A few days after my letter, we were told to report to the town hall to ‘go before the Board’. This meant not only our own little family but also Auntie Gladys and Lizzie because they were lodging with us. We were told to turn up at nine o’clock but we were so worried about being late, we set off at quarter to eight for the long walk to Albert Square. We didn’t take the bassinet in case it slowed us down and Mam and Auntie took turns carrying the baby. It was trying to snow and the pavements were a bit slippery but we managed to arrive at the town hall at half past eight in plenty of time. Or so we thought. We found we were not the only ones with the idea of turning up early, for there was a long line of people stretching from inside the building to the end of Mount Street. I think the whole of Manchester must have been applying for relief because people were jammed into the staircase five or six deep. They were a real mixed bunch of worn-out people: the respectable and the rough; the old and the young; the infirm, the sick, the blind and the lame; tramps with stubble chins, sluts who screeched and cackled at each other; lunatics and imbeciles who cursed and swore or burst into fits of wild, hysterical laughter. Some of the kids wore thin, scanty clothing and the piercing cold March wind had many of them shivering. The queue moved oh so slowly.
We were lucky in one respect though - the people near us seemed all right. In front of us was an old grannie with a walking stick. She was dressed in a tattered coat and a fur boa which looked as if it had the mange. She introduced herself as Norah Clynes. She looked and sounded like a frog.
‘They won’t give you nowt, you know,’ the old lady croaked to those around her.
‘What makes you say that?’ Mam asked.
‘I know this lot,’ she said, pointing her stick up the stairs. ‘A mean set of bastards. Chairman of the Board is Sir Josiah Grimshaw, the meanest of them all.’ Peering at Mam for the first time, she said, ‘Is this your first time applying for relief, love?’
‘No,’ Mam answered in a friendly tone. ‘We’ve been on outdoor relief for six months but we couldn’t manage no longer and so we’re applying for supplementary.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ Mrs Clynes said. ‘I read in the Evening News the other night that they’re cutting down on outdoor ’cos it’s too dear, especially where there’s kids.’
‘I hope not,’ said a man behind us in the line. ‘I’ve got a wife and two young lads and we don’t fancy the idea of going into the House. We’ve heard some right tales about it, I can tell you.’
‘All true,’ said Mrs Clynes, the self-appointed adviser. ‘And it’s the Board that’ll make the decision, not.you. These Guardians have got only one idea on their mind and that’s to save the ratepayers’ money.’
‘I’m a carpenter by trade,’ the man said. ‘Had my own little business. Foley and Sons - not that my sons are old enough to do any carpentry, mind, but I was looking to the future. Then we had a fire which wiped us out. Now, no home, no business, no money. The workhouse is our only hope.’
‘If I were you,’ said Mrs Clynes, ‘I wouldn’t use the word hope and workhouse in the same breath. A few years ago, I was an inmate in the Union Workhouse and I know what it’s like. I’d do anything not to go back there but I’ve no choice.’
The little section around the old lady was all ears and she obviously enjoyed being a source of information and advice. Her account of life in the workhouse filled us with fear.
‘You sound like a real Job’s comforter,’ Mam said.
‘And with good cause, missus,’ the Clynes lady said. ‘You wait till you get into the Bastille, you’ll find out.’
‘I’m hoping and praying it won’t come to that,’ Mam said.
It was noon and we’d been queuing for over three hours but at least we’d reached the main hall. There we saw dozens of hard, wooden benches with no backs, but every seat was taken. Most of the people waiting looked like hospital cases. Here was an old man with an eye patch; there, an old crone cackling to herself; and babies, babies everywhere. One of them started to howl and the others began to wail in sympathy until the mothers, including my own, responded to some invisible command and put them to the breast.
All that feeding reminded us that we hadn’t eaten since early morning.
‘I’m hungry. Mam,’ Cissie said.
‘Don’t worry,’ Mam said, and she produced from her shopping bag rounds of bread and dripping and a large bottle of water. Good old Mam, she thought of everything.
We were now a little nearer the office where the Guardians were settling everyone’s future. We could hear them summing up their morning’s work.
'Paddy Cox, married, four children. Iron Street . . . Workhouse. Freda Parkins, imbecile . . .Workhouse. Alfred Noakes, baker, Red Bank, wife and seven children. Applied for relief. Workhouse. Edna Bates, widow, Dalton Street, five children. Applied for outdoor relief. Rejected.’
