Read Shadows of the Workhouse Online
Authors: Jennifer Worth
Shadows of the Workhouse (2 page)
Once I heard Mrs B tell Jane to peel the potatoes and cut them in half for roasting. Later, when she wanted to put the potatoes in the oven, she found that Jane had cut every potato into about twenty pieces. She had been so desperately anxious to please by cutting them into exact halves that she couldn’t stop and every half had been cut in half again, and so on until all that was left was a mound of tiny pieces. When Mrs B exploded, Jane fell back against the wall, pleading for forgiveness, shaking all over and white with terror. Fortunately, Sister Julienne came into the kitchen at that moment, saw the situation, and rescued Jane. “Never mind, Mrs B, we’ll have mash today. They are just the right size for steaming. Jane, come with me, will you, please? The laundry has just come back and needs checking.”
Poor Jane’s eyes said it all – her fears, her grief, her gratitude and her love. I watched her go, and wondered what had happened to make her so fragile. Despite the kindness always shown to her by the Sisters, she seemed to live in a world of unfathomable loneliness.
She was very devout and attended Mass every day. She also attended most of the five monastic offices of the nuns. I had seen her in chapel, her fingers counting her rosary, her eyes earnestly fixed on the altar, half-intoning the words “Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me,” over and over again, a hundred times or more. It is easy to scoff at such devotion. Women like Jane can be seen everywhere and they are always fair game for a cheap laugh.
I was with Jane on one occasion in Chrisp Street Market. It was just before Christmas and the stalls were laden with knick-knacks and curios – obvious Christmas presents. We approached one of these stalls. Lying in the centre was a small wooden object, about five or six inches long. It was nearly, but not quite, round and smooth, with a slight ridge running up the under side towards a pronounced rim. The tip was rounded, smooth and polished, with a small hole in the centre.
Jane picked up the object and held it between thumb and forefinger for everyone to see.
“Oh, what’s this?” she said enquiringly.
Everyone fell silent and stared at Jane and the object. No one laughed.
The stall-holder was a fast-talking, street-wise coster of about fifty, who had been selling bric-a-brac most of his life. With a theatrical gesture he pushed his cap to the back of his head, took the fag out of his mouth and stubbed it out slowly on the edge of his stall. He glanced at his audience and opened his eyes wide with surprised innocence before answering: “Wha’ is it, lady? Wha’ is it? Why, lady, haven’ chew seen one o’ these fings afore?”
Jane shook her head.
“Why, it’s a honey-stirrer. Vat’s what it is, lady. An ’oney-stirrer, for stirrin’ ’oney.”
“Really? How interesting!” murmured Jane.
“Well, yes, very interestin’, it is. They’re old, you know, lady. Been around a long time, they ’ave. I’m surprised you ain’t come across one ’afore now.”
“No, never. You learn something new every day, don’t you? How do you use it?”
“How do you use it? Ah, well now, allow me to show you, lady, if you don’ mind.”
He leaned forward and took the object from Jane’s outstretched hand. The crowd, which had grown considerably, pressed forward, eager not to miss a word.
“Let me show you, lady. You sticks vis ’ere ’oney-stirrer in yer ’oney pot, and you stirs yer ’oney like vis” – he made a slight movement of the wrist – “an the ’oney, it catches on vis ’ere rim – you see vis ’rim ’ere, lady?” (He rubbed his fingers around it appreciatively.) “Well, ve honey, it catches on the rim, an’ drips off, like.”
“Really?” said Jane, “how fascinating. I would never have thought of it. I suppose it must be used a lot by country people who keep bees.”
“Oh, yes, country people, vey use it all the time, wha’ wiv all ’em birds an’ bees an’ all.’
“Well, I’m sure it must be very useful. Sister Julienne likes honey. I think I will buy this for her as a Christmas present. I am sure she would appreciate it.”
“Oh yes. Sister Julienne will appreciate it all right, not ’arf she won’t. If you asks my opinion, lady, you couldn’t get Sister Julienne a Christmas present as wha’ she’d appreciate more. Now, I was askin’ four shillins for vis ’ere remarkable honey-stirrer, but seein’ as how it’s you, lady, wot’s buyin’ it for Sister Julienne for Christmas, I’ll let you ’ave it for two shillin’ and sixpence, an’ you got a real bargain, I can tell you.”
