In the winter his mother hardly went out of doors because of her weak chest and his father would say, as he went off to work, “Now you look after your mother while I’m away, Frank lad. I’m relying on you to take care of her for me.” And Frank would look up at his god with big solemn eyes and accept the task as a sacred duty.
When a tiny baby was born – so tiny that everyone said she would not live – Frank was four years old. He had been an only child all his life and could not conceive of any other child entering his world. Many boys of that age become very jealous of a new-born baby, but not Frank. He was mesmerised by this tiny creature, hardly bigger than a teacup, who could move and cry, and who needed so much care. Not for a moment did he resent the hours of attention given to the baby. In fact, he liked to help. The most fascinating thing of all was to watch his mother breast-feeding the baby, and he tried never to be far away when this mysterious and beautiful ritual was going on. He kept very quiet, crept close to his mother and watched, spellbound, as the baby sucked and the milk oozed from the nipple.
The baby was premature and sickly, and for a long time her life hung in the balance. His father said to him, many times: “You’ve got a special job to do, young man. You’ve got to look after your little sister. That’s your job now, lad.”
So Frank watched over her, and hardly went out to play with the other boys in the court, because he was so busy looking after his little sister.
The baby didn’t die. She gained strength and became quite robust, although she always remained small. She was christened Margaret but was called Peggy, because Margaret seemed too long a name for such a small baby. After the christening Frank’s father said, “You done a good job there, son; and I’m proud of yer.”
Then catastrophe struck. In those years typhoid was raging through East London. His huge, strong father, who had never known a day of illness in his life, was hit by the disease and died within a few days. His mother, who had never been strong, was spared and so was the baby. His mother went out to work, cleaning offices. She left home in the early hours each morning, and again each evening, leaving Frank to look after Peggy, who was by now a toddler.
One day Frank ran home from school (he didn’t think much of school, regarding it as a waste of time) to take over the domestic responsibilities from his mother, so that she could go out to her job. It was cold and she was coughing badly, but she went nonetheless. Money had to be earned, or they would be homeless. Frank did as he had so often done before: he put some wood that he had found on his way home from school onto the fire, made some tea for himself and Peggy, played with her and, as the fire was dying, he undressed her and put her to bed, creeping in beside her for warmth.
In the middle of the night he woke up, aware that something was wrong. It was pitch-black, and the quiet was terrifying. He could hear Peggy breathing, but that was all. Something was missing. Nausea seized him as he realised that his mother was not there. In a panic he felt all over the bed, but the side where his mother usually slept was empty. He called out in a small voice so as not to wake Peggy, but there was no reply. He crept out of bed and found the matches. He struck one and the flame leaped up, lighting the whole room momentarily. His mother was not there. Blinded by tears, he crept back into bed and held Peggy in his arms.
The cold had badly affected his mother as soon as she stepped outside. She was asthmatic and bronchitic, and had been fighting off a chest infection for several weeks. She had a mile to walk to the bus, and the freezing mist rising off the river had got into her lungs. She was 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 it?”
Frank looked from one to another, and horror struck his heart. Was his mother dead? He had promised his father that he would look after her! What had gone wrong? Peggy was beginning to whimper again. Kind hands were placed on him. He clung to the bars of the bedstead with all his strength and turned his back on the women, holding Peggy, who was beginning to scream now, between his body and the head of the bed.
“You will have to get
him free,” said the man. “They cannot stay here alone.”
It took four women to loosen his fingers from the bars. A child’s fingers can be incredibly strong if they are curled around something. Eventually two women were holding him and Peggy in their arms. He was biting and scratching and kicking in a hysteria of fear and rage. He shouted at the woman holding Peggy, “Give her to me. She’s my sister. Don’t take her away.” Tears were streaming down his face.
“We will have to go. Does anyone know where the key is kept?” said the man.
The door of the room was locked, and they made their way downstairs. The woman holding Frank was badly bruised. They walked through the streets, collecting a crowd of onlookers as they went.
