look at her. ‘You are a lucky girl to be able to learn your letters, Kitty. I never learned until I went to live with Miss Edith and I should’ve liked to learn when I was your age.’
‘I want to go home,’ Kitty said and a tear trickled down her cheek. ‘I want Ma …’
‘Ma died,’ Lucy said and looked at the other girl apologetically. ‘Kitty is only eight and doesn’t understand what it means when someone dies.’
‘Your mother has gone to Heaven,’ Eliza said and smiled at the younger girl. ‘I hope you enjoy school, Kitty. I must go – it was nice to meet you, Lucy. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’ Lucy took her sister by the hand. She’d liked the look of Eliza Jones and wished she might have got to know her better, but Eliza was busy and Lucy had a lot to do when she got back to their room. Even though it was such a poor place, it had to be kept tidy and she wanted to speak to the landlord if she could. There must be a kitchen in the house and she ought to have the use of it sometimes – just as she’d learned they all shared the toilet in the back yard. Otherwise, how was she to wash their clothes? If she took them to a laundry the charge would be more than her slender purse could afford.
A surge of disgust went through her as she remembered taking their chamber pot to the closet in the yard that morning. It had stunk worse than anything she’d ever smelled before, making the vomit rush up her throat as she’d emptied their pot into the nauseous pool of sewage. How long was it since anyone had paid the night-soil man to come and clear the waste away? Lucy’s mind moved on to something even more troubling. It had been very late when her brother had come home the previous evening. She’d been waiting up for him, worried, because he’d never been home that late, and when he’d eventually come in at past one in the morning, it was obvious that he’d been drinking.
‘Oh, Josh,’ she’d said to him. ‘What have you done? I thought you had no money?’
‘I didn’t sh-pend any …’ he said and started giggling. ‘My f-friends treat … shed me …’ He hiccupped and grinned at her foolishly. ‘Don’t look at me like that … you’re not my …’ He’d turned away hurriedly and been sick on the floor. The smell had been awful and it had taken Lucy two trips to the tap in the back yard to fetch enough water to wash the stink away.
Josh had apologised before falling on to his mattress and immediately started to snore. Lucy wasn’t sure if he was really asleep, but she hadn’t remonstrated with him. What could she do? She wasn’t his mother and she didn’t have the right to order him around. His recent rise in wages meant he earned almost as much as she did, and he’d always brought every penny home.
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
