The Workhouse Children

by Lindsey Hutchinson

  THE WORKHOUSE CHILDREN

  Lindsey Hutchinson

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About The Workhouse Children

  When Cara Flowers’ beloved grandmother dies she leaves her, not only an enormous fortune, but also a huge responsibility – to find their estranged family. Cara’s quest leads her to the doors of the imposing Bilston workhouse where families are torn apart with no hope of a better life.

  Shocked by the appalling conditions, Cara vows to find a way to close the workhouse and rescue its residents. Fraught by countless hurdles her mission becomes personal when she is left asking why was she raised by her grandmother, and what has her missing mother got to do with the looming workhouse?

  For my husband, Paul Salomon, who has supported me in my every endeavour.

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About The Workhouse Children

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  About Lindsey Hutchinson

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  One

  Elizabeth Flowers was exhausted. She had been doing someone else’s washing all day and she had just sat down. She was sick to the back teeth of taking in washing while her husband, John, was away on his cart. Just then she heard the cart wheels grind to a halt. Her heart skipped a beat – he was home.

  A loud thump told her he was drunk again and a giggle confirmed it. He had fallen from the driving seat of the cart. Jumping up, Elizabeth ushered her two young children upstairs.

  ‘Stay up there until I call you down, do you understand?’ she said hastily.

  Charlie and Daisy nodded as they scrambled up the bare wooden staircase which led off the living room.

  The back door of their ramshackle cottage flew open and John stood swaying in the doorway. Elizabeth paled at the sight of him. He was very drunk which meant there would be no housekeeping money – again.

  ‘Hello my little dove,’ he said as he tottered into the kitchen. ‘You got a kissssh for your old man?’

  Elizabeth backed away from him. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest as she glanced at the stairs checking the children were safe. Looking back to John, she saw him advance and the all too familiar fear gripped her.

  Silently Elizabeth threw up a prayer, ‘Please God, let him finish it this time – or die trying.’

  As she skirted round the table, John made a lunge for her. Grabbing her blonde hair, he dragged his wife towards him. A whimper escaped Elizabeth’s lips as he tugged her hair sharply. Planting a kiss on her cheek, John slurred, ‘What’sshh for my dinner?’

  ‘There’s nothing in the house, John,’ Elizabeth answered, wincing as he yanked her hair again.

  ‘Chrisht, woman! What you done with the money I gave you?’ John continued to shake her by the hair.

  ‘That was two weeks ago! How far do you think it will stretch?’ Elizabeth’s frightened eyes closed tight as John threw her away from him.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he yelled. ‘You besht get my supper or else!’

  Elizabeth moved slowly to the other side of the table. If she could keep the table between them she might stand a chance. ‘I can’t give you what we don’t have,’ she said as they circled the table like prize fighters.

  John’s toe caught the leg of a kitchen chair and he picked it up and flung it against the wall. The resounding crash sent an echo around the tiny kitchen and splinters of wood flew everywhere.

  ‘I want my supper… NOW!’ His voice boomed out.

  ‘John…’ Elizabeth began then sidestepped quickly as he rounded the table.

  Grabbing her long skirt, he yanked her back towards him. Elizabeth tried to pull away from him and she heard the stitching of her skirt give way. Whirling her round to face him, John slapped her cheek hard and Elizabeth stumbled against the table.

  Steeling herself for what was to come, she drew in a breath. Suddenly John was on her, raining blows down on the helpless woman. Elizabeth’s screams rang out as fists landed on her face, arms and torso. She tried desperately to scrabble away from the world of hurt she found herself in yet again, but John pinned her to the kitchen floor. It felt like he was pounding the life out of her frail body as he continued to punch her.

  Tiptoeing downstairs and watching from the doorway, their two children cried silently at the spectacle in front of them. Daisy stood slightly behind her big brother, her fingers in her mouth as she sobbed. The drool from her nose and mouth dribbled down her hands. Seven-year-old Charlie had his arm extended protectively to keep Daisy back. Tears rolled down the boy’s face as he watched his mother take yet another beating. Anger boiled in him as he wished he was big enough to take on his bullying father.

  Elizabeth had not seen her children as her screams turned to whimpers. John finally tired and ignoring his quietly sobbing children, he staggered out of the door and lurched across the heathland in search of the nearest public house.

  The children ran to their mother who was dragging herself to her feet groaning at the pain which had been inflicted on her. Placing an arm around each of them, she said quietly, ‘Shush, my darlings, it’s all over now.’

  Elizabeth carefully sat down on the last remaining kitchen chair with her children in front of her. Touching her mouth, she winced, he had split her lip… yet again. Sad eyes looked at her children and she felt the right one begin to swell. That would be swollen shut before morning.

  ‘Mummy,’ Daisy sobbed, trying to climb on Elizabeth’s lap. Elizabeth settled her five-year-old on her knee and wrapped her arm around her young son who stood by her. She tried desperately to hide the aches and pains, knowing the following day it would feel far worse.

