Sunday night was our last in Butler Court. The house was bare of furniture, there were no ornaments on the mantelpiece, no pictures on the wall. The place was desolate. When we spoke, our voices echoed through the empty house. I sat before an empty grate with Snowy, the cat, on my knee. It was purring away happily in its ignorance of the terrible blow fate had dealt us. I couldn’t help wishing I’d been born a cat, for it doesn’t have any problems like us. Mrs Hicks had agreed to take it and so there’d still be no peace for Pug, Annie Swann’s dog. We were depressed; the house had so many memories for us. Joyous when Dad was with us and also sad and miserable when we ran out of money and were slowly but surely sucked down the drain.
Mam came into the room and looked around. There was nothing left but rubbish. On the bare floorboards lay a broken compact mirror, an empty cocoa tin, and a few scraps of straw, paper and string. She reached behind one of the orange boxes which had been serving as a chair and brought out an old battered chocolate tin - a memento of happier times. Inside were letters, old bills, a couple of faded photographs, and bits of old jewellery that were of no value, not even to Solly, rosary beads, and a small phial that once contained holy water. For a long time, she sat holding the tin, looking over it, her fingers still on her
few bits and pieces. They were all she had left. She bit her lower lip and sighed, thinking and remembering the days that were. At last she made up her mind. She picked out the trinkets and the photos and put them into the pocket of her pinny. She took the tin with the papers and put them into the overflowing dustbin.
Nobody slept properly that night as we thought about what the next day might bring. Early next morning our fitful slumber was disturbed by the sound of hammering. The bailiff’s men had come to board up the windows. We finished packing our small trunk with our two blankets, a few hand towels, a change of underclothing, a small crucifix, a statue of the Sacred Heart and my most precious possession, the glass swan. We washed in cold water at the slop-stone and we were ready to go. There wasn’t much to eat, half a loaf of bread from yesterday and a little margarine. Nobody was hungry anyway. We took our trunk and waited outside on the pavement for the arrival of the workhouse coach. Annie Swann took us in out of the cold and offered us each a bowl of Irish stew which she had been warming in the oven. Auntie Gladys and Lizzie waited at the Hickses because Auntie had decided to take a job helping Mrs Hicks with her community work in Piccadilly. I wondered why Mam couldn’t take a similar job and keep us out of the workhouse. It was no use asking, though, ’cos they’d tell me to run away and play as I wouldn’t understand.
A bit later in the morning, Gran’ma and Auntie Sarah came round to say goodbye. There was a lot of hugging and sobbing. Then the workhouse coach with a decrepit old horse in the shafts trundled into the court. It had a big sign painted on the side with the words: Union Workhouse: Home for the destitute. The neighbours from the streets around appeared, tut-tutting. ‘Terrible,
terrible,’ they kept saying over and over again. Our shame was complete when they formed a gauntlet like they do when an ambulance came to cart somebody off to hospital. When the moment to climb aboard came, Lizzie and her mother clung together so tightly, we wondered if we’d ever get away. Auntie Gladys wept nonstop and promised to send for Lizzie as soon as she’d saved enough money. The coachman cracked his whip and we turned round to take our last look at our old home. In Mam’s eyes, there was a look of despair.
‘One day,’ I said to her, ‘I’ll get our family back together - the way it used to be. I don’t know how but I will.’
As we drove along Oldham Road, Cissie, who had been strangely quiet all morning, spoke for the first time.
‘This is like going to Dad’s funeral.’
She’d never said a truer word. But not Dad's funeral - more like our own.