Frank and Peggy were admitted to the infants’ section of the workhouse, where boys and girls under seven years of age were housed. They were undressed and bathed and treated not unkindly. In fact, Peggy’s tiny stature and wispy blonde hair evoked a stream of sympathy from the women who received them. Frank had exhausted his fury, and sullenly allowed himself to be washed and his hair examined for fleas.
“We’ll have to cut it off. You know the rules.”
He submitted to having his head shaved, but when he saw a large woman doing the same to Peggy, he rushed at her and butted her in the stomach with his head. She collapsed onto a chair winded, then grabbed the boy and thrashed him soundly, whilst another officer shaved Peggy.
“It’s a shame, cutting this pretty hair. But it will soon grow again.”
Poor little Peggy looked like a tiny Martian when they had finished, and Frank sobbed with impotent rage.
The children were dressed in workhouse clothes and taken to the playroom to meet the other children. We would not call it a playroom today, because there was nothing to play with. It was just a large, bare room, about forty feet long by twenty feet wide, with high, uncurtained windows and rough floorboards.
“Now you play quietly with the others until tea time.” The door was shut, and the officer left.
They stood shyly in the doorway, looking at about forty other children, all wearing the same clothes. Frank, acutely self-conscious that he and Peggy had no hair, tried to hide her under his jacket. A boy of about his age ran up to them, shouting: “You’re new. You’re new. Where’ve you come from? What’s your name, baldy? An’ who’s this little squirt, then?” He pulled at Peggy’s arm and tickled her scalp.
Frank flung himself at the boy, fighting with savage fury. All the rage that had been building up during the day was concentrated in his attack. The rest of the children stood back to watch the fun. The other boy was no slouch when it came to fighting and the two were evenly matched. There were no adults in the room to stop them.
Peggy was terrified and ran screaming to a corner, where she crouched down, hiding her head. A little girl with dark hair left the others, came over to her and put her small arms around the sobbing child. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry. They’re only fighting. Boys are always fighting. Boys are awful. Here, sit on my knee.”
The girl sat down on the floor and Peggy climbed onto her knees. She played with a long, dark ringlet hanging down near her face, and laughed when she pulled it and it bounced back up again.
The girl smiled happily. “You’re like a little doll. I’ve never had a doll, but I’ve seen them. And you’re better than a doll, because you’re real, and dolls are only pretend. Will you be my friend? My name’s Jane, and I’m four. What’s yours?”
Peggy didn’t say anything, but her tears stopped. Jane sat quietly, cuddling Peggy, and laughing to herself as she watched the fight.
The boys were roughly the same weight, but Frank had the advantage of cold, calculated fury and his need to defend his sister. He glanced at the other boys who were egging them on, and knew instinctively that if he lost this fight, Peggy would never be safe from their torments.
After a few minutes Frank’s adversary was on the floor in a corner. “Truce. Give in. Hold ’im off,” he called out.
Frank turned to face the others. He raised his fists defiantly. “Anyone else want a go?”
No one stepped forward.
Frank swaggered over to the corner where Peggy sat on Jane’s knee. “Thanks,” he said. “She’s only two, and she’s scared. Her name’s Peggy and I’m Frank.”
The girl had a merry laugh, open features and piercing blue eyes. Frank liked her, he liked the way she was nursing Peggy, and he saw the contentment with which the little girl responded to the older one. He knew that he could trust her. “Let’s be friends,” he said.
Over the next few weeks, the reality of his mother’s death dawned upon Frank.
He would never see her again and pain inside reduced him to tears. Other boys laughed and jeered at him, but he only had to stick out his jaw and raise his fists aggressively, and they quickly backed off. Peggy did not seem as unhappy, because Frank was always there for her. Also, Jane had taken to her and petted and fussed over her, calling her “my little doll”. Jane was indisputably the leader among the girls, so her protection meant a good deal.
