The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

by Freda Lightfoot

  At her brother Dermot’s suggestion, she’d gone knocking on Tyson’s door just a few days ago, spoken to the foreman and got herself some outwork, stitching the soles on to women’s shoes. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. Kate saw this as the first step on her road to freedom; an escape from the Poor Law Guardians who’d largely brought her up after her father died. As a child she’d worked in the mornings on the carding and knitting, learning the basics of the three R’s in the afternoon, if she could stay awake long enough to take anything in, that is. After she left school at twelve she’d been found a bit of domestic work here and there but most people didn’t care to have a pauper child about the place, so it was never easy to make ends meet.

  Only months after Callum had been drowned she’d been forced to move back to Poor House Lane, worse off than ever. Heavily pregnant, she’d been grateful for their care, rough and ready though it might be, if only for the sake of her son who she’d given birth to within these damp, rat infested walls. At least the guardians had provided her with a midwife, seen that her child was born alive and well, and put food in her belly at a time in her short life when she hadn’t cared whether she lived or died, heartbroken as she was over losing her lovely husband.

  Each morning and evening since that day, she’d joined the queue for food at the door of the Poor House which gave the lane it’s name; do her allotted chores, then spend the rest of the day helping Millie to clean the over-crowded room, do the washing and care for her numerous children.

  Desperate as Kate was, and grateful for a roof over her head, she’d somehow never become inured to the squalor of their living quarters: running with damp and vermin and stinking of stale urine, vomit and the sweet sour odour of rotting decay, with Millie making no effort to keep it clean. The state of it still turned her stomach. You could pick the bugs one by one off the crumbling walls, though they as quickly returned; see the cockroaches scurry across the floor; hear the mice and the rats squabbling and squealing.

  ‘We can’t put up with this! The pigs live better, she’d cried, when she’d first clapped eyes on her new quarters. But no one cared about Poor House Lane now that the big new workhouse up on the hill was in operation.

  Millie had simply shrugged her shoulders in helpless defeat, all the fight in her having long since seeped away, destroyed by lack of sustenance and too many demands upon her which she’d no hope of fulfilling. Kate had briskly complained to the overseer, whose response had been the loan of a brush and a bucket of whitewash with the curt instruction to clean it up herself if she wasn’t satisfied. This was accompanied by a lengthy lecture on how she should consider herself fortunate that the Misses Tyson were generous enough to provide such implements for the betterment of the poor.

  ‘The Misses Tyson, whoever they might be, should be ashamed of theirselves for having such shameful places in their fancy town,’ Kate had tartly replied.

  When he heard what she’d done Millie’s husband Clem had ranted and raved at her. Filled with fear for his family, for once, he’d thoroughly lost his temper. ‘Were you trying to get us evicted, was that the way of it?’ he’d roared, his face so scarlet with rage she’d feared he might burst a blood vessel. ‘Where the hell would we go then? Will thee tell me that? In t’gutter? Or have you the ferry fare home to Ireland?’

  That was the moment when Kate had finally realised how very serious her situation was, how she too was trapped with no hope of escape, her future in ruins. She’d no one to rely upon but herself. Worse than that, she had a small baby entirely dependent upon her for survival.

  She’d long ago learned that she couldn’t expect any help from her brother, who never had a penny to his name, wasting it all on beer and the turn of a card, far too much the rabble-rouser to be anything like dependable. It was a wonder he hadn’t ended up on Correction Hill, the fights he got himself into. Being deprived of a father seemed to have affected him badly. Dermot was filled with bitterness, carrying a grudge against society as big as a rock on his skinny young shoulders.

  But for Kate, a lesson had been learned, and from then on she struggled to be as accepting and uncomplaining as everyone else in the yard, although she found it far from easy. She strove to keep herself clean, going frequently to draw water from the Anchorite well on Kirkbarrow, the hill that backed onto Poor House Lane.