We heard one Guardian protest at the last case. ‘Edna Bates was a most deserving case. She has worked hard all her life and we should give her help.’ His plea was overruled.
What chance did we stand?
Around twelve thirty, a Guardian came out of the inner office. He was a well-dressed man with a waxed handlebar moustache like in the advert for cut-throat razors and leather strops.
‘There will now be a break until two o’clock to allow members of the Board to have their lunch as they have been hard at work all morning.’
What about us? we thought. We’ve been waiting in this terrible place all morning.
No use moaning about it. We had to sit it out.
At quarter past two, the cut-throat razor man reappeared and the interviews began again. After a little while, a man came out. He looked unhappy.
‘Rejected,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘They’ve sent me and my family back to Durham. They said my case has nothing to do with them.’
‘There, what did I tell you?’ Mrs Clynes said. ‘They’ll do anything to save ratepayers’ money. Anyroad, let’s see what they’ve got to say about my application. At least they can’t send me off to another parish. I’ve lived in Manchester all my life.’
We were now sitting outside the office door and we could hear every word that was said.
‘What’s that you said, Mrs Clynes?’ laughed a male
voice. ‘Rheumatism and arthritis, eh? The House is the finest cure in the world for those conditions. Old Jock’ll soon fix you up. They say a change is as good as a rest. A holiday in the poorhouse will soon heal your aches and pains. Workhouse! Next!’ We heard the rubber stamp punched on the paper.
Mrs Clynes came out crestfallen. ‘Best of luck,’ she said to us as she hobbled off.
It was our turn. Hearts fluttering, we waited for the moustachioed man to appear. It was all new and unfamiliar and very frightening. He came out at last and called our names.
‘Lally family and Mrs Brennan and daughter Lizzie.’
We crowded into a little office and found ourselves in front of the Board of six Guardians - four men and two women in large picture hats. One of the men was our Mr Gillespie. There were chairs but nobody asked us to sit down and we stood around feeling uncomfortable. And even though we’d been waiting outside for over five hours, nobody asked if we’d had anything to eat. Why should they? They’d just come back from a splendid pub lunch in The Boot and the Slipper. The chairman was a dried-up looking old man in a tweed suit and a flat cap. He gazed over his wire glasses, sniffed, and inspected us as if we were a species of nasty insects. He mumbled as if it was costing him a great effort to speak to people like us and we could hardly hear what he was saying but from the adoring looks on the faces of the rest of the committee, it seemed as if he was taking dictation from God Himself. He checked our names to make sure he’d got the right people and began his cross-examination. We felt like criminals in the dock.
‘We, er, are known, er, as the Guardians,’ he said, ‘and, er, people think that, er, we are guardians of the
poor.’ He looked round at the others for approval.
The rest of the board laughed as if it was the best joke they’d heard that day. I had the feeling they’d heard it before.
‘But we’re nothing, er, of the sort,’ he continued. ‘No, er, we are the guardians of, er, the rates and we’re not here to give out money to ne’er-do-wells and worthless idlers. Our job is to make sure that public funds go only to deserving cases. We’ve got to distinguish between the incorrigibly idle and the deserving unemployed. Which one are you, madam?’ he asked, pointing to Mam.
‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir,’ Mam said nervously, ‘but my husband was a respectable man who always paid his way and his rates and taxes. He died in November and I have four young children to care for, sir. We’re five weeks behind with the rent and we don’t have any wages coming in. We’ve sold our possessions, everything we have, and now we’re destitute.’
‘Quite, quite. Mr Gillespie has filled us in with the details of your case. You state on your form that you have a lodger, a widow, Mrs Gladys Brennan. Does she not pay you rent?’
‘Not any more, sir. Not since she lost her job in the soda works. Now she’s also penniless.’
‘Yes, yes. We shall come to Mrs Brennan shortly.’
Gladys shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
‘Your husband, Michael Lally,’ the chairman continued, ‘had a well-paid job. Was he not insured? And did he not provide for you?’
‘His insurance was just enough to cover his funeral expenses, sir. After we buried him, there was nothing left.’
‘Disgraceful,’ the chairman said, looking round at his fellow members for support. ‘Mr Gillespie tells us it was a
lavish funeral with no expense spared. Pity your husband didn’t think a little more of his surviving family.’
