The Girl in the Ragged Shawl. Cathy Sharp
to the pavement; she could already smell the blood and a lingering bad odour that turned her stomach and even though she tried hard, she couldn’t stop herself retching as he propelled her through the back yard to the kitchen door. The sight of her bringing up her meagre breakfast as she vomited in the yard made him roar with laughter.
Eliza wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stared at him resentfully. She hated him already, more than she hated Mistress Simpkins, and wished herself back in the workhouse. Ruth had been right when she told her that the workhouse was not so bad. Despite all the suffering she’d endured at the mistress’s hands, Eliza would have given anything to be back in the workhouse now.
She was thrust into a large kitchen, his large hand at her back. There were thick grey stone flags on the floor and two long tables, one at either end. One was being used for baking by a stout woman dressed in a grey gown covered by a white apron, streaked with stains of the food she had prepared over many days; she was sprinkling flour liberally everywhere and it had spilled on the filthy floor. The other table was clearly a thick wooden chopping board and an array of knives and hatchets were in readiness. She could see that it was wet and had been scrubbed recently, but it was scored and there were deep marks where the hatchet had made ruts and these ruts still held bits of bone and blood, which smelled foul; Eliza’s stomach turned again, though this time she had nothing left to bring up.
‘See to her, Mags,’ her master said to the woman and gave Eliza a slap on her backside. ‘I’ve wasted enough time. Give her a slap if she’s any trouble. I’d best see what that fool of a boy of mine is up to or I’ll lose all me profits, and watch what you’re doin’ with that flour!’ He grabbed Eliza’s arm and shoved her forward so violently she almost fell at the feet of the woman he’d called Mags.
He went through a door, which Eliza realised must lead into the shop, and she caught a glimpse of carcasses hanging up on thick iron hooks and a heavy wooden counter. The smell of blood and meat was so strong that she felt her stomach heave and ran to the stone sink under the window, hanging over it as she retched. but nothing came up.
‘It got me that way too, fer a start,’ the woman named Mags said mockingly. ‘You’ll get used to it in time, girl. It ain’t pleasant workin’ ’ere ’specially in summer, but at least there’s a roof over our heads and enough food. Master gives me meat to make pies and stews, and ’tis always fresh for he won’t eat the stuff what’s gone off – though there’s many that will take it a bit on the turn if it’s cheap.’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever want to eat meat again,’ Eliza groaned and Mags laughed, her double chins waggling.
‘Aye, I felt that way at the start, but you get over it. My pie has tasty gravy and you should eat what yer can, for if he sees yer waste good food he’ll be angry.’
‘I don’t care if he beats me. I wish I was dead.’
‘Now then, girl, ’tis foolish to talk that way.’ Mags looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You’re no good to me while you’re still pukin’ so I’ll give you a glass of my lemon barley water and a currant bun. That should ease your stomach and then we’ll get you settled.’
Eliza nodded, because at least this woman didn’t frighten her. She was like some of the older women in the workhouse, capable, with a weathered face that told of long-suffering, and dark hair streaked with grey that she wore pulled back into a knot at the back of her head, covered with a white cap that had seen better days. Her tone was harsh and there was no kindness in her, but thus far she had refrained from hitting her.
‘Where am I to sleep?’ Eliza asked looking about her.
‘You’ll sleep with me in the attic when we’ve finished for the day,’ Mags said. ‘Master, his son and the mistress have the only bedrooms on the upper floor, ’cos she won’t sleep with ’im. She says he stinks of meat and so he ’as his own room, though he goes to her when he’s a mind to it whether she will or no – three children that poor woman’s had, not counting the one she’s carryin’, and only one lad lived. God knows how many miscarriages she’s had in-between. You’d think he’d let her rest now, but he’s always at her like a ruttin’ ram.’
‘What do you mean?’ Eliza asked, though at the back of her mind she thought she knew. Men and women were strictly segregated in the workhouse, but the rules were broken sometimes and occasionally a man managed to sneak into their dorm. Eliza had once asked what was going on beneath humped blankets and Ruth had told her it was all for a bit of comfort and nothing to worry about, but Mistress Simpkins had spoken to her and Joe of rutting and made it sound bad and dirty, and Mags had the same tone in her voice. ‘Do you mean what men and women do for comfort?’
‘Lawks, but she’s an innocent,’ Mags said and shook her head. ‘You watch out the master don’t catch you in a dark corner or you might find out – and you won’t like it, girl.’
‘I’m called Eliza.’
‘Are you now?’ Mags nodded. ‘Well, if you answer to it, it will do.’ She put a glass of a whitish liquid in front of Eliza and a bun.
Eliza sniffed at the glass. It smelled sharp and she sipped it, feeling the cool taste on her tongue. ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mags.’
‘It should stop you feelin’ sick for a bit,’ Mags said shrugging her broad shoulder. ‘Eat yer bun, because I want yer to start work as soon as yer’ve done. The bedrooms want turnin’ out and that means polishin’ as well as sweepin’ – and then there’s this floor to be scrubbed. I suppose yer know how to scrub and clean?’
‘Yes, I can scrub. Mistress didn’t give us polish but I can learn.’
‘If yer willin’ ter work ’ard yer’ll be all right ’ere,’ Mags said. ‘I’ll just put me pie in the oven and then I’ll take yer upstairs. You had best meet mistress fer a start. She may want her pot emptied and that will be one of yer jobs, Eliza. Yer’ll be workin’ from mornin’ ’till night and ’er upstairs will ’ave yer on the run all day if she gets the chance.’
‘How is your latest project coming along?’ Toby asked Arthur when they dined together at Toby’s club one evening in May. He was in a mellow mood. The weather had improved of late, he had spent a pleasant day riding in Richmond Park, and he had recently bought a horse he intended to race at Newmarket. ‘Have you made progress with your drive to reform that workhouse?’
‘Very little,’ Arthur admitted ruefully. ‘Master Simpkins promises everything but delivers little – however, I think him weak rather than truly evil. His sister is another matter. I just do not trust that woman. I have been talking with some of the other members of the Board about her conduct, but unfortunately they seem to think her exemplary in her behaviour.’
‘How can that be?’
‘I fear that most of my fellow members believe that those unfortunates in the workhouse deserve their fate. They tell me the rules are strict because they need to be, and I cannot deny it – but I can smell the rottenness, Toby. I know things are wrong in that place, but until I have proof that she has broken the rules I can do nothing. I have no power to dismiss her without proof.’
‘Then pay the workhouse an impromptu visit on some pretext.’
‘Yes. I have been thinking of setting up a home for fallen women—’ He saw the wicked smile in his friend’s face and laughed. ‘No, not that kind of home, you idiot – a place where those who are destitute may go to rest, rather than the workhouse.’
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