The Pretty Girls

by Hazel Aitken

  “I’ll see what I have; wait here.” Hannah did as she was bid and no sooner had the woman disappeared into the hall than she called to the child in the scullery.

  “Hello! My name’s Hannah. What is yours?” There was no verbal response but the child turned her head in Hannah’s direction. Impossible to see the colour of her hair because her head was encased in a grey cap that almost fell over her eyes. Eyes that darted here and there as if enemies lurked in every corner and might assault her at any moment.

  “Don’t be frightened. I won’t hurt you. My mother and I are living in one of the attic rooms. Maybe you will come upstairs and call upon us sometime.” There was a vigorous shaking of the head and the girl nearly fell from the box.

  “Here we are and it’s the best I’m prepared to offer.” Mrs Wilson had reappeared. Over her arm hung something that in Hannah’s opinion resembled a horse blanket. And it’s the colour of dung, poor Mama. “Were you interrupting Leary?” continued the woman. “The brat is slow enough without you holding her back.”

  “Leary? Is that her name?”

  “What’s it matter? Workhouse off-loaded her. One of the guardians knew someone who knew me and the child should thank her lucky stars I took her in. Glad to be rid of her I daresay. As if I haven’t enough to do without teaching her the basics of housekeeping.”

  Hannah took the blanket and wrinkled her nose. It gave off a most unpleasant odour which she could not place; metallic, maybe?

  “Don’t turn your nose up at it.” Mrs Wilson had not missed her expression of repugnance. “Next door were throwing it out and I say waste not, want not.”

  “In which case I doubt you’ll ever want, Mrs Wilson.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, young woman. I could have you and your mother out in the street in an instant. And you, Leary, get on with those vegetables. Then you can scrub the stairs.” The child’s head sank low and Hannah’s heart did the same. What a fate to be under Mrs Wilson’s thumb.

  “Goodbye Leary, although I guess you have another name and one day you shall tell me. And thank you, Mrs Wilson.” For what? A miserable smelly old horse blanket, you horrible woman.

  Upstairs, her mother recoiled when Hannah proffered the blanket. “It smells appalling, my dear. Is that the best you could do?”

  “Yes, Mama. Our glory days are over so it is indeed the best I could do. Mrs Wilson is a …” It was on the tip of her tongue to use a forbidden word but that woman, as she was beginning to think of her, brought out the very worst. Remote, unfeeling, grasping and lacking any compassion, when in fact she had it in her power to bring comfort into the lives of Leary, her mother and herself.

  I have to get us out of here, ran Hannah’s thoughts. I have to find work and lift us out of this pit of misery.

  “I refuse to have that thing near me,” rose her mother’s querulous voice. “It’s got blood stains on it and now I come to think of it, there’s a smell of blood too. Take it away, Hannah, I would rather freeze to death.”

  Hannah turned away from Belle so that the other should not see the tears of frustration and despair that filled her eyes. Since the day her father had been killed, their lives had taken a downwards spiral. There was no living relative to help them; there had been no business partner, and owing to her father’s philanthropy and, if she was honest, his careless approach to his finances which had left them in debt, they had been compelled to leave the attractive rented house in the village of Longwell ten miles away and move into the city which seemed to have swallowed them up. Their previous landlady, a widow named Mrs Mariah Simpson, had been sympathetic and kindly, her concern obvious, but she required the income from the rented house left to her by a relative, and after three months had slipped past, Hannah and her mother had moved out.

  “I can store some of your furniture until you find somewhere permanent,” Mrs Simpson had offered. “There is attic space in my own house.” So, it had been arranged and several of the better pieces now resided in Mrs Simpson’s modest home where, they were assured, a welcome always awaited.

  “Her attics were better than these,” moaned Belle on many an occasion. “We might have thrown ourselves on her mercy. In the past year we’ve gone from bad to worse. You are too proud, Hannah, and that’s the truth of it. Telling her we should soon settle elsewhere. What about me?”

  “It will be all right, Mama, wait and see. I intend to look for employment as soon as possible. And the first thing I shall do is buy you a soft blanket. It was a pity we parted with most we possessed but we needed the money and now it is fast running out.”

