Sunday at last! Oh, what bliss! During our first week in the workhouse, I had been counting the hours and the minutes to this day. And for three reasons. First, according to the menu on the wall, we were due for better food at dinner and at supper; second, we were to go to church today - twice. But the third was the best reason of all. We were to meet again as a family and even though it was only for an hour, it meant everything in the world to us. There was joy for Lizzie as well for she was expecting a visit from her mother.
The day began with the usual skilly but the way we were feeling, we weren’t bothered by its funny taste. Besides, we were getting used to it. There was only one chapel in the House and each religion had to wait its turn. The Protestants went first and as we sat in the dormitory we could hear them singing their hymns. I didn’t like to admit it but they really could sing and they let rip with hymns like, ‘Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven’ and ‘Holy, Holy, Holy! Lord God Almighty’. Don’t think Pm being catty when I say it sounded a bit like the vault of the Lord Napier on a Saturday night. I mean that as a compliment. Whoever said ‘The devil has all the best tunes’ was wrong ’cos I think it was the Proddy-dogs who’d snaffled the lot and left us Roman Candles with the
rubbish. Anyroad, we didn’t usually have a sing-song at Mass but left that to when we had Benediction.
At last the singing stopped and a little later, when we heard the bell, we knew it was our turn. Us three girls set off with Mrs Clynes who couldn’t walk very fast because of her arthritis. She was carrying her missal with her but I didn’t need one as I could recite the Mass backwards, thanks to having it drummed into me at St Michael’s. We saw Mam and Danny outside the chapel door but we were not allowed to talk, otherwise we’d have been sent back to the dormitory. We nodded to each other and mouthed the words ‘See you later’. There were about a hundred in the congregation and everyone looked happy, as if they were going for a day out at Blackpool. It made such a change to be surrounded by so many smiling faces.
The chapel was set out like St Michael’s Church back home and it did my heart good to see the familiar things - the tabernacle, the altar, the candles, the pulpit, the flowers. They gave me a feeling of warmth and security as I knew that the same Mass was being said all over the world. At times during the week, I’d felt miserable and lost but I hadn’t been able to show it because of the other two, especially Cissie. Now the sight of these things had me in tears as they brought back memories of those happy times we used to have before we went down on our luck.
The altar bell tinkled and the priest came out with an old miserable-looking inmate as his server. They genuflected and began.
'In nomine Patris , et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.’
I blessed myself and joined in the prayers happily.
‘Introibo ad altare Dei ,’ the priest chanted.
We answered, ‘ Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meaml To God who giveth joy to my youth.
The Acts of Faith, Hope and Charity followed. It was the one about hope that I said with all my heart. ‘My God, I hope in you, for grace and for glory, because of your promises, your mercy and your power.’ I asked God to get us out of this awful place and to help us get back together again. ‘I don’t care how you do it, God, but that’s my greatest wish. I don’t want money or things or owt like that. Make it so that we can be a family again.’
Soon it was time for the sermon and we sat back to listen. The priest - Father Hannon by name - was a tubby man with rosy cheeks and there was something comforting about him. A man who knew what life was all about. His sermon was about not wanting things we didn’t have but being content with what we had. He told us that man did not live by bread alone but by every word that proceeded out of the mouth of God. He quoted the Sermon on the Mount a lot. Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven, and blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. He told us how lucky we were to be poor because it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God. I thought: too bad for Solly, the pawnbroker, ’cos he had our furniture; and Jock McTavish the workhouse master, who, according to the ladies of our dormitory, was robbing the Board of Guardians blind.
At home, I used to be bored by the long sermons but here I wanted the sermon to go on so as to put off having to go back into the worldio.use proper. But we’d got the afternoon to look forward to.
We finished Mass with a hymn of our own. I was
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normally too shy to sing out but there in that place, I lifted my voice and let rip.
Soul of my Saviour , sanctify my breast!
Body of Christ , be thou my saving guest.
Blood of my Saviour , bathe me in thy tide ,
Wash me with water flowing from thy side.
