Noel Streatfeild - Thursday’s Child

‘And when Miss Jones says “Pray” you stop whatever you are doing and kneel by your bed,’ her guide whispered, ‘or she hits you with a hairbrush.’

Margaret had just pulled on the ugly coarse greyish-coloured nightdress, which was lying on her bed, when the order came for prayer. She hurriedly dropped to her knees and buried her face in her hands. Evidently it was Miss Jones who decided how long prayers should be, for a few moments later there was another bark from her. ‘Up, girls, and into your beds.’

Margaret had hidden the tin Hannah had given her in her bed. In the dark she hugged it to her. It was a little bit of Hannah. Putting her head under the scratchy inadequate bedclothes, she stifled her sobs.

‘I can’t bear it. They’ve taken all my clothes. I’ll never wear lace on Sundays. Oh, Hannah! Hannah!’

But when a little later Lavinia crept up to the dormitory and found Margaret, though her face was wet with tears, she was asleep.

When Margaret woke up the next morning she could not at first think where she could be. Accustomed to a room of her own, she was puzzled by the sleeping sounds which came from the orphans. Then, as if a cold heavy weight had dropped on to her solar plexus, she remembered. This was the orphanage. St Luke’s Orphanage that the archdeacon had told the rector was ‘an exceptionally pleasant place’. Pleasant! Rage filled Margaret. Then she remembered she had three carefully hidden stamps – wait until she wrote to the rector and told him what the archdeacon had dared to describe as exceptionally pleasant.

Margaret sat up and looked down the dormitory. There was not much light because the curtains were drawn, but peering over the twenty-five beds which lined each wall she could see at the far end of the room a mattress on the floor covered, as were the beds, with a grey blanket. ‘That,’ she thought, ‘must be Lavinia. I bet she won’t mind if I wake her up.’

To think of something meant for Margaret doing it immediately. In a second she was out of her bed and, holding up her long greyish nightgown, was running down the dormitory. She sat down by the hump under the blanket which was Lavinia.

‘Lavinia! Lavinia! Wake up. It’s me. Margaret. What shall I do? I can’t stay in this dreadful place. You won’t leave Peter or Horatio here, will you?’

Lavinia had the gift of waking up clear-headed.

‘You’d better go back to your bed,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sure you aren’t allowed to be here.’

Up went Margaret’s chin.

‘I don’t care. I’m doing no harm. Did you hear what I said? I’m running away. I can’t stop here.’

Lavinia sat up.

‘I’m only going to be here for two days. I’m to be scullery maid for somebody called the Countess of Corkberry.’

‘Two days!’ said Margaret. ‘I thought you said a week.’

‘I did, and that’s what I hoped, but it’s not to be, but I’ll be back every other Sunday.’

‘They said you could?’

Lavinia spoke with quiet authority.

‘Either I have every other Sunday or I won’t work for the Countess.’

Margaret looked approving. That was the way to talk.

‘I wish I could be a scullery maid. I’m a good cook and it’s sure to be better than being here because it couldn’t be worse.’

‘Well, you can’t be,’ said Lavinia, ‘you’re too young. You would have to pass a labour exam before you could go out to work. I quite see that you want to run away, but please stick it out for a bit. You see, I want you to keep an eye on Peter and Horatio.’

Margaret weakened. She wanted to leave that morning. But perhaps she could bear a week or two, especially knowing Lavinia would come back every other Sunday.

‘Well, I might stick it out for a bit, but …’

Margaret got no further for Miss Jones had flung open the door and was clanging a huge bell. She stopped in mid-clang, her mouth gaping, unable to believe what her eyes told her.

‘Margaret Thursday! What are you doing out of your bed?’

Margaret got to her feet.

‘Talking to Lavinia. She’s my friend.’

‘Go back to your bed at once,’ Miss Jones thundered. Then she gave another clang on the bell. ‘Up, girls, up. Form a line for the washroom.’ She looked again at Margaret, who had not moved. ‘Now what is it?’

‘You said I was to go back to bed. Then you said “Up, girls, up”, and now you say form a line for the washroom. What do you want me to do?’

Miss Jones was more sure than ever that she did not like Margaret Thursday.

‘You will get your toothbrush and mug and join that line there for the washroom.’

It was a slow shuffling walk to get washed, made the more dismal by the shrieks of the small children who were being washed by Miss Jones and an assistant.

‘They put soap in their eyes,’ a small girl who was in front of Margaret told her. ‘It happens every day. It used to happen to me.’

‘Beasts!’ said Margaret.

Lavinia, who had taken her place behind Margaret, whispered:

‘I do hope Peter has managed to wash Horry. He’d kick anyone who put soap in his eyes.’

Margaret found her clothes had disappeared and in their place were her orphanage clothes: a vest, a bodice, coarse long straight-legged drawers, a grey winceyette petticoat, the uniform dress, an apron and a cap. The only thing left of her own clothes were her boots.

‘It would be them,’ she thought resentfully, ‘knowing I always hated them.’ Then there were tears in her eyes. Even the despised boots were something of home.

None of the clothes were new and none fitted, but Margaret was given some good advice by an older girl whom Miss Jones sent to show her how the uniform cap should be worn.

‘Don’t say anything doesn’t fit,’ she whispered, ‘for you’ll be made to alter it yourself in what they call “free time” – we don’t get much of that.’

There was no such thing as a looking-glass in the dormitory, so Margaret could only guess at her appearance. She could see, however, how the others looked and that was enough.

‘My goodness!’ she thought. ‘Suppose Hannah could see me now!’

As a matter of fact, Margaret was wrong. Of course the clothes were a hundred years out of date and they felt ridiculous to her, used to skirts to her knees, but grown-up people thought the orphanage children looked picturesque. The cap really did suit Margaret. It was made of white cotton with a drawstring at the back which held it tightly in position. The children were supposed to strain their hair out of sight under the caps, but Margaret’s curls refused to be controlled and spiralled out round her face.

Breakfast was another depressing meal. Each child had a bowl of lumpy porridge served with a mere splash of milk and no sugar. This was followed by one slice of bread and margarine and a cup of weak tea.

The orphans were not taught in the orphanage but, wrapped in their brown cloaks, they were marched two-and-two down to the village school.

‘At school don’t they laugh at us in these clothes?’ Margaret asked the girl who was paired with her, whose name was Susan.

Susan shook her head.

‘No. They’re used to us, and anyway I think they are sorry for us. Sometimes they give us things. Once I had a whole apple.’

Margaret, used to the large overgrown garden at Saltmarsh House where she could have all the fruit there was for the picking, felt even more depressed. Imagine speaking of an apple like that – something to be remembered!

‘Don’t we ever get fruit at the orphanage?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Susan. ‘Always at Christmas we are given an orange.’

An orange! It was not just that an orange a year was all she was to expect, but Susan’s calm acceptance that outraged Margaret. But she had other questions to ask. One had been worrying her since she had been given her uniform for nobody could run far dressed in it.