she had fallen down too. Only, thank God, Thomas had been born alive and well. It had not been at all the same as what was happening to Lottie now.

  Oh aye, she had nursed plenty of women, young girls and middle-aged women, who had been in the same position as Lottie was in. Most of them had fallen or been knocked down by their men. More babies were lost that way …

  ‘You didn’t do it, did you, Thomas?’

  ‘Mam! I did not! How can you ask such a thing?’ Thomas was shocked to the core.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just had to hear you say it.’

  Eliza wished that she were as close to her son as she had been when he was younger. Now he told her nothing about his life and it was hard for her to know what he was thinking. Perhaps that was natural when a lad grew into a man. She looked at the girl lying so still on the bed. So white she was and her skin so translucent. Not a picking on her, her mother would have said.

  She put her hand under the bedclothes and felt Lottie’s stomach. It was not hard, her skin was not hot; she mebbe would not be getting an infection. On the other hand, she had lost her baby. Her own grandchild. Eliza sighed.

  ‘She won’t die, I don’t think,’ she said. ‘But she’s but a slip of a lass, she’ll take some nursing.’ Lottie’s tiny figure and narrow hips were the result of childhood deprivation; Eliza had seen it all too often. But she didn’t say so to her Thomas. It didn’t mean that the girl would not recover well. She was surprisingly tough, but then workhouse girls had to be to survive.

  Thomas let out a sigh of relief. He felt guilty, for it had been his fault, he knew that. But why wouldn’t she do as she was told? Women were supposed to obey their husbands, weren’t they? And nothing good ever came of women working. Look at the times he had come in from school to an empty house and nothing but a cold tea set on the kitchen table. Then when he went to boarding school he had visited his friends’ homes. Their mothers weren’t dashing about the place all the time working, working, no, they had been waiting at home with fresh-cooked meals they had made themselves, even when they had a maid in the house.

  Lottie had been the maid in their house, he thought. Not like Bertha who had carried on her own washing business and helped his mother out at the same time. When he was younger, Lottie had always done what he wanted her to do, tidied up after him, fetched and carried for him. But she had still been considered a friend by his mother.

  ‘Why did you marry Lottie?’ Eliza asked suddenly.

  For a moment or two Thomas couldn’t think of an answer. He had always liked Lottie, loved her even. Why was his mother asking such a thing? In her world a lad always married a lass if he impregnated her. ‘Took her down’, they called it.

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t say it was my duty.’

  ‘Aye. Well it was. Do you love her, though?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That’s all right then. Lottie is a decent lass and she has a good brain an’ all, she won’t let you down.’

  Thomas looked away, embarrassed by this unusually frank speech coming from his mother. He walked to the foot of the bed and looked again at Lottie’s white face. ‘I … We were arguing,’ he said. ‘I wanted her to stop working on her dratted writing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She should have been spending more of her time on me and preparing for the baby, not scribbling away at rubbishy novels.’

  ‘Aye, well.’

  Eliza was quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts. ‘She needs her writing, man. Her stories are not rubbish. Haven’t I just said she has a good brain?’ she said eventually.

  A sound from Lottie made them rush to the side of the bed. Lottie’s eyes were open. She licked her lips and tried to speak. Eliza lifted her head from the pillow and gave her a few sips of water from the feeding cup on the bedside table.

  ‘Take it easy, petal,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be fine, you’ll see.’

  ‘I’ve lost the bairn?’ Her eyes flickered to Thomas when Eliza nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he replied as he stepped closer and took her hand in his. Eliza slipped from the room to give them time to themselves.

  ‘A fanciful tale of a girl aspiring to enter the law profession,’ said the Review when The Clouds Stood Still was published at the end of November. ‘Nevertheless, it is quite entertaining.’

  ‘Typical patronizing remark,’ said Lottie. ‘I don’t suppose it will sell very well without a good review.’

  ‘If it doesn’t, you have the satisfaction of knowing that you tried at least,’ Thomas replied. He was reading the business page of The Times. There was an article about the fortunes to be made from investing in railways in the far-flung corners of the world. If he could only get in at the beginning, he could become a millionaire in no time at all. Excitement rose in him, the sort of excitement that took hold of him when he wagered money on an outsider at the racetrack and saw his horse romping home at the head of the field.

  ‘My publisher thinks it will sell well. He should know, shouldn’t he?’ Lottie went over to the small table by the window where half a dozen copies of her book were on display between bookends. She picked up a copy and looked at it. It had a plain cover with a small illustration of a girl on the front. Just looking at it made her fill with pride.

  ‘Alice really liked it. I gave her a copy,’ Lottie went on. In fact, Alice had been filled with admiration for her work, which made up in some part for Thomas’s uninterest. ‘Alice says …’

  ‘What? What are you going on about?’ asked Thomas. He folded his paper and rose to his feet. ‘I must go, I have things to do before I go to court,’ he said. Forgetting to kiss her or even say goodbye, he swept out of the room.

