Cathy Sharp - The Barefoot Child

‘It’s a fine night, let us walk,’ Arthur said and took up his walking cane, which had a fine silver knob and was also a sword stick, used more than once against rogues who had tried to rob him. ‘We’ll come to no harm …’ He brandished his stick and Toby laughed, for he, like Arthur, was ready for an adventure if one should come their way.

Arthur was aware that the contrast between his exclusive club and the dining room of the workhouse he visited the following morning could not have been more marked and he took a keen interest in all that he saw, listening to Master Docherty’s anxiety concerning the roof above the long dining hall intently.

‘I fear the roof has been patched so many times that one big storm might bring it down,’ the workhouse master told Arthur. ‘And I do not believe that the present budget will stretch to a new roof, sir.’

‘Nor I,’ Arthur replied. ‘Leave it with me, Docherty, and I shall request some advice regarding the cost.’ It would not be easy to convince the governors that more money was needed for the upkeep of the workhouse, and Arthur was aware that much of the cost of a new roof would fall on him. However, to leave it much longer would be to risk it giving way in the first storm.

The men had already eaten their meal and left to get on with the work they did here at the workhouse. Several of them recognised Arthur and tipped their heads to him, though a few had looked at him resentfully. Now the women and girls were coming in to take their places at the long tables. Once, the inmates had all been served together but the new mistress preferred that the women and girls eat separately but he noticed that some whispering went on as the two groups passed at the door.

Arthur watched as the women quietly took their places, voices low and respectful. He watched the women serving the meal and noticed one elderly woman in particular. She wore a grey puritan bonnet, a grey wool dress and a white apron, much as the other women, but there was something about her that was different. As Arthur watched, seeing the hands, misshapen and gnarled with age, she lifted her head and looked at him – and then very deliberately winked before returning to her task of ladling out stew into the enamelled plates.

‘That woman is a little old to be working, isn’t she?’ Arthur murmured to the warden beside him.

Master Docherty looked at her and frowned. ‘That’s old Moll,’ he said. ‘She is old, but stronger than you’d think. I imagine she’s had a hard life, though I know little of her. She turned up a few weeks ago and said she’d decided to come in because she was ready.’

Arthur nodded. That wink had told him that Moll had more spirit than most of the inmates. If she was ‘ready’, then she had quite probably decided that she would come here to die. Many of the older folk did that once the struggle for life outside became too hard.

‘Take care of her,’ he said to Master Docherty. ‘It won’t hurt her to do light work if she’s up to it – but give her a few extra perks, please, and I will reimburse you for them.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ the master said and nodded. ‘I rather think Moll enjoys her beer. An extra ration at night now and then won’t hurt.’

‘No, indeed,’ Arthur said and smiled. ‘Well, Master Docherty, I shall see what can be done about your roof. I congratulate you on the cleanliness of the place. It is a vast improvement on what it was.’

‘That is down to my wife,’ the master said, looking pleased. ‘Mistress Docherty is a good woman and will be sorry to have missed you, sir, but she was called out to visit an elderly couple. They cannot manage now he is too old to work but they are reluctant to come in.’

Arthur nodded. There was a stigma about the workhouse and few would willingly come in, unless they had good reason like Moll, who, he was almost sure, had come here to die in a bed rather than on the streets.

Arthur took his leave. Some young lads were sweeping the yard as he crossed it and one of them grinned, doffed his cap and bowed. ‘Do yer need someone to ’old yer ’orses, sir?’

‘I’m walking today,’ Arthur said and smiled. Taking a shilling from his pocket, he tossed it to the boy. ‘Come to me when you’re fifteen and I’ll see what I can do …’

‘Jem Carter’s me name, sir!’

Arthur smiled as the lad caught the shilling and called out his thanks. Some it was easy to please, for others there was little he could do …

It was spring, now, and the weather was beginning to get warmer. Her mother was dead and Lucy felt the weight of sorrow heavy on her shoulders. A few weeks before she died, her mother had called Lucy into the bedroom and told her that her time was short.

‘I’ve done my best by you since your father died, but have little to leave you,’ she’d said tonelessly. ‘My sister would have you, but she is a harsh woman and I think you would find it unbearable to live in her house. I have written to your father’s only relative, Mr Stoneham, care of his lawyer, telling him that I am dying, but he has not replied. You must care for your brother and sister – for I can do nothing more.’

Lucy had wept bitter tears in her own room but knew she must be strong. She was now sixteen but earned only a few shillings each week and knew that it would be hard to manage without her mother’s guiding hand. Ma had mentioned the name of their father’s rich relative but Lucy expected nothing from him for she knew that her mother had refused his help after Pa died, because of her pride. Mr Stoneham’s lawyer had offered financial help but Ma had refused it and nothing more had been heard from Mr Stoneham. Now Lucy had Ma to bury and did not know how she would manage it.

Unless she could find five pounds, they would bury Ma in a pauper’s grave. The vicar had been to visit and asked what hymns she wanted sung in church and he’d told her that it would cost six pounds for the burial if they wanted a good oak coffin. All they had in the world was the eighteen shillings in Ma’s purse and two shillings Josh had left in his pay packet that week. As a lowly apprentice at the factory, he received only three shillings and sixpence a week.

‘Where are we goin’ ter get five pounds?’ Josh asked anxiously. Kitty was whimpering, crying for her mother. Lucy had given her bread and jam and it was all over her face.

Lucy picked up a flannel, wet it and wiped her sister’s face. ‘Crying won’t bring Ma back,’ she reproved and received a resentful look from Kitty, who at eight years old, and the baby of the family, had been her mother’s favourite.

‘I want Ma!’

‘So do I, but she’s dead,’ Josh said. ‘Stop that row, Kitty. We have to talk about what we’re goin’ ter do next.’

Lucy’s eyes went to the corner cupboard. Ma had loved it and she loved it too, but it was one of the few things of value they owned. ‘I suppose we could sell the cupboard,’ she said half-heartedly. ‘And we could sell Ma’s weddin’ ring or her gold pin that Pa gave her …’

‘Not the weddin’ ring,’ Josh said. ‘The pin and the cupboard and her clothes – you could sell her shoes at that stall …’

‘Josh!’ Lucy was distressed. ‘Must we sell Ma’s things when she’s hardly cold?’

‘Do you want Ma buried in a pauper’s grave?’