The Orphan Collection

by Maggie Hope

  ‘If that’s what that school teaches you I will bring you away,’ Eliza said grimly.

  ‘He is right, though,’ said Lottie and Eliza stared at her. ‘I mean,’ the girl went on, ‘that is what Dr Welles said this morning. He came into the office and complained to Mr Jeremiah. Mind, Mr Jeremiah gave him short shrift.’

  ‘I should think so an’ all,’ Eliza declared, then turned back to Tot. ‘You should remember that you might have been a pit laddie yourself; you have mining blood in your veins.’

  ‘My father was a carpenter. That’s different.’ He paused for a moment before going on. ‘I’m sorry, though, if I sounded proud. I was just saying how I think some people will see it. Just like Dr Welles.’

  He smiled at Lottie and his dark blue eyes appeared to deepen. The fluttery feeling rose in her again. By, she thought, she was a fool. She needed to take a hold of herself.

  Tot, watching her face, saw the pink rising in her cheeks and the way her brown eyes, already enlarged by the spectacles, brightened. He was not a bad boy but the other boys influenced him to some extent at his school. They seemed to think servant girls were fair game. His feelings were mixed, however. After all, Lottie was his mother’s friend, and in any case, no longer a servant girl.

  Lottie, for her part, was young and curiously naive, considering her encounters with Alf Green. She was halfway to falling in love with him, but still determined to put her writing career first.

  ‘Let’s take a walk, Lottie,’ he said suddenly, then looked at Eliza. ‘That would be all right, wouldn’t it, Mother? The fresh air will give us an appetite for tea.’

  ‘Oh, but …’ Lottie said.

  ‘That would be grand,’ Eliza declared, brushing aside Lottie’s protest. ‘Go on, it will do you good after that stuffy office.’

  As Lottie went back into the hall to pick up her shawl and bonnet, Eliza whispered to Tot, ‘You behave yourself, mind.’

  Tot’s expression of outraged innocence was a sight to see.

  They walked along, heading generally towards the Wear, then along the banks as far as the footpath allowed, keeping a small gap between them until the path became narrow and the way uneven. Tot took hold of her arm just above the elbow and guided her along so as to avoid the roots of the trees leaning over above them. She was very conscious of his fingers through the thin stuff of her sleeve. No one had ever treated her like this – as though she were a lady – and she felt confused.

  ‘Let’s sit down and rest for a minute or two,’ he said, leaning even closer towards her so that their faces were very close together. And this was Tot, Eliza’s son whom she had known for years, she thought. No, she couldn’t do this, she could not indeed.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I have to get on.’

  ‘Just for a minute?’ he coaxed. ‘Tell me about your work at the newspaper.’

  But she had pulled away from him and was hurrying along the path to where steps led up to the bridge over the Wear. Suddenly something had reminded her of Alf Green.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Did you enjoy your walk?’ Eliza asked as Lottie walked into the kitchen, still wearing her bonnet and shawl. ‘Where’s Tot?’

  ‘He’s coming. Only I had to get on. I must go back and do some work.’

  ‘Not without your tea, surely? I’ve made egg and bacon pie – your favourite!’

  ‘Mrs Price gives us supper. She might be annoyed if I said I’d already eaten. I should have told her, you see.’

  ‘A cup of tea and a scone won’t hurt. Howay, take your bonnet off,’ Eliza insisted.

  Lottie divested herself of her outdoor things and hung them up in the hall, thinking she could not offend Eliza. She was still in the hall when the door opened and Bertha Carr came in, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked and in an all-enveloping cloak.

  Lottie’s pulse, which had begun racing inexplicably, settled down. For a moment she had thought it was Tot and she wasn’t quite ready to meet him again, not yet.

  ‘Now then, Lottie,’ said Bertha by way of greeting. She too took off her outdoor things and Lottie saw she was quite advanced in pregnancy.

  Lottie murmured a greeting and smiled at the girl who had rescued her when she had run away from Alf Green and didn’t have anywhere to go. There was another bond between them: they were both workhouse children.

  ‘Eliza has been baking,’ she said, just above a whisper and Bertha smiled in understanding. Eliza’s pastry could be as tough and flat as cardboard or as light and fluffy as Bertha’s. It all depended on how long her mind wandered as she stood by the table with her hands in the mixture. This time Eliza’s pastry was a success. It smelled wonderful and tasted even better.

  ‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said to Bertha, while sliding a generous slice of pie on to her plate. ‘That Mrs Carr let you out, I mean.’

  Bertha’s mother-in-law and Charlie himself thought a woman in an ‘interesting condition’ should hide away from the outside world until the baby was born.

  Bertha nodded. ‘Aye, I know. But they are out visiting themselves. They’ve gone to see her brother, who is ailing. I slipped out while I had the chance. I’ll be back before they are: the brother lives up the dale, between Stanhope and Rookhope. I reckon they won’t be back for hours and hours.’

  Lottie’s thoughts began to slip away as she thought of a plot for a new story, one where a young mother comes into labour when she is on her own, and her neighbours did not even know she was expecting a baby. She could weave an exciting tale around that, she reckoned.

  ‘You have to have some fresh air and exercise,’ said Eliza judiciously. This was the new thinking in midwifery circles.

  ‘I’ll walk back with you, Lottie. When you’re ready,’ Tot’s voice whispered in her ear. Lottie jumped and spilt her tea into her saucer. She had not even heard him come in and it flustered her.

  ‘No,’ she said, quite loudly, so that the two women glanced at her in surprise.

  ‘I would rather go on my own. I have things to do.’

  She stood up. ‘I’d best be away,’ she said abruptly and fled.

  ‘Lottie,’ Tot began, prepared to argue and insist, but it was too late, she had gone. He smiled a secret smile.

  The two women looked at each other in understanding. ‘I reckon Lottie has a soft spot for your lad and he knows it,’ Bertha said quietly, leaning over and speaking in Eliza’s ear.

  ‘Aye well, she’ll get over it,’ Eliza replied. ‘He has his way to make in the world; he wants nowt with lasses for a few years yet.’

  ’Are you talking about me?’ asked Tot. He was busy cutting himself a large slice of pie, before sitting down and sinking his teeth into it.

  ‘Never you mind,’ his mother answered. ‘Eat your tea and go on upstairs and finish your weekend task.’

  Tot grimaced. He was allowed to come home each Saturday at midday until Sunday evening suppertime, but he had to write an essay or complete a maths problem before his return.

  Lottie wandered across the city, down the hill and up the next one, on her way to her lodgings in Amy Yard. As she walked, she thought about Tot. By, he was a bonnie lad, he was indeed. But he knew it too, even if he was cloistered away in that school in Barnard Castle. Soon he would be out of it and off to university, and it was a good thing too. For no good would come of them going together. His mother would definitely not like it and Eliza had been good to her. Tot had his future to think of and couldn’t be tied down. She too couldn’t allow herself to get sweet on a lad, for she had her dreams of being a writer to follow.

  Lottie sighed heavily as she turned into North Road. A cold wind was blowing and she pulled her shawl closer around herself. It would soon be autumn. Oh indeed, she could think of plenty of reasons why she and Tot should keep away from each other. She had to forget about Tot and concentrate on her work and she would. The future beckoned and Tot could not be a part of it.

  The house in Amy’s Yard was quiet except for the murmur of voice
s from behind the door of Mrs Price’s parlour, which was not quite shut. The lodgers were eating their supper. Lottie went into the room, apologizing for being late, and ate some cold beef and pickles followed by rice pudding and stewed prunes.

  Afterwards she ran up the stairs to her room and took off her outdoor things, before settling down at the table by the window and opening her exercise book. She stared out over the rolling fields and woods, not even seeing the colours darken and the mists rise as the sun went down. She was plotting her story. She picked up a pencil and began to write, stopping only to light her stub of a candle with a lucifer. By the time the stub was finished, so was the story and Mrs Price was banging the gong in the hall, calling her lodgers down to a cup of tea before bed.

  ‘I’ve brought in my new short story, Mr Jeremiah,’ said Lottie, as she stood before the editor’s desk.

  ‘You worked over the weekend then.’ Jeremiah Scott sat back in his chair and gazed at his newest recruit. ‘I’m not sure if you should have been working on a Sunday,’ he went on, but his look was far from disapproving and his blue eyes twinkled.

