Workhouse Angel

by Holly Green

  ‘I’m sorry, the matter is decided. You will be kept in solitary confinement in the sanatorium until your father arrives. Now, go with Mother Mary Andrew.’ She raised a hand to forestall further protest. ‘That is enough. Go!’

  Alone in the sanatorium, Angelina dried her tears and tried to think. God, she decided, if He existed, was very unjust. She had tried, really tried, to be good and she had wanted to do something wonderful for Him; and this was the result. All her life she had been told she must be ‘obedient’ but what good had obedience done her? From now on, she would not allow other people to dictate what she should do and how she should behave.

  This was an easy resolution to make, but very hard to implement. Her father was coming to take her home, but home to what? To further punishment, for certain. She remembered the last beating her mother had given her, and both body and spirit cried out against the prospect of a repetition. Even if she escaped that, the only prospect she could envisage was a life of confinement under a regime similar to that imposed by Miss Drake. There would be no more music lessons, no more dancing, that much was certain. So what was the alternative?

  There was only one answer. She had to escape somehow. She must run away and find some way of making a life for herself. She had heard that poor children were often set to work in various ways, so there must be some form of employment that she could take up. Her own position had been held up to her as enviable, by contrast, but she could not conceive that any kind of work could be worse than what she might have to endure once she was back at home. In the meantime, it was summer. There must be things growing that she could eat, and it would not be too uncomfortable to sleep outside. Maybe some kind person would feel sorry for her and take her in, as a servant perhaps.

  She turned thoughts like these over and over in her mind until evening came. From time to time she heard voices outside and the sound of carriage wheels on the drive. The visitors who had attended the ceremony in the chapel and the celebrations that followed were leaving. She wondered what they had thought of her singing. Had the bishop been told that it was not supposed to be her? Would he have been as angry as Mother Mary Andrew?

  Sister Berthe came in with a tray. ‘Bread and water for you. Reverend Mother’s orders.’

  She dumped the tray and went out. Angelina listened to her retreating footsteps, then she went to the door and tried it. It was not locked. Obviously it had not occurred to anyone that she might try to leave. She ate some of the bread, then wrapped the remainder in the napkin that covered the tray and pushed into her pocket. She heard the chapel bell ring and the distant sound of singing. The convent was going about its normal routine. It was almost mid-summer and darkness fell slowly. The clock in the salle d’études struck ten and she knew that everyone would have retired to bed, but still she waited. Normally she would have been sleepy by now, but she was too keyed up for the implementation of her plan to feel tired.

  At last it was fully dark, or as dark as it would ever get. Angelina knew that her cloak would be hanging in the cloakroom by the side door that led out to the garden. She opened the door of the sanatorium cautiously and peered out. The corridor was silent, lit only by moonlight coming in through uncurtained windows. Soft-footed, she padded along to the staircase that led down to the main hall. Here, too, all was quiet. She found her way to the cloakroom, which was in darkness. There was no window here to help but she knew that her peg was the fourth along on the righthand side. She felt from one to the next, found what she was sure must be her cloak and put it round her. Then she went to the side door. It was locked.

  She should have expected that, but for some reason it had not occurred to her. She stood still, thinking. The big front doors would inevitably be locked as well. There was the kitchen. There was a door from there, which Sister Martha used when she went to feed the hens or pick vegetables. Perhaps that might be open. She crept down the back stairs and into the large kitchen. The big range had been banked down for the night, but it gave off just enough light to make out the long table down the centre of the room, the sinks along one wall, the hams and bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling.

  Angelina felt her way along the table until her head struck something and set off a loud clanging. She had knocked into a pan hanging from a beam and it in turn had struck others which rang like gongs in the silence. She froze, her heart pounding. Surely that noise must wake someone. But she heard no sound of movement, no voices called out, and at length she crept forward, keeping low to avoid any other obstacles. She reached the door and tried it. It, too, was locked.