The coster beamed benignly.
“That’s very good of you,” exclaimed Jane as she handed over the money. “I must say I’m delighted, and I’m sure Sister will be delighted when she sees it.”
“No doubt abaht it. No doubt at all. It’s bin a pleasure doin’ business wiv you, madam, an’ I must say you’ve made my day, you ’ave.”
“Have I really?” said Jane with a sweet, sad smile. “I can’t think how, but I’m so glad. It’s always nice to give pleasure to someone, isn’t it?”
Christmas Day arrived. We returned from morning church and prepared the dining room for Christmas lunch. A tableau of angels adorned the table centre. Our presents were exchanged at lunch time and were placed on the dining table beside each person’s plate. I found it hard to take my eyes off a small box, wrapped in silver paper, decorated with a red ribbon, resting beside Sister Julienne’s plate. What was going to happen?
We were fourteen to lunch that Christmas Day, including two visiting nuns from North Africa, beautiful in their white habits. Grace was said, with a special remembrance for the gifts of the Magi, then we all sat down to open our presents. A chorus of “oohs” and “ahs” and little squeaks and giggles arose from the table, as kisses were exchanged between the ladies. Sister Julienne picked up the silver box, saying, “Now what can this be?” and my heart stood still. She removed the paper and opened the box. Just the flicker of an eyebrow, instantaneous and then gone, was all that betrayed her. She carefully put the lid back on the box and turned to Jane with a radiant smile, her eyes alight with pleasure.
“How very kind. A most charming thought, Jane. It is just what I have always wanted, and I am truly grateful. I will treasure it always.”
Jane leaned forward eagerly. “It’s a honey-stirrer. They are very old.”
“Oh yes, I know. I saw that at once. A delightful gift and so like you, Jane, to be so thoughtful.”
Sister Julienne kissed her gently and quietly tucked the box away beneath her scapular.
To all appearances Jane was a bit of a dimwit. It was her reading that gave me the clue that she was, in fact, exactly the opposite. She was a voracious, almost obsessive reader. Books were her only self-indulgence, and she handled them with loving care. I took to spying on her authors: Flaubert, Dostoevsky, Russell, Kierkegaard. I was astonished. Predictably, she had a daily discipline of Bible-reading, but beyond the Old and New Testaments her devotional reading was formidable: St Thomas Aquinas, Augustine, St John of the Cross. I looked at her with new eyes. Aquinas for recreation! This was no dimwit.
Yet if anyone came into the room whilst she was reading she would jump up, all of a dither, and throw down her book guiltily, saying something like: “Do you want anything? Can I get you anything?” or, on one occasion: “I was just about to lay the table for breakfast. I haven’t been idle, really I haven’t.” This did not seem like the behaviour of an intelligent woman.
Later I discovered that Jane had spent twenty years in domestic service. She had been put into service at the age of fourteen, when life for a humble servant girl was very hard indeed. She had to be up at about 4 a.m. to fetch the wood and coal, clear the grates and light the fires. Then it would be a day of constant heavy work, at the beck and call of the mistress of the house, until ten or eleven at night, when she would finally be allowed to go to bed.
Jane had been hopeless at the job. However hard she tried she could never master the skills of simple housework. Consequently the mistress was always cross with her. She became increasingly nervous, breaking things, bungling things. She lived in a state of sheer terror that she would do something wrong, which she always did, so she was continually getting the sack and having to find another position – where the cycle started all over again.
Few domestic servants can have been less suited to the job than Jane. Her incompetence was monumental, although it is not uncommon for highly intellectual people to be baffled by the practicalities of everyday life.
Poor Jane! I once saw her trying to light a gas mantle. It took her forty minutes. First she spilled the matches all over the floor, and by the end she had broken the mantle, broken the glass shade, cut herself, set fire to a tea towel and scorched the wallpaper. No wonder she was always getting the sack.
I remember another occasion at Nonnatus House when Jane spilled a drop of milk on the floor. She trembled and whimpered, “I’ll clean it up. I’ll clean it up. I’ll do it.”
She then proceeded to wash the entire kitchen floor, including moving all the tables and chairs. No one could stop her. She insisted on doing the whole kitchen. I asked Sister Julienne why she behaved in this way.