Jane was good for Frank also. He liked her with the instinctive affection that recognises a kindred spirit. He approved of her gentle ways with Peggy, and he also liked her naughtiness. She was always playing tricks and pranks, making everyone laugh. She would jump out from behind a door when the officer opened it, shouting “boo”, and then run away laughing. She was always caught and smacked, but nothing seemed to quench her high spirits. The day she climbed the water pipe in the playground and sat on the gutter and wouldn’t come down was one of the funniest things Frank could ever remember. Fat old Officer Hawkins had been on duty that day and got onto a ladder, then lumbered up it, with all the boys crowding around underneath, trying to see her knickers. When she finally got Jane down, she thrashed her soundly in the playground, and then again in the evening before bedtime, but Jane just rubbed her bottom, shook her curls defiantly, and did not seem to care.
The night times were the worst for Frank. Alone in a small, hard bed, with darkness all around, he sobbed silently for his sweet mother, whom he had adored with all the passion of boyhood. He missed the warmth of her body, he missed the smell of her skin, the touch of her hand, the sound of her breathing. He would creep over to Peggy’s bed and get in beside her, where the smell of her hair would numb his pain, and they would sleep together till morning. This became their one comfort in the first months of their life in the workhouse.
A year passed. After breakfast one morning, Frank and two other boys were taken to the Matron’s office. She said abruptly, “You are big boys now that you are seven, and we are taking you to the boys’ section today. Wait in the hallway, and the van will come for you at nine o’clock.”
The boys did not know what she meant, and the three of them sat on the bench, engaged in mock fights and ribaldry.
At nine o’clock, a man entered the front door and enquired, “Are these three to go?”
They were taken outside to a green van and told to climb in the back. It was all very exciting. They had never been in a van before, so they clambered in willingly, ready for adventure. The van started with a jerk, and they were thrown off the bench onto the floor. They shrieked with laughter. This was going to be a good day. A ride in a van! You wait till we get back and tell the others. The van stopped twice, and other boys of their own age climbed in. Soon there were eight boys, all shouting and skidding around the floor of the van as they turned corners, or pressing against each other to see out of the small back window in order to wave at people as they passed. Everyone turned to look, because motorised transport was comparatively unusual in those days. The boys felt very privileged, and infinitely superior to the people walking or travelling in horse-drawn carts and wagons.
Eventually the van stopped and the back door opened. Frank saw a very large, grey-stone building in front of him, and he did not much like the look of it.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“This is t
he boys’ section. You come here when you are seven and stay until you are fourteen,” said a tough-looking man, who was a workhouse officer.
“And where’s Peggy?” he demanded.
“I don’t know who Peggy is, but she’s not here.”
“Peggy is my sister and I look after her. My dad told me to.”
The officer laughed. “Well, someone else will have to look after her. There’s no girls allowed in here.”
Still Frank did not understand. He was unsure, frightened, and he felt like crying, but he wasn’t going to let the other boys see him, so he squared his shoulders, clenched his fists and put on a swagger as they were taken to the Master’s office.
The interview was brief. They were told that they must obey the rules, obey the officers at all times, and that if they did not do so they would be punished. The Master then said, “You will be given your duties and lunch is at one o’clock. You will start school tomorrow.”
Frank had wanted to ask about Peggy, but the Master so terrified him that he did not dare speak. He followed the officer to the dining hall with a feeling of panic in his heart that he had not known since the night when he had awoken to find his mother’s side of the bed empty.
Lunch in a huge refectory with about a hundred and fifty other boys, some of them very big, was terrifying and he could hardly eat. He ate half a potato and drank some water, but it nearly choked him, and he could not stop his tears from falling. Some of the bigger boys pointed at him and sniggered. None of the male officers showed any sympathy. The three new boys who had come together were all considerably more sober now. The fun and high spirits of the van ride evaporated as the reality of the situation began to dawn upon them. They had left the small world and comparative kindness of the nursery, where there were women officers and nurses, for the harsh, often brutal world of the workhouse proper, where, for the next seven years, they would encounter only male officers.
Shadows of the Workhouse Page 6