  Angelina stood biting her lips in frustration. There had to be a way out somewhere! Then a breath of air wafted over her face, bringing with it the scent of the chicken coop. There must be a window open somewhere. She felt her way along the wall and into a scullery. The smell was stronger here. She reached up and found the open window. It was above her head, impossible to climb up to; but having found it she was not going to give up. Under the kitchen table there were stools where the kitchen staff sat to eat meals. She groped her way back, found one and carried it into the scullery. Standing on it, she could put her head and shoulders through the window. She heaved herself up until she was lying across the sill, but her skirt and petticoat caught on the latch and made her too bulky to fit through. She slid back and pulled her petticoat from under the skirt, wrapped it in her cloak, then climbed up and dropped the bundle out of the window. Then she leaned out again and wriggled forward. Without the bulky petticoat her dress was slimmer and this time she made better progress, but the drop from the window to the ground below looked frightening and she could see no way out except to let herself fall head first. She twisted her body so she could reach up and managed to grip the window frame above her. Holding tightly to this she pulled the rest of her body out. Once her full weight was only held by her fingertips she lost her grip, but she landed on the bundle of her cloak, which broke her fall. It took her a few seconds to get her breath back, but she scrambled to her feet with a sense of triumph. Her fingernails were broken and her fingertips were sore; her skirt had a ragged tear down one side; but otherwise she was unhurt. She pulled on her petticoat, wrapped her cloak around her and began to make her way cautiously along the side of the building.

  A sudden cackle brought her up short, shaking. Her movement had disturbed the hens in their coop; but once again there was no sign of movement inside the building. She moved on, round to the front, where the drive led to the main gates. The drive was gravelled, so she kept to the grass alongside where her footsteps made no sound. There were no lights on in the gatekeeper’s cottage by the main entrance. The big gates were shut, and Angelina guessed it would be impossible to open them without waking someone, but there was a postern gate to one side. She tried it and found to her relief that it opened. In a moment she was outside and walking away down the road that led to the town.

  At first her mood was excited, even triumphant. She had done it! She was free, and they would not catch her and punish her any more. She thought of her father arriving to fetch her and being told that she had disappeared. She imagined him returning to Liverpool and passing on the news to her mother. What would they feel? They would be angry, yes, but worried too. Would they realise that it was their harshness that had driven her to do what she was doing? Would they blame themselves? She hoped they would.

  As she walked on, the excitement evaporated. She had never been out at night in the countryside and there were scufflings in the hedgerows that were not due to the wind. Stories she had read flickered through her imagination. Did they have wolves in Ireland, or bears? She had a sudden impulse to turn and run back the way she had come. Only the thought of what might be done to her if she went back kept her walking onwards.

  The summer night was short and very soon she was aware that she could see further ahead than she could before.

  A bird began to sing, and then others joined in. The light grew and the horizon ahead of her flushed pink and then was shot wit
h gold. As she came to the top of a rise she saw the first houses of the town a few hundred yards distant. She was tired and beginning to be hungry and her first thought was that there might be someone there who would give her something to eat; but that was followed by the realisation that the local people would immediately recognise her by her dress as coming from the convent. They would ask questions and try to detain her and very soon the nuns would be up and her disappearance would be discovered. The first place they would look would be Limerick. She must avoid it at all costs.

  A stile led over the fence at one side of the road. Angelina sat down on it and took out of her pocket the bread she had saved. She ate some of it and felt a little stronger, but she was getting sleepy. She needed to find somewhere to hide during the daylight hours, somewhere safe to sleep. A path led from the stile across a field; in a hollow on the far side, she could just make out a roof. It was probably a farm, she thought. She had never seen a farm but she had read about them. There ought to be a barn where hay and straw were kept. If she could slip into one before people were up and about, she might be able to hide. She climbed over the stile and set off along the path.

  The house, when she came to it, proved to be not a farm but a substantial residence, with a pillared portico at the front. Behind it there were outbuildings, which seemed to offer the best chance of shelter.