The coach made its way along Oldham Road taking much the same route that Dad’s funeral cortege had taken a year ago. We came to a large building surrounded by high walls which someone had decorated with chalked warning messages: ‘ABANDON ALL HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE’ and ‘POOR TAKEN IN AND DONE FOR’. We stopped before a huge gate which had a great sign in wrought iron saying: UNION WORKHOUSE FOR THE HOMELESS AND THE DESTITUTE. WORK AND PRAY. Our coach driver applied the brake and got down from his perch. He rang a bell by pulling on a long chain and we waited, trembling in fear, wondering what was going to happen to us. A door in the grating slid back and an ugly-looking man with a twisted face rasped out his words of greeting. ‘Welcome to the Bastille.’ We heard the sound of bolts sliding back, the great gates
squeaked open and our coach rolled into the workhouse yard.
One look and my heart sank into my clogs.
‘I want to go home,’ Cissie sobbed. ‘I don’t like this place.’
‘Who does?’ Danny said nervously.
‘Chin up, our Cissie,’ I said. ‘Remember what I told you about purgatory and the thing called remission, how we can earn time off for poor old Dad who’s burning away down there for a thousand years. Every time you’re brave and stop yourself from crying, he gets a month off. Maybe more if you’re really brave. We were lucky to get places here ’cos God was giving us the chance to get Dad out of the fire.’
‘And my dad as well,’ added Lizzie.
‘Only after we’ve got our dad out,’ Cissie replied tearfully.
The ugly man had a big bunch of keys round his belt. He closed the gate, applied the bolts, and locked it securely behind us. He didn’t smile, didn’t even look at us. For him we didn’t exist. We weren’t people - we were paupers.
He led us along a dark, narrow passage and my first impressions were of whitewashed walls, jangling keys, and high, small-paned windows. There was the stench of stale sweat and rancid food, mixed with the stink of leaking privies. Butler Court was a garden of roses next to this.
He unlocked a door and pushed us into a large hall. There were about forty or fifty people queuing before a table where a man in uniform was taking down details. We joined the end of the line;.
‘Single file, single file!’ a man in the workhouse uniform barked, prodding us with a stick to enforce his order. I knew he was a pauper because he had a large letter ‘P’ printed in red on his back. When I looked around I saw
several more of these attendants who were obviously there to enforce discipline and to see that people did as they were told. I noticed one or two women in the grey uniform but they were different ’cos down their backs they had yellow stripes making them look like human humbugs.
We searched for a friendly face but there wasn’t one. The people looked metallic and the eyes stared out but didn’t see - the eyes of people who had given up hope. After an hour in the queue, we reached the table for registration.
‘Name!’ the clerk snapped without looking up.
‘Lally and Brennan!’ Mam replied in a similar sharp tone.
The clerk slowly raised his eyes to examine the specimen who dared answer back like that.
‘Why two names? Isn’t one enough?’ he barked.
‘We are two families,’ Mam answered.
The clerk snorted and turned to his box of index cards.
‘Yes, here you are. You’ve been before the Board and I’ve got your details.’
Slowly, as if it was costing him great effort, he copied out our family particulars into a large ledger - names, dates of birth, school attended, last address. He gave each of us a number in his book and he recorded this on a cardboard workhouse badge which he handed to each of us with a safety pin. There was even one for the baby.
Mam’s badge read. Dormitory 11, FTWF.
I looked at my own badge. It said: Manchester Workhouse for the Destitute; Catherine Lally, PTWF. Number 1633. Aged 11+. Dormitory 16.
‘What does that PTWF stand for?’ I asked.
‘Part-Time Worker Female,’ the clerk replied. ‘Now pin this badge on your uniform when you get it. Don’t lose it or forget it or you’ll be in serious trouble.’
Cissie looked worried when she heard this and clutched the badge tightly in case a wind might suddenly blow it away.
‘A uniform!’ Danny exclaimed. ‘We’re going to get a uniform. It’s like joining the army.’
‘Where’s Mrs Brennan?’ the clerk asked suddenly. ‘Why isn’t she here with her daughter?’
‘She has decided not to accept your kind offer,’ Mam said, ‘but the Board agreed to her daughter coming in with us.’
‘Oh, very well,’ the clerk sighed. ‘Most irregular.’