  Tomorrow, she thought, she would begin looking for a suitable occupation, and she would begin by asking Sam at the apothecary’s if he had any good ideas.

  Sam was busy with the pestle and mortar, once again pounding ingredients at the counter. He greeted Hannah with a cheerful grin and pushed back his unruly fair hair.

  “How’s your mother? Cough any better?”

  “Slightly, I think, but I am not here for medication. I need advice, Sam.” Her gaze flickered towards the inner door. “I don’t want to get you into trouble by taking up your time.”

  “I don’t get away until eight, sometimes nine of an evening. Best get it over with…I mean…”

  “I know what you mean. I need work, Sam, as you know. Did you have any bright ideas?”

  “There’s the big old workhouse out Bronton Way.” He noticed her shocked expression and hastened to explain. “You’ll be familiar with the big one on New Bridge Street, but this one is undergoing change, real change. There’s a new master, money available for renovations, and they need staff. Teachers, nurses, those sort of people.”

  “Samuel Webster, are you slacking again?” His elderly thin faced boss emerged through the doorway. “You again, miss? What is it this time? Hold a candle for my assistant, is that it?”

  It took Hannah a moment to grasp his meaning and then she blushed. “I was asking Sam, Mr Webster I mean, if he knew of any work? I need to earn some money.”

  “Well, he won’t be earning if he keeps leaving off what he’s doing to speak to you. Anyway, I doubt he knows the meaning of the word work!”

  Now it was Sam’s turn to blush and he opened his mouth to protest but with a smile that included both of them, Hannah left the premises and hurried back to Belle.

  “Miss, help me, miss.” It was Leary who opened the front door when she knocked upon it. “I’ve cut me thumb real bad.” She had too. Blood dripped through a dirty looking cloth onto the tiled floor of the hall and Hannah put an arm around the child.

  “Where’s Mrs Wilson?” she asked. “Can’t she help you?”

  “She’s gone out, miss. Said she’d be a while which usually means a couple of hours. Oh, do help me…” She ended on a wail and Hannah hustled her upstairs and into the attic room.

  “Look who we have here, Mama. This is Leary who works here and she is hurt. Sit down,” she ordered and the little girl sat on the low bed. “Now, what can we use as a bandage? I know, my old shift. I’ll tear a piece off the hem. Take off that filthy rag, my dear.”

  Without shedding her cloak and bonnet, she pulled a trunk from its place in the corner and finding what she sought, ripped a good-sized piece from it. Having poured water into a tin bowl, she dipped a piece of material into it and proceeded to examine the wound.

  “However did you do this, Leary? It’s deep and you’ll need to keep it clean and dry.” With gentle wipes she washed the cut as best she could, applied a salve which had also been in the trunk, and bandaged the thumb.

  “My Hannah’s good at that sort of thing,” Belle remarked with a touch of pride. “What did you say your name is, child?”

  “Mama, I told you she is named Leary. But I think that’s only part of it. Have you another name?” she asked, her hand on the girl’s thin shoulder.

  “Don’t know, miss. That’s what they called me at the work’ouse, the Bronton place.”

  Belle had turned to fa
ce the child, what light there was entering through the small window shone on the small, scared face.

  “Did she say workhouse? The poor child. How old are you, dear?”

  “They told Mrs Wilson I was nine or ten,” was the whispered reply, and then as if the woman’s name had brought Leary face-to-face with the reality of her situation, she slid off the bed. “I gorra go back downstairs. I got work to do or she’ll be mad as a box of snakes.”

  “I shall accompany you. Just let me take off my cloak and we’ll go down and wait for Mrs Wilson.”

  Leary looked uncertain, but Hannah steered her out of the door and led the way down to the gloomy kitchen. In the scullery were half-peeled vegetables and a pool of blood in the old stone sink.

  “I gorra get on, I must really.” Leary sounded desperate but Hannah told her to sit down in the kitchen.

