‘Whatever is wrong, my dear?’ he asked as he saw her racing towards him.
‘It’s your wife.’ Sunday skidded to a halt and clutched the stitch in her side. ‘The baby is coming. Mrs Lockett is on her way home now in the cart and Miss Frost says you’re to get the midwife and the doctor straight away.’
Lockett’s face paled to the colour of bleached linen. ‘Right . . . thank you. I’ll get back to the vicarage right away and see to it.’ He was clearly all of a fluster and as he hastened away, Sunday paused for long enough to get her breath back. She then made her way back to the workhouse at a more leisurely pace. It was the first time in her whole life that she had ever been allowed out unaccompanied, and under other circumstances she would have enjoyed it, but as it was, she was too concerned about Mrs Lockett to even think about it.
She was almost back to the Bull Ring when she passed the horse and cart taking Mrs Lockett back to the vicarage. The woman looked very pale and uncomfortable but when Sunday waved she waved back, and the girl prayed that all would be well. There was nothing more she could do to help her now.
Miss Frost was waiting for her when she arrived back at the workhouse. ‘You took your time,’ she scolded. ‘Now get back to work. And just remember . . . I’m watching you, Small.’
‘Yes, Miss Frost – but will you tell me when there’s any news on Mrs Lockett’s baby?’
‘I most certainly will not.’ The woman bridled. ‘Mrs Lockett’s private affairs are nothing to do with the likes of you. Now get out of my sight.’
Sunday reluctantly returned to Mr Pinnegar’s office. Thankfully, the housemaster virtually ignored her, which was one blessing at least. I could have run away this afternoon, she found herself thinking, but knew deep down that she wouldn’t have done so. It would have meant leaving Daisy and Tommy, and she would never abandon them. Also, she had nowhere to go as yet.
The following day at lunchtime, as the girls stood in the queue waiting to be served, one of the kindly local ladies who came in on a part-time basis to help the workhouse women leaned slightly towards her and informed her, ‘Mrs Lockett gave birth to a fine healthy little lass last night, dearie, an’ mother an’ baby are both doin’ well. The vicar asked me to tell yer, should I see yer.’
‘Oh thank you!’ Sunday’s eyes sparkled. A tiny new life, she thought joyously. Thanks be to God that she will not have the kind of childhood that I and the other girls in here have been forced to endure.
Chapter Eight
The next two weeks were torture for Sunday. Each morning she was forced to report to Mr Pinnegar’s office. Some days he’d watch her, some days he’d ignore her completely and some days she’d have to fight off his straying hands. She had just begun on the unending filing system one morning when Miss Frost appeared in the doorway wearing her best day dress and bonnet to inform the housemaster, ‘I am going into town today. I have some personal items that I need to purchase but I shall be back for lunch, God willing.’
‘Take as long as you need, dear lady, and don’t rush back. It is officially your day off, after all,’ he told her, rubbing his hands together gleefully. Albert Pinnegar was thrilled at the unexpected opportunity to lock his door and be uninterrupted for a few hours. Sunday had become an obsession with him and the more she rebuffed him, the more he wanted her. The young girls he had abused before – and there had been many of them over the years – had always been too afraid of him to refuse his advances, but Sunday was made of much sterner stuff. But today, he decided, today he would have her!
As soon as Miss Frost had left, Pinnegar turned the key in the lock. He sat in his leather chair watching Sunday avidly from the corner of his eye and thought how very pretty she was, though she seemed totally unaware of it. The harsh haircut that Miss Frost had administered had softened into sweet blonde curls that framed her heart-shaped face and peeped from beneath her bonnet. Her small developing breasts pressed promisingly against the hard calico of her workhouse uniform and already she had a womanly shape about her; in a few years’ time she would be a real beauty. No doubt some young blade would snap her up and wed her in no time once she had left the workhouse, thought Pinnegar, but he was determined that he should have her first. He dreamed about her at night and now he felt himself hardening just looking at her. She seemed oblivious to his presence as she concentrated on her work. When he crept behind her and began to fondle her thigh, Sunday started as if she had been stung and sprang away from him, putting the desk between them.
‘Leave me alone!’ she cried, but he was beyond reasoning now. He had tried to tempt her with all manner of treats over the previous weeks but she had refused them all, politely but firmly. Now he was prepared to take her by force if need be, and as they circled the desk his eyes, tight on her, reminded Sunday of a picture she had seen in a book of a snake that was about to strike.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she threatened, her eyes sparking fire.
Pinnegar made a sudden dash around the desk and grabbed at Sunday’s dress, causing it to tear and reveal part of her bare back. The sight of her flesh incited him more and now he swung her about and pressed her to him as Sunday fought like a little alley cat. Then his wet slobbery lips found her mouth and she started to retch.
‘Stop fighting me,’ he said breathlessly as he hung onto her but she ignored him and continued to wriggle. She was all too aware of what might happen. Her strength was no match for his but he wouldn’t take her easily. She managed to push herself slightly away from him then and before he had time to realise what she was doing she brought her knee back then thrust it upwards into his genitals with every ounce of strength she possessed. There was a tortured cry as he released her and bent forward in agony as he clutched at his private parts and the blood drained from his face.
