‘She can scalp me for all I care if it makes the dirty sod keep his hands to himself,’ Cissie answered tearfully, and then slowly the room became silent as the worn-out children drifted off to sleep.
It was the following night before the other girls saw the results of Miss Frost’s handiwork on Cissie’s hair . . . and they were horrified. As she removed her cap and flung it onto the bed, Sunday’s mouth dropped open. Miss Frost had cut chunks of it here, there and everywhere – and now what was left of Cissie’s once-beautiful hair stood out in clumps close to her scalp.
‘Look what she’s done! You should complain to Miss Beau,’ Sunday gasped, but Cissie merely shrugged.
‘It’s not worth it. Frosty will just say I had nits and that she did it for all our goods, to stop ’em spreading. Anyway, with luck I’ll be out of here soon when they find me a position somewhere an’ it’ll grow again, so it ain’t the end of the world.’
Sunday sniffed. She supposed Cissie was right and admired her for being brave about it. Most girls cried their eyes out when the matron got a spiteful mood on her and took the scissors to their hair. Even so, as she lay there in the darkness she was more determined than ever that one day she would get herself, Daisy and Tommy out of this place, and until then, they’d stay out of Mr Pinnegar’s way as much as they possibly could. She could hear Daisy snoring softly, the poor soul. Even light kitchen duties had reopened some of the weals on her back, although the soothing salve Miss Beau had insisted should be spread across them had at least eased her suffering.
With a sigh, Sunday burrowed further down in the bed and tried to lose herself in her favourite daydream. Her mother would be tall and slender with fair hair exactly the same colour as her own, and her eyes would be as blue as bluebells. She would come and take her to live in a lovely house where they would have wonderful food each day. Real meat that wasn’t full of gristle, and fresh fruit like they’d seen at the market, and vegetables that hadn’t been boiled to mush. There would be no more lumpy porridge and they would sleep together in a big bed with soft sheets and silken pillows and she would never be cold again. There would be no more chores. On Mothering Sunday, when the children in the workhouse who were lucky enough to have mothers were allowed to go to church with them, Sunday and her mother would go too and Sunday would present her with a bunch of wildflowers. Every year when Mothering Sunday came around, the lonely girl would watch the other children’s rituals enviously and the way the mothers and children beamed at one another: this was the best part of her favourite daydream. The church was always filled to capacity on this special day, for even the daughters in service from other parishes would be allowed the day off to attend the service with their mothers.
Sunday was so lost in the dream now that she forgot that her hands and feet were stiff with cold, and as her eyes grew heavy she fell asleep with a smile on her face.
Unfortunately, Miss Frost’s savage haircut did nothing to deter Mr Pinnegar’s interest in Cissie, and over the following weeks she was forced to spend more and more time in his office with him. His floor needed mopping, he would inform Miss Frost, and Cissie was his choice to do it. The woman had seen his fixation with the girls many times before and was powerless to do anything about it. Sunday suspected that the matron was insanely jealous that Cissie was getting the attention she wanted so much for herself . . . so it was the rest of the girls who suffered for it. Cissie meanwhile was becoming more and more withdrawn and then the week before Christmas, Sunday woke to find her being violently sick into her chamber pot.
‘Crikey, shall I fetch someone?’ she asked, but the girl shook her head and stared at her from frightened eyes.
The other girls had clustered into a worried little group and Cissie addressed them all. ‘Please don’t get mentionin’ this to no one,’ she pleaded. ‘It’ll only make things worse.’
The girls all silently nodded. Thankfully, by the time Miss Frost appeared to lead them to the wash-room Cissie had managed to compose herself, and though she looked pale she went about her ablutions without a word of complaint.
With one week to go until Christmas, an air of excitement began to ripple through the workhouse. On Christmas Day a number of the local women volunteered to provide a meal and come in and cook it for them. On top of that the workhouse guardians always provided a treat for each and every child. The year before, Sunday had been given a small orange and she was sure that she had never tasted anything so sweet. It had been followed by a meal that she would never forget. Crisp roast potatoes and a slice of juicy goose with vegetables that tasted unlike anything that was normally slopped into their bowls. Now all the children were hoping fervently that they would be fortunate enough to get the same this year.
