Workhouse Child

by Maggie Hope

  ‘You’re talking soft an’ all,’ said Harry, which was just about the worst thing he could have said if he wanted to influence Lottie. She bridled, and set off over Elvet Bridge, at a faster pace than the scullers below. Harry followed, as frustrated as ever.

  Later, when all the work was done, Eliza and her baby settled for the night and Peter working on union papers in the sitting room – something about a sliding scale arrangement, whatever that was – Lottie sat by the open window of her attic bedroom, looking out over the city.

  Here she was, almost seventeen and she still had not made any progress towards her goal in life. Oh, she had written a few short stories and had even sent them off to publishers but they had been returned with notes such as, ‘Too fanciful, unbelievable,’ or, ‘Not true to life.’

  But she had a copy of the Durham Post before her on the rickety little table she had placed by the window and she had read it through and through. Josiah Bateman had sent it to her and on an inside page he had marked a notice advertising a competition they were having for a short story. The prize was ten pounds and a free place on a writing course to be held in the Town Hall, and the tutor was an English graduate of the university.

  ‘You can do it, Miss Lonsdale,’ the note that had come with the paper read. ‘You have the ability. Just write about something you know and keep it simple and true to life.’

  Oh, she would do it, she would. She had bought decent foolscap paper from Andrews’ shop in Saddler Street and when she had the story written in her exercise book she would copy it out carefully using the foolscap and send it in to the Durham Post. Only it had to be in by Tuesday and she had not even begun it, and it was already Sunday night.

  The moon shone through the attic window and illuminated the empty page of her exercise book. She didn’t even know what she was going to write about. Surely her life, the people she knew about, were far too ordinary for a paper that was read by educated folk, university folk, the ‘others’ who lived in the city but separately, apart from the miners and other workers?

  ‘Keep it simple,’ Josiah Bateman had written. ‘And about what you know.’ Well, she would, but what could she write about? The workhouse? That would be altogether too much like a copy of Charles Dickens and a presumption. She could write about her life with Alf Green, she thought. But no, she couldn’t, she could not.

  The moon was sliding behind a cloud; now she had to light the precious bit of candle she had saved. She would do it. She came to a decision suddenly. She dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write. She wrote until the candle flickered and died and she could barely see the page she was writing on, let alone what she was writing. But she had finished her story.

  The following night, Lottie copied her story on the good foolscap paper and printed at the top, ‘The Bonnie Pit Laddie’, by L. Lonsdale. She wrapped it in brown paper salvaged from the parcel of groceries delivered by the Co-operative store van, and wrote the address of the Durham Post on the outside.

  ‘Is it all right if I go for the messages first thing this morning?’ she asked Eliza. Eliza was at last allowed out of bed and was sitting by the fire in the front room, rocking the cradle gently with one foot. She was feeling much better herself, but of course was not allowed out among other people, for she had not as yet been ‘churched’, something that was ritually necessary after a birth before a new mother could mix. The plan was to have the baby baptized the following Sunday in Elvet Chapel and the mother ‘churched’ at the same time.

  ‘Go on then,’ Eliza replied. ‘Will you fetch me a bottle of gripe water for Anne Elizabeth? I fear I should not have eaten cabbage yesterday, the bairn’s suffering for it. It must have affected my milk.’

  ‘I will.’

  Lottie took her basket and list of messages and sped up the stairs to put her story in the bottom of the basket, for she had not told anyone what she was doing. She let herself out and sped along to North Road and the offices of the Durham Post and slipped her story through the letterbox. There, she thought, feeling slightly light-headed. She had been in time.

  Twelve

  ‘There’s a letter for you, Lottie,’ said Peter one morning a few weeks later. He smiled at her as he brought in the post from the front doormat. ‘It looks very official, a brown envelope. I thought it must be union business, I nearly opened it.’

  Lottie suddenly felt a great fluttering in the region of her stomach. She took the envelope and stared at it. It was addressed to an L. Lonsdale, Esquire.

