Cathy Sharp - The Barefoot Child

Lucy stuck her chin out defiantly. She and Josh had decided that they could manage on their own. They certainly did not want to live in the country with their mother’s sister; Ma hadn’t liked her and so she must be awful. The only other alternative was the workhouse, and Lucy had heard bad things about the one in Farthing Lane. People crossed themselves as they hurried by and Mr Pottersby said he’d rather die than go there. Lucy was determined that neither she nor her brother or sister was ever going to set foot there and she pitied the poor devils who had no choice.

‘I really cannot see why you wish to inspect the kitchens,’ Mistress Docherty said when Arthur made the request that morning. ‘I assure you everything is done in accordance with workhouse rules.’

‘Oh, I am certain that you follow them to the letter, ma’am,’ Arthur replied with a smile that eased her frown. He was a handsome man and not many women could resist that smile; despite her resistance, she softened towards him. ‘I just wish to make sure that your employees are doing as you bid them – I am sure you would not wish your inmates to be cheated of their rights?’

‘Indeed not, sir,’ Mistress Docherty replied, pursing her thin lips. She was a thin woman with a straight back, pale face and dark hair that she wore scraped back in a knot. Her black button boots shone and her black dress was neat, a lace collar fastened at the throat with a cameo brooch. ‘I am looking for a trained cook, but it is not easy to find one who will work for the wages I can offer. One of the inmates does the cooking at the moment, and others help. Her meals are adequate but perhaps might be better.’

‘It is not easy to find cooks of the right quality,’ Arthur agreed.

The mistress of the workhouse insisted on accompanying him to the kitchens, which was slightly annoying as he preferred to talk to the inmates alone so they might talk freely.

A stew was being prepared in the kitchen. It was a long room with low ceilings and dark beams from which hooks were suspended so that pans and skillets could be hung close to the black range where the meal was slowly cooking. The newly whitewashed walls gave it an appearance of cleanliness and the tiled floor had been scrubbed recently. The smell of the stew was quite enticing, and Arthur asked if he might taste the broth. Given a spoon, he dipped it in the liquid and then sipped. It contained more meat than in the past and he nodded his satisfaction at Sadie, the old woman who presided over three others. He noticed that one of them was Moll; she sat by the pot and gave it an occasional stir. As he watched, she tasted it and then, when Sadie’s back was turned, she put in a pinch of salt and winked at Arthur. He smiled back, because he liked the elderly woman’s spirit.

‘Tasty,’ he said when Sadie looked at him for approval. She scowled at him, clearly not responding to his charm. ‘What else are you giving the inmates this evening, Cook? I fear I do not know your name …’

‘She is Sadie, almost our oldest inmate; Moll now claims that status …’ Mistress Docherty said.

‘I should be sittin’ in comfort by the fire,’ Sadie grumbled. ‘Not expected to do all the cookin’ at my age.’

Arthur saw the indignant look her helpers gave her and guessed that Sadie did little but oversee the preparations. ‘So just the stew, then.’ He frowned and looked at the mistress for confirmation but Sadie answered.

‘Bread, stew and a mug of beer is what they get,’ Sadie muttered rudely. ‘What do yer expect – a plate of best rare beef?’

‘I wondered if perhaps there was some cheese to accompany the bread.’

‘Not from the rations I’m given.’ Sadie looked at the mistress, clearly shifting any blame.

‘Cheese is sometimes given to the men after the midday meal,’ Mistress Docherty informed him. ‘I do not believe it aids the digestion at night and may give nightmares, so I do not allow it.’

‘Perhaps apple pie or a steamed pudding might be substituted?’ Arthur suggested, but Sadie’s scowl deepened.

‘Not without another cook,’ she muttered. ‘I’m too old to be bothered with makin’ pastry at night – ’cept for her and the master’s supper.’ Sadie looked at the mistress resentfully and sniffed. ‘All these new ways …’

‘I am sure you do your best,’ Arthur said. ‘Perhaps another woman with some skill in pastry making might be set to work here.’

His suggestion fell on unwilling ears. Mistress Docherty was at pains to explain that she had been unable to find a woman capable of cooking good plain food among the inmates who worked for their keep and a bed; it would cost money to bring in outside help and Mistress Docherty complained that her budget would not allow for it.

Arthur said that he would see what could be done. Overall, he was satisfied that Mistress Docherty at least made sure both the workhouse and its inmates were as clean as possible. There was no sign of the lice that most men, women and children carried when they entered for the first time, and he had no real complaints. It was much as he’d expected. Mistress Docherty was efficient and honest but she lacked the compassion of the woman he had wished to bring here. He was vaguely unhappy with his visit, because despite all his efforts he could see little improvement in the lives of the inmates. He’d hoped for a much better atmosphere amongst the inmates after the recent changes, however, his was but one voice on the Board of Guardians and he could not object to Mistress Docherty’s regime.

He was thoughtful as he left. He had done his duty and now intended to enjoy a short break in the country at a friend’s estate. The business of more money for the workhouse kitchen could be attended to after the long weekend.

Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps the mistress was kinder than he thought and concerned herself for her inmates’ welfare more than he suspected …

‘So what is your name?’ the mistress asked of Lil when she presented herself at the workhouse door next morning. Lil was heavily pregnant, barefoot, and needed somewhere to stay for the birth of her child. ‘My name is Mistress Docherty and I shall try to make your stay here as comfortable as possible – though you must understand that your situation marks you as a fallen woman and you will sleep in a dormitory with others of your kind. I cannot have you contaminating my respectable women and girls.’

‘I’m Lil, missus,’ she said, her cheeks pink, ‘and this is me second. The first died when I was ’ere last time – or so the missus told me then.’

‘Well, we must hope for a happier outcome this time, Lil,’ Mistress Docherty said but did not smile. Lil was unsure whether to trust her. ‘As you know, we expect our inmates to work while they are here. However, in your condition we shall not ask too much of you until after the birth – perhaps you could help out in the kitchen? We are in need of a light hand with the pastry, I know. The work there is not hard and I’m sure the other women will look after you.’ Her words were fair enough but there was no warmth or kindness in them and Lil shivered. She’d come to this place because she was close to starving; there were few men who would pay for her services while she was pregnant and without the workhouse, she and her baby would probably die.

The mistress handed Lil a parcel of clothes, which although they were the workhouse uniform worn by all the pregnant women inmates, were better than the rags she was wearing, and a pair of much-worn shoes. Lil knew the clothes marked her out as being a fallen woman and it shamed her to wear them, but she had no choice. When she’d heard that Mistress Simpkins had been sent to prison, Lil had thought things might be better here, but this woman obviously intended to stick to the harsh rules by which all such institutions were run.