  ‘Oh no, I finished it on Saturday evening,’ Lottie hurried to explain.

  Jeremiah laughed. ‘I’m not a strict believer in Sabbath observance, don’t worry. But I don’t want you turning up to start a new week already tired.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m not. Tired, I mean.’

  ‘Good. Leave the manuscript with me then. I’ll look at it when I have time.’

  Feeling a bit deflated, Lottie left the office. Of course, she told herself, it was the start of a new week and Mr Jeremiah had work to do and downstairs George Petty, the reporter, was waiting.

  ‘Come on, young Lottie, you and I are off to the magistrates’ court to see who is up before the beak. The boss says I have to take you with me, so you just watch me and keep quiet, m’dear, mebbe you’ll learn something.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind, George,’ Mr Jeremiah said, appearing on the stairs behind Lottie. ‘I think I’ll take Lottie to the magistrates’ court and show her how to go on. You don’t mind hanging around the office doing a few odd jobs, do you?’

  George looked slightly startled but agreed to the change in plan and Lottie found herself following Mr Jeremiah out of the office.

  Jeremiah stuffed his pencil behind his ear and his notebook in the pocket of his all-enveloping raincoat, which he wore all the time when outside in the open air unless the temperature soared to the eighties, which didn’t happen very often in Durham. He marched off towards Elvet, where the prison and magistrates’ court were situated. Lottie trotted behind him, tying the ribbons of her bonnet as she went.

  First in the dock were two men who had assaulted a policeman while they were being removed from the Bottle Makers’ Arms at Seaham Harbour. They were seamen from one of the collier boats, which plied its trade between Seaham and London. Lottie watched them as they stood in the dock. It was easy to see they were seamen, with their weather-beaten complexions and rough jerseys. They got short shrift from the magistrates, who fined them twenty shillings and costs or the option of seven days hard labour.

  Lottie had her notebook and was trying to take down all the facts as Mr Jeremiah was doing, scribbling away in Pitman’s shorthand and covering the pages with a speed Lottie could only envy. She would master it, she would, she told herself. Only it was very hard.

  The next up was an old woman caught begging on the platform of Elvet railway station.

  ‘We cannot have decent people accosted and pestered for money as they go about their business,’ said the magistrate presiding. He was the owner of a local dye works, a Mr Ferens, master of the East Durham hunt. He eyed the woman in the dock with disfavour. She was perhaps sixty years old, though she looked older, with straggly grey hair and a lined face. She was toothless and kept sucking her gums from anxiety.

  ‘No, sir, Your Honour,’ she mumbled. ‘I will not do it again, only I hadn’t eaten for days, I was desperate hungry, Your Honour. I was badly – I couldn’t work.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you must not beg on the streets,’ said the magistrate. He consulted the two others on the bench for a moment. ‘You must apply to the Poor Law Guardians for a place in their institution. Do not appear before the bench again.’

  ‘I won’t go into the workhouse, sir,’ the old woman said, lifting her chin defiantly.

  ‘Be very careful what you say or you will find yourself in the gaol,’ said Mr Ferens. ‘Consider yourself lucky not to be fined ten shillings.’

  The old woman was led away and Lottie was left indignant at her treatment, with pity for the woman and something approaching hatred for the magistrate. There he sat, looking self-satisfied, and she would dearly love to hit him in his fat belly with her fist. Or tweak his nose or stand up in the reporters’ box and give him a piece of her mind. She could see it in her mind’s eye, her telling him what she thought of him and everyone in court cheering, even the lawyers and the bobbies, and Mr Ferens would be mortified, oh aye, he would.

  ‘Lottie! Will you listen to me?’ Suddenly Mr Jeremiah’s voice penetrated her consciousness. ‘Don’t sit there dreaming. I want you to write a report about Mrs Betts.’

  ‘Mrs Betts?’ Lottie was mystified.

  ‘That old woman vagrant. Lottie, do pay attention.’

  ‘Was that her name? I did pay attention. I thought the poor thing should have been listened to with a bit of sympathy, not threatened with gaol.’

  ‘Did you now? Well, I’m telling you, you will never make a reporter unless you get the facts and report them even-handedly. Now listen to what’s going on, girl! You didn’t even have her name, for goodness sake!’