I looked over his shoulder at the big tatty ledger he was writing in. I could see three columns: one was headed ‘Folln Wimmin’, the second ‘Popers’, and the third ‘Hilly Jittimites’.
The Lally family was written under Popers. I didn’t know if this was a misspelling of Paupers or if it was another way of saying Roman Catholics. Lizzie was down as a Hilly Jittimite which sounded like some funny religion from up in the mountains.
As we came away from the table, we recognised a couple of familiar faces - Mrs Clynes and Mr Foley who was now with his wife and three boys. I noticed on Mrs Clynes’s badge that she was down as IF Dormitory 16. ‘IF’, she told us, stood for infirm female.
‘Ah, so you accepted the Board’s offer of the House,’ Norah Clynes said to Mr Foley and Mam. ‘I hope you’ve both made the right choice. If you’re going to stick this place, you’ll have to be brave souls.’
‘They don’t seem very friendly,’ I remarked.
‘You haven’t seen nothing yet,’ Norah Clynes replied. ‘But watch out what you say in front of these people,’ she added, indicating the inmate helpers with her stick. ‘They’re “trusties” and they’ll report anything you say to McTavish
if they think it’ll get them an extra crust of bread.’
One of the trusties rang a bell and all eyes turned towards the platform where a small burly man with a pockmarked face and iron-grey hair had appeared, along with several other people who looked like they might be members of staff.
He blew a whistle and barked, ‘Look this way, all of you!’ He was swaying a little as if drunk. He had a gruff, raspy voice and spoke with a strong Scottish accent which made him difficult to understand. Like a foreign language. But the tone of his voice was clear enough - it said, ‘You argue with me and you’re for it.’
At a signal from him, the staff sat down. Us inmates remained standing, mainly because there were no chairs.
The little man looked down at us and started to speak.
‘Ma name’s Angus McTavish and I’m the workhouse master. I’m told folk call me Old Jock but God help you if I hear any of you sayin’ it. Welcome to the Pauper Palace, the Manchester Union Workhouse. You people are here because you’re inadequates who couldna cope with life outside. You’re now what the state calls “paupers” ’ - it sounded like poppas - ‘and you’re under my care. It’s my job to feed you, clothe you and put a roof over your head. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a bunch of idle wretches and good-for-nothings. But let me mak’ one thing clear from the start. You’re no’ here to enjoy yoursel’. You’re no’ here on holiday. This is no’ Blackpool or Morecambe. Oh no. It’s a workhouse and it’s no’ called a workhouse for nothin’. You’re here to work and by God it’s ma job to see that you do or ma name’s not McTavish. I’ll have no scrimshankers in my House. D’ye hear tha’?’
‘I don’t understand anything the man’s saying,’ Cissie whispered to me.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll explain it to you if I can.’
McTavish went on. ‘First you should know the names of some of the staff who’ll be dealin’ with you. First there’s ma son, Andrew who’s taskmaster here. He will allocate the jobs that need doin’ in the House and see that you do them. He acts with my full authority. Woe betide anyone who’s reported to me for laziness or swingin’ the lead. Next to ma son is ma wife, Mrs Flora McTavish, and she’s matron here. Make sure you treat her with respect at all times. If she gives you an order, you’d better hop to it or I’ll know the reason why.’
‘The old dragon,’ Norah Clynes muttered.
Mrs McTavish stood up and glowered at us. If her husband was a dwarf, she was a giant; she towered over him. If ever they lost their job in this workhouse, I said to myself, they could get a job in a freak sideshow at Sanger’s Carnival.
Next, was the House doctor, Dr Eugene O’Brien.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the doctor who had tended my dad when he was ill. Mam and I exchanged surprised glances. She was smiling broadly when she whispered, ‘It’s so nice to see a familiar face.’
The only trouble was, I didn’t think he would recognise any of us as he’d been too busy trying to cure Dad’s illness.