The only cloud on the horizon for Sunday was Cissie, who continued to be ill each morning. Daisy especially was concerned about their friend, for although she had only been very young at the time, she could remember her mother being sick like this each morning when she was having their last baby brother. Sadly, he hadn’t survived the birth but that couldn’t be what was the matter with Cissie, of course. Everyone knew that you had to be married to have a baby, so perhaps Cissie was really ill?
The poor girl’s vomiting had become such a regular thing that most of the children didn’t even notice it any more, but then one morning Miss Frost came into their room, wrinkled her nose and demanded, ‘Has someone in here been sick? There’s a terrible smell of vomit.’
The children stood as still as statues as Miss Frost’s eyes roamed over them before coming to rest on Cissie.
‘Was it you, Burns?’ she rasped.
‘Yes, miss,’ Cissie answered timidly.
Miss Frost frowned. ‘And how long has this been going on?’
Cissie gulped. ‘A . . . a few weeks now, miss.’
‘I see.’ Miss Frost glared round at the others before snapping, ‘Get yourselves along to the wash-room, NOW! Do you hear me – or do I need to use this?’ She brandished the split cane that was never far from her side and the seven other girls who shared the room scurried away as quickly as their legs would take them.
‘Poor old Cissie, it ain’t as if she can help bein’ ill, is it?’ Daisy whispered to Sunday when they were safely out of earshot in the wash-room.
Sunday shrugged. She had no idea what the problem might be and was terrified that Cissie might be seriously ill.
‘You err . . . don’t think that Cissie might be having a baby, do you?’ Daisy asked then and Sunday was shocked. Just like Daisy she had thought that you had to be married to have babies.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ she replied doubtfully.
‘Well, I only asked ’cos my mum was sick like Cissie every morning when she had her last baby.’
‘I see.’ Daisy and Sunday huddled together, praying that Daisy’s suspicions weren’t right.
Chapter Four
After a busy day, Sunday found Cissie sitting miserably on her bed with her head in her hands.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, and Cissie immediately dried her tears and gave her a watery smile.
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ she told Sunday kindly.
‘I saw them taking you into the sickroom earlier on,’ Sunday persisted. ‘Did the doctor find out what’s wrong with you?’
Cissie glanced fearfully towards the door. ‘Yes, they did,’ she said in a small voice. ‘But if I tell yer what it is, yer must promise not to tell anybody else.’
‘Cross my heart!’ Sunday duly made the sign on her chest.
Lowering her voice still further, Cissie confided, ‘I’m gonna have a baby.’
‘A baby!’ Sunday’s eyes stretched wide. ‘But how? I mean – where did it come from?’
‘Huh!’ Cissie snorted. ‘That all depends on whether some dirty old man gets his maulers on yer. But it ain’t so bad really. The doctor is sendin’ me to a special place in the countryside where I’ll be well looked after, an’ when the baby is born at least I’ll have
somethin’ of me very own to love.’
The conversation was stopped from going any further when the rest of the girls trooped into the room, closely followed by Miss Frost. She eyed Cissie disdainfully.
‘Get your belongings packed. You will be leaving first thing tomorrow,’ she told Cissie. ‘And the rest of you – get changed immediately. I shall be back in five minutes and it will be woe betide anyone who isn’t in bed.’
There was a mad scramble then and by the time the stern matron returned, the room was in silence. She extinguished the oil lamp without another word and swept from the room as the girls lay like corpses pretending to be asleep.
‘When are you coming back?’ Sunday asked when she deemed it safe.
‘I don’t know. Never, I ’ope,’ Cissie squeaked in reply. ‘But don’t get worrying about me. And, Sunday . . . try an’ keep out of old Pinnegar’s way, eh?’
All was quiet then and soon there was nothing to be heard but the sound of gentle snores echoing around the room.
