The Wrong Side of Happiness

by Tania Crosse

  ‘That be my last warnin’!’ Enid hissed, and then hurried off before Mrs Drake noticed what had happened.

  Tresca bent down to rub her shin. It was already tender to touch and would come up in a nasty bruise. Oh, damn Enid Turnbull. But nothing would stop her in her quest to see her father again.

  ‘Phew, another day over.’

  It was seven o’clock in the evening, and an hour before the inmates would be ordered into bed. Tresca sank on to the edge of the bed, since they were not permitted to lie down. Although every muscle in her body ached and she yearned to spread herself on the thin straw mattress, it was her favourite time of the day. Mrs Solloway had noticed the friendship that was developing between the hard-working new girl and the young cripple, and had rewarded the good behaviour of both parties by allowing them to occupy adjacent beds.

  Opposite her, Lucy stretched wearily and pulled off her cap, shaking her spiky dome of dark hair. ‘S’ppose I’d better brush out the lice,’ she said glumly, having a good scratch. ‘You got any o’ they buggers yet?’

  ‘Sh!’ Tresca warned, although she wanted to laugh. ‘Don’t let Matron or Mrs Drake hear you using such language. You’ll be punished.’

  ‘I’s not that daft!’ Lucy grinned back. ‘I looked fust. Neither o’ them is yere.’

  Tresca studied her friend’s cheeky face and couldn’t help a quiet chuckle. She really liked Susan Grey and was enthralled with her stories of her travels whenever they had a chance to chat. But it was with Lucy that she was able to snatch the odd moment of fun. It felt as if there was some intangible thread that linked them together. Lucy was like some little mascot weaving mysteriously in and out of every room in the vast, lugubrious building, accepted and invisible. She had a pert, pretty heart-shaped face, and Tresca contemplated her with a wistful sigh.

  ‘Haven’t you ever wondered what it’s like to have hair?’ Tresca took off her own cap and put her hand up to her cropped head to ensure that what she had left was still there. ‘I feel naked and so degraded like this.’

  Lucy merely shrugged. ‘S’ppose I’s used fer it. It grew a bit that time when I were in service, but it were niver long enough fer tie back or ort like that. An’ I guesses it niver will.’

  Gazing at her new friend, Tresca suddenly felt overtaken by some powerful force that was stronger than she was. ‘Let’s make a pact,’ she whispered with such conviction that it astounded even herself. ‘We’ll always help each other, come what may.’

  Lucy blinked at her in astonishment and then threw up her head with a roar of laughter. ‘An’ what ’elp does you think us can give each other in yere? An’ don’t let no one ’ear you talk like that. They’ll put you in wi’ the imbeciles!’

  Tresca blushed to the roots of her shorn hair. ‘No they won’t. But I mean it. Help each other just in little ways. But always.’

  Lucy screwed up her nose. ‘Fine by me. But us doesn’t need no pact fer that. Us’d do that anyways, wud’n us?’

  Tresca smiled bashfully. ‘Yes, we would.’ She glanced around the room with an aimless sigh as sad figures moved about it like ghosts. It seemed so pointless. So numbing. ‘I wish we could read books,’ she complained listlessly.

  ‘You can read the Bible,’ Lucy pointed out, trying to be helpful.

  ‘No, I mean people like Dickens and Hardy.’

  Lucy’s eyes widened in incomprehension. ‘’Oo?’

  ‘Charles Dickens. You must have heard of him. His books are hard to read, but I understand most of it. He wrote Oliver Twist, about a little boy in the workhouse. And then there’s Thomas Hardy. His stories are more romantic. I could tell you some of them if you like.’

  ‘No, tell me the one ’bout the work’ouse.’ Lucy bent forward, her eyes shining like stars.

  ‘Well, I might not remember the details exactly, but it’ll be near enough. It were one dark and raining night in the city of London. A young girl hammered on the door of the workhouse. She were all alone and nobody knew who she were. But she were in a terrible state and she were having a baby—’

  ‘You means it were comin’, like?’ Lucy’s eyes grew wider.

  ‘Yes. She were in such a bad way that they took her in. And although the baby survived, she didn’t.’

  ‘You means she died, just like my mother?’