  “You’re still bleeding. Look, it is seeping through the bandage already. You need a cup of hot sweet tea and I shall finish your chores. With any luck, Mrs Wilson will think you completed them. And if she returns, I shall take the blame. Thank heavens the kettle manages to boil on this miserable stove.”

  A few minutes later, Leary sat sipping tea. “I like me tea strong. Not that I get anything but the dregs usually, miss, but me spoon could stand up in this!” Hannah smiled as she scrubbed the sink clean of bloodstains. Then she finished scraping a heap of vegetables and set to cleaning the scullery floor and kitchen shelves. “Mrs Wilson will think the fairies have been in to help,” she said, hoping to raise a smile. It was a futile attempt and after a minute she gave up.

  “Leary, dear, do you know how you came to be in this area? I think with a name like that, you must have come from Ireland, or maybe your parents did?”

  “I’m not sure, miss. I think I had people come over from somewhere because they were hungry. There was a famine, like in the Bible, someone at the work’ouse said. But it was all a muddle what they told me.”

  “That sounds like Ireland. There was a terrible famine. More than one but the worst was fifteen years ago or so. Starving people poured into English cities. My father thought the government could have done more to help the Irish but he was the sort who helped everybody.”

  “Like you, then miss. You help people. Look how you’ve helped me.” She had drained the tea mug and looked relieved when it had been washed and replaced on a small dresser. “I think you’d better go, miss.”

  “If you’re sure…” Too late they heard the front door slam and Mrs Wilson calling for Leary.

  Taking the child by the hand, Hannah propelled her into the hall where they met Mrs Wilson’s outraged gaze. “You! What are you doing, may I ask? Stop mollycoddling that girl. Carry on like that and discipline flies out of the window.”

  “Leary has cut her thumb very badly, Mrs Wilson. Fortunately, the kitchen work is completed and I have done my best to dress the injury, but I don’t think she will be able to use her hand much. She must not get the cut wet or infection may set in.”

  “Miss Know-It-All!” scoffed the woman. “And how come you do know so much? Here, Leary, take my mantle and quick about it.” She tossed the garment and the child caught it, wincing as pain shot through her thumb.

  “My father was a physician,” Hannah told her, her attention caught by something she had noticed. There was blood on the cuff of the grey dress Mrs Wilson was wearing. She too must have suffered a small injury.

  Did she imagine a shadow cross her landlady’s face, a moment of indecision as if she might have ventured another comment? If so, the moment passed.

  “I am very willing to dress Leary’s hand until the wound has healed,” Hannah said.

  “That will not be necessary. I am perfectly capable of dealing with such trivialities.”

  Hannah pressed Leary to her. “Be brave,” she whispered as she bent over her. But Mrs Wilson was having none of it.

  “You keep to your own room and leave the child to me. I’d say you’ve more than enough on your plate with your ailing, wailing mother. Mollycoddle her if you like, but don’t interfere in my affairs.”

  ****************************************

  Chapter Three

  It was twice in a morning that the Bronton workhouse had been mentioned and although Hannah quailed at the very name, she found herself wondering whether a solution to her financial problems might lie within. If they were recruiting staff and if she was permitted to stay with her mother overnight and attend to her needs before beginning a day’s work, it might prove successful. There was only one way to find out and that was to enquire. And only one way to do that. She didn’t even know where the place was situated, having heard only vaguely that it was two or more miles distant, but she would make her way there and instead of pestering Sam Webster, she would ask his employer for directions.

  Leaving Belle with all that she might require close to hand and having wrapped her as warmly as was possible, Hannah took her leave and walked briskly towards the main thoroughfare where potential customers stared into shop windows and a few carts were drawn up alongside the pavement. Sam’s face lit up when he saw her enter the apothecary’s, but his expression fell when she asked to speak to his employer.

  “It’s about employment. I don’t want to get you into trouble but I need advice. I shall have to flatter him, won’t I?” Her smile was disarming. “What is his name? If I knew it, I have forgotten.”

  A minute later, she was explaining her predicament to Sam’s stern looking employer. “You see, Mr Lawson,” she finished, “I believe the Bronton workhouse is undergoing changes and requires staff. Teachers, maybe?”

