by Tania Crosse
‘Not as sorry as I am. But my father and I tried everything to get work. But we just couldn’t find ort.’
‘Times are hard,’ the doctor agreed. ‘Building the railway has been a godsend to many businesses. Helped them to survive. But it’s still a struggle for many.’
‘Well, we’re planning on leaving here in the spring and finding work on the land again,’ Tresca told him confidently. ‘This is only to tide us over.’
‘Ah.’ Dr Greenwood’s tone dropped ominously and Tresca’s heart lurched as he looked across at her. ‘I’m not sure your father will be fit enough. He has given me permission to tell you as you won’t be permitted to see him. I found that he has what we call an enlarged prostate. A slightly delicate subject, I know, but you may have noticed him relieving himself more often. Many older men have this without any problem, but your father is on the young side to have it, and the prostate feels very firm. Which makes me fear that it might be cancerous.’
‘Cancerous?’ Tresca croaked as the breath became trapped in her throat.
‘I could be wrong, of course, and I hope I am. But I have seen it many times before. And it spreads, quite frequently to the bones. And your father has aches around his pelvis, which is often where it starts.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Tresca muttered. The blood rushed from her head and seemed to circle about her heart. What other cruel trick did fate have in store for her? ‘He has been complaining of feeling, well, not unwell as such, but of losing his strength,’ she answered, although her lips seemed to be moving of their own accord. ‘And he has been coughing a little of late.’
‘His chest is a little unsound. But perhaps he’s merely developing a common cold. As to the other business, let’s hope I’m wrong, but I felt I had to warn you. Now let’s give you a quick check-over. First may I ask your age?’
‘I’ll be sixteen in three days’ time. The day after Boxing Day,’ she murmured.
Christmas, and her birthday. She had never felt so wretched in all her days, and this news about her father was the last straw. She was lost in a deep, dark ocean where threatening shadows writhed and from which she could see no escape. And who was to blame for it all?
The answer in her mind was quite clear. A tall Irishman by the name of Connor O’Mahoney.
Thirteen
‘On this the day of Thy birth, Oh Lord, let us thank You for the food You have provided. May we do Your work this day, and we pray You will bring us all to Your Eternal Light at the end of our days. Amen.’
Mrs Solloway lifted her head and gave her little dumpling smile as she surveyed the women’s refectory. ‘As it’s Christmas Day, we will allow you to talk at meal times,’ she announced.
‘Lucky us,’ the girl sitting next to Tresca scoffed under her breath.
Tresca looked at her sideways. She had noticed the girl before but hadn’t had a chance to speak to her. She walked with a pronounced limp and her left hand was badly twisted.
‘Seems unnatural, this silence at meal times, doesn’t it?’ Tresca said, trying to strike up a conversation. The previous day she had been put to work in the laundry. The atmosphere was so thick with heat and steam that it was hard to breathe, let alone carry out the strenuous work. Her face was bright red within minutes, her body running with sweat as she plunged and twisted the washing dolly among the heavy sheets in the washtub. Twenty minutes of swishing and pounding them in the hot, soapy water before hauling them through the mangle. And the instant one load was finished and passed on to the rinsing tubs, she was given another, with not a second’s rest in between.
They stopped work for an hour for dinner, most of which was taken up with queuing for the food and then swallowing the unpalatable, thin stew – all in silence. And then back to the gruelling work for another five hours. Then it had been another silent meal, this time a chunk of bread and a morsel of cheese. Tresca had been so exhausted that she had barely had the strength to force down the meagre meal. She certainly hadn’t been in the mood for talking before they were ordered into bed. She felt so miserable and weary that she had almost forgotten that her mane of beautiful tresses was no longer attached to her head. And when all the other women in the dormitory removed their caps and they, too, were shorn of their hair, the pain seemed easier to bear. Anonymous. Just one of a forgotten crowd.
Tresca was accustomed to sleeping in the company of others, but in a barn there were always low whispers or muted chuckling. The workhouse rule of silence made the dormitory seem hostile and malevolent. Tresca felt trapped, sorrow and resentment brewing up inside her, but this morning the old flame was flickering and steadily growing. If she was to spend the next few months in here, she was going to make the best of it, and she might as well begin by making some friends.