  ‘I’m afeared she did,’ Tresca said gently. ‘But the baby were a boy, not a girl like you. They never discovered who the mother were, but she had a locket around her neck that the woman who were looking after her stole. Remember that because it’s important later on in the story. Anyway, the workhouse master, Mr Bumble he’s called, he named the baby Oliver Twist. And Oliver grew up in the workhouse just like you. One day, the other boys dared him to ask for more gruel. Mr Bumble were furious and punished Oliver, and—’

  She broke off as two other women sidled up to listen. Tresca felt oddly embarrassed, but she had started the tale for Lucy and felt she had to go on. She cleared her throat and began anew.

  ‘So, Mr Bumble apprenticed Oliver to a horrible undertaker who treated him worse than ever. He were made to sleep—’

  By the time they were ordered to ready themselves for bed, almost everyone in the dormitory had been listening, enthralled and mesmerized. Even Mrs Solloway was stood in the doorway, her face intrigued. She might even have let Tresca go on another five minutes, but rules were rules when she had so many inmates in her charge.

  ‘You will go on wi’ the story tomorrow?’ someone asked.

  ‘Of course I will if you want me to.’

  ‘To think a famous book were written about people like us,’ someone else muttered as they dispersed, their heads full of the kind Mr Brownlow, the scheming Mr Fagin and the innocent little Oliver. But as she began to undress, Tresca caught the menacing glower thrown at her by Enid Turnbull at the far end of the dormitory, and her pulse throbbed uneasily.

  ‘You will finish off the story tonight, won’t you?’ Lucy asked, and several voices echoed her question.

  ‘Of course. I’m enjoying remembering the story myself. I’m just going to use the closet and I’ll be back.’

  ‘Oh good,’ the eager inmates chorused.

  Tresca smiled at them and made for the door, her spirits revived by what had become an evening ritual over the last few days. It made the long hours of back-breaking toil more bearable and, what was more, Mrs Solloway seemed to approve wholeheartedly.

  Lucy watched Tresca go, almost jumping up and down with excitement. What was to happen to little Oliver? She prayed he ended up having a better life than she had. She was so wrapped up in her expectation that she didn’t see Enid Turnbull and her malicious crony follow Tresca outside.

  When Tresca hadn’t reappeared after ten minutes, Lucy couldn’t contain herself any longer and limped out to the water closets. The unearthly scream that howled from her throat echoed eerily through the bare, hushed rooms of the building, so that Mrs Solloway and Mrs Drake had already come running by the time Lucy stumbled blindly back out into the corridor, jabbering incomprehensibly and gesticulating wildly towards the door to the conveniences.

  ‘Aw, my little princess.’

  Buried deep in some black, sepulchral fog, the familiar voice triggered a sweet, tender dream in her sleeping brain. The memory of something good and strong made her mind claw its way through the darkness to the spangling light at the far end. Her eyelids flickered open and her eyes wandered, confused and uncertain, for a second or two before the beloved face wavered into focus.

  ‘Father?’

  Her voice sounded strange, weak. But there was Emmanuel, his craggy face taut with worry. She felt comforted, cradled in peace. Her father was there and nothing else mattered.

  ‘Aw, Dr Greenwood, she’m comin’ round.’

  ‘Glad to see you back with us, young lady,’ she heard another voice say. ‘Now, this might seem silly to you, but can you tell me who you are and where you are? And who’s this?’

  ‘Tresca Ladycott,’ she
murmured, her lips feeling like rubber. ‘I’m in the workhouse. I was about to go on with Oliver Twist. But I can’t remember . . . And this is my dear father, Emmanuel. And . . . oh, my head hurts.’

  ‘And I’m afraid you’re bruised all over as well,’ the doctor informed her. Then his expression changed and he pulled in his chin. ‘Do you know who did this to you?’

  Tresca frowned, feeling an intense soreness high up on her forehead. ‘No,’ she answered falteringly. ‘I really don’t remember anything.’

  ‘Well, something might come back to you. If it does, let us know. We need to find the culprits and call in the constable. Now, I’ll leave you with your father, just for a few minutes, mind. The blow that knocked you out split the skin and could do with a couple of stitches before it swells up too much. I’ll give you a few drops of laudanum, and that will probably make you too drowsy to talk anyway.’

  He must have moved away as Tresca wasn’t aware of him any longer. All she could see was Emmanuel’s softly smiling face illuminated in the sepia glimmer from an oil lamp placed close to the bed, and she felt his love flowing through her.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked him.