‘I sometimes think,’ McTavish continued in a sneering tone, ‘that the doctor there is too soft wi’ all of you. But you’d better not try your malingerin’ with me, I can tell you. Salts and senna pods are all you people need.’
I noticed that the doctor was staring straight ahead. His lips were tight and he looked angry.
Our attention was directed to a one-armed man whose head looked as if he could be a model for the skull on a pirates’ flag. We were told his name was Harold Catchpole and he was the workhouse teacher. My blood ran cold when I saw him. I was sure my dad in his coffin had looked
healthier than he did. Dad had definitely looked happier. Even our old teacher Gertie seemed as merry as a circus clown next to him.
Finally, Old Jock turned with a smile to introduce a plump lady with a rosy complexion. She gave us a nod and a big smile. I liked the look of her. She was Mrs Burns, the workhouse cook. As McTavish introduced her, I couldn’t help noticing that Flora McTavish was scowling at her husband. If looks could have killed ... I made a mental note to ask Norah Clynes what was going on there. She was bound to know.
Our workhouse master dismissed the staff with a jerk of his thumb meaning ‘Skedaddle’ but what he said was, ‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your time than sit there listening to me.’The staff filed out, with the exception of the old dragon who opted to stay.
McTavish watched them go until the platform was clear. Then he turned his gaze on us and held up a big battered leather-bound book.
‘Take a good look at this tome,’ he said. ‘This is the House punishment book. What I call “The Purgatory Book”. Roman Catholics have a prayer which asks, “Lord, send me here my purgatory”. Get your name in this book and your prayer comes true. You’ll be for it. D’ye hear tha’?’
‘I don’t understand it,’ Cissie whispered. ‘He talks funny.’ She sounded worried.
‘He’s explaining how you can get Dad out of purgatory,’ I lied.
McTavish cleared his throat, took a big pinch of snuff and chuckled madly to himself. ‘You’ve heard of Strangeways prison,’ he smirked. ‘Well, we have our very own right here in the cellars of the house. We call it New Strangeways. Break the rules of the house once, you’re
disorderly and you don’t eat. It’s chokey and Diet Number Two - bread and water for two days.
‘Break the rules twice, you’re refractory and you don’t eat. It’s Diet Number Three - a week of bread and water.
‘If you’re stupid enough to do it a third time, it’s solitary in the dungeon for a coupla weeks.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Cissie asked. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Sh . . .’ I said. ‘He’s reading out the remission times.’
‘And now,’ McTavish continued, ‘I dare say you’d like to know the rules. Pay attention and memorise them. A full list is posted on the wall of each dormitory. Study them carefully.
‘One: you’re not to leave the building or go into the yard without permission,’ he barked. ‘D’ye hear tha’?’
I translated for Cissie. ‘Staying in the building and not going into the yard. One year’s remission for that.’
‘Two: you must wear your House badge at all times. Failure to do so, two days in the cellar. D’ye hear tha’?’
‘Wearing your workhouse badge earns one year and two days,’ I told Cissie.
‘When Mrs McTavish or I go past,’ Jock said, ‘you must stand to attention and bow your head. Forget and you’ll pay the price - two days.’
‘Maybe we should make the sign of the cross,’ Norah Clynes muttered.
McTavish continued his long list of rules.
‘Refusing to work or not finishing jobs you’ve been set means four days; telling lies, being insolent, using bad language, refusing to eat food, talking at meals - three days; smoking or taking snuff - two days.’
At least, I thought, we don’t have to worry about the last rule.
The worst regulation of all, however, was next.
‘Finally,’ McTavish announced, ‘before you go into the cellars for cleansing and your new uniforms, Mrs McTavish and I will select you for your work groups. Each group will live in separate dormitories and during the week there will be no mixing. I canna have the working week disturbed by petty family problems. However, I’m glad to say that the Union has generously set aside a time at weekends when visitors are allowed on the premises. Visiting times are on Sunday afternoons from two to half past three when you’re permitted visitors, and families can meet as long as it’s in this main assembly hall. I was against this concession mysel’ when it was agreed to but I have to abide by the rules just as you have to.’
