The Girl in the Ragged Shawl. Cathy Sharp
have to tell him …’
‘If you go to the men’s workrooms you’ll be in trouble and so will he,’ Ruth said. ‘No need to be scared, my lovely; it bain’t always bad to be taken away by a master and might be better. Some folk find good masters and a new life – better than in here.’
‘No! I don’t want to leave you and Joe,’ Eliza said her eyes stinging with tears she struggled to hold back. ‘Joe and me are goin’ ter run away together one day and live in the country – and you could come with us, Ruth.’
‘Bless you, my lovely,’ Ruth said and smiled at her. ‘I be too old for a life on the road; I know what it be like to go without food for days and never have a place to lay yer head. You’ve no idea, Eliza. As a girl of your age I worked makin’ chain for two shillin’ a week, burned by the heat of the furnace and my shoulders aching fit to break; tiny links we made, and paid by weight not length. My ma worked long hours at it for not much more than I earned, and workhouse be better than that or the open fields when ’tis cold and wet.’
‘I long to be free,’ Eliza said passionately not listening to her wise counsel. ‘And I want to be with Joe.’
‘Wash yerself and change yer dress like mistress bid yer,’ Ruth said. ‘I’ll get a message to Joe and mebbe he’ll find yer afore mistress gets her claws in yer, my lovely.’
‘Ruth, I love you,’ Eliza said and flung her arms about her, sobbing against her plump body.
For a few moments Ruth held her close, her hand stroking the silky hair that was the colour of moonlight when it was fresh washed. ‘Be brave, my Eliza. If mistress be made up her mind to hire yer out, we cannot stop her. You’ve lived here all your life and she has clothed and fed you and is entitled to her fee. One day I’ll find you again, I promise. Find out the name of the master you be sold to and tell Joe afore you leave. I’ll come lookin’ fer yer one day – and if I can’t, then Joe will know where you be.’
‘I don’t want to go! I hate her but I want to stay with Joe and you.’ Eliza’s tears streamed down her face.
Ruth let go and held her away from her. ‘Wash yerself well, Eliza, and don’t let her see yer tears, for it’s that will pleasure her. Remember, you’ve got friends and one day we’ll see each other again.’
Washing herself with the coarse soap and scrubbing her fingers through her hair until her scalp tingled, Eliza wondered about her new master. Would he be like Master Simpkins, who mostly abided by the rules and treated the men better than his sister treated the women in her ward? If he was fair and did not beat her, then Eliza would not mind working for him long enough to repay her bond – though she did not know how many years that would take.
If she could just talk to Joe before she left, make certain he knew that she did not want to leave him and was ready to go away with him when the time was right, she would not mind so very much.
Eliza had not realised what it would feel like to be inspected by the man who had purchased her from the mistress. He was not a tall man, but he was very fat with little piggy eyes that seemed to bore into her, stripping away her clothes and leaving her vulnerable. First of all he walked round her, nodding to himself, and he touched her hair, which had sprung into natural waves now that it had dried after the scrubbing Eliza had administered. Then he stood in front of her and told her to open her mouth; when she did not obey instantly his eyes narrowed and a cold shiver went down her spine: this was not a kind man.
‘I said open your mouth. I want to see if you have your teeth and are healthy.’
‘She is not a horse,’ Mistress Simpkins said and for the first time ever Eliza felt gratitude towards her. ‘You can see she is young, strong and clean – do you want her or not? I can sell a girl like this six times over for as much as you offered and perhaps more.’
His mean little eyes narrowed but he nodded and flicked Eliza’s ear with his finger. ‘I’ll take her as she is then – she looks strong enough and my wife needs a servant for she is carryin’ her fourth child in as many years and has no strength.’
‘Make sure you work her hard,’ the mistress said with a look of menace at Eliza. ‘She can be troublesome unless you’re firm – so do not feed her too well and beat her if she disobeys you.’
‘I’ve me own ways of taming a wild cat,’ the man said and took hold of Eliza’s arm firmly. ‘I’m Fred Roberts but you call me master and you do as you’re told or I’ll flay the skin from yer back – do yer understand, girl?’
Eliza inclined her head. She couldn’t speak for if she did she would weep and beg the mistress to keep her. Mistakenly, she’d believed that nothing could be worse than her life at the workhouse, but seeing the glitter in the man’s eyes told Eliza that she was about to discover how bad things could really be.
Lifting her head proudly, she looked once at the mistress who had sold her and then turned to follow her new master. As they left the office, Joe came hurtling at them, grabbing at Eliza’s arm.
‘Fred Roberts – tell Ruth,’ she whispered giving him a look of appeal. ‘I don’t want to go!’
‘I won’t let him take you,’ he cried and tried to tow her away but her new master raised his arm and sent Joe flying with one heavy blow. Eliza screamed and bent over him as he lay on the floor. She whispered in his ear before she was yanked to her feet by her hair and forcibly propelled from the workhouse, into the courtyard.
Tears were on Eliza’s cheek as she looked back and saw Joe stumble out into the courtyard after them. He raised his hand and placed it over his heart and Eliza did the same, passing the message that only they understood. She did not know if Joe had heard what she whispered as he lay stunned on the ground, but it hardly mattered. She’d been sold to this man and it seemed he owned her, just as if she were a horse or a cow.
Eliza knew nothing of laws or of men who sat in parliament and made speeches about the foul trade in young children sold to brutal masters, of young girls imprisoned in brothels and made to serve men until their bodies were diseased and their minds gone. She did not know that one person had no right to own another, nor that there were rules to protect her. In the workhouse the mistress sold women and children for pieces of silver or gold and there was no one to stop her. For that there would need to be proof – and who would believe the word of a little guttersnipe? The mistress had the right to charge for the clothes any inmate was discharged in, and if she chose to put a high price on them who could challenge her?
Eliza’s mind was filled with terror as she was thrust into a cart and told to lie on the straw in the back. Warned that she would be pursued and thrashed until the blood ran if she tried to escape, she was frozen, numbed into obedience. The straw was filthy and smelled of the pig that had been transported from the market.
In her terror, Eliza thought death might be preferable to the unknown future because she was being torn from all she’d known her whole life, from her friends Ruth, Cook, and from Joe, her special friend. The memory of those nights spent whispering together seemed like a golden time, now ripped from her, leaving her bereft. There was a huge black hole of misery inside her as she wept. What was going to happen to her now? Her new master had threatened beatings but somehow it was not the thought of physical pain that caused her to shake – it was the sense of being alone, without Ruth and the other inmates. Now she was alone in a harsh world and she was afraid.
Eliza was taken to a back lane in a dingy area of the city. Everything, the buildings, pavements, windows were blackened by smoke and the gutters were filthy, running with rain filled with debris that had been thrown out. A dog was hunting for scraps and a mangy cat sat on a windowsill and hissed at it. She had no idea of where she was, but she knew that the stench was worse than anything she’d ever come in contact with before. Her master told her that the large building at the end of the lane was a tannery.
‘It’s where they cure animal hides to make leather and the stink is worse in summer,’ he told her. ‘You’ll get used to it – there are worse smells, believe me. Wait until the fishmonger tips his waste