The Workhouse Girl (6 page)

Nettie subsided into silence, her mouth pulled down at the corners and her jaw clenched. Sarah gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before making her way to the parlour.

She hesitated outside the door, taking deep breaths as she plucked up the courage to knock. What would she do if Mr Arbuthnot had changed his mind and decided to give her back to Trigg and his wife? The mere thought of it made her feel faint with anxiety. She tapped gently on the oak door panel.

‘Enter.' Mrs Arbuthnot's voice sounded friendly enough.

Sarah peeped into the room, half expecting to see the workhouse master, but to her intense relief Mrs Arbuthnot was seated in a chair by the fire with an embroidery hoop clasped in one hand and a needle threaded with pink silk in the other. She was alone and she looked up, her face breaking into a smile. ‘Come in, Sarah, and close the door.'

Sarah did as she was told but she hesitated, not knowing what to do next.

‘Come over here and sit on the stool beside me. I want to talk to you.' She waited until Sarah was seated. ‘Dorcas tells me that you've been helping her this morning.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘I'm not sure that such heavy work is suitable for a girl of your age.'

‘I'm nearly ten, ma'am. And I'm used to working hard.'

‘Yes, I know, and it bothers me. I think a child of your age ought to be in school, even if you are a girl.'

‘I can read and write, ma'am.'

‘And my husband tells me that you can recite some Shakespeare.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘Well, that is a talent in itself. You obviously have a retentive memory and I think you ought to have more schooling.'

‘You're not going to send me away, are you?'

‘No, Sarah. I intend to find a teacher who will give you at least two hours each morning, except Sundays, of course.'

‘Miss Parfitt.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, but she taught us at the workhouse. Miss Parfitt is lovely.'

‘That's all very well, but it's unlikely that she'll be available. However, I'll see what I can do, and in the meantime you will continue to help Dorcas. I'll make certain that she gives you some of the lighter chores around the house.'

Realising that she had been dismissed, Sarah stood up but she did not leave the room immediately. She hesitated, twisting her hands together as she struggled to find the right words. Mrs Arbuthnot looked up from her sewing, her eyebrows raised. ‘Have you got a question, Sarah?'

‘Yes'm. What about Nettie? Will she have lessons too?'

Mrs Arbuthnot frowned. ‘I think she's probably had all the education she will need in life, but you may send her to me. I'll have a word with Nettie.'

When Nettie returned to the kitchen she was looking distinctly downhearted. ‘I've got to help Dorcas and do everything she says. I might as well be back in the blasted workhouse.'

‘Language,' Cook said crossly. ‘You should think yourself lucky to be here.'

‘I suppose I am, but I don't want to be a servant all me life.'

‘But it's lovely here,' Sarah protested. ‘You know it is, Nettie. We got a comfy bed and three square meals a day.'

‘It won't make me rich, though.' Nettie slumped down at the table. ‘No one got rich by cleaning privies and humping coal. Anyway, it's all right for you. You're going to have lessons and learn to be a young lady.'

Cook reached across the table and smacked Nettie's hand with a wooden spoon. ‘That's for grumbling when you got no cause. I was going to take you and Sarah to Wilton's music hall on Saturday night as a special treat, but I've changed my mind now.'

Nettie leapt to her feet and rushed round the table to hug Cook. ‘I didn't mean it. I was just being a grump. Please, please take us to the theatre, Cook. I never been to one in me life and I'm dying to see what it's like.'

‘Oh, please,' Sarah whispered, clasping her hands together. ‘Please forgive Nettie. She don't mean a word of it really. She's ever so grateful to the master and mistress and to you and Dorcas and even Betty.'

Betty popped her head out of the scullery. ‘Who called me name?'

‘No one,' Cook said hastily. ‘Get back to your work, silly girl.' She waited until Betty was splashing about in the stone sink. ‘She's not all there, poor little soul. We'll settle her down with a drop of Hollands when we go to the theatre. She'll sleep by the fire and Dorcas will keep an eye on her.'