‘You – little – hell-cat!’
Sunday gripped her torn dress tightly to her and raced to stand with her back against the door as she fumbled behind her for the key. ‘Help! Help!’ she cried, but no one was coming. If only she could manage to turn the key she would escape into the corridor and scream blue murder. But already he was beginning to straighten . . . Amidst the panic an idea occurred to her and she told him threateningly, ‘If you lay so much as one finger on me again I shall tell Mrs Lockett what you tried to do. What do you think her husband will make of that, eh, not to mention the board of governors!’
Sunday was feeling confident now. The housemaster wouldn’t dare upset the vicar, surely? And if the board of guardians were to find out what he did to the girls, he would soon be out of a job and out on his ear. The thought made her relax slightly as she saw him hesitate . . . but then his face became dark as he ground out, ‘Very well, my dear. If you don’t wish to play there are others that will. I’ll find a pliant little girl – your friend Daisy, for example. There’s many a young thing in here who I’m sure wouldn’t be averse to a few treats for supplying a favour or two. It’s up to you, Sunday. Shall it be them, or you?’
Sunday’s jaw dropped as she stared at him in horror, and seeing that he had shocked her he went on, ‘Of course, should you decide to be nice to me I wouldn’t dream of touching any of your little friends . . . so what is it to be?’
The fight went out of Sunday. She believed every word he said, and she could never subject another girl to that – so what choice did she have?
She remained silent as he advanced on her, although every nerve edge she had was tingling with disgust.
‘That’s better.’ He undid the ribbons beneath her chin and removed her cap as she stood tensely then he began to fondle the short curls. ‘Such pretty hair,’ he murmured. ‘Even Miss Frost could not spoil it.’
Sunday closed her eyes and wished she were dead. She could smell stale alcohol, sweat and Macassar oil, and it was almost overpowering. His hot breath was fanning her cheek and then his hand dropped to the tear in her dress and he was stroking the soft skin of her back and his breathing was becoming irregular. His other hand had unbuttoned the fl
ies on his trousers and much to her disgust she realised that he was playing with himself. The hand on her back moved up to the coarse vest beneath her dress and round to her front before closing over her breast. Sunday felt as if she was caught in the grip of a nightmare but she remained rigid. Far better this happened to her than Daisy. He began to knead her tender nipple viciously and it was all she could do not to cry out with pain but he almost seemed to have forgotten she was there now as he started to pant. Then suddenly he stiffened and jerked and almost in the same moment he turned his back on her, saying thickly, ‘That will be all for now. Report back here after lunch.’
Sunday almost stumbled in her haste to unlock the door and get away. She raced towards the wash-room, heedless of who might see her. As chance had it, the corridors were deserted apart from the women and girls who were down on their hands and knees scrubbing them, and they paid her no heed. The wash-room was empty too and once there Sunday leaned heavily against the wall until her heart-rate had slowed to a steadier rhythm. Sobbing with humiliation and disgust, she stripped off the torn dress and scrubbed herself from head to toe so vigorously that angry red patches appeared on her skin – and yet still she felt dirty and knew that she would never be able to wash away the feel of his revolting hands on her. A large bruise was already forming around her breast and she fought down the urge to cry. What good would that do? she asked herself.
At last she took a deep breath and crept back to the dormitory to change into her other dress. Luckily the girls were all issued with two each. She would drop the torn one into the sewing room on her way to dinner and tell them that she had ripped it when she had caught it on a nail. Perching on the end of the bed she tried to think logically. She supposed that she had got off lightly this morning. But for how long would the horrible man be content with simply pawing her? Cissie was proof that he wouldn’t settle for just that and Sunday didn’t know how she was going to bear it. Everything about him revolted her but he had her exactly where he wanted her, knowing how fond she was of Daisy . . .
Sunday was so lost in thought that she started when the bell sounded for dinner and snatching up her torn dress she made her way downstairs. Just a few months until my birthday in September and I would have been gone from here, she thought desolately. She wished with all her heart that Mrs Lockett were still there, but Verity was resting after the baby’s birth and even when she did return it would only be occasionally. Of course, Sunday was well aware now that she couldn’t have told the woman what was going on because of the risk to other young girls, but at least she had felt comforted when Verity was there, for she was the only constant person she had had in her life. It would have been useless trying to speak to the guardians; they would never have believed her so she was trapped.
She found Daisy hovering at the entrance to the dining hall waiting for her.
‘Are you all right?’ the younger girl whispered as they entered the room side-by-side. Miss Frost was back and already sitting at the top table watching them like a big black crow.
‘Oh, I think I might be coming down with a bit of a cold,’ Sunday muttered back and Daisy frowned, puzzled. A cold in this glorious weather? But she was aware that Miss Frost was glaring at them so she said no more as they went to take their seats.
Thankfully, Mr Pinnegar had an appointment with the guardians that afternoon and so Sunday was left to work in peace. She didn’t stop for a second, aware that the sooner she could escape his company the better, after which it would be more difficult for the master to catch her alone.
