Pauper's Gold

by Margaret Dickinson

  Luke shook his head. He took hold of her hand. ‘It’s Jane. She . . . she got her hair caught in one of the machines . . .’

  Hannah felt as if the breath had been knocked from her body. The colour drained from her face, and her legs gave way beneath her. If Luke hadn’t caught hold of her, she would have crumpled to the ground.

  There was no hope that the child could survive. Though she was mercifully unconscious now, her injuries were so terrible, the loss of blood so much that by the time the doctor arrived, Jane was slipping away. Her unplaited hair had escaped from beneath her bonnet, and as the exhausted child had crawled beneath the clattering machines, she’d failed to keep her head low enough. The cruel machine had caught at her hair and whipped it up. Jane’s petrified screams had been heard even above the machine noise. The operator had stopped the machine immediately, but the damage was done. They had pulled her out to find hair and skin torn from her scalp and blood flowing everywhere. Luke had been there when it had happened. He’d been the one to crawl underneath to release her. His eyes were dark with the horror of what he’d seen as he told Hannah about it.

  Then, for the first time since he’d known her, Luke saw Hannah cry. She burst into noisy sobs and clung to him. ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I didn’t plait her hair. We were l-late and I . . . I didn’t do it. And . . . and I always do it. Oh, Luke – Luke – it’s all my fault.’

  He put his arms around her and held her close, not caring who saw them. But everyone was dealing with their own shock at the horrifying accident.

  ‘Of course it’s not your fault. It’s not up to you to look after her.’

  ‘Yes, it is. It is. I always look after her. She’s so little and pale and gets so tired.’

  ‘That’s not your fault. It’s them. They shouldn’t work her so hard. A little thing like her. And if anyone should see she’s got her hair plaited, it should be Mrs Bramwell.’

  Luke’s words were meant to comfort her, but they didn’t. Hannah blamed herself and there was nothing anyone could say to her that would ever take away her guilt.

  Fifteen

  ‘I want to see her. Let me be with her.’ Outside the room where Jane lay, Hannah tussled physically with Mrs Bramwell, who was trying to restrain her.

  ‘You can’t do her any good, Hannah.’

  ‘She’s going to die, isn’t she?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Then let me be with her,’ she begged. ‘Let me hold her hand. Please!’

  Mrs Bramwell was firm. ‘Promise me you’ll stay here if I go and ask the doctor.’

  Hannah swallowed and nodded reluctantly. ‘All right,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Tell him . . . tell him that I’ll do whatever he says, but if she’s going to die, I want to be with her. I’m her best friend. She’d like me there. I know she would. Even though . . . even though . . .’ Fresh tears welled.

  ‘Even though – what?’ Mrs Bramwell asked gently.

  Hannah pulled in a deep shuddering breath. ‘Even though it’s all my fault.’ The words came out haltingly and Ethel Bramwell could see the agony haunting the girl’s eyes. ‘I didn’t plait her hair this morning like I always do. She was so tired – she wouldn’t get up. Me and Nell had to drag her out of bed. It made us late and – and . . .’

  ‘And you didn’t plait her hair because you were so afraid of being a few minutes late,’ Mrs Bramwell finished softly.

  Miserably, Hannah nodded.

  For the first time ever, Ethel Bramwell was moved to enfold one of the pauper children into her arms. Hannah leaned against her and closed her eyes. For a moment she could imagine it was her mother holding her, Rebecca who was comforting her. She laid her head against the older woman’s shoulder and wept silently. She was no longer hysterical, just dreadfully sad and burdened with a heavy weight of guilt.

  At last, Mrs Bramwell patted her back, trying to give a little comfort, even though she realized the gesture was futile. She released Hannah and turned away, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. She’d never met a girl like Hannah before. Most of the children who came here were just out for themselves. They’d rob each other of their last piece of bread, their last ha’penny, given half a chance. But here was Hannah Francis caring for a weaker child more than she cared about herself. Look how she’d done the younger child’s household chores just because little Jane had been dead on her feet after her first day in the mill. And she’d gone on doing Jane’s work whenever the child couldn’t cope with the tasks. Ethel Bramwell felt a shudder of shame. It should’ve been her looking out for the younger, weaker ones. And now here Hannah was again, bravely wanting to sit beside the dying child, even though she was blaming herself for the accident. She was ready to put herself through the torment of seeing her friend die before her eyes, just to bring whatever comfort she could to the little girl.