  ‘Whoever it’s from thinks you are a man, Lottie.’ Peter studied her small, trim figure and the heart-shaped face framed by soft, brown hair. The spectacles perched on the end of her nose seemed to suit her somehow, he thought. In any case, they made her dark eyes appear even larger than they actually were. It was the first time he had really noticed what she looked like since he had met her, and there was no doubt in his mind that she was growing into a very nice-looking woman.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it, Lottie?’ asked Eliza.

  Lottie looked up from her scrutiny of the letter, her face rosy. ‘No, I’ll read it later,’ she said. ‘After breakfast.’ She pushed the letter into her apron pocket, which only served to make the Colliers glance at each other with raised eyebrows. Lottie was not usually the secretive type, thought Eliza.

  Lottie had been secretive about the competition, though. If the editor of the Durham Post had written to say she was no good and would she not bother him again, something she thought a real possibility, she could not bear anyone else knowing of her humiliation. Maybe she should stick to skivvying, she thought. She stared at her plate of porridge. It was good porridge, with real milk from the dairy and even a sprinkling of sugar, and normally she enjoyed it. The food in this house was the best she had ever eaten. But all she could think of was the letter in her pocket.

  Peter finished his own breakfast and rose to go to the Miners’ Hall in North Road. His mind was already running on the work waiting for him there. He kissed Eliza and the baby and nodded to Lottie. The letter was none of his business anyway.

  Eliza had not forgotten it, though. ‘Go on, go up and read your letter in private,’ she said. ‘I’ll side the table. I’ll manage fine on my own for a while.’ Indeed, Eliza was looking well and full of energy. Little Anne was a good baby and little trouble. Already she slept through the night, and without her nursing to occupy her mind and body and with Tot away at school, Eliza had begun to work alongside Lottie.

  Back in the attic bedroom, Lottie sat down at her little table by the window and opened her letter. There was but one sheet of paper, headed with a stamped the Durham Post, and her heart began to beat wildly as she drew it out.

  Dear Mr Lonsdale, (it read)

  First of all, I am sorry to have to tell you that your story did not win the competition.

  Lottie’s heart plummeted; for a moment she could not see to read the rest of the letter. Her hand fell to her lap. She was not good enough; she would never be able to make her living writing as she had hoped and dreamed.

  Gradually her sight cleared. She was used to disappointments, for hadn’t she had them all her life? Her hand trembled only slightly as she lifted the letter and began to read the rest.

  However, there is no doubt that you have a singular talent, and with nurturing and hard work you should do well. In fact, we intend to print a selection of the entrants to our competition and, with your permission, will include ‘The Bonnie Pit Laddie’.

  I gather that you must be a very young man and we are looking for someone of your calibre to train in our business.

  If you are interested at all in this position, perhaps you would call in at the office this Friday coming at ten o’clock in the morning.

  Your obedient servant,

  Jeremiah Scott (Editor)

  Lottie stared at the letter, reading it over and over. A position on the newspaper? Where she could write for a living? Oh yes, she was interested, she was indeed. Only wait, the editor thou
ght she was a man. He would not want a woman, especially not a seventeen-year-old, uneducated woman. It was no good her hoping he would.

  She stared out of the window at the rooftops of Durham spread below her on the falling ground. It was a fine day: the sky was blue and wisps of smoke curled up from some of the chimneys, making a light haze. In the distance she could see the castle and cathedral even higher and seeming almost like fairy-tale buildings through the haze.

  By, she thought wistfully, her life would be like a fairy tale if she were actually taken on by the editor of the Durham Post, oh yes it would. But she was not going to bank on it; she couldn’t bear the disappointment if she did.

  ‘Lottie? Are you coming down?’

  It was Eliza calling her. Lottie collected her thoughts. She could not sit up here all day, for there was work to do, the messages to fetch. She pushed the letter deep in her apron pocket and went down to the kitchen to wash the breakfast dishes.

  Eliza was breast-feeding the baby, with her shawl drawn modestly over her opened bodice. It was just possible to see the top of little Anne’s head and nothing else, but she was sucking noisily and occasionally giving a tiny grunt.