  A gate led from the path into a courtyard. Angelina slipped through it and stopped to listen. The sun was not yet quite up. It was very early and no one was stirring in the house, as far as she could tell. A wide, open doorway led into one of the outbuildings. She crossed the yard and went cautiously inside. The interior was in deep shadow and at first it was difficult to make out what was kept there, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the change in the light she saw in front of her a four-wheeled carriage. She climbed onto the step and looked inside. There was a padded seat, which would make a perfect bed. She opened the door, climbed in, wrapped herself in her cloak and lay down. Within minutes she was asleep.

  She woke with a start at the sound of men’s voices close by. She huddled down on the floor of the carriage and held her breath. Then there was a sudden jolt and she felt the carriage roll forward. The light changed as it was pushed out into the yard. She contemplated jumping out and running, but there were still men moving around, horse hooves and a jingle of harness. ‘Whoa, easy there, my beauty,’ a voice said. ‘Stand still, damn you!’ Then she heard the owner of the voice climb up onto the box and click his tongue and the carriage moved forward. Before Angelina could make any decision about her next action, they were heading out at a smart trot.

  She lay still, listening to the rumble of the wheels and ringing of the horses’ hooves on the hard ground, and wondered where they were going. She felt a moment of panic when the idea came to her that they might be heading for the convent, but she could see no reason why an equipage like this should go there, and as the minutes passed she reckoned that if that were their destination they would have reached it long ago. So they were going somewhere else, and much faster than she could have gone on her own two feet. It would make the inevitable search for her more difficult. That was good, but another danger presented itself. This carriage was not being driven for pleasure. It had a purpose. It was not the sort of vehicle used for deliveries, or to collect goods of some kind. This was a carriage for people, so why was it empty? Sooner or later, someone was going to get in, and then she would be discovered.

  At length the carriage swung to one side, the sound of the wheels changed and the pace slowed until it drew to a standstill. A woman’s voice said, ‘You’re prompt, Michael. The ladies have not finished breakfast yet. It’ll be half an hour at least before they’re ready for you to take them home. You’d best take the carriage round to the back. The horses can get a drink and I daresay Mrs Riley will find you a bite to eat while you wait.’

  ‘Right you are, missus,’ the man responded, and the carriage moved on again at a walking pace.

  When it stopped again, a new voice spoke. ‘Ay, take them to the trough. They’ll be fine there.’

  The carriage jerked forward and stopped, the driver jumped down and she heard the two men walking away. She stayed still for a few minutes, then carefully raised her head and peered out of the window. They were in another courtyard, much like the one they had started from. She shrank back as two girls carrying pails crossed it, laughing together, and disappeared into a barn. Angelina twisted round and looked out of the other window. There was no sign of anyone else. Very carefully, she opened the door and slid to the ground. She could hear buckets clanking and the sound of sweeping, and someone whistling from somewhere, and the voices of the two girls, muted now inside the barn, but the yard itself was empty. She hesitated in the shelter of the carriage. What should she do now? Her stomach rumbled and she realised she was ravenous. She remembered the woman’s words: ‘I daresay Mrs Riley will find you a bite to eat.’ She must be the cook and if there was food to spare for the coachman, there might be some for her, too. Angelina knew she had to find something to eat soon, and this seemed as good a chance as any.

  Peering round the coach, she saw an open door at the back of the house. Perhaps that led to the kitchen. She looked around once more to check that no one was watching and ran across. Inside, a big woman with brawny arms was kneading dough on a table and a man, the coachman presumably, was sitting on the far side slurping something out of a bowl. The cook looked up in surprise as Angelina tapped timidly on the door frame.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘Please, ma’am –’ Angelina’s voice shook ‘– do you have a little food to spare?’

  ‘Food, is it? What do you think this is, a charity kitchen?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I could work for it, if you have any jobs you need doing.’