  ‘Mum,’ Charlie said as he wiped away his tears on his shirtsleeve.

  ‘I know, son, I know. Your dad’s drunk again.’ Elizabeth winced once more at the pain in her lip.

  ‘But Mum, he hurt you!’ Charlie’s anger was building again.

  Shaking her head and wishing she hadn’t, Elizabeth said, ‘Sweetheart, I’m not making excuses for him, I’m telling it as it is.’

  ‘Mummy, I don’t like Daddy,’ Daisy said between sobs.

  ‘I don’t like him much either when he’s like this,’ Elizabeth answered. ‘He’ll be back later, so I want you two in bed by then.’

  ‘But Mum…’ Charlie began.

  ‘No, Charlie, please son, don’t make this any harder than it already is. I can take this. What I couldn’t take is him starting on you two. So please do as I say and
stay in your beds when he gets home.’

  The children nodded, but neither was happy about it.

  *

  Later that night two men carried John Flowers into the living room of his cottage and laid him on the sofa. He was out cold. Muttering their apologies to Elizabeth, they left.

  Elizabeth dragged herself upstairs, every bone in her body aching. Peeping in on her children who shared a bedroom, she saw they were sleeping, and closing the door quietly, she crossed the tiny landing to her own room. Carefully undressing, she inspected her bruised and battered body. It was a miracle nothing was broken. Slowly pulling on her nightgown, she tentatively lay down on the bed.

  Warm tears rolled down her cheeks as she lay there. This couldn’t go on, she knew, for one day he would surely kill her. Thoughts swirled in her mind. She couldn’t leave him – she had two young children to think about. Where would they go? How would they survive? Besides, she knew he would find them if they left. The battering she’d just taken would be nothing compared to what she’d get then.

  Up to now, John had never laid a finger on their children, but who was to say he wouldn’t in the future. Elizabeth began to sob as she realized, short of death, there was no way out for her and her children. She had married him and now she was stuck with him.

  Closing her eyes, Elizabeth silently prayed. ‘Dear God, please find me a way out of this – please!’

  The following morning Elizabeth could barely move. Slowly and carefully, she dressed herself, her face screwing up in pain at every movement she made.

  One step at a time she made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen. She could hear John outside whistling a merry tune. Elizabeth wondered at the man. From a drunken stupor to bright and breezy; he never even suffered a hangover!

  She heard the children running down the stairs and saw through her unswollen eye as they tumbled into the kitchen. Sad eyes looked up at her. She realized then how bad she must look to them.

  The back door opened and John marched in. ‘I want you two out scavenging in the market.’ He looked over at the children who shrank back. ‘NOW!’

  Charlie and Daisy ran through the living room and out of the front door.

  ‘Right,’ John went on, ‘I got the cart ready. Today, you’re coming with me.’

  Elizabeth’s glance shot to the living room door where her children had dashed out.

  ‘Oh don’t worry about them, they can look after themselves. Now come on, let’s get on the road, I ain’t got all day!’ John grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and she winced. Dragging her through the door, she struggled, trying to free herself.

  ‘John, I can’t leave the children, they’re only babies!’ she sobbed.

  ‘I said… you’re coming with me!’ John swung an arm round the back of Elizabeth’s legs and lifted her off the ground. He virtually threw her onto the cart and she yelped in pain.

  Climbing into the driving seat, he clucked to the horse to walk on. He ignored his wife as she swivelled round to stare back at their cottage. Her one good eye scanned the heathland for sight of her children. They were gone. Elizabeth cried quietly as the cart rumbled away. Misery wrapped itself around her as John began to whistle once more.

  ‘Why couldn’t I stay home with the children, John?’ Elizabeth asked quietly.

  ‘Because I need you to fulfil your wifely duties. I miss it when I’m away from home. I can’t not be away from home can I? So… you can come along with me from now on. The kids can look after themselves.’

  Elizabeth sobbed quietly into the hem of her dress as she thought about her poor babies having to scavenge to survive.

  John slapped her soundly across the side of the head as he shouted, ‘For God’s sake woman, shut that wailing up! You have to think about me now, not those snot nosed kids!’

  Elizabeth held her breath for a moment to quell her tears, but she knew she would shed far more in the future not knowing how her children would survive.

  *

  Later that day the children arrived back at the cottage with scraps of food kindly given to them by the women on the market. Charlie knew, even at his young age, that their parents had gone. What he didn’t know was whether they were coming back.

  ‘Where’s mummy?’ Daisy asked.

  ‘I think he took her with him,’ Charlie answered scathingly.

  ‘When will she be back?’ the little girl whimpered.

  Shaking his head, Charlie said gently, ‘I don’t know, kiddo.’ Placing his arms around his sobbing sister, he went on, ‘Don’t cry, I’ll look after you until they do come back. Now, come on let’s have something to eat.’

  Daisy nodded and ran her nose along her cardigan sleeve.