‘Nort natural in yere at all,’ the girl grumbled, shovelling the lumpy, overcooked porridge into her mouth. ‘Yere, doesn’t you want yourn?’
‘It’s pretty disgusting, isn’t it?’
‘Huh, this be good, special fer Christmas Day. Usually it’s made with water. Proper gruel wi’ a lump o’ carrot if you’m lucky enough fer find one. At least this be made wi’ a drop o’ milk an’ a spoon or two o’ sugar.’
Tresca had to suppress a groan of resignation. It was food of sorts, she supposed, and more than she would have been eating if Vera hadn’t helped her to be admitted into the workhouse. And it was only until the spring, she kept telling herself, until they could find work on the land again. She pulled herself up short. What if her father wasn’t fit enough to work? A desolate fist tightened inside her, and she pushed her dish towards her neighbour.
‘You’m certain you doesn’t want it? Lucy, by the way,’ her new friend introduced herself, plunging her spoon into Tresca’s bowl.
‘Tresca. And yes,’ she sighed disconsolately, ‘I suppose I’ll have to get used to everything. We only came in yesterday—’
‘I knows. I sees everythin’. You does when you was born in yere like I were, an’ no ’ope of ever gettin’ out.’
‘You were born in here?’ Tresca was horrified. ‘And you’ve never been outside?’
‘Once.’ Lucy smacked her lips and shrugged. ‘Someone tried me out as a domestic, but wi’ only one ’and what works proper like, I cud’n do everythin’ they wanted so I were brought back. Born like this I were. Mrs Solloway, she’s pretty good. ’Ad other matrons in yere what wasn’t ’alf so kind.’
‘But what about your parents? Couldn’t they . . . ?’
Lucy wrinkled her nose casually. ‘Me mother died givin’ birth fer me, an’ she didn’t know ’oo me father were, they say. What ’bout you?’
Tresca was so flabbergasted by Lucy’s story – and her stoical acceptance of her lot – that it took a moment or two for the question to filter into her brain. Compassion tugged at her heart, just as it had with poor Bella. The thought of her tragic end slashed across Tresca’s memory and she had to drag herself back from her morose thoughts.
‘My mother died when I were five,’ she answered. ‘I scarcely remember her. But my father came in here with me yesterday. And now the doctor’s found something wrong with him. I don’t really understand but I think he could be dying. Slowly.’ She forced out the words that had wanted to stick in her throat, and felt her heart tear.
‘Sorry fer ’ear that. But ’er’s good is Dr Greenwood. ’Elped me a lot over the years. I means, no one can do ort fer change this.’ She paused to jab her head towards her left side. ‘But ’er’s given me exercises fer strengthen me muscles. Used fer wear a leg iron when I were a tacker, but cuz o’ Dr Greenwood, I doesn’t no more.’
Tacker? Lucy looked no older than she was. ‘How old are you now?’
‘Me? Fourteen. You?’
‘Sixteen. Day after tomorrow.’
‘Put you straight on women’s work, then? You gets school in yere up till twelve. Useless, mind. The old faggot what teaches us is an inmate ’ersel’. Eighty if she’s a day. Deaf as a post an’ don’t see too well, neit
her. ’Ardly larnt nort from ’er mesel’.’
Mrs Solloway ringing the bell brought their conversation to an abrupt end. ‘Clear away,’ she commanded. ‘The vicar’s coming to hold a service in here in half an hour, so I want the tables completely cleared and everyone back here and sitting quietly when he arrives.’
‘No peace fer the wicked, eh?’ Lucy winked at Tresca over her shoulder as she got awkwardly to her feet. ‘You sticks by me, cheel, an’ you’ll be all right. An’ mind that one over there,’ she added, nodding towards the old woman with the vacant expression and the long, wispy grey hair – now shorn – who Tresca had seen in the probationary ward the previous day. ‘Looks ’armless, but she’ll suddenly attack you like a divil. ’Ave yer eyes out in no time, she wud. Don’t go near ’er. An’ niver talk fer ’er. I knows. Bin in an’ out o’ yere fer years, she ’as. More in than out. ’As a cousin what comes fer take ’er out every now an’ then, but always brings ’er back agin. Better button me lip now.’ And she limped off towards the door.