  Thomas was not interested in her work, Lottie thought sadly. Still, at least he was not so against it as he had been before she lost the baby. Surely if her book was popular and made money he would be more glad for her. Proud even.

  ‘Can I clear the table, missus?’

  Janey had come into the room with her tray and Lottie nodded. ‘I’m going out, Janey,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting Mrs Snape.’

  ‘All right, missus,’ the girl replied.

  As Lottie went upstairs to get ready for her morning with Alice, she kept her eyes averted from the stair where she had fallen that day. The memory of it brought such a feeling of guilt and depression to her. She blamed herself, oh aye, she did. She mourned for her baby too.

  ‘When you’re rich and famous, I’ll tell everyone you are my friend,’ Alice declared. They were in Alice’s parlour drinking coffee, which was the fashion now in London, according to Mrs Brownlow, who had just returned from the capital. Lottie was not fond of it, not even as an after-dinner drink. It would never be as good as tea for slaking thirst or giving com
fort in difficult times, she reckoned. It was bitter and left a nasty taste on the tongue, even with added sugar.

  ‘Sometimes I just wish I was back in Durham sitting at my desk and scribbling away or pounding on the typewriter,’ mused Lottie. Sometimes indeed, she thought but didn’t say aloud, she wished she were back in West Stanley dashing the pit clothes against the wall in the yard or boiling pot pies for one of the lads coming in off shift.

  Alice was shocked. ‘You don’t really wish you had not married Thomas, do you?’ Alice was so happy in her own marriage. She couldn’t imagine that her friend was not.

  Lottie laughed. ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘I’m happy with Thomas. I’m a lucky woman.’ Alice would never understand her feelings. She couldn’t understand them herself.

  ‘Well, Lottie, I’m glad to hear it. Independence is nice in theory I suppose, but it does limit a woman’s life. There are so many places we cannot go alone. The Playhouse for instance, and especially not at night. We are “the weaker vessel”. Even if we do rail against it, it is a fact.’

  ‘Alice!’ cried Lottie as she stared at her friend. ‘I didn’t know you were so old-fashioned.’

  Alice’s cheeks became pink. ‘I don’t think it old-fashioned,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I think it all too easy for a young woman to get a bad reputation even if she has not done anything seriously wrong. It is enough that she is too free in her ways. She becomes hoydenish.’

  It was enough for Lottie to realize that despite their friendship there was a huge gulf between them. Alice would never understand how she felt. Yet she couldn’t resist a try.

  ‘What about the women who have no man to depend on?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry for them, of course,’ said Alice. Her cheeks were red rather than pink now and she wished she had said nothing. Of course she knew that Lottie came from the lower classes; indeed, there was some question about Thomas too, but surely with a name like Mitchell-Howe his family must have good connections? To her relief, Lottie rose to her feet and brought the conversation to an end.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, glancing at the marble mantel clock. ‘Is that the time? I’m sorry, Alice, I’ve had a lovely morning but I promised Thomas I would be home when he comes in for the midday meal.’

  Thomas was not in court that morning. The client he was representing had withdrawn his action. So he was sitting at his desk supposedly working on another case but in reality dreaming of making a fortune from investing in a new railway in Uruguay.

  There was just one catch to this scheme. He did not have enough capital. He cast about in his mind for ways to raise the two thousand pounds needed for the initial investment. This was the lowest amount the company was prepared to accept from someone wanting to buy in.

  ‘An excellent opportunity’ was the phrase used in the prospectus. Oh, indeed he had to find a way.

  ‘I have had a complaint concerning you and the fact that you were late in court for the Prentiss brief. What have you to say for yourself? Mr Prentiss says it was because of your incompetence that the case was lost. What do you have to say about that?’

  Thomas gave a start. He had not even heard Mr Brownlow senior come into the room. He rose to his feet. ‘Mr Brownlow! I did my very best; I always do my best for my clients. But when the client’s case is weak …’ He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment. ‘Mr Prentiss is, perhaps, looking for something or someone to blame it on. I will not be made a scapegoat.’

  ‘And I will not have the reputation of the firm jeopardized in this manner,’ Mr Brownlow replied sternly. ‘I suggest you pay more attention to your work and less to your outside interests.’ He turned on his heel and walked majestically out of the office. At the door, he turned.

  ‘This is a warning, Thomas. Do you understand me? A friendly warning, but nevertheless a warning. There is unlikely to be a partnership on offer if this sort of thing is brought to my notice again.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Brownlow.’

  Stuff your partnership, Thomas said to himself savagely. A career in the law was not the great thing he had thought it to be, not at all. He sat back in his opulent leather chair and moved the swivel from side to side aimlessly. A career in the law was as dry as dust and not nearly as lucrative as he had been led to believe. Not in the early years, it was not.