  ‘I reckon I must have got my dates wrong,’ said Eliza, laughing. ‘She’s far too strong to be much premature.’

  ‘Aye,’ Lottie replied vaguely; she was still dreaming even as she plunged her hands up to the elbows into the soapy water and began to scrub at the porridge bowls.

  ‘Mind,’ said Eliza mildly, ‘you look away with the fairies. That must have been an interesting letter you had.’ She looked across at Lottie enquiringly, but Lottie said nothing. Eliza lifted Anne from her breast and held her over one arm while she rubbed her back. Anne burped and a small trickle of milk ran down from the side of her mouth, which Eliza wiped away with a cloth, before transferring her to the other breast. ‘Well?’

  Lottie looked over her shoulder, her hands still in the ironstone sink. ‘The letter?’ she asked. ‘Aye it was.’

  ‘Aw, howay, Lottie, surely you can tell me, I’m your friend.’

  Lottie took her hands from the sink and dried them on the bottom of her apron. Then she took the letter from the apron pocket.

  ‘You can read it if you like, Eliza.’ She handed it over.

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to pry.’ But Eliza was obviously dying to read it. Even as she spoke, she was opening out the sheet of paper.

  ‘Lottie!’ she cried. ‘By, isn’t that grand? You’ve got a story in the Post! How much do you think they’ll pay you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lottie. In truth she hadn’t even thought of the money she might earn.

  ‘And a job! You know, Lottie, you’re a really clever lass, you deserve something better than scrubbing and polishing for a living.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Nay, we’ll be fine. I’m not going back to work, not while Anne is little. I can stay at home. I wouldn’t dream of holding you back, anyway. Don’t worry about us. I can always get another girl if I do go back to nursing.’

  Also it would mean that Lottie would not be in the house all the time when Tot came home, thought Eliza, but fleetingly. Peter had made her feel slightly guilty for worrying about Tot and Lottie.

  ‘But it’ll likely come to nothing,’ said Lottie as she picked up the porridge pan and began to scrub at the bits of porridge stuck on the sides like glue. ‘The editor thinks I’m a man. He likely wouldn’t want me.’

  ‘Well, you’ll never know until you try, will you?’ said Eliza as she fastened herself up and put the baby against her shoulder to raise any wind.

  The offices of the Durham Post were situated about a fifteen-minute walk from Peter and Eliza’s house, but Lottie set off a good half-hour before ten o’clock, which was when she was supposed to be there. She had hardly slept all night, for her thoughts were a mixture of excitement and dread. One minute she was full of confidence, and the next she was sure the editor would turn her down when he realized she was a woman, and a servant at that.

  It was a quarter to ten when she arrived outside the door. She stared at the wooden plaque bearing the name of the newspaper and, in smaller letters beneath,

  Jeremiah Scott (prop. and editor).

  Mr Scott owned the paper then. He was probably like one of those old gentlemen she saw sometimes, walking in the city wearing a top hat and with a gold watch chain across their waistcoats.

  Lottie turned and walked up the street, glancing at the front of the DMA building. There was a notice about Mr Macdonald MP, something about a public meeting. She paused to read it and as she was doing so, the door opened and Peter Collier came out.

  ‘Now then, Lottie,’ he said. ‘I saw you through the window. Away to see Mr Scott, are you?’

  ‘I am, yes,’ said Lottie.

  ‘Go on then, it’s no good being nervous. I’m sure you’ll be fine, Scott is a nice fellow, you’ll see.’

  ‘He doesn’t know I’m a lass, though,’ said Lottie.

  ‘Ah. Well, he soon will. That is if you ever go in to see him. Go on, he won’t bite. Any road, he likes your story, doesn’t he? Would you like me to walk along with you? I can.’

  ‘No, I’ll be all right.’ Lottie smiled at him and turned to walk back along the street.

  ‘Good luck!’ he called. With him watching her, she walked back to the door of the newspaper office and went in.

  There was a man standing behind a counter looking over his spectacles at her. He was aged about fifty and had bushy side whiskers, contrasting with thin hair on top of his head, and he was holding a sheet of foolscap in his hand.