  The walk gave her a chance to smell the sweet green grass and breathe fresh, clean air into her lungs. She’d take her time walking back through Vicar’s Fields and think herself in the country. Then, with her face and hands scrubbed till they were red-raw with the effort, she’d spend hours trailing around the streets of Kendal in the vain hope of persuading someone to offer her work. Mostly, they took one look at her tell-tale, institutional clothes and her scrawny appearance, and shut the door in her face.

  Some days though, especially when the rain sheeted down and even the comforting sight of Kendal castle was blotted out by cloud and mist, she’d lose even the will to do that much, and would simply get through the day using as little energy as possible so as not to worsen the constant and gnawing pangs of hunger.

  Oh, but today was different. She at last had a proper job so wasn’t she the lucky one? And even if it was ill paid and Mr Tyson didn’t enjoy a reputation of being the most amenable or caring of employers, it represented a whole new beginning for her, a chance to give her son a better future.

  Her first morning was to be a training session with the foreman. A small, rotund man with a bristly moustache and a manner to match, he had hard, self-seeking eyes, one of them with a slight cast in it, which left Kate unsure as to whether he was looking at her or addressing someone else entirely.

  The sight of this strange little man filled her with trepidation and for some reason she felt reluctant to empty the shabby little workroom with the big counter where he handed out leather, sometimes ready cut into soles, sometimes still in the bend, which was an oddly shaped piece looking as if it came straight from the cow. She hovered uncertainly at the door.

  ‘Well, are you coming in or not? Don’t waste my time if you’re not up to the job. You lasses are too flighty to my mind. Reckoning you want work, and then not turning up for it.’

  The thought of anyone having the energy to be flighty in Poor House Lane struck Kate as so funny that she almost laughed out loud. But managing to keep her gaze downcast, she meekly responded, ‘Sure, I’m a fine worker, so I am.’

  ‘Women never are any use. On the work front, that is.’ And he smirked, giving a dirty little laugh as if he’d said something amusing.

  ‘Well I’m different. So long as I know what’s expected of me.’

  He rubbed the snot from his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Don’t stand about then. Get in here and I’ll show thee what’s what.’

  He made her sit on a stool, pressing himself hard against her back, entrapping her within the circle of his arms as he began to demonstrate the job to her, in a sketchy, hasty sort of way. He smelled strongly of leather, which was not unpleasant, and something else she couldn’t put a name to, that was. As he adjusted her hands, showing her how to hold the shoe he let his own hand slide over her breast, giving it a quick squeeze before circling her waist and finally dipping into her crotch, fondling her with a boldness that shocked her to the core.

  Kate leapt to her feet, knocking away his hand and dropping the shoe and leather sole in her haste to escape his probing fingers.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with yer, girl? Can’t a chap be friendly? You’ll have to learn better if yer to work fer me, lass. Show proper gratitude.’

  ‘And why the hell should I?’ She was breathing hard, her cheeks rosy with outraged fury. But the foreman simply smiled at her, revealing yellowed, tobacco stained teeth.

  ‘Because you don’t want that bairn of yours to starve. I’d say that was as good a reason as any. But it’s no skin off my nose. If you want the job, pick up them uppers and soles and go and get on with it. But you’d do well to mind yer manners
next time, cause I don’t take kindly to uppity girls. There are rules, and if you want work, you have to keep ‘em. Understood?’ His greedy little eyes were narrowed, challenging her to object.

  For a moment, she very nearly did. Kate almost told him to stick his job but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Kirkland Poor House had shut its doors for the last time, and, as had been clearly explained to her, if she wasn’t to end up in a worse situation, sleeping in regimented dormitories in the big Union Workhouse on Kendal Green year after year till she was old and grey, she had no choice but to make a go of this precious opportunity she’d been given. She’d just have to learn how to handle this toad, that was all.

  Her son needed feeding, and there was no one else going to see to him, but her. This was her big chance. Now it was up to her.