Sarah and Nettie were both in a state of excitement as they made themselves ready to go to the theatre. Miss Gant had quickly run up two linsey-woolsey skirts for them to wear and Mrs Arbuthnot had sent Dorcas to a dollyshop in Well Street to purchase two white cambric blouses, which would have to do until their new clothes were ready. She had also given Dorcas enough money to buy two thick woollen shawls as the chill of autumn was making itself felt early that year.

Cook was in a good mood and she left Dorcas with a string of instructions for serving the evening meal above stairs. In the end Dorcas lost patience, which Sarah had observed was never her strongest point, and told Cook in no uncertain terms that she knew very well how to look after the master and mistress. She shooed them out of the door into the area. ‘Go and enjoy yourselves. I'll look after young Betty.'

As Sarah left the warmth of the kitchen and followed Cook up the steep steps she could feel the cold and damp rising up from the ground. The air was thick with smoke-laden fog which made breathing difficult and filled her nostrils with an unpleasant acrid smell. She wrapped her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders and hurried after Cook and Nettie.

Wilton's music hall was situated in Grace's Alley, a narrow passageway which led from Wellclose Square to Well Street. The fog swirled about them and it was difficult to see anything more than a few feet away, but Cook marched ahead wielding her umbrella as if attempting to cut a path through the worsening pea-souper. If it had not been for the gas lights suspended over the doorway they might have walked past the theatre as it was rather oddly situated in the middle of a row of terraced houses. Figures emerged ghost-like from the murk as the audience began to arrive in twos and threes, but Cook pushed her way to the front, using her tightly furled umbrella to good effect. Sarah followed her into the foyer and was surprised at the smallness and simplicity of the area compared to the grand entrance of the Theatre Royal. Cook paid for their tickets and in her eagerness to secure a good seat she was up the stairs that led to the gallery with the agility of a mountain goat.

Nettie nudged Sarah. ‘It looks like she's forgotten about her rheumatics.'

‘Shh,' Sarah whispered, giggling. ‘She might hear you, and it's very good of her to bring us here.'

Nettie took her by the hand. ‘Come on, let's make a dash for it or we'll get killed in the crush.' She darted forward, dodging in between the crowds of people who apparently had the same idea as Cook. They made it to the gallery to find that Cook had already picked her vantage point and had settled herself on a wooden chair with her skirts spread out over the seats on either side of her. She beckoned furiously.

‘Come and sit down or you'll lose your places.'

Sarah took her seat and leaned on the balustrade to watch the audience who were still arriving in the hall below. It was all so achingly familiar that it brought a lump to her throat. The theatre was neither as big as the one in Drury Lane nor was it as sumptuously decorated, but the sight and sounds of the small orchestra tuning up brought back memories of happier times. If she closed her eyes she could imagine that she was back in the Theatre Royal, waiting for Ma to finish her work and take her home to their humble lodgings in Vinegar Yard. It was no thanks to Pa, whose gambling had caused Ma such distress, but Sarah had seen how hard her mother had worked to keep food on the table and there had always been a fire to huddle round in winter. They had known hard times but Sarah had been happy.

She opened her eyes to concentrate on the scene below, forcing thoughts of her mother's sad end in the airless heat on the top floor of the workhouse to the back of her mind.

The orchestra struck a chord and then the master of ceremonies, wearing a rather shabby-looking tailcoat and over-tight breeches, introduced the first act.

Mrs Burgess craned her neck to get a better look as a rather large gentleman, also wearing evening dress that had seen better days, made his way onto the platform and took a bow. Sarah and Nettie exchanged grins as he fingered his cravat and glanced nervously at the orchestra, but the chatter in the theatre ceased when he started to sing ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me' in a glorious baritone voice, and his performance was received with thunderous applause. He bowed several times and the next act was a pretty young woman wearing a white ball gown. Her dark hair was studded with white camellias and confined in a snood at the nape of her neck. She sang ‘Flow Gently, Sweet Afton' in a pure soprano voice that throbbed with emotion. Sarah was enchanted by everything she saw and heard. The songs were new to her and refreshingly simple but touched her to the core. She could hardly believe it when the performers took their final bow to a standing ovation as the show ended.