  ‘Yes, young lady?’

  His observing eyes swept over her, taking in her best cotton shirtwaister and black serge skirt. The skirt had previously belonged to Eliza before she had put on weight and had been much too long for Lottie, so she had altered it. She wore a little bonnet of black straw with a silk carnation on one side, tied under her chin with satin ribbons. She and Eliza had spent most of Thursday evening renovating the bonnet and Lottie had felt quite pleased with the result, but now she was not so sure as she saw the gentleman’s expression as he gazed at it. Still, she lifted her chin and gazed back at him.

  ‘I have come to see Mr Scott, Mr Jeremiah Scott,’ she said and her voice faded into a small squeak on the second ‘Scott’.

  ‘Who?’

  The question was something of an impatient bark. Lottie repeated it, a little too loudly this time.

  ‘Mr Scott is busy. He has an appointment at ten.’

  So it was not him, she thought. ‘I have an appointment with him at ten,’ she said.

  The gentleman stared at her. ‘Your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Miss Lonsdale. Miss Lot … Miss Charlotte Lonsdale,’ she replied and came closer to the counter. She saw that the paper in his hand was her story, ‘The Bonnie Pit Laddie’.

  The gentleman still stared at her. Then he went to a door set in the wall to one side of the counter and opened it.

  ‘Jackson!’ he called and a moment later a young boy came hurrying through.

  ‘Yes, Mr Scott?’ he asked.

  ‘Take the young lady up to see Mr Jeremiah.’

  The boy opened a door in the counter and let Lottie through, with a murmured, ‘This way, miss.’

  Lottie was thoroughly confused by this time. According to the boy, this was Mr Scott. Her brain didn’t seem to be working properly; it was a minute or two before she realized there must be two Mr Scotts. This one stood looking after her over the top of his spectacles as she went through. She glimpsed a very amused expression on his face as he went to the opposite wall and pulled a strange tube from a hole and spoke into it, then laughed. And she felt a spark of annoyance. He had better not be laughing at her.

  She followed the boy up two flights of stairs to the top of the building. On the way they passed the open door of a large room with big printing presses clanking away in it and a couple of men with eye shades tending them. As
they ascended the last flight, the sound of the presses faded away and the noise became not much more than a background murmur. When Jackson knocked and opened a door for her to enter, it was almost gone.

  The room was large and airy and the windows looked out over the city to the hills and fells beyond. In the middle of the room was a large oak desk and behind it sat a man dressed in a tweed suit and floppy bow tie. He rose as she entered but did not smile.

  ‘Miss Lonsdale,’ he said. ‘Come in and sit down.’ He stood as she crossed the room, her boots sinking into a brown, figured carpet, and sat down at a chair pulled up on the opposite side of the desk.

  ‘You are a girl, Miss Lonsdale,’ he stated accusingly. ‘I thought you were a lad.’

  ‘I did not say I was a man, Mr Scott,’ said Lottie. By now she had lost some of her shyness. Any road, she told herself, he was just going to tell her to go back to her kitchen. A heavy disappointment began to settle somewhere over her stomach.

  ‘That is true,’ he admitted as he sat down. He picked up a printed paper and glanced down at it. Lottie watched the top of his head. His hair was a bright tawny colour and he wore it short and combed back, but without any dressing so that the front lock fell forward and he brushed it back with his hand impatiently. His hand had ink stains along the first two fingers but the nails were square and cut short and straight across. She wondered how old he was. Not so old as Peter Collier but older than Tot or Harry. Late twenties, maybe. He looked up suddenly and she blushed to be caught studying him.

  ‘Miss Lonsdale, as I said in my letter, I do think that you have a special talent. I confess I was surprised when my father said you were a girl.’ He stopped and smiled at her, and his smile was friendly enough for the feeling over her stomach to begin to evaporate like mist in the sun.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he commanded.

  ‘Well, I was brought up in the workhouse …’ she began, determined to tell him all. She watched his expression but it did not change. His dark blue eyes showed only interest.