  Chapter Two

  The work started well enough. Each week, Kate collected the shoe uppers and leather soles, then set about the task according to the instructions she’d been given. The leather was of the finest quality, soft and supple, and Kate loved the feel of it. Vegetable tanned, with oil and grease and wax rubbed in to give it strength and flexibility, and make it water-resistant, this process was known as currying and could take months as Tyson’s prided themselves on tailoring the finest leathers, calf and kid, to a customer’s specific requirements. They produced a comprehensive range of men’s and women’s shoes and boots as well as bridles, harness and military accoutrements. The uppers were stitched together in a room at the factory but outworkers were used to attach the soles by riveting or stitching. This was to be Kate’s job.

  Dermot too did outwork, usually men’s boots: Hessian, Shooting, Peel Riding boots or Napoleon, and fine workmanship was required. He collected the basic materials from the workshop in exactly the same way, and returned days later with the completed boots ready for polishing and finishing. So as Kate started on her new job, for once in his life her brother came up trumps and carefully demonstrated what she must do. She was grateful for his help since Ned Swainson, the despicable little foreman with the self-satisfied leer and wandering eye, offered no further assistance.

  Even before Kate had experienced Swainson’s too familiar attentions at first hand, she’d been warned of his low opinion of women, of most people, in fact, other than himself. He evidently believed that Tyson’s could not operate without him. It was said that he was so determined to buy himself a life of comfort, that he was filled with a bitter envy for all those more fortunately placed. He was equally contemptuous of those below him, no doubt because they reminded him from whence he’d come, using them for his own ends, greedily making a profit from any little side line he could devise.

  ‘Don’t enquire too closely into them,’ Kate was warned by the other women in the yard. Women such as Sally Sibson, Joan Enderby and Nell Benson.

  ‘Do as yer told and don’t argue. You get off lightly that way,’ was their advice.

  Her first attempt was a mess but she soon began to improve. Had it not been for what she’d learned by watching her late husband work the leather, and from Dermot, she would have been in a complete fog. When Kate took in the batch of finished shoes, she could see at once that Swainson was surprised.

  ‘Harrumph,’ he muttered, turning the shoes over and over with hands deeply ingrained with the dyes used for the leather, evidently seeking some way to find fault with her work. ‘Quite the little clever-clogs, eh?’ He sounded disappointed that she’d done so well, thus disproving his theory that women weren’t up to the job.

  Aware of Dermot standing quietly beside her with his own load, and, anxious not to upset the foreman since she needed regular work from him, Kate hastened to set the record straight with what she believed to be a proper show of modesty. ‘Not really, me brother here showed me how to do it, as it was me first time.’

  ‘You could have asked me, girl, if there were summat yer didn’t understand. We wouldn’t want a nice li’le lass like you fretting, now would we?’ He accompanied this offer with a smirk that chilled her, so that when he slipped a hand consolingly about her slender waist, letting his fingers creep up and squeeze the fullness of her breast beneath her arm, Kate managed to ‘accidentally’ step on his toes with the heel of her boot. It gave her immense satisfaction to see him struggle to disguise the flicker of pain that came into his eye, but the flare of anger was all too evident.

  He stepped back, scowling at her, smoothed down his moustache with two brown stained fingers and then glowered at Dermot. ‘Happen I should pay him then, and not you, if he made ‘em.’

  ‘Oh no, he only demonstrated. I stitched them.’ It had been harder on her hands than Kate had expected: waxing the thread, holding the two parts of the shoe together with a special tool called a clam, and pushing the hog hair bristle which served as a needle through the tiny holes she’d pricked with the awl in the stiff leather, and she certainly wanted to make sure that she got her just rewards for her labours. ‘It’s all my own work, isn’t it, Dermot?’

  Before her brother had the chance to reply, the foreman brusquely interrupted. ‘Happen he’s got too much time on his hands if he can afford to give demonstrations, and he’s not doing his own work right.’

  ‘Ye’ll find no fault with them,’ Dermot said, setting three pairs of boots on the bench before him. ‘My work is as fine as ye’ll get in London Town, so it is.’

  Swainson harumphed again as he snatched up the boots and turned them over to examine the soles, picking at the stitches, pressing here and there with the heel of his thumb, then resolutely shook his head. ‘This in’t the leather you were given to use.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  ‘Nay, I don’t reckon so. This is inferior stuff. See how thin it is. No doubt you’ve sold the decent leather I gave you for extra beer money.’