Cook was sniffling into her hanky, apparently overcome by the emotion of the evening, and Nettie was unusually silent. She sat motionless with a rapt expression on her freckled face, and jumped when Cook tugged at her sleeve. ‘I never saw nothing like it in me life,' she breathed. ‘Did you see them gowns the women wore? They was so fine, and the way they sang. It made me go all funny inside.'

Cook tucked her hanky into her reticule. ‘Yes, it was all wonderful, but we'd best get home. It's late and you never know who's lurking around in the dark. It's lucky we haven't far to go. Get up, girl. Everyone's leaving and we don't want to spend the night locked in an empty theatre.'

Nettie stood up and stretched. ‘I could live me whole life in here, smelling the perfume and the cigar smoke. I like watching the rich people in their fine clothes. I want to be one of them and wear fine gowns and ride in a private carriage.'

‘Get on with you.' Cook gave her a gentle shove. ‘There's only one way a girl from the workhouse could earn enough money to look like that and it's not for you, young Nettie. You're going to grow up to be respectable or my name ain't Hepzibah Burgess.'

Sarah stifled a giggle and dared not look at Nettie in case she burst out laughing and offended Cook, who had been kind to them.

‘Yes, Cook,' Nettie said, winking at Sarah. ‘If you say so.'

‘I do indeed.' Cook plucked her shawl from the back of her chair and slipped it around her shoulders. ‘Let's go home. I'm looking forward to a cup of cocoa and my nice warm bed.'

They joined the queue for the stairs and were almost the last to leave the theatre. The darkness outside had swallowed up the stragglers and it was eerily silent. The fog was even thicker now and suffocating in its greenish yellow density. Sarah put her hands out in front of her, feeling her way along the walls of the terrace. Nettie and Cook were a little way behind her but she could barely hear their muffled footsteps and she was suddenly scared. The pleasant evening had taken on a sinister note and it could not just have been the pea-souper that had blanketed the city which made her feel nervous and ill at ease.

She stumbled over a doorstep but managed to save herself from falling by clutching at a protruding windowsill. Then through the murk she could just make out the faint greenish shimmer of the gas lamp at the corner of Grace's Alley, and she started to run. Although there was no obvious reason for her panic, she raced over the cobblestones, slipping and sliding in her desperate attempt to get out into the square and the safe haven of her new home. She saw a shadow in the hazy pool of light but it was not until it moved that she realised it was the burly figure of a man wearing a caped greatcoat. She came to a sudden halt, turning her head in the hope of seeing Cook and Nettie, but the wall of fog and darkness obliterated everything. Before she realised what was happening a large hand clamped over her mouth and she was lifted bodily off her feet.

SARAH KICKED AND
struggled, but with the hand covering the lower half of her face it was almost impossible to breathe. The sulphurous smell of the fog only added to her distress and she was beginning to feel faint when without warning her captor uttered a grunt and she fell to the ground. She landed with a thud that momentarily knocked the wind from her lungs. Gasping for air she raised herself on her elbow and saw Cook attacking the man with her umbrella. He was about to snatch it from her but Nettie put her head down and butted him in the stomach. He doubled over, clutching his belly.

‘Come on, Sarah,' Nettie cried, dragging her to her feet. ‘Run.'

Sarah yelped with pain as she put her right foot to the ground. ‘I twisted me ankle.'

Wielding her umbrella, Cook clouted the man round the head, sending his hat flying to the ground. ‘I dunno who you are, mister, but you got no right to attack little girls and defenceless old women.' She took another swipe at him. ‘And that's for using bad language in front of ladies.'

He scrabbled around trying to find his battered hat, which had rolled into the gutter. ‘Defenceless,' he gasped. ‘You're a vicious old cow, but I got her mark and I'll get her sooner or later. No one gets the better of me, let alone a nipper.' He struggled to his feet but Nettie pushed Cook out of the way and kicked him on the shin.

‘You just try it, mister. I grew up in the workhouse. I learned to take care of meself and I ain't afraid of you.'

‘Come on, girls,' Cook said firmly. ‘We're going home and if he tries to follow us I'll set the German sugar bakers on him.'