I hoped the Protestants were listening up there in the dormitories.
It was time for Sunday dinner and we were due for something special. A piece of cheese with our bread! First, we had to put up with a talk from an Anglican clergyman. I noticed that, like the McTavishes, he did not join in the meal. He reminded us of the great mercies that had been showered down upon us; how lucky we were to have good food, comfortable clothes, and a roof over our heads, all provided by the generosity of the ratepayers and the Board of Guardians. He was saying this while we were eyeing the lump of bread, the small slice of cheese which sat on our plates, and the jugs of water. All that singing had given us an appetite and, although the dinner may not have seemed much to an outsider, for us it was a banquet and we were anxious to get at it. We could have done without the parson droning on. We’d had our ration of sermons for that day, now it was time for grub. He brought his talk to an end and said Grace. For once, we meant it when we said, ‘May the Lord make us truly thankful.’
Sunday afternoon brought an hour of wonderful happiness, sixty minutes of heaven. At two o’clock, out of our minds with excitement, the three of us hurried along to the dining hall. Before we even entered, we could hear the babble of
dozens and dozens of people talking frantically at the same time. It was like a madhouse as everyone tried to get the most out of this one hour. There was hugging and kissing and crying and shouting. For the inmates, especially those with children, Sunday afternoon shone through the whole week like bright sunshine on a winter’s day.
We soon found Mam with little Eddie, and Gladys looking more beautiful and glamorous than I’d ever seen her. Lizzie and her mother went off a little way and were soon deep in conversation. Gladys was looking that rich, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she wasn’t planning to take Lizzie home with her soon. Lucky Lizzie if she was!
Our own little family sat together at one end of the table but today facing each other which was not normally allowed. I can’t find words strong enough to describe our joy. For the first five minutes we simply hung tightly onto each other. Cissie clung to Mam quietly as if she’d never let her go. She showed Mam her sore knees and told her about the floor scrubbing.
‘Our Kate says that already we’ve earned over three hundred years off for Dad in purgatory. Only another seven hundred and they’ll let him into heaven.’
Danny showed his raw fingers and described the oakum picking the men had to do. All this time, I held Mam’s hands in mine and listened to her account of her week. She’d been put to work in the laundry and wash-house and had to put in a ten-hour day whilst young Eddie was looked after by inmates in the nursery. It sounded as if Mam had been having as bad a time as us.
‘Why do we stay here, Mam?’ I asked. ‘Surely we’d be better off outside.’
‘Without money or a home, where would we stay and how would we live? No, we must put up with it and hope that God will see our plight and help us.’
‘That’s all very well,’ I replied, ‘but everyone else in this place is hoping for the same thing and God can’t help everyone. Why should he give us special help?’
‘Have faith,’ she answered.
Came the terrible moment when the porter entered the room ringing his bell to let us know that time was up. I think the noise of that bell must be the most hateful, cruellest sound in the world. There were sudden tears and cries of dismay but it was no use arguing with it. If we didn’t leave immediately, there would be no supper that night. Before we parted, Gladys gave each of us a bar of Fry’s chocolate. We took it gratefully but it didn’t take away the sorrow in our hearts as we said goodbye for another week.
There was one consolation. As Holy Roman Candles, we were allowed to go to Benediction later that afternoon. It was back to the regime of no talking but we were in each other’s company again for the rest of the afternoon.
The severe-looking server was lighting the candles when we came in and soon the chapel was aglow with their reassuring illumination. I don’t know what it is but to me there seems to be something special about candlelight on human faces; somehow they look holy, even saintly. Led by his server, Father Hannon appeared in his magnificent robes and the service began. We sang the Benediction hymns though it wasn’t easy to stay in tune with Norah Clynes croaking out her frog-like version beside us. Just the same we sang out lustily.
