The Pretty Girls

by Hazel Aitken

  The following morning, her early duties completed and the classes of girls once more in the dubious care of two respectable but uneducated women inmates, she dressed in a warm woollen gown and cloak, pulled on a bonnet and waited with Sairin for the trap to arrive at the main door. In her reticule was money from her first month’s earnings and she would see that Mrs Mariah Simpson was reimbursed for the hospitality shown to Belle.

  Sairin was slightly less withdrawn and very warmly clad in a tweed outfit her father had made with expert skill. The girl must have found the workhouse environment strange. She knew no one but her father and back in Ruthin her mother was ill, mortally so, Mrs Stannard hinted. Hannah felt pity for her and gently encouraged a light-hearted conversation until the pony and trap appeared, Mr Williams smiling fondly upon his daughter and inviting Hannah to “Climb aboard, now. Room for the three of us, isn’t it? Thank the good Lord for a fine day. I’ve bolts of material to collect. Not waiting for a delivery.” His speech was staccato and Hannah wondered whether his first language was Welsh and when he thought in English the sentences became shortened.

  It was cold and clear, remaining snow frozen at the roadside as they left behind the smoke of factories and the busy streets; driving through suburbs where large houses were being built and trees planted along newly created avenues and wide roads. The little trap bounced along and soon they were into the countryside. Hannah’s spirits lifted as a skein of noisy cackling geese flew overhead on their way to winter-feeding grounds.

  “There’s beautiful,” Elias Williams said. “Lovely and free they are.” He sighed, and Hannah imagined he was thinking of his poor wife, trapped by illness. Not for her the touch of cold refreshing winter air, the sight of frosted fields, the call of birds and the sight of cottages where hens pecked beside the door and cats curled on window sills.

  “Will you get home before long?” Hannah asked, hoping the question was not impertinent or inappropriate in the circumstances.

  “Savin’ my time off. Sairin and me, we’ll be off for a few days when I’ve got on with things, see? New uniforms to be made. New assistants to train.” He looked down at his daughter. “Your Mam’s ill, isn’t she cariad? Being nursed by Bethan and Nain. That’s her grandmother, Miss Morley.”

  Seeing Sairin on the point of tears, Hannah hastily pointed out lads in a field trying unsuccessfully to halter a lively brown horse.

  “You’ll ’ave three hours with your Mam; we’ll be back mid-afternoon, see.” Elias told her as they entered Longwell and Hannah felt like hugging him. “Pretty place; be lovely in summer.”

  Seeing it with fresh eyes, Hannah agreed with him wholeheartedly. After the soot and grime of the city, sulphurous fogs and polluted waters, Longwell appeared clean-swept by winds from the moorland. The snow lying in ditches and gardens appeared unsullied and even that trodden and crushed on the road was marked only by good honest muck and mud, as they said hereabouts.

  Mrs Simpson’s welcome left nothing to be desired. Her kind face beamed as her firm hands pulled Hannah into her modest little home where brasses twinkled and a fire burned in the living room hearth. She whispered, “What happened to your poor face?”

  “A fall in the snow. Mama must not be upset. Let’s make light of it.” The other woman nodded.

  “See who’s here, Belle,” she exclaimed and Hannah’s mother gave a cry of joy, leaping from a comfortable tapestry covered chair that was too large for her, and embracing her with warmth.

  “What a surprise! Only this morning I said to Mariah that I longed for a glimpse of your face; but whatever has happened? Such nasty bruises.” Hannah repeated the lie.

  “Oh, my dear, how dreadful, but here you are as if by magic.”

  “By pony and trap! I shall be collected in the mid-afternoon. You look well, Mama. Well and happy.”

  “Your mother is in her element. Let me have your bonnet and cloak, my dear, and I shall make you a hot drink. Lunch is lamb stew and dumplings, and we have some leftover apple pie. We used the last of the stored apples, didn’t we, Belle? You are a tonic, Hannah, believe me.”

  She left them together and for a moment they were enveloped in silence, then both spoke together. “You first, Mama,” invited Hannah as her mother sat down and she seated herself in a wooden rocking chair made soft with cushions encased in red knitted covers.