“Jane was utterly crushed as a child,” explained Sister; “she will never get over it.”
Jane very seldom went out, and never left Nonnatus House for a night. The only person she was ever known to visit was Peggy, who lived on the Isle of Dogs with her brother Frank.
No one could describe Peggy as plump. Voluptuous would be a better description. Her softly rounded curves spoke eloquently of ease and comfort. Her large grey eyes, fringed with dark curling lashes, had a sensuous quality in their dreamy depths. Her smooth, clear skin glowed with radiance and every time she smiled, which was often, dimples enhanced her beauty, making you want to look upon her all the more. “Allure” might well have been her middle name.
Yet Peggy was not an idle lady of leisure, preserving her beauty with creams and lotions, or toying with men for her own amusement. Peggy was a charwoman. What with office cleaning in the early hours of the morning, her “ladies” in Bloomsbury and Knightsbridge, and restaurants and banks each afternoon, she was always busy.
Peggy cleaned at Nonnatus House three mornings a week and the house always smelled sweetly of wax polish and carbolic soap when she left. Everyone liked her. Her beauty was refreshing, and her smile raised the spirits. Furthermore, she sang quietly to herself as she polished and scrubbed. She had a pretty voice, and sang in tune. Her repertoire consisted of old-fashioned folk songs and hymns, the sort that children used to learn in schools and Sunday schools; it was a delight to listen to her. Her speaking voice was equally charming.
She was kind to everyone, and never seemed to get ruffled. I recall once when I had been out half the night (in my memory, babies always seem to have been born in the middle of the night, especially when it was raining!) and came in wet and muddy. I had been obliged to wait in Manchester Road for forty minutes, whilst the swing bridge was opened for cargo boats, and consequently was tired and ill-tempered. I crossed the hallway leading to the Clinical Room, not even conscious that I was leaving wet, muddy footmarks all over the fine Victorian tiles that Peggy had just buffed up to a glow. Something made me turn at the top of the stairs and I saw the mess I had made of her hard work.
“Oh, gosh – sorry!” I said, feebly.
Her eyes sparkled with laughter, and she was down on her knees in a trice. “Don’t give it another thought,” she said, affably.
Peggy was a good deal older than she looked. Her beautiful skin, in which the only wrinkles were laughter lines around her eyes, made her look about thirty, but in fact she too was approaching forty-five. Her supple body was as agile as that of a young girl and she was graceful in all her movements. Many women of forty-five would wish to look as youthful, so what was her secret, I wondered? Was it a sort of inner glow, a secret joy that irradiated her features?
Although they were around the same age, Peggy looked at least twenty years younger than Jane. Her softly rounded curves contrasted with Jane’s stiff, angular bones; her clear, youthful skin with the other’s dried-out wrinkles; her pretty blonde hair with Jane’s ill-cut greyness. Her easy-going laughter was infectious, whilst Jane’s nervous giggle was irritating. Yet Peggy treated the tall, angular woman with great tenderness, making allowances for her nervous twitter and general silliness, and often making her laugh in a way that no one else could. Jane seemed more relaxed when Peggy was in the house; she smiled more readily and seemed, if possible, less apprehensive.
Peggy’s brother Frank was a fishmonger, known to all as “Frank the Fish”. By common consent he kept the best wet-fish stall in Chrisp Street Market. Whether his ability to sell his fish was due to the excellence of the fish, the ebullience of his personality, or his commitment to hard work was not known. Probably his success was due to a combination of all three.
He slept little, and rose about three o’clock each morning to go to Billingsgate Fish Market. He had to push his barrow along the quiet streets, as very few working men had a van in those days. At Billingsgate he personally selected all his fish, having an encyclopedic knowledge of his customers’ likes and dislikes, and he was back at Chrisp Street by 8 a.m. to set up his stall.
Other books
Five on a Hike Together by Enid Blyton
Cut to the Quick by Kate Ross
Thomas Prescott Superpack by Nick Pirog
The White Horse of Zennor by Michael Morpurgo
Hot Westmoreland Nights by Brenda Jackson
Reaper I: The Beginning by Holt, Amanda
Recipe for Treason by Andrea Penrose
Scout's Honor by Janzen, Tara
Elite Metal-ARE-epub by Jennifer Kacey
Ivory Carver 02 - My Sister the Moon by Sue Harrison