  As Ethel entered the room, Dr Barnes turned to her and shook his head gravely. ‘I’m sorry. She’s so badly injured—’

  ‘I know,’ Ethel whispered and then swiftly explained Hannah’s request.

  ‘I don’t want an hysterical child in here.’

  ‘She won’t be. I promise you. She – she . . .’ Ethel paused, searching for the right words to describe Hannah to the doctor. ‘She’s a remarkable girl. I’ve never met anyone quite like her – not one so young, anyway. She’s been punished recently.’ Ethel dropped her gaze in shame. ‘Most severely, I’m afraid – for running away to try to see her mother, who’s still in the workhouse. But Hannah’s adamant she wasn’t running away, that she intended to come back. But, of course, no one believed her.’

  The doctor said bluntly, ‘Well, if this place is run so badly that you all can’t believe anyone would voluntarily return if they once got away, then it’s high time things were changed. That’s all I can say.’ He nodded grimly towards the bed. ‘And if this sort of thing can happen to a child, if we can kill a little mite by tearing her to shreds all in the cause of making money . . .’ The usually genial doctor spat out the words with a bitterness that made Ethel Bramwell flinch. ‘Then what is the world coming to?’

  She was obliged to agree. ‘You’re quite right, of course.’ Mrs Bramwell sighed. ‘It’s high time there were some changes. But it’ll never happen. Old man Critchlow – Mr Nathaniel – just carried on running the mill the way his father did.’ She shrugged. ‘Oh, he abides by the law – or nearly so.’

  Dr Barnes eyed her keenly. ‘Are you quite sure about that? This wretched pauper apprentice system has been abandoned in most of the mills. New laws made it too expensive, as I understand it. Mind you, the new laws are better for the children, aren’t they? They raised the minimum age and cut the number of daily working hours. So why not here, I’d like to know? How come the Critchlows are still running the scheme?’

  Ethel Bramwell ran her tongue around dry lips. She was sailing in deep waters now, risking her own livelihood and that of her husband’s by speaking her mind. But she rarely got the chance to unburden her deep anxieties to someone who understood, to someone who wouldn’t betray her confidence. Though she didn’t know the doctor well – the Critchlows were too mean to call upon his services except in the direst emergency, even for their staff – Ethel felt she could trust him. ‘Some mills are running twenty-four hours a day, with a shift system. That’s never happened here, though. Mind you, when me ’n’ Arthur first came here more than twenty years ago, children as young as nine used to work eight hours a day in the mill – longer if they wanted to do overtime to earn a few pence. And that left very little time for any education. By the time they were thirteen they worked twelve hours a day and no more schooling.’

  The doctor grunted. ‘Hmph, still not good enough in my opinion. What’s the law now? No child under eight can work at all, is it?’

  The superintendent nodded. ‘And youngsters can only work between six in the morning and six at night and for no more than ten hours a day.’

  ‘Oh, that’s spoiling them rotten,’ Dr Barnes
said sarcastically. He glanced at the still form of Jane in the bed. His tone softened. ‘And this poor creature? She only looks seven or eight. How old is she?’

  ‘Ten. At least, that’s what Mr Goodbody said.’

  ‘Goodbody? Who’s he?’

  ‘The master of the workhouse where . . . where the children come from.’

  The doctor’s expression hardened. ‘So – it really is still going on here then?’