  “I missed this kind of thing so much, Hannah. You should have seen the candles and the greenery in the church on Christmas day. To think we live in that frightful attic room. Why do we?”

  “Not anymore; we shall move, but you know why, Mama. Our money was disappearing fast. Perhaps I was too careful and we might have taken better rooms. We will now I’m working and meantime I have money here for Mrs Simpson.” At that moment the woman hurried in with a china mug brimming with tea and handed it to Hannah before withdrawing quickly.

  Belle fidgeted with the mourning brooch at her throat. “It may seem very ungrateful, my dear, but Mariah has hinted that she would like me to stay here. We get along very well, but it isn’t just that. She gets nervous living by herself and the last two days have been rather nerve-wracking.”

  “What do you mean, Mama? What’s happened?” Hannah’s tone was sharp and agitated.

  “Nothing has actually happened. But you know what a village is like. Any unknown face arouses interest and there have been a couple of strangers around. I mean, why should they wish to visit a place like this in the dead of winter? Besides, they’ve been asking questions.”

  “Luncheon is served in the kitchen because it is warm in there. Oh, is something amiss?” Mariah coming into the room again glanced from one to the other in consternation.

  Belle adjusted her black dress and rose to her feet. “I was telling Hannah about the strangers in our midst. It’s a mystery but no doubt they will leave.”She gave an uneasy high-pitched laugh. “We can’t find out where they are staying. Nobody seems to know.”

  Hannah’s appetite disappeared despite the well-cooked meal placed before them on a kitchen table covered with a white damask cloth and served on painted china plates. In front of the black leaded range, an elderly ginger cat slept in a wicker basket lined with a frayed shawl. Figurines stood upon the mantle-piece and there was an air of modest prosperity about the place. Mama must so enjoy it. She would encourage the suggestion that she stay, possibly make her home with Mariah Simpson.

  “What are these strangers like?” she managed as she played with pieces of tender meat that slid around her plate. “Have they threatened anyone?”

  "Hannah! What a horrid thought. No, dear, they watch. Mariah thought they watched this house, didn’t you, Mariah? Yesterday, that was. We drew the curtains early, and two of the village women called in to tell us that one of the men had enquired if we had a little girl staying with us.

  “Nonsense, of course,” Mariah said stoutly. “I don’t keep a maid. A village girl comes in daily to do the rough work. Now. Hannah, eat up, dear. I never stint on food.”

  “What did the men look like?” she asked, her throat tight with fear. What if Mama or Mrs Simpson was accosted, threatened, or worse, abducted, because it was believed they were hiding Rosa.

  “Don’t upset yourself, Hannah. It is a storm in a teacup. There’ll be looking for a runaway. Maybe from an asylum of some kind, an apprentice, or a girl from one of the farms or estates around here. And I wouldn’t blame anyone for running away from one or two of them. From what I hear some servants would be better off in the workhouse.” Mrs Simpson ladled more stew onto Belle’s plate.

  “Speaking of which, Mama, I am staying at what you refer to as that place. Mrs Wilson is no longer letting rooms. I spent two nights at the home of Sam Webster and his sister,” she paused. “You recall Sam from the apothecary’s, and then was offered accommodation at the workhouse?” Her mother would collapse and go into a decline if she heard the truth.

  “That place!" Whatever are you thinking of, Hannah? It’s bad enough you should be forced
to work amongst the dregs of society without sharing a roof. What would your dear father have said?”

  “I think he might have been proud of me. He was most unconventional, wasn’t he? For a start you will recall that he told me never to go into deep mourning. If there was one thing he hated, it was women disguised as crows.” Oh dear, and there was Mama wearing unrelieved black. To apologise would underline her gaffe. Blushing with confusion, she suggested that after luncheon they walk the few hundred yards to the old church so that she might see the seasonal decorations over which her mother had enthused.

  “I insist you enjoy one another’s company whilst I tidy here.” Mariah was adamant. “Go while it is fine and bright, but be careful. It’s treacherous underfoot. You’ll need your sturdy boots, Belle.”