Mam flushed with anger when she heard this but bit her tongue and said nothing.
‘You said you have four children.’ He looked at his notes.
‘Yes, that’s right - four,’ Mam said defiantly.
‘Do, er, you know the Reverend Thomas Malthus?’ he asked.
‘No, sir,’ Mam answered. ‘The only reverend I know is our parish priest, Father Michael Muldoon.’
‘Thomas Malthus,’ he continued, ignoring her, ‘was a great thinker who told us that people like you breed too many children and if we all go on like that, soon there won’t be enough food for any of us.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Mam said, as if she was responsible for causing world famine.
‘It’s too easy to have children,’ he said, looking at his fellow Guardians. ‘In fact, it’s an enjoyable activity having children, eh what?’ His partners on the bench were nodding and smiling like those wind-up Japanese dolls I’d seen advertised. Encouraged by his cronies, he warmed to his subject. ‘It’s all very well for you people to marry and breed children like rabbits but you do not seem to appreciate the need to make provision for emergencies like sickness and death. No, you’d rather leave it to hardworking ratepayers to foot the bill. It’s damned irresponsible. Damned irresponsible. You should be grateful that our government in its generosity has more forethought than you and your late husband appear to have had. I hope you are truly grateful.’
‘Oh, yes, sir. Indeed I am.’ I’m sure the words stuck in Mam’s throat.
‘Anyway,’ Sir Josiah Grimshaw continued, ‘the good news is, we have considered most carefully Mr Gillespie’s
report on your family and we have no hesitation in offering you the House.’The rest of the Board smiled and nodded agreement.
On hearing the decision, Mam broke down in tears and began sobbing uncontrollably, I didn’t understand why. If it was good news, like the man said, she should have been smiling.
‘As I am sure you are aware,’ the chairman droned on, ‘whether you go into the House or not is entirely up to you. It’s your decision. But of course payments of outdoor relief will now cease.’
‘Very well, sir,’ Mam said through her tears. ‘We have no choice but to accept the Board’s kind offer and go into the workhouse.’ Mam looked so upset my blood ran cold when I heard her say this.
‘Good,’ said Sir Josiah. ‘Then it’s settled. The Union coach will call at your home on Friday afternoon to collect you and your family and the one trunk we allow you. Now we come to the case of your lodger, Mrs Brennan. Or more correctly, Miss Brennan. This is a different kettle of fish, I’m afraid.’ Addressing Auntie Gladys directly, he said, ‘We can take you and your daughter but the conditions are different.’
‘How are they different, sir?’ Auntie asked, anxiously biting her lip.
‘First, mothers of illegitimate children are housed in a separate institution so as to avoid contact with the young. There we try to return such wicked women to the path of virtue.’
‘You mean I would have to live with a crowd of prostitutes and be cast out like a leper? I think this is harsh treatment, sir.’
‘Women like you bring such treatment on yourself. Our aim is to make young girls think twice before they bring a
bastard into the world. You fell away from virtue by anticipating marriage as you did. Now you must take the consequences of your sinful behaviour. As Guardians, it is our job to protect the young from depraved and degraded women and to train them for a dutiful and industrious life. You may rest assured that we shall look after your daughter and raise her virtuously.’
‘What happens, sir,’ Auntie asked, ‘if I accept your conditions? Do I never see my daughter again?’
‘Your daughter is over eight years of age and so you may leave her with us whilst you try to earn your living outside, if that is your desire. When you are in a position to look after her yourself, you are at liberty to take her back whenever you wish. If you decide, however, to come into the House yourself, you must reside in the section of the House reserved for unmarried mothers. Our training there consists of wholesome discipline, productive industry and reformation. In addition, you would wear the special clothing provided for women of your status.’
Auntie Gladys had now turned deathly pale. She looked sorrowfully across to a bewildered Lizzie.
‘It’s all for the best, Lizzie,’ she murmured. ‘Very well, sir,’ she replied, turning back to the chairman. ‘I’d made up my mind about this matter before I came today. I can no longer cope with my present situation. May I leave my daughter in your capable hands?’
‘You have made the wisest decision,’ he said. The rest of the Board nodded. That’s not a bad job they have, I said to myself. Nod and smile whenever the chairman gave the signal. Why, even I could'do that.