  ‘’Bout nine o’clock, I reckons. Us’d just got into bed when I were sent for.’

  ‘I’ve not been unconscious long, then.’

  ‘An hour or so, I thinks. Aw, princess, I ’ates to see you like this. An’ all your beautiful ’air all gone. An’ all my fault.’

  ‘No. No, don’t you say that. You’m here, and that’s all I care about. And now we know you’m not well, at least we know there’s a reason why you’ve not been yourself of late. So . . . how have you been?’ she scarcely dared to ask.

  ‘Aw, not so bad, cheel. A bit achy, but nort more than that. Put us on what they calls light duties, they ’as. I’s larnin’ to make boots. Fancy that. A new trade at my age. Better than bein’ out in all weathers shiftin’ muck, I can tell you. An’ the doctor’s ordered me the invalid diet, an’ all, cuz o’ what I’s got. So altogether, I cas’n complain. Just misses my princess, that’s all.’

  A forlorn sigh breathed from Tresca’s lungs. ‘I miss you, too. But I’ve been working hard and being very good so as they might let us see each other.’

  ‘So what work you bin doin’?’

  ‘Laundry,’ she grimaced. ‘But I’ve made some friends. Particularly a crippled girl called Lucy. And in the evenings, I’ve been retelling the story of Oliver Twist. The book by Charles Dickens,’ she explained as she saw Emmanuel’s blank expression.

  ‘Oh,’ he nodded, then added brightly, ‘Always said that cliver brain o’ yourn’d come in useful one day. Gets that from your mother, you does, not me.’

  Tresca smiled, her heart full. Such a good man was her father, despite his faults. But no one was perfect.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I must ask you to leave now, Mr Ladycott,’ Dr Greenwood said as he reappeared carrying a little glass of liquid. ‘I’ll arrange for you to see your daughter each evening until she’s better.’

  ‘Wud you? Aw, thank you, Doctor,’ Emmanuel replied, bending down to place a kiss on Tresca’s cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

  Tomorrow. Oh, yes. She couldn’t wait.

  ‘Tresca! Aw, I’s proper pleased fer see you back! You looks so much better. Covered in blood your face were when I found you. Aw, bit of a mark there’ll be, but it’ll fade, I expects.’

  ‘It’s good to see you, too, Lucy,’ Tresca grinned. ‘But at least they let my father in to see me every night.’

  ‘Aw, that’s cuz you’m so good. But you still looks pale. Matron!’ she called with a familiarity only she could get away with, catching Mrs Solloway’s eye as she passed by the open door of the dormitory.

  ‘Yes, Lucy?’

  ‘You’m not gwain fer put Tresca back fer work in the laundry, are you? She’m still not fully better.’

  Mrs Solloway smiled with unusual indulgence. ‘Mrs Drake is going to put her in the sewing room. You can sew, Ladycott?’

  ‘Yes, I can, Matron.’

  ‘But I’s got a better idea. I ’ardly larnt nort from Miss Miller in the schoolroom. She’s far too old fer teach. Cud’n Tresca take her place? I’s sure she’d be much better.’

  Mrs Solloway’s face stilled in astonishment, but then she cocked an eyebrow. ‘Do you know, that’s not a bad idea. Do you think you could teach, Ladycott?’

  Tresca was utterly taken aback, but the proposal was certainly appealing. ‘Well, yes, I think so. I always loved school myself and I’m sure I could pass it on. Reading, writing and arithmetic, and a little history and geography. And I’d be good at nature, having worked on farms all my life.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how much the little tackers would take in. Not very bright, some of them.’

  ‘That’s cuz they’ve not ’ad Tresca fer teach ’em!’ Lucy declared emphatically.

  Mrs Solloway failed to suppress a smile. ‘Well, you can start tomorrow, and we can see how it goes.’ And she left the two girls hugging each other.

  ‘Told you us cud ’elp each other, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but I never expected ort like that. You are clever, Lucy. I’ll have to think of a way to pay you back one day.’

  ‘You doesn’t ’ave fer.’ Lucy shrugged in her funny, unique way. ‘We’m friends anyway.’

  Lucy didn’t realize how grateful she was, Tresca mused. She had been dreading going back to work in the laundry, not because of the gruelling labour, but because of Enid Turnbull. She had pretended she couldn’t remember who had attacked her, but she knew all too well. Now she wouldn’t be torn between working hard so that she might be allowed to see her father occasionally, and slacking off so that she wouldn’t risk further reprisals.