  “She is very thoughtful for my comfort,” her mother said as they linked arms and emerged into the main street that ran between rows of low cottages before winding between older timber framed buildings, so haphazardly placed, they appeared to have grown out of the ground. “Of course, you are too, Hannah. No one could have a better daughter, but you understand, don’t you? I belong here.”

  Hannah squeezed her arm. “Of course, Mama. It’s been very difficult for you. I shall do very well in my work and it’s safe in the workhouse.”

  “Have you been in danger? Has anything happened in my absence?” Her mother could be quite perceptive. Oh, Mama, if only you knew but I shall never tell you the half of it.

  “I am perfectly safe. Here we are, Green Lane and the church. I used to love coming here for festivals and celebrations although I admit when the Reverend Lovatt-Browne was long winded, I studied the stained glass windows and counted the tiny panes of coloured glass.”

  “You were always a wayward child. So like your father, God rest him. I wish he was buried here. So much easier to visit than travelling to his birthplace.”

  Hannah held open the low wrought iron gate that led into the churchyard and Belle led the way along a wide path flanked by gravestones. The snow was well-trodden and wet where sunlight filtered between ancient yew trees and its stone paving was visible here and there. There were wet marks in the porch and Hannah wondered who else might have entered. Were they still within?

  Inside the smell of green branches mingled with that of incense. Belle had not exaggerated the beauty of long ivy stems wound around ancient stone pillars and holly arranged around plump white candles set in niches and along sills. The altar was decked in lace cloths and brass candlesticks and to one side of it stood a manger scene, the infant Christ a china doll, no doubt loaned with pride by one of the village families. Hannah felt a longing for the old days, her childhood days, when life had seemed secure and happy, as if it might continue that way for ever.

  Her mother was intent upon examining every artistic plant arrangement and Hannah wandered into the side chapel, a remnant of a building pre-dating the centuries old church, its window glass plain and a low narrow door, half hidden by a purple curtain, leading to the outside. Another smaller altar stood within and it too was decked in fine lace. It was as she stood admiring the stitch-work she became aware of a scent that filled her with alarm and her stomach tightened; beneath her bonnet the hairs on her head bristled. Expensive cologne. God help her! Was her abductor here in this place of sanctuary – this old church? Did she imagine that the purple door curtain billowed slightly? Frantically she gazed around before turning abruptly and stumbling into a side aisle, she hurried towards Belle.

  “Are you all right, my dear? You look as if a goose walked over your grave.”

  “I am fine, Mama,” she said loudly, praying that anyone listening might not know of her alarm and really, when one considered it, many men must favour the product. “But it is cold in here and I shall have to be going back soon. Oh!” she gasped as the main door was pushed open, “Oh! It is only the Reverend Lovatt-Browne, Mama.”

  “That sounds decidedly disrespectful to me,” her mother murmured and hurried to greet the tall elderly cleric who stamped his feet and coughed as he entered. Although dressed in a loose tweed coat that reached his knees, he appeared cold to the bone. “Mr Lovatt-Browne,” Belle almost fawned, “See, Hannah has come to visit.”

  “A delightful surprise, Miss Morley, and as you have been good enough to acquaint me with progress in your place of work, I feel I have a part in it.”

  She watched as a drop of moisture formed on the end of his aquiline nose and waited for its inevitable descent. “You so kindly wrote me a reference, sir; it is the least I can do. There are such changes and improvements at the workhouse.”

  “All to the good,” he muttered vaguely, clutching the back of an oak pew for support. “I met one of your acquaintances earlier today, a gentleman of the medical profession, I believe. Interested in various family histories. I am afraid I was of little assistance but I may have pointed him in the right direction.”

  Dr Lisle? she wondered. If so, what had he been doing here? What too of the man who might even now be hidden in the building? The desire to run out of it was almost overwhelming.

  “Such a joy to be back in the village,” Belle was saying. “The church so beautifully decked and your Christmas sermon the best I have heard.” Oh, Mama, you are such a flatterer.

  Hannah thought the poor man was about to collapse as his grip tightened on the pew and his knuckles turned white. His frailty was apparent.