She was very low and depressed when she retired to the dormitory that evening and Daisy eyed her worriedly. Sunday didn’t seem to be her usual self at all; she had stayed as close to the other girls as she could all evening – and then it occurred to Daisy what the problem might be.
‘Has Pinnegar been trying to maul you again?’ she enquired in a low voice so that the other half-dozen girls who were preparing for bed wouldn’t hear.
‘No more than usual – and he’ll never get the better of me,’ Sunday answered nonchalantly but then a member of the night staff appeared in the doorway.
‘Into bed, girls, if you please.’
There was a rush as all the girls tumbled beneath their blankets then silence as Sunday turned on her side and pretended to be asleep. The nights were lighter now but their bedtime never varied. It didn’t really matter, for the girls were so tired they were asleep within minutes of their heads hitting their pillows and Sunday was usually no exception, but tonight sleep evaded her. She lay there counting down the days and months until her birthday, wishing the time away so that she might escape from this dreadful place. The stars were riding high in the sky before she finally managed to rest.
The next few days took on a nightmare quality for Sunday. She was working as quickly as she possibly could to finish work on the files but there were so many of them. Quite a few of them had to be removed into separate drawers, for some of the people had died or left the workhouse, and this only added to the work. And throughout it all, Sunday had to keep a constant eye on Mr Pinnegar, for although for now he had confined himself to just watching her, she was almost certain that he was planning his next attack.
Chapter Nine
In the sunny morning room in the vicarage at Coton, Lady Lavinia Huntley was admiring Verity Lockett’s new arrival.
‘You’re so lucky, Verity.’ Her blue eyes looked dangerously close to tears as she stared down at the baby’s perfect little face.
‘Thank you, Lady Huntley.’ Verity’s expression was serene as she stood at the other side of the lace-trimmed crib. ‘And she’s such a good baby. She only ever cries when she wants feeding or changing. I think Edgar wishes she was awake more.’ She tittered. ‘I swear he would sit and hold her all day long if he could.’
‘I think I would too.’
They were interrupted at that moment when a maid knocked and carried a tray of tea into the room. ‘Ah, thank you, Minnie.’ Verity smiled at the maid before asking Lavinia, ‘You will take a cup of tea with me, won’t you? And some of Cook’s delicious walnut cake?’
‘Well, I only popped in to bring the baby her presents. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Verity assured her as she lifted the china teapot, then she confided, ‘I must confess, having a maid and a cook has taken some getting used to. I’ve told Edgar that I’m quite capable of cooking and doing the household chores myself, but the cook has been with him for years and the maid came here from the workhouse so he won’t hear of them leaving.’
‘Quite right too.’ Lavinia graciously accepted the china cup and saucer and added milk and sugar. ‘And does this little darling have a name yet or is it not decided?’
‘Oh yes, Edgar and I chose the names for a boy and a girl before she was born. Her name will be Phoebe Mary Lockett. Phoebe was my mother’s name and Mary was Edgar’s mother’s.’
Lavinia beamed her approval. ‘Quite beautiful, and I dare say you will be having her christened soon. Will Edgar conduct the service himself?’
Verity nodded, smiling radiantly, and they then went on to talk of the workhouse. They had become quite close friends over the last year or so since Lavinia Huntley had joined the board of guardians. Before that she had become quite reclusive, spending most of her time in Treetops Manor. Since the loss of her last stillborn daughter in 1870 she had been a semi-invalid with little inclination to venture away from home, but the outside interest had given her something to focus on and appeared to have done her the world of good.
‘I would like to see some changes in the workhouse in the near future,’ Lavinia told Verity. There was something about the dear woman that made her feel she could trust her.
‘For a start, I abhor the thought of families who have fallen on hard times having to be split up when they enter the place. It’s humiliating enough for them having to throw themselves on the mercy of the parish, without them being prevented from livi
ng as a family any more. And those poor foundlings! Surely more could be done to find them homes with loving families? There are so many childless couples who would jump at the chance of taking a child in, especially the babies.’ Like me, she could have added, for over the years she had begged her husband to allow her to do this, but he had consistently refused.
‘You are probably right,’ Verity agreed. ‘But the majority of the little ones who do get taken in usually go to houses and farms where they are trained to work.’
‘Well, because I am relatively new on the board of guardians I have held my counsel up to now but I intend to suggest a few changes in the not too distant future. I just get the feeling when I visit the place that all is not as it seems. For one thing, the matron, Miss Frost, seems to be overly strict with the children.’
Verity would have liked to tell Lavinia just how strict – but perhaps this was not the right time. However, she sensed that in Lavinia Huntley she had found someone who would strive with her to improve conditions for all the inmates at the workhouse and she felt heartened.
Lavinia interrupted her thoughts then when she said, ‘Anyway, the reason I came today is to bring a few small gifts for the baby. I hope you will accept them.’ Lifting a large parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, she placed it on the table and intrigued, Verity began to open it.
‘Oh my goodness!’ she gasped as she lifted a beautiful white woollen shawl that was as fine as cobwebs. She then unfolded a lovely little lawn nightdress with a heavily embroidered yoke, along with a number of other baby clothes. They all bore the label of a very expensive London store in Mayfair. ‘But this is far too much,’ she objected.
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