  “Come into the back room, we cannot converse here.” He led the way into a smaller room where shelves were piled with books and glass jars containing specimens and what appeared to be animal remains suspended in fluid. “I am keeping an eye on you, Samuel Webster,” he called and left the dividing door open.

  “Sit,” he went on and pulled forward a battered wooden chair whilst he continued, “It’s true there is a new master with big ideas.” He sniffed. “A Yorkshire man, I’m told, one of these non-conformist do-gooders with a scheme to improve the lot of the poor.”

  “Isn’t that worthy? Their lives are bleak enough, heaven knows.” Leary’s little face came to mind, quickly followed by that of Sal next door.

  Mr Lawson sniffed, his long nose quivering, but he made no further comment on the subject. Instead, he studied Hannah and she felt like one of his specimens. “You look healthy enough. No doubt they can do with nurses in that place. Hundreds of inmates, all ages and conditions. Are you familiar with such establishments?”

  Hannah shook her head and a strand of dark hair brushed her cheek having escaped her bonnet.

  “No, only what I have heard. I daresay I could nurse, I know the basic rules because my father was a physician, but I may be more suited to teaching. I am quite well educated.”

  She did not have to explain herself to this man but she needed his cooperation. The more she could learn about the workhouse the better. “Hundreds of paupers, you say?”

  "Segregated. Wards and areas for men and women, for the children too. Wards for the lunatics and violent inmates and the sick, a lying-in ward and so I could continue. Put you off, have I?

  “I’m not sure, Mr Lawson. I mean someone has to care for these people and that someone might as well be me. The children will need attendants and teachers, surely?”

  He stood up and she sensed dismissal so rose to her feet. “…continue past the old church. You can’t miss it, being renovated, you see… I’ll draw you a map; less trouble than explaining. When you get there, don’t go to the vagrant’s entrance. The principal entrance is on the other side of the building. There’s a bell to summon the porter.”

  In the shop Sam was attending to a pair of middle-aged ladies and his glance was perfunctory. Mr Lawson accompanied Hannah to the door and after thanking him once more, she was in the busy street. It was not a fashionable area and some w
ay from the city centre, but there were rows of shops and horse-drawn vehicles constantly blocking one another’s route. Half an hour later and with the ancient church behind her, Hannah noticed that the houses and shops were thinning and in places fields and allotments bordered the road. Then the sprawling buildings comprising the workhouse came into view, daunting and forbidding. One could only imagine the dread and trepidation with which bereft persons on parish relief or in failing health entered the place.

  As she drew close, Hannah heard the sounds of men at work and coming to the gatehouse saw in a yard beyond teams of workmen, thin tired-looking horses pulling goods wagons laden with building supplies. All around seemed noise and commotion; voices raised, shouted instructions, the clatter of materials being unloaded. This had to be the principal entrance and with her heart drumming fast, she lifted an impressive brass door knocker.

  She was not sure what she expected but the porter, if such he was, opened the door swiftly. A middle-aged man with shaven face and somewhat downtrodden appearance surveyed her, and she explained her business.

  “Cross the yard, miss. Go to the door you see over there. Ask for the matron, Mrs Stannard. She’s a busy woman, no need to tell you that, but she’s taking on staff, that I do know.”

  Hannah skirted around the labourers, horses and wagons, and minutes later was being admitted to the main block by a surly grey-haired woman who unlocked the door to admit her, and re-locked it behind her. She was shown into an office and told to wait, which she did for a full half an hour, during which time she came to know the contents of the shadowy room very well; the cracked paintwork and piles of books and ledgers littering a broad desk; wooden shelves in danger of collapsing. The atmosphere was depressing.

  Not so the woman who eventually entered the room, a hand outstretched in welcome and Hannah’s own was grasped firmly. “I am Mary-Anne Stannard, matron here, and you are…?” She’s about thirty-five, mousey colouring but she’s anything but mousey, thought Hannah.

  “Hannah Morley. I am twenty years old, have the care of my widowed mother and I need to find work. Someone told me you were engaging staff.”