  Oh, Lucy, you’re an angel!

  Fifteen

  ‘Once four is four, two fours are eight—’

  ‘Ladycott?’

  Mrs Drake came in through the schoolroom door, followed by the ancient Miss Miller tottering on her sticks. Tresca at once broke off from leading the chanting of the times tables, and the children’s voices petered out in response. Oh, Lord, did they not approve of her classroom methods? In the few weeks she had been teaching, the children had come on in leaps and bounds. But now it looked as if it was all over.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Drake?’ she answered, her mouth suddenly dry.

  ‘You’re wanted in Matron’s office. Miss Miller will take over from you.’

  Tresca’s feet dragged as she walked down the corridor. Surely she wasn’t going to be put back to work in the laundry – to face the wrath of Enid Turnbull again? Would she be forced to reveal the identity of her assailant after all? A vile, sinking feeling squeezed her stomach as she knocked on Matron’s door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Tresca’s heart rose to her mouth as she obeyed. But she was so astounded when she opened the door that for a full thirty seconds she stood dithering on the threshold. Mrs Ellacott was sat in a chair, grinning broadly at her.

  ‘Aw, Tresca, I’s that glad to have found you!’

  ‘Mrs Ellacott’s come to take you away, Ladycott. She has a job for you as a dairymaid. Pity, really. You were doing a sterling job as our school mistress. But if someone offers you work, you have to take it or leave. It’s the rules.’

  Tresca continued to stare at them. A job with the homely Mrs Ellacott. Leave the workhouse. It was almost too much to take in.

  ‘Sally’s mother died, so she’s gone back to look after the family. An’ I always said that if I ever needed a new dairymaid, it’d be you.’

  ‘You are pleased, I take it, Ladycott? Not that you have any choice in the matter.’

  Tresca had been too shocked to utter a word, but now her thoughts were beginning to click into place. ‘Yes, of course,’ she stammered. ‘I’m delighted. It’s just . . . so unexpected. B–but what about my father? Will he be able to come, too?’

  A nervous hope had spiralled up inside her, but the next
instant it was dashed to smithereens. ‘I’s afeared I cas’n afford to offer him a home an’ all, cheel,’ Jane Ellacott replied, her voice portraying genuine regret.

  ‘And don’t forget your father is unwell. There could be medicines and doctors’ fees to pay. If he stays here, such things will be free. And he isn’t your dependant, strictly speaking, so he’s not obliged to leave the workhouse if you do.’

  Tresca lowered her eyes. ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

  ‘Bearing in mind he is unwell, we might be able to stretch the rules and let you visit once in a while.’

  ‘Would you? That’s very kind.’

  ‘You’ve worked hard, Ladycott. And we’re not entirely without compassion, you know. Not Mr Solloway and me.’

  ‘And can I say goodbye to Lucy, please?’

  ‘If you’re quick. We mustn’t keep Mrs Ellacott waiting. I’ll have your own clothes brought out of storage and you can change in the dormitory.’

  Tresca hurried out of the door, her emotions turned upside down. To be freed from the workhouse when she had been there little over two months was wonderful news. But her elation was tainted with sadness. She had hoped to be leaving in the spring with her father, taking him out to the countryside again, which would surely cure him of his cancer. And she would miss Lucy so much, as well.

  She found Lucy at her work in the kitchens, doing her best to wash up the huge pans with her crooked left hand. Tresca had to explain to the formidable head cook that she had Matron’s permission, and met the woman’s steely gaze with equal defiance.

  ‘Aw, I’s that ’appy fer you!’ Lucy cried. ‘Dream fer iver, I will, ’bout all they stories you’ve teld us.’

  ‘And I’ll never forget you, I promise. And one day . . . one day . . .’ Tresca declared, her eyes gleaming with determination.

  But Lucy shrugged. ‘One day can be a long time comin’. You just make a good life fer yersel’, Tresca Ladycott.’

  They hugged, and Tresca dragged herself away, biting back her tears. She had never dreamed she would leave a little piece of herself behind in the workhouse. But when, within the hour, she found herself dressed in her own shabby clothes and walking down Bannawell Street’s steep hill sharing Jane Ellacott’s umbrella, her heart at last began to dance in her chest.