  ‘The pauper apprentice system? Oh yes,’ Ethel Bramwell said bitterly. Then she sighed. ‘I’ve very mixed feelings about it all, Doctor, I don’t mind admitting. We haven’t quite so many as we used to have. At one time we had over a hundred children; now there’s only about eighty.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Of course if they close the house, Arthur and me will be out of a job, but even so . . .’ She bit her lip. Ethel was warming to something that had bothered her and the kindly Arthur for years, yet it was the first time she’d ever dared to voice her misgivings to anyone apart from her husband. ‘I don’t like being part of something that could be described as – well – as cruel. Of course, I have to be strict with the children. Eighty youngsters all living together – they can get out of hand. It’s part of my job to keep them in line, but in here . . .’ She laid her hand over her heart. ‘I do feel for them. I . . . I try to be fair. That’s why when the girl you’re about to meet always did little Jane’s household chores for her after work at night – well – I let her. The – little one,’ she gestured with a trembling hand towards the child in the bed, ‘was always so exhausted.’

  The doctor grunted. ‘Well, if they’d let me see the children now and again, I could maybe have helped. They do it in some mills, y’know. There’s one in Cheshire that’s got a marvellous reputation for caring for its workers.’

  Ethel sighed. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of it too, but there’s not an earthly chance that Mr Edmund would ever agree to anything like that here.’

  ‘Well, sadly, I don’t believe there’s a law – yet – that says they have to provide regular medical checks for their workers, but,’ he eyed her keenly, ‘are you telling me, Mrs Bramwell, that the Critchlows do bend the law when it suits their own purpose?’

  The woman, torn between telling the truth and yet risking her own position by doing so, nodded. Casting caution aside now, she went on heatedly. ‘They work the children far longer than the hours they’re supposed to. They get less schooling than is laid down by the law. They’re supposed to get at least three hours a day until they’re twelve, but it’s only ever two at the most. And whilst they’re apprentices, bound to the Critchlows by that wretched bit of paper they’re made to sign when they arrive, they only get their bed and board. The only way they can earn money for themselves is by doing overtime on top of the already long hours. And believe me, Doctor, most of them don’t even understand what that paper really is that they’re signing.’

  ‘And how are the children treated?’

  ‘If they do anything wrong, the boys are beaten, the girls locked in the punishment room and half starved for days. And on rare occasions – very rare, thank the Lord – a girl will be beaten.’

  ‘On whose orders?’ Dr Barnes barked. ‘I didn’t think Mr Critchlow was a bad master.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not so bad. But his son – Mr Edmund – is another matter.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He’s . . . he’s evil, Doctor. The day he takes over the running of this mill, may God help us all.’

  There was a long silence whilst they both pondered the appalling prospect. Then, as the child in the bed stirred and whimpered in pain, the doctor cleared his throat. ‘Fetch this remarkable young lady in then, but I suggest you stay with her, Mrs Bramwell. It’s a hard thing to do. To sit and watch your friend die.’

  When Mrs Bramwell opened the door and beckoned Hannah inside, the doctor looked up, intrigued to see this unusual girl of whom the superintendent had spoken. At once he was struck by the young girl’s demeanour. She walked into the room, her head held high, her face calm. It was only on closer inspection that the doctor could see the anguish in her blue eyes and the blotchy marks on her cheeks of recently shed tears. Hannah wished herself anywhere – back in the mill, even back in the punishment room – anywhere but here. Nevertheless, she sat down beside the bed and gently took hold of Jane’s hand, steeling herself to face the terrible sight – the blood-soaked bandages, the scarcely recognizable face.

  ‘I’m here, Jane,’ she whispered, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat. ‘I’m here now. It’ll be all right. Don’t be frightened. I’ll stay with you. I won’t leave you.’ She whispered the comforting, reassuring words with such mature composure that the two listening adults glanced at each other.

  ‘See what I mean, Doctor?’ Ethel murmured, and the man nodded, ‘Indeed I do, Mrs Bramwell. Indeed I do. A most remarkable child.’

  He took out his pocket watch and murmured. ‘I think I’ll stay a while. I’ve more calls to make, but they’ll wait.’

  ‘I’ll get another chair. We can sit over here in the corner, but we’ll be close by if . . .’

  She stopped and faced the awful truth. It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’.

  Mrs Bramwell slipped quietly out of the room and returned with a chair. Then she and the doctor sat in the far corner of the room, silently watching.

  Jane stirred and opened her eyes and Hannah leaned closer. ‘I’m here, Jane. I’m here.’

  Weakly, the girl whispered, ‘It wasn’t your fault, Hannah.’