The following morning after breakfast, Cissie was sent to her room to collect her things and Sunday was despatched to help the laundry women for the day. The two girls had said their goodbyes and Sunday was feeling sad as she went to the dreaded laundry room. It was one of her least favourite jobs as the steam from the coppers made her sweat and by the end of each day her hands were red raw from the soda crystals and hot water in which they were submerged for most of the day. It was also back-breaking and by lunchtime her spine and arms would be aching painfully after turning the handles of the heavy mangle.
She was still sorting the washing into various piles when she heard the caretaker opening the enormous wooden gates that led into the back yard and a horse and carriage clip-clopped through them. Both she and the other girl she was working with hurried to the door just in time to see two men descend from the carriage. Seconds later, Cissie emerged from the back door with Miss Frost. At the sight of the carriage, she froze.
‘B-but that’s the asylum carriage,’ they heard Cissie gasp. ‘I know because I’ve seen it before when they’ve come to take some of the old ’uns away.’ She turned terrified eyes on Miss Frost but the woman remained impassive as the two men advanced on the girl.
‘B-but you promised I was going somewhere nice – somewhere where I’d be allowed to care for my baby!’ Cissie was openly sobbing now. It was well known that once she was incarcerated in the asylum she would never be let out again, for she had no one to come for her. It was the fate of many unmarried mothers – and many of them lost heart and died within that godforsaken place.
‘Fetch Mr Pinnegar,’ Cissie demanded then as she shrank away until her back was against the wall. ‘He did this to me! He won’t let you send me there – he won’t!’
‘You wicked girl, saying such things!’ Miss Frost grabbed Cissie’s arms and her pitiful bundle hit the floor, her possessions scattering as Miss Frost shook her until her teeth rattled. ‘Don’t you dare go making such accusations against the dear man when we all know that you’ve been free with your favours with any number of the male inmates. Why, I’ll wager you don’t even have a clue who your bastard’s father is!’
‘That’s not true,’ Cissie screeched. ‘You know we’re never even allowed to mingle with the male inmates, so when would I ’ave found the chance to ’ave anythin’ to do with any of them?’ As she continued to sob and struggle to get away, the two men wrestled her to the ground. Then one of them ran back to the carriage and returned with a straitjacket as Cissie put up the fight of her life. It was then that Sunday rushed forward to put in her two penn’orth.
The men were trying to force Cissie’s arms into the straitjacket now. So, bringing her foot back, Sunday kicked the nearest one as hard as she could in his calf, making him temporarily let go of Cissie as he yelped with pain.
‘Get that little hellcat off me!’ he panted. ‘Else we’ll be takin’ her along of us an’ all!’
Miss Frost made to grab her but Sunday wasn’t done yet, not by a long shot. Even as Miss Frost tried to pull her away, Sunday grasped a handful of the man’s hair and yanked with all her might. A chunk of it came away in her hand as he howled with pain and indignation but Sunday didn’t care now . . . and all hell broke loose, bringing female staff running from the rear entrance.
Within minutes they had Sunday tightly secured between two of them and she could only watch helplessly as they manhandled poor Cissie, who was trussed up like a chicken, into the back of the carriage. Minutes later it rattled out of the yard and the caretaker heaved the gates to.
‘Right, madam.’ Miss Frost was so angry that she was breathing heavily. ‘I’ll teach you what happens when you interfere in things that don’t concern you.’ She turned to the two members of staff who were restraining Sunday and told them tersely, ‘Take her to the punishment room – and there’s to be nothing to eat or drink for her until I decide otherwise!’
The two women hastened to do as they were told. They were too afraid to do otherwise but Sunday fought them every inch of the way. When they reached the stone steps that led down to the punishment room they had no choice but to drag her kicking and screaming down them, so that by the time they reached the bottom the girl’s knees were skinned and bleeding.