  ‘That’s a lie, and I’ll ask you to take it back afore I knock yer block off.’

  Swainson flinched slightly, as if he half expected fists to fly there and then, while Kate frantically tried to calm her brother down. Wasn’t she familiar with his quick Irish temper, forgetting that it was her own that had landed them in this pretty pickle. ‘If you’ve been up to more mischief, Dermot, I’ll skin you alive, so I will.’

  ‘Indeed I haven’t.’

  ‘I think otherwise.’ Seeing he was in no real danger from either one of them, the foreman quickly recovered from his show of nerves, determined to reassert his authority as he pounded the counter top with his fist. ‘Seems to me you’ve got too big for yer boots, Dermot O’Connor. You’ve been stitching yer sister’s shoes and then rushing to finish yer own batch in an inferior fashion. I don’t believe this li’le lass is capable of doing this class of work herself, not first time, and you happen fancied some extra money to feed yer drinking habit. If you think you can cheat Mr Tyson and get away with it, you’re mistaken. Neither of you will get a penny out of me today.’ And he tossed both the boots and the shoes Kate had stitched under the bench, as if the very sight of them offended him and he’d no wish to clap eyes on them again.

  Dermot looked as if he might leap over the big wooden counter and throttle the foreman with his own bare hands. Kate, equally incensed, got in first by yelling at the top of her voice, ‘Ye can’t do that!’

  The moustache twitched and the eyebrows shot up into a thatch of dark, greasy hair. ‘I can do owt I want to. I’m the foreman, in case you haven’t noticed? What I say goes.’

  ‘But it’s not fair. Dermot only showed me how to get started. I put every stitch in meself. By hand. Look!’ And holding out her hands Kate showed him the welts and segs and coarse patches scarring the rough skin. He was unimpressed.

  ‘Show me a woman round here with soft hands and I’ll show you a whore. It proves nothing. The pair of you is nowt but offcomers. We don’t want no Irish rubbish here. More trouble than you’re worth. Be off with you.’

  Dermot took a step closer, his voice dangerously low. ‘Why don’t you stop hiding behind that high counter and come round this s
ide and say that to me face. Go on, show me what a fine, strong man ye are. I dare you.’

  Uncertainty flared in the mean little eyes as the right focused furiously upon Dermot and the other roamed wildly, as if seeking escape. But aware of his power, Ned Swainson soon recovered his composure. ‘I could give you the push for that alone, You knows. However, you’ve caught me in a mellow mood today, so get on with your next batch and we’ll say no more about it. Just see that you do better next time. But You’ll get not a penny out of me for this lot.’

  A wave of sickness came over Kate. ‘No money? Next batch? But how will we eat till then? I’ve a babby to feed. Dermot has rent to pay. He’s only just finished off his apprenticeship, with nothing behind him and he has to find a place to live. You can’t stop the pay for both of us. We’ll starve, so we will. Besides, we didn’t try to cheat anyone. We’ve done a grand job and deserve to be properly paid for it.’

  ‘Are you questioning my judgement, young woman?’

  A stain of red spread over her cheekbones and the fighting spirit returned to her stormy eyes. Fists firmly planted into her slender waist, she faced him head on. ‘I certainly am. I’m questioning your right not to pay what’s due to us.’

  It was Dermot now who was urging Kate to be quiet. ‘Will ye shut yer face or ye’ll get us both the sack.’

  Swainson gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘You never spoke a truer word, lad. Take it or leave it, it’s all the same to me. Do the next batch, or you can sling yer hook and never show yer faces in t’shop again. Suit yourself.’ And giving a shrug, he removed the bend of leather he’d just placed on the counter top and put it away again.

  Seeing her brother’s shoulders slump and her own dreams slip away did nothing to calm Kate, rather the opposite as fresh anger kindled deep inside her, hot and fierce. The soft Irish lilt had never seemed more pronounced and more at odds with her temper, than it was at this moment. ‘Indeed it looks to me like you’re the one doing the cheating round here, not us at all.’