Read Online Shadows of the Workhouse by Jennifer Worth - Free Book Online Page B

thankful for the brief respite of sitting in the bus, but by the time she got to the building where she was employed, she felt more dead than alive. She went to the cleaning cupboard to get out her things, but the bucket felt so heavy that she could hardly move it. She asked permission to make herself a cup of tea, saying she would feel better with something warm inside her. The tea was indeed comforting, but the building was cold and she sat shivering in the basement, pulling her shawl around her shoulders and coughing. One by one the office workers left and she found herself alone.
    Normally, this office took her about three hours, but after one hour, she had scarcely cleaned one tenth of it. She felt so weak she could scarcely drag herself around, and there was still the scrubbing to do. She returned to the basement to get the bucket – the one that had felt impossibly heavy when empty – and filled it with water. She pushed it along the floor with her feet and then lifted it up the stairs one by one, resting it on each stair as she did so. She reached the second storey this way, and then her failing strength must have given out. She fell down the stairs that she had climbed so laboriously, knocking the bucket over as she fell. She was drenched with water and lay on the stone floor all night. In the morning they found her dead at the bottom of the stairs.
    Frank had never spent a night away from his mother. There was only one bed so they had all slept together even when his father was alive. He had never even contemplated a time without the comforting warmth of her body beside him. Now, in the dark and cold of the room, the bed felt like a hostile and alien territory, and he wanted to run away from it, run to the next-door neighbours, screaming. But there was Peggy to think of. She was quietly sleeping, unaware that anything was wrong. So he bit his lips, rubbed his fists into his eyes and cuddled up close to her.
    He was six years old.
    He must have slept, because it was daylight when he was awoken by Peggy crying. There was some milk and water left from the night before but it was cold and she pushed it away. He did not know what to do. He took a wet nappy off her, as he had seen his mother do, but then he didn’t know what to do with it, so hid it under the bed. There was no more wood for the fire. He drank the cold milk himself and crept back into bed. They fell asleep again.
    He awoke as a crowd of neighbouring women entered the room.
    “Oh, it’s a shame, oie tells ya.”
    “Poor li’l kids. Vey didn’ ask ’a be born.”
    “Both dead in six months.”
    “It makes yer wanna cry, don’ it?”
    Frank looked around him in bewilderment and held Peggy defensively, pulling the blanket up higher.
    A man entered the room. “Are these the children of the deceased?” he enquired.
    A chorus of voices answered.
    “Yeah, more’s the pity.”
    “Poor li’l lambs.”
    “Vey don’ know wha’s ’appened.”
    “And is there no relative to look after them?”
    “No’ as ’ow I knows on, do you, Lil?”
    “Nah, no one.”
    “They will have to come with me, and the effects sold to contribute to the Guardians’ expenses.”
    He looked around the room at the meagre furniture – one bed, one table, and two chairs, a small cupboard, a washing bowl, a chamber pot, a candlestick, some tin plates and cups – all back-breakingly acquired by the father, to provide for his family.
    “Will someone get them ready while I take an inventory?”
    Two women stepped forward, and Frank grabbed the back of the bed, clutching Peggy. “Where’s Mummy?” he asked plaintively.
    “Yer mum’s dead, luvvy, more’s the pity.”
    “No, my dad’s dead,” he insisted.
    “An so’s yer mum, dearie. Found dead vis mornin’ in ye office.”
    “Blue, she was,” chorused the women to each other.
    “Froze stiff, vey say, an’ soakin’ wet.”
    “Wet froo, an’ all, and ’er wiv her weak chest.”
    “No’ surprisin’, is