The service was only half an hour because the vicar had to deliver another sermon in the men’s refectory before conducting the Parish Eucharist in Tavistock’s magnificent old church. What a shame they couldn’t be marched down there, Tresca sighed, so that she could enjoy a taste of freedom again – even if she had only been incarcerated the previous day! But she supposed she would then have to suffer the humiliation of being paraded before the whole town. She didn’t want anybody to know of their disgrace, least of all Mrs Mawes and that horrible Connor O’Mahoney whose fault it all was.
Later, they were handed out a motley collection of coats and shawls for going out into the exercise yard. Tresca counted over a dozen inmates under sixteen, and about forty women, some younger but others quite elderly. It was bitingly cold, and the younger ones were walking around in aimless circles in an attempt to keep warm, while those who could barely totter on their walking sticks were allowed to shiver on the one long, uncomfortable bench.
‘Only got ten minutes, me.’ Lucy suddenly appeared at Tresca’s elbow. ‘I works in the kitchen. You’m in fer a treat. Best meal o’ the year, so you makes sure you eats it.’
‘Yes, I will, if just to please you,’ Tresca promised, glancing ruefully at the high wall. ‘I suppose my father will be out in the other yard when the men’s service is over. So near and yet he might as well be on the moon.’
‘Listen.’ Lucy beckoned her with a conspiratorial wiggle of her finger, and lowered her voice. ‘You keeps on the right side o’ Mrs Solloway an’ in a few weeks she might ask the master if you can see each other. Bend the rules yere an’ there, they does. ’As you noticed there’s no boys over the age o’ seven in wi’ us?’
Tresca raised her eyebrows and glanced across at the group of younger children playing tag. ‘Oh yes. I hadn’t noticed before.’
‘That’s cuz when they gets fer seven, the boys ’ave fer go in wi’ the men. Government rules.’
‘What? They’re dragged away from their mothers at just seven years old?’
‘Yes.’ Lucy nodded at the horrified expression on Tresca’s face. ‘Families, ’usbands an’ wives, all split up. But the Solloways, they takes ’em off fer little meetin’s on the quiet, like. S’pposed fer keep our mouths shut ’bout it, an’ us does. If they was found out an’ dismissed, God knows ’oo us’d get instead. Bin some proper divils in the past, takin’ loads o’ food while us was ’alf starvin’. Doesn’t want fer go back fer that, I can tell you. But I musts go now. Doesn’t want fer get on the wrong side o’ the head cook, I doesn’t. Don’t want fer lose ’er position, so she drives us ’ard fer make sure everything’s just so. See you later.’
Tresca watched her walk back inside with her odd, listing gait. She somehow had the feeling that Lucy, with her funny little ways and wise philosophy, was going to prove a good friend. She was shrewd with a sharp wit, and under other circumstances might have made a good life for herself. But what chance did she have of that, poor soul?
A sudden loneliness took hold of Tresca’s heart as Lucy disappeared indoors. So many times since they had arrived in Tavistock she had been obliged to brace herself to approach strangers, and now she was going to have to do so again. She gathered up her courage and walked over to a group of women wandering about together.
‘Good day,’ she said, nailing a broad smile on her face. ‘And I suppose Happy Christmas. My name’s Tresca. I’m new.’
‘We knows that,’ an older woman she recognized from the laundry snapped at her. ‘An’ one more mouth means less fer the rest of us.’
If the woman had slapped her face hard it couldn’t have hurt more. Tresca was hoping to make some friends so that her stay was more bearable. She prayed her father was faring better.
‘An’ you works too ’ard,’ another inmate put in. ‘You’d best slow down or us’ll all be expected to work ’arder, an all.’
‘Us’ll slow you down ourselves if you doesn’t!’ the first woman joined in, and they put their faces together in a malicious, impenetrable wall.
Tresca’s eyes travelled over their threatening expressions. The words ‘I’ll work as hard as I please’ sizzled on the end of her tongue, but she bit them back. The pair looked vicious and until she knew how things worked, it was best to keep out of trouble.
‘Take no notice of them.’