  ‘It was. I should have plaited your hair. I—’

  Jane tried to shake her head and then winced at the terrible pain. She cried out and screwed up her face. ‘No, no, I . . . I don’t want you to blame yourself. You . . . you’ve always been so kind to me. Looked after me. Please, Hannah, sing to me. I want to hear you sing my favourite . . .’ It seemed as if she might have said more but the effort was too much, the pain unbearable. Her eyelids closed and she drifted away.

  Her voice shaking and with tears streaming down her face, Hannah began to sing, ‘The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want . . .’

  Mrs Bramwell wept openly, and even the doctor wiped a tear from the corner of his eye as the little girl’s life ebbed away.

  As Hannah’s voice faded away at the end of the hymn, the doctor rose quietly from his chair and went to the other side of the bed. He felt the child’s pulse and then looked down into Hannah’s upturned face.

  His voice deep with emotion, Dr Barnes said, ‘I’m sorry, my dear. She’s gone, but she’s out of pain now. That’s how you must think of it. She’s at peace.’

  Hannah laid her cheek against Jane’s hand and sobbed. She could not in all honesty have prayed for her friend to survive. Jane was hurt beyond all hope, so dreadfully injured that any life would have been a living hell. Better that her little friend was, like the kindly doctor said, at peace.

  They gave her a few moments, and then it was Dr Barnes who put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come, my dear. Mrs Bramwell will look after her. There are things she must do. But she’ll be gentle with her.’

  Hannah knew what that meant. She had to lay out Jane ready for the rough pauper’s coffin. She pulled herself up and bent over to kiss Jane’s cheek one last time. Already, it felt cold beneath Hannah’s lips, but perhaps that was her imagination.

  The doctor’s arm supporting her, she stumbled from the room. Outside the door, Luke was waiting and she fell into his arms. Above her head, Luke and the doctor exchanged a glance.

  ‘Look after her, son. She’s a very special girl.’

  Luke, unable to speak for the huge lump in his throat, nodded.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered at last. ‘Let’s get out of here. Let’s go up on the hill.’

  ‘What . . . what about Daniel?’ Even in her distress, Hannah spared a thought for the shy boy. He depended on his twin just like Jane had depended on her. But she’d let her little friend down. She didn’t want to be the cause of trouble between the brothers.r />
  ‘He’s still working. He’ll be all right. Just this once. Come on.’

  They left the house and began to run down the hill and along the path leading to the weir. Then, turning away from the mill, they scrambled up the rocky track, slipping and sliding, to the narrow steep path on the hillside high above the mill pool and the r iver. Luke took hold of her hand and held it tightly as they walked on in silence. Before they rounded the curve of the hill that would take them out of sight of Wyedale Mill, they paused and looked back.

  ‘It don’t look such a bad place,’ Luke murmured.

  Hannah sighed. ‘It’s not the place. The mill’s – what’s the word? – majestic. Yes, that’s it, the mill’s a majestic building.’ Her glance roamed away, down the dale, following the winding river. ‘And the valley’s lovely. So peaceful, so . . .’ Tears blurred her eyes. The terrible sight of her friend was still so fresh in her mind. It would haunt her for ever. She swallowed hard and said huskily, ‘It’s the people who run it. The Critchlows. It’s all their fault. But it’s such a shame. It could be such a happy place. The workers are good people.’

  ‘It’ll never be a happy place with Mr Edmund around. And I ’spect his son’ll be just like him when he grows up.’

  Hannah thought about the young, solemn-faced, dark-haired boy she had seen just the once. She’d’ve liked to have thought that he might grow up to be different. But it wasn’t very likely.

  She sighed sadly. ‘Yes, I expect you’re right.’

  They turned their backs on Wyedale Mill and walked on, following the winding path worn into the steep hillside by the sheep that grazed there.

  ‘See that big house across there.’ Luke pointed to the cliff on the opposite side of the dale. ‘That’s the Critchlows’ place. Millersbrook Manor.’

  The house was perched halfway down the steep hillside a little way from the village itself.

  ‘Do they all live there, then?’

  ‘Yeah. The old man, Mr Edmund and Master Adam – when he’s home.’