  “It is very chilly and perhaps we should all be indoors,” she suggested as a flow of icy air whirled around her ankles. Was that the sound of a door closing softly? Her nerves were stretched to breaking point so maybe she imagined it.

  “Then, good day, ladies,” said the cleric. “I shall bid you farewell. I have one or two matters to attend to within the church but soon I shall be back in the rectory and warmly ensconced in my fireside chair.”

  “We can easily wait and see you safely home,” began Hannah, but he waved the suggestion aside impatiently.

  “I may be getting on in years but I am not a helpless old fool, yet.”

  “It is impossible to help some people,” remarked Belle as they clung to one another and walked from the church to the lane. “You’ll be like that when you grow old, Hannah. Far too independent for your own good.”

  Hannah was not listening. Were they being observed? Potential menace seemed to lurk behind every yew and cracked uneven gravestone. It was unbearably difficult to act naturally and to refrain from scanning their surroundings. Presumably the man who wore cologne would remain hidden but she half expected to see a menacing cloaked female figure standing beside one of the dark yews. At that moment, the workhouse seemed the safest place on earth.

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  Chapter Nineteen

  Elias Williams was anxious to make haste when he and Sairin returned with a trap laden with bolts of material and soon Hannah was spreading a blanket over Sairin and herself, waving to her mother and Mariah who stood at a mullioned window watching the departure.

  The girl looked half-frozen and tired, and leaned wearily against Hannah, who put an arm around the thin shoulders and warmed her with her own body. After a while, Sairin slumped against her and slept.

  “I shouldn’t have brought her but she didn’t want to be left in the house. Something about that woman Phipps asking her questions and making a nuisance of herself, so it is.”

  “Miss Phipps is ill, confined to bed. She fainted in class two or three days ago.”

  “Maybe, but she was up and about yesterday. Sairin was upset when the woman insisted on combing her hair. Lovely hair my Sairin has, fine as cobwebs, buttercup yellow. There, I go, sound like a poet, isn’t it?”

  A mental picture arose in Hannah’s mind, Molly Tinsley and the teacher, the latter’s hands entwined in a halo of fair hair. Girls with beautiful hair must hold an attraction for the strange Miss Phipps. She wondered whether her work was a result of it, an opportunity to be close to pretty young girls.

  Di
d telepathy play a part she wondered when Mr Gidley sought her out after the early evening meal. Molly was on his mind too, but he beamed.

  "Let me put your mind at rest, lass. The relieving officer was out Bolton way and called at the establishment. Most of the girls were at their duties but he saw three or four of them including Molly Tinsley. I have the report here: a quiet girl but she appears in good health and spirits, well-nourished and clean, her dark hair washed and brushed."

  “That’s not right, Mr Gidley. Molly has very fair hair, like a halo, and Molly isn’t quiet. She is bold.”

  “A slip, my dear. He had more than one girl to interview. There were other placements in other establishments. I think we can rest our minds.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Hannah said more briskly than intended. “Don’t you see, Mr Gidley, we cannot be sure Molly is safe and well unless we know the relieving officer saw the right girl. I…I know I have experienced and seen the worst of human nature lately but I have to be certain.”

  “I suppose I could enquire of Mr Jasper Meredith. He is acquainted with the philanthropist who organises the training of these young women.” The Master appeared agitated. “But I might appear to doubt his judgement. Leave it with me and I shall question the relieving officer again.” He looked at Hannah with genuine concern. “The bruising is coming out on your poor face. Take it easy, lass.”

  The next day after morning lessons, Hannah walked to Chandler’s Court. Eliza, pale and anxious, greeted her with concern. “Dr Lisle told us of your ordeal. You poor thing,” she lisped, kindness in her pale eyes.

  “How is your father?” enquired Hannah as they went upstairs to the apartment.

  “Over this particular crisis, thank God. The doctor has been wonderfully attentive and Mr Lawson’s let Sam leave his work early. Rosa is a godsend. She’s not been outside; you know why, but she seems happy enough and can’t get enough of the warmth. She clings to the range but no doubt she’s felt cold most of her life.”