  ‘Jobs, is it, now? Get away with you. I’ve met your likes before. Let you into the house and I’ll be looking for the silver spoons in half an hour. There’s no place for you here.’

  ‘Then, please, can you let me have something to eat?’

  ‘You get back to your own folks, ask them to feed you.’

  ‘I haven’t got any folks.’ Tears rose in her throat at the words. ‘I’m all on my own.’

  A maid came into the kitchen and dumped a tray on the table. ‘The ladies have finished with this.’

  ‘Finished?’ The cook inspected the tray. ‘They’ve not eaten half of it.’

  ‘Not surprised, after the amount of wine that got drunk at the ball last night,’ the maid said.

  ‘It’s a waste, so it is,’ the cook muttered. She looked round at Angelina. ‘Here.’ She grabbed a boiled egg out of its cup and a slice of buttered bread and thrust them into her hands. ‘Now get along before the master sets the dogs on you. He doesn’t hold with giving food to beggars.’

  Angelina grabbed the food and turned to run, then turned back. ‘Thank you! Thank you!’

  A narrow passageway led from the courtyard out to the open country. She took it and found herself on a cart track. One way led out to open fields, the other towards the front of the house and the road along which the carriage must have travelled. Angelina took that direction at a run, casting glances behind her to make sure that no dogs were on her trail. Where the track met the road a rough plank had been laid across two tree stumps to form a seat. There was no sign of any pursuit so she sank down on it to eat. As she peeled the shell off the egg she remembered how often she had made Lizzie take one back to the kitchen because it was not cooked to her liking. This one was hard-boiled but, wrapped in the slice of bread, it was the best she had ever tasted. For the first time she experienced a sense of guilt at her own behaviour. Remembering Lizzie brought a sharp pang, not exactly of homesickness, but of longing for her care and cheerful companionship.

  As she ate, she heard the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel of the drive. The gates were a short way off to her left and she saw the carriage come through them and turn in her direction. In
a moment of panic she looked around for somewhere to hide, but it was too late. The carriage reached her and swept on past. Neither the coachman or the occupants had taken any notice of her. It made her think about the cook’s words. The master ‘doesn’t hold with beggars’. That was how she was seen. She looked down at her clothes. Her skirt was ripped where she had caught it climbing out of the window. There was mud on it from somewhere, and dust from crouching on the floor of the carriage. For the first time she realised that she had left her cloak behind. Well, there was no help for that now. She put her hands up to her hair. Her braids had come undone and it was hanging in a tangle round her face. No wonder she looked more like a street urchin than a respectable convent schoolgirl. So much the better. A little stream ran under the road close to where she was sitting. She scrambled down to it and rinsed her hands in the clear water, then scooped some up to drink. After that, she rubbed her fingers in the mud at the edge and wiped them across her face. For good measure, she rubbed some dirt into her hair as well. There was no way she could see her herself, but she felt sure that her disguise must now be complete.

  Climbing back to the road, she looked about her. The coach had headed past her, presumably going back the way it had come, so she turned in the opposite direction. She had been shown a map of Ireland in her geography lessons and she knew that Limerick was in the west and Dublin was on the east coast. If she could find her way there, there might be a better chance of finding work of some kind. It was still early, and the road was heading towards the newly risen sun. That, then, was her way, though she had only a vaguest idea of how far it might be.

  All morning she walked. The road ran between fields but all she could see growing were weeds and there was no one about. From time to time, she passed a derelict cottage, tiles missing from the roof, a door hanging open, no sign of occupation. She had heard the other girls talk of the terrible famine that had struck the country a few years earlier, but had not paid much attention. It had something to do with potatoes, but it puzzled her why the failure of that crop should have had such a devastating effect. Potatoes were all very well as an accompaniment to a meal, but she could do without them if need be. There were plenty of other things to eat, surely. She had put that point to the other girls, but they were the daughters of well-to-do professional men or big landowners. The famine had not affected them and they had little more understanding of it than she did. Now she was seeing its effects all round her.