  ‘I will, I’m sorry. I got all the rest, sir, I did truly.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He glanced at her notebook: there were a few lines scrawled there. ‘Well make sure you get all the facts this time.’

  Another defendant was being led into the dock, this time a burly young miner in a crumpled pair of trousers and red braces over a white, collarless shirt.

  The clerk to the court read out the charge. ‘Albert Dick. Drunk and disorderly, Your Honour.’

  Mr Ferens was frowning down at a paper on his desk. ‘It says here you were rolling about in the road at five o’clock on Sunday morning singing an obscene song and disturbing the peace.’ He stared at the prisoner. ‘Sunday morning,’ he repeated. ‘The Sabbath day!’

  ‘Eeh, no Your Honour, I was singing “Cushy Butterfield”. It’s not obscene, nay, it is not,’ the prisoner said earnestly. ‘I’ll sing it for you if you like. “She’s a braw lass and a bonnie lass and she …”’

  His voice was loud but quite tuneful and the reporters grinned at each other. The magistrate was not amused.

  ‘Be quiet!’ he shouted and the miner obediently stopped singing. In the end, he was sentenced to seven days in custody. Lottie licked her pencil and scribbled in her notebook, ‘Albert Dick, miner. Seven days. Drunk and disorderly.’

  ‘Are you sure you got the facts?’ Jeremiah asked. He had been watching Lottie’s vivid little face as different expressions chased themselves over it. Behind the glasses her eyes were shining warmly.

  ‘I did,’ Lottie replied and handed over her notebook. Oh, but she had a lot more in her head than on the page, thought Lottie. She could write a story about the people in the magistrates’ court, she could indeed. Or a few short stories.

  ‘You’ll have to learn shorthand,’ said Jeremiah.

  ‘I will. As soon as I can afford Mr Pitman’s book.’

  ‘I’ll lend you mine,’ Jeremiah offered. ‘It’s a bit dog-eared but still readable.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Jeremiah.’ Lottie was delighted. She smiled at him mistily before putting taking off her spectacles and wiping them, then putting them back on her nose. The problem was that she needed them to see the people in the court but she had to take them off to read and write.

  She was a bonnie little lass, Jeremiah told himself. A neat little figure sh
e had an’ all.

  ‘Howay then, I’m a bit peckish. We’ll get a penny dip at the butchers over the bridge on the way back. I haven’t time for a proper dinner.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I’m buying,’ he said, anticipating her objections. Anyone could see the lass had next to nothing.

  They sat on the steps of the statue of Lord Londonderry on his horse in the marketplace to eat their dips. The place where Lottie had sat years ago when she ran away from Alf Green, she reflected. By, she’d done the right thing there, she had indeed.

  Mr Jeremiah was a lovely man, she thought. He was trying to put her at her ease, she knew that. Why else would a great man like a newspaper editor sit on the steps of a statue and eat a sandwich for anyone to see?

  ‘In the usual way of things, any work you do while being employed by the Post belongs to the newspaper, Lottie,’ said Jeremiah. ‘I thought you understood that.’

  Lottie stared at him, then at her manuscript on the desk before him. Oh, she was simple-minded, she should have known, she should have read the terms of her indenture. How would she manage?

  Jeremiah studied her face as conflicting emotions came and went on it. She was so open; he could see all she was thinking. He looked across at his father, who was standing by the window of his office looking out across the city streets to the wooded hills beyond.

  ‘Father?’ he said and Mr Scott senior turned back to face the room. He knew what his son was asking, though not a word was spoken. They both knew Lottie was talented; they also knew she had only what she could earn. When she finished her apprenticeship, albeit in seven years time, they would want her to write for them, even if only on an occasional basis. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I think we can afford to pay Lottie something for the work she has done out of hours,’ he said and Jeremiah nodded.

  Lottie was overwhelmed with relief. ‘I’d be so grateful, Mr Jeremiah, I would,’ she said. ‘I’ll do my best for you, truly.’

  ‘Indeed you will or you’ll find yourself in more trouble than you can imagine,’ Jeremiah replied drily. ‘Now be off with you. George will be writing up the court notes and you will watch and help where necessary.’