‘You’re wicked, the whole lot of you!’ she shouted hoarsely as they finally managed to throw her into the damp little cell. ‘You’ll all go to hell; you just see if you don’t!’ But then the door was slammed and she found herself raging at an empty room. Dropping to the floor, she leaned with her back against the wall as she tried to regain her composure, barely able to believe what she had just seen with her own eyes.
Poor, dear Cissie. The asylum! No one knew what happened to the unfortunate people once they entered Hatter’s Hall on the outskirts of the town. They were rarely seen again. And then, as she hugged her sore knees, Sunday allowed herself to do something she rarely did. She cried for her lost friend as if her heart would break.
It was three days later before the door to the punishment room creaked open.
Sunday blinked in the dim light that flooded the stinking little room. Her lips were dry and cracked from lack of water. She had even considered sipping the urine from the slop bucket to wet them but the smell from it had made her retch. The blood on her knees had dried and caked and her hands and feet were blue with cold although thankfully she had long since lost all feeling in them. Even the hunger pains had settled into a dull ache now but she was so weak that she could barely move.
‘Oh, Sunday, whatever have they done to you?’ Miss Beau cried as she hurried down into the cell. ‘I’ve been at home for two days with a chill and didn’t know they’d put you in here until I arrived this morning. Come along, dear. Let’s get you upstairs and cleaned up. Have you had anything to eat or drink?’
‘No,’ Sunday croaked. She felt curiously light-headed and as she tried to stand, her legs buckled and she slumped back to the floor.
Miss Beau gently lifted her to her feet, wrinkling her nose as the stench from the slop bucket hit her full force. Then with Sunday leaning heavily against her, she helped her slowly up the steps and straight to the sickroom, where she insisted the doctor should be sent for. She stayed close to her until the man arrived and when he had examined Sunday, he took the kindly woman to one side, saying, ‘She’ll survive – but how long had she been kept down there? I understood that that room should only be used as a last resort for very short periods of time?’
‘Three days she’s been down there,’ Verity Beau fumed. ‘And with not even a drop of water to drink. It’s downright cruel, and I dread to think what might have happened had I stayed off any longer.’
The doctor secretly agreed with her but, like so many others, was too afraid to speak out and voice his opinion. The guardians of the workhouse paid him well and he couldn’t afford to upset them. There was a chain of secrecy and collusion here that went from high to low.
‘Well, just give her a warm bath and get
plenty of sips of water and some food into her. That should do the trick,’ he advised, then closing his black bag with a snap he pulled his top hat on and left the room.
‘What on earth happened?’ Miss Beau asked later as she tenderly bathed the blood from Sunday’s knees. She had expected the girl to be cowed and broken after such a dreadful ordeal but soon found out she was wrong.
‘I was trying to help Cissie,’ Sunday said, her eyes flashing dangerously. ‘The carriage from the asylum came and took her away.’
‘What?’ Miss Beau looked horrified so Sunday told her what had happened.
‘I see,’ Verity said when Sunday had finished her tale. She believed every word of it and was frustrated to realise that there was so little she could do. If she caused too much of a stir she might be dismissed – and that would never do. Until she married Edgar, she had rent to pay and food to buy.
‘Well, unfortunately you will have to try and put it from your mind now,’ she told the child sadly. ‘Cissie is a strong young woman. She’ll survive.’
‘She may well do – but what sort of a life will she have in that place?’ Sunday spat. She’d heard the local women speak of what a dreadful place Hatter’s Hall was; of how newborn babies were wrenched from their mothers’ arms at birth and sold for adoption. Despite the way the child had been forced upon her, Cissie had been looking forward to having her own baby, but now that might never happen, if the rumours were true.
‘One day, Daisy, Tommy and I will escape – and then we’ll get her out of there,’ Sunday vowed, and knew from looking into Miss Beau’s face that the teacher almost believed that she just might do it.
Miss Beau insisted that Sunday stayed in the sickbay for the rest of that day to rest and recuperate quietly. She then stormed off to confront Miss Frost, much to Daisy’s delight, who overheard them arguing as she scrubbed the floor in the corridor.
Mothering Sunday Page 4