  Charlie gazed out of the kitchen window as a heavy feeling settled on him. He had not known his mother to go off with his father before. She always stayed at home with Daisy and himself, and he was worried about her. Would he hurt her? Charlie prayed he wouldn’t. He feared at that moment it was very unlikely they would see either of their parents again.

  Two

  The old Queen, Victoria, had passed away and her son Edward VII had ascended the throne. The year was now 1901 and would be known as the Edwardian era. The newspapers were full of the news about the new king and speculation of a date when he would be crowned. History would show this to be in August of the following year.

  The people of Bilston town which was situated midway between Wolverhampton and Birmingham, in the heart of the industrial West Midlands, known as ‘The Black Country’, would be talking about their new king during the time until his coronation. The nickname given to the area was coined due to the smoke from factories and domestic chimneys that belched out night and day, leaving a pall hanging over the area. Men working in the collieries suffered with terrible breathing problems from the fine coal dust hanging in the air; often this bad health preceded their premature death.

  The poverty all over the Black Country was appalling and it was hoped the new king might be able to help rectify the situation, but nobody really believed it would happen.

  In a house in Proud’s Lane, Bilston, Cara Flowers sat at the bedside of her aged grandmother with tears streaming down her face. ‘Grandma, please don’t leave me!’ She sobbed.

  ‘Now, child,’ Henrietta whispered with a gentle smile, ‘it’s time. I need to go and be with your grandfather again.’

  ‘Nooo… please, please… I need you!’ Cara wailed.

  Dr Bart placed a hand on the sobbing girl’s shoulder, but Cara ignored him. She only had watery eyes for her beloved grandmother; the woman who had raised her from infancy.

  ‘Cara,’ the whisper came again, ‘I love you, child, God knows I do, but I have to leave you now to live your life. We all have to die, and now it’s my time.’ Henrietta squeezed the hand of her granddaughter before continuing. ‘You know that Martin Lander has my affairs in order, go and see him. Cara… I love you so very much.’ Henrietta closed her eyes for the last time and with a smile still on her lips, released her last breath.

  ‘Grandma!’ Cara pleaded. ‘Grandma, wake up!’

  Pushing the frantic girl aside, Dr Bart felt for a pulse. Finding none, he gently pulled the sheet over Henrietta’s face. Leading a sobbing Cara from the bedroom, he seated her in the parlour. Tugging on the bell pull at the side of the fireplace, he summoned the maid to bring tea.

  Cara stared into her teacup; she felt so lost and alone. Tears were coming and going and she knew it was her body going into shock despite having been warned that her grandmother would not be in this world much longer.

  Giving instruction to the maid to fetch the undertaker, Dr Bart sat with Cara and watched her as she endeavoured to come to terms with her great loss. He saw her body shake with great sobs. He knew it would take time for her to truly understand that she was, now, alone. ‘There will be things to organize girl,’ he said kindly, ‘the funeral and the reading of the will.’

  Cara nodded and with a sob said, ‘Thank you Dr Bart… for e
verything.’

  The elderly doctor nodded once. ‘I’ll wait until…’ Cara burst into tears once more. Folding her in his arms, he said gently, ‘Cry it out, you’ll feel better for it.’

  *

  A week later and the snow was still falling steadily and silently as the maid entered the parlour. ‘It’s time, Miss Cara,’ she said quietly.

  Cara looked out onto the extensive lawns of ‘The Laburnums’. This was the house she had shared with her grandmother in the small town of Bilston; the place she grew up in.

  ‘Thank you Molly.’ Cara sighed as she stood to put on her black coat and hat. It was the day of her grandmother’s funeral and the girl was dreading it. Tucking her blonde curls beneath her cartwheel hat, Cara buttoned up her long black woollen coat. A fur stole draped her shoulders, and for her hands a matching fur muff which hung around her neck on a plaited silk string.

  She was ready, or as ready as she would ever be.

  Climbing into the horse-drawn carriage that would take her down Proud’s Lane and along Fletcher Street to St. Leonard’s Church, Cara shivered, but not just from the cold.

  The small church was filled to capacity when Cara arrived, and the service began. Normally the service would have been conducted at the graveside but the vicar had decided it was far too cold to be standing outside and called everyone into the church. His voice droned on but Cara heard no words. Silent tears spilled from cornflower blue eyes as she watched the coffin carried out to the graveside where it was lowered reverently into its final resting place.

  Cara led the procession of mourners in the age-old practice of throwing a handful of dirt onto the coffin before moving away. Her tears were falling still as she shook hands with people she didn’t know before they alighted their carriages once more to travel home. Cara stood a long time at the graveside staring down into the hole. Snowflakes floated down to settle on her hat and coat, but Cara was oblivious to the weather. Her mind was reliving the years she had spent with her grandmother, until, eventually, a polite cough brought her back to the present. The gravedigger had stood by, shovel in hand, eager to complete his work and be out of the cold. Cara nodded to him and turned away.