  When he had made his pile in South American railways he would chuck it all in and spend his time in London, Paris or even Monte Carlo. All he needed was the money for the initial investment and he would be away.

  There was Lottie, of course. He loved her, he did, but she didn’t excite him as she had done at the beginning and it was not the same since she lost the baby. In a way she had been responsible for their inability to break into Newcastle society. It wasn’t just her writing; in fact some women seemed to think more highly of her because of it. He had been wrong about that. No, it was her origins. His own had been overlain with his good schooling, which had given him a better accent, and the fact that he had some money, not much, but some, from his father’s family in Alnwick. Lottie was a workhouse girl with the accent of the local working classes. He had not noticed it so much before, but it grated on him now.

  Thomas sighed and looked at the case notes on his desk. Boring it was: two brothers fighting over the mineral rights on a hitherto worthless strip of land, but where a rich seam of coal had been discovered. Why could they not just share whatever came their way and be thankful for it?

  Suddenly, Thomas closed the folder containing the notes and shoved it in his desk drawer. There was plenty of time for working but this was the last day of Sedgefield Races and he had a few good tips and a feeling that he might, he just might have the luck running with him. He straightened his tie before the looking glass, smoothed back his hair, winked at his reflection (by, he was a handsome devil), and took his hat and overcoat from the stand in the corner behind the door of his office and put them on.

  ‘I have to go out, Mr Thompson,’ he said to the clerk who had looked up from his ledgers as Thomas’s door opened. ‘Take any messages for me, will you? I may not be back today.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Mitchell-Howe,’ the clerk replied.

  Liberated, Thomas hailed a cab and went merrily on his way to the railway station for the train to Durham and then to Sedgefield. All his woes were forgotten in the excitement of going to the races. This was his lucky day, the day he made enough money to buy into a South American railway company. Oh yes, he would be a millionaire yet.

  Twenty-Two

  ‘The Clouds Stood Still was a little slow to take off in the first few months, but I am pleased to inform you that sales from your book are now increasing steadily,’ wrote Mr Bloom. There was a royalty cheque enclosed with the letter. Lottie stared at it. Nine pounds, seventeen shillings and sixpence. She said the amount out loud, though there was no one there to hear it. Thomas was rarely at home in these last few months. Often he spent the night at what he termed ‘his club’. Lottie did not question it, for in some ways she was happy to be able to get on with her writing.

  The cheque was for only a few pounds but it showed that the original advance had already been earned. It would take a hewer at the coalface a month or more at least to earn that sort of money. Lottie rose to her feet, moved to the window and gazed out at the February scene. Of course, she mused, the book had taken longer than a month to write.

  Outside it was starting to snow: large flakes that quickly coated the ground and blew against the window in small swirls. On the street beyond the tiny garden, a couple were walking against the wind, the man holding a large black umbrella in front of the woman protectively. The woman’s skirt was blowing against her legs and billowing out a little behind her. She had her hand tucked under the arm of the man and they hurried along together as one. It made her think of Thomas. The couple outside had something special, a closeness she did not have with Thomas.

  It seemed to her that the only times he touched her nowadays were those when they were in bed together o
n the nights when he did come home. His need of her at these times seemed as strong as ever, yet he still stayed away for days at a time.

  She had taken to inserting a ball of cotton wool soaked in vinegar into her vagina in the evening when he was at home. It was the only way to stop conceiving that she had heard of and she couldn’t bear the thought of going through the trauma of another miscarriage. Nor could she ask Eliza for advice. Eliza would be scandalized and she was, after all, Thomas’s mother.

  Sighing, she turned away from the window, sat down and stared at the neatly written sheet she had been working on. She inserted a sheet of foolscap into the typewriting machine and typed in the number of the page, 201, and the first line from the handwritten sheet, but she was unsettled, she couldn’t carry on.

  ‘I will go to the bank,’ she said aloud, and rising to her feet, she put on her coat and hat, picked up her reticule with the cheque in it and went out into the wind.

  The snow had turned into sleet and she had to bend her head into the wind as she walked up the street. She folded her umbrella and tucked it under her arm, for it was straining to turn inside out when she had it up. Yet the icy sleet, which was stinging her cheeks, was refreshing at first: it took her breath but lifted her mood.

  In the bank, she paused for a moment to catch her breath, then took the cheque out of her reticule and handed it over to the clerk.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said pleasantly.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Mitchell-Howe,’ he replied, as he picked it up. ‘Do you wish to put this in your account? Or perhaps you would like it in cash?’

  Lottie had had every intention of banking the cheque, but suddenly, without conscious thought, she changed her mind. The account was in Thomas’s name, of course, and once she countersigned it and it left her hand, only Thomas would have access to it.

  ‘I’ll take the cash, please,’ she said. It was a long time since she had had any money in her purse apart from the housekeeping, and this week Thomas was late giving her that.