Tresca barely had time to turn her head before another inmate, a woman of about sixty, took her by the arm and whisked her away to the far side of the yard. Tresca was grateful, if a little bewildered, and turned to face her saviour when they came to a halt.
‘Nasty pieces of work, those two. Matron knows and keeps an eye on them. As does Mrs Drake. Hard as nails, she is, but she knows who the troublemakers are, and she deals with them. Put you to work in the laundry, did she?’
Tresca nodded and went to open her mouth to speak, but the woman began again, ‘I guessed so. If you’ve been a cook you go in the kitchen, if you’ve been in service it’s either cleaning or the laundry, and if you’ve been a dressmaker or you’re disabled in some way, you get put in the sewing room. Were you a domestic before?’
‘No, a dairymaid. But unless it’s a very big dairy we’re working at, I usually work in the farmhouse as well. What about you?’
‘Dressmaker, fortunately. We make all the uniforms, or mend them most of the time,’ she added wryly. ‘And we take in mending from outside, too. And anything that comes into the laundry and needs mending, as well.’
‘So, it’s not just the workhouse laundry we do, then?’
‘Oh, no. Tuesday and Thursdays is outside laundry. All helps to earn our keep. Used to be picking oakum back along. You know, teasing out old tarred ships’ ropes. Cut your fingers to shreds, apparently, so we should be thankful we women don’t have to do that any more. The men still have to sometimes, though, I believe. In the vagrants’ ward, anyway. Either that or they have to break a yard of stones into pieces small enough to go through holes in a mesh before they’re allowed to stay the night.’
‘Oh dear.’ Tresca’s strung-out nerves tightened further. ‘My father were admitted yesterday as well. The doctor found something wrong with him. Thinks it could be some sort of cancer.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But Dr Greenwood won’t let them work him too hard if he’s unwell.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘Oh, no. Definitely. So don’t you fret none on that score. Enjoy what there is to enjoy on Christmas Day.’ The woman beamed, though her expression was tempered by an ironic lift of one eyebrow. ‘I’m Susan Grey, by the way. Come and meet my other sewing ladies.’
Tresca felt as if she was at once accepted into the fold of this small group of women, who all seemed more refined than the two hostile laundry women. They related to her various tales of how they had been reduced to entering the workhouse. Susan herself had lived a good life, even travelling across Europe with her rich spinster mistress. They had grown older together, but the mistress
had died suddenly without making a will. With no family who might have inherited and seen to it that her seamstress-cum-companion was comfortable, Susan had been left on the streets. Unable to find employment, she had come to the workhouse in desperation.
Tresca sat with them at dinner, which was, as Lucy had predicted, a reasonable meal – a good slice of beef with potatoes, carrots and cabbage, followed by a tiny portion of plum pudding. Quite a feast, although Lucy had confided that the diet would be poorer than ever for the rest of the week to make up for it! Tresca spent the remainder of the day with Lucy and Susan and her friends, and they enjoyed bread and jam for supper.
When she got into bed that night, Tresca considered that the day hadn’t been so bad after all. If only she had been able to see her father. But Lucy’s words had given her hope. She blessed the strange girl, wishing there was some miracle that would straighten her limbs. But as Emmanuel had said recently, you couldn’t always put the world to rights. Sometimes you had to make the best of a situation, which was exactly what Tresca planned to do.
Fourteen
‘Well done, Ladycott,’ Mrs Drake pronounced over Tresca’s shoulder. ‘You work hard. Some of these other lazy sluts should take a leaf out of your book. I shall report your good conduct to Matron.’
Tresca wiped the sweat from her brow. ‘Thank you, Mrs Drake,’ she said briefly, and then returned to scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain on the wooden washboard. Her fingers were raw from being constantly immersed in soapy water, but it was worth it. The corners of her mouth lifted in a secret smile. The more she got into Mrs Solloway’s good books, the more likely she was to be permitted to see her father. She had received no news of him since their admittance to the workhouse two weeks previously and yearned to find out how he was.
Her moment of optimism was shattered an instant later as a sharp pain seared into her shin, making her stifle a yelp. What on earth . . . ? She turned her head and her nose almost touched that of the evil face of Enid Turnbull, the woman who had threatened her on Christmas Day.