When this announcement sank in, there was a gasp of horror in the waiting crowd. I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach.
‘Lord, take me now,’ Mrs Clynes exclaimed. ‘Ready when you are, God.’
‘Women and girls to the left,’ McTavish bawled over the noises of alarm. ‘Men and boys to the right.’
Mothers whimpered and clutched their sons. Mrs Foley clasped her two boys and they had to be prised from her embrace by the trusties who were there for that purpose.
The people moved slowly and reluctantly and the trusties went into action, poking them with their sticks. Poor old Danny was pulled away from Mam and forced in with the other males. He looked utterly bewildered.
That wasn’t the end of it, though. A further division was made. The dragon rasped out her own set of orders.
‘Full-time women workers to the front. Rest to the back. Mothers with babies may keep them for the time being.’
It was then that I realised the meaning of the letters on our badges. Mam and Eddie were to be taken away from us.
Cissie clung to Mam’s legs like a limpet. ‘Please don’t go. Mam,’ she sobbed. ‘Please don’t leave us.’
‘It’s all right, Cissie,’ Mam said gently. ‘I’m only in the next building. We’ll see each other on Sunday. You’ve got Kate and Lizzie with you - they’ll look after you. Think of poor Danny over there, he’s got no family with him.’
We looked over towards Danny and saw that he had recovered somewhat and was busy talking to the Foley boys. He’d get by, I thought.
Our group of PTWFs and IFs were escorted into the cellars by two female trusties who kept us in line with their sticks. I felt like a lamb being led to the abattoir. As we walked along the dismal corridors in the basement, we passed several dungeons with the faces of the rule-breakers watching our every move. We wondered which rules they’d broken. We came to a sluice room where three women were waiting to receive us.
Young and old alike, we were told to take our clothes off and to put on a thin slip to cover up our embarrassment and our bare backsides.
We sat on wooden stools and the sheep shearing began.
We were ordered to bend down and throw our hair forward while the trusties went to work with their shears. For the next ten minutes there was no sound except snip, snip, snip as our locks fell to the floor. It was bad enough for Cissie and me to lose our hair but how my heart wept for Lizzie as I saw her beautiful golden tresses dropping around her feet.
The three of us looked like plucked Christmas turkeys ready for the oven.
‘Why do we have to have this cruel treatment?’ I asked my particular trusty.
‘Old Jock orders everyone to be cropped to kill any vermin you might bring into the House,’ she answered.
‘Old Jock’s a stickler for bugs and lice. Won’t have ’em in the place.’
‘Lucky bugs and lice,’ I said to her.
Next we were each given a rough piece of carbolic soap and we stood together in the bath-house while a hosepipe was turned on us. The water was freezing and judging by the way the three trusties cackled, it was the funniest thing that’d happened that day. We were given a rough piece of calico to dry ourselves.
I could see that Cissie was near to tears again.
‘Come on, our Cissie,’ I said. ‘Remember you’re a Lally. This must be worth at least ten years to Dad.’
‘And for mine,’ whimpered Lizzie.
‘Only five for you,’ Cissie snuffled. ‘Remember there’s two of us.’
The final touch to our appearance came when we were given our drab uniforms - under-drawers, a shift, long stockings and, to cover the lot, shapeless frocks that reached to our ankles. Everything was several sizes too big. ‘To allow for growth’, our trusty informed us. All items were in the same coarse grey calico. We pinned on our badges and the picture was complete. From now on, everyone would recognise us for what we were - work- house inmates. We were grateful for one thing - we were not made to wear the little poke bonnets that the old women had to put on their heads, though I suppose we could have done with something to cover up our hideous hairstyles.
‘After supper,’ the big trusty said, ‘come back here and we’ll give each of you a towel and a blanket. You take these to your dormitory, and don’t lose ’em or you’ll be in big trouble.’
When all was finished, we didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.