O Salutaris Hostia ,
Quae coeli pandis hostium;
Bella premunt hostilia
Da robur, fer auxilium
Misery-face swung the thurible in a wide arc, releasing a cloud of incense that filled the whole church with its sweet aroma. A gleaming silk cloak was placed on the priest’s shoulder and as he turned to bless us with the monstrance, our server made a clinking sound with the thurible against its chain. Next came the Divine Praises.
Blessed be God.
Blessed be His Holy Name,
Blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true Man, Blessed be the name of Jesus . . . Blessed be God in his Angels and in his saints.
We filed back to our dormitories feeling refreshed and uplifted.
In our soul-destroying routine, Sundays were like oases in a desert, but one Sunday things were different.
Us three girls hurried down to the dining room as usual, eager to see our parents after a hard week of scrubbing floors. When we got there, we found Mam, Eddie, and Danny there all right but no Auntie Gladys. Instead there was Auntie Sarah looking very serious. When she saw 7 that her mam was missing, Lizzie turned white as if she’d seen a ghost.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked urgently. ‘Where’s my mam? Why isn’t she here? Is she sick or something?’ ‘Now, now, Lizzie,’ Aunt Sarah said. ‘Don’t go jumping
to conclusions. Your mam’s not sick or anything like that.
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She’s well but she won’t be able to come for a week or two.’
‘What’s happened? Where is she?’
‘I’m not going to try to hide the truth from you,’ Aunt Sarah said in a kindly voice. ‘Your mam, along with
Mrs Hicks, have had a spot of bother with the law and they’ve both been given a month by the Minshull Street magistrates.’
When I heard this, I felt sick in the pit of my stomach. We’d heard that kind of talk at St Michael’s School from girls like Fanny Butterworth and Florrie Moss when they’d told us how their mam or dad had been given time for nicking something from a shop or from a stall on Tib Street market. We’d never thought for a minute that we’d hear that one of our own ‘had been given a month’. But why Auntie Gladys and Mrs Hicks? Somehow I couldn’t see them nicking stuff.
We tried to console Lizzie by telling her that a month was not for ever. Her mam would be seeing her after a few weeks and everything would be back to normal. At the best of times, Lizzie was quiet but when this terrible news had sunk in, she went right inside herself as if she’d been struck dumb. She stared into space.
When we told our fellow inmates in the dormitory what had happened and how we couldn’t understand why people should be given a month for doing community work on Piccadilly, some of them looked sympathetic but others roared with laughter.
‘You girls are dumb,’ cackled Bertha. ‘They were given a month for being tarts, ladies of the night - prosties.They sell their bodies for money, love. I don’t blame ’em ’cos in this world, it’s sink or swim, sin or starve.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I protested. ‘I can’t see Auntie Gladys doing anything like that.’
It was only later when I thought about it that it began to add up. So that was why Mrs Hicks and Auntie Gladys
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had so much money. That was why our own mam hadn’t wanted the work. I didn’t report my thoughts to Lizzie, she had enough worries on her plate for the time being.
But looking back, I think that was the night I started to grow up.
Our weekly family meetings after that were never the same. Somehow the joy had gone out of them and we spent much of the time sighing and saying how much we looked forward to the day when golden-haired Auntie Gladys would come again with her gifts and her bars of Fry’s chocolate. But she never did. One fateful Sunday, Aunt Sarah turned up again. We knew by her face that she was the bearer of sad tidings. She didn’t seem to want to look at Lizzie and addressed Mam instead.
‘I’ve bad news,’ she announced. ‘On Friday last, Gladys passed away in the infirmary of Strangeways Prison.’
‘Oh dear, dear God,’ Mam exclaimed. ‘What in Heaven’s name happened? We were expecting to see her today.’
‘It was all over in a week,’ Aunt Sarah said. ‘Gladys developed bronchial pneumonia whilst she was inside. It was so quick that she didn’t have time to suffer or even know what happened.’
All eyes turned to Lizzie. Her face was ashen. No tears. She shook her head slowly, unable to take in the disaster which had befallen her.
I put my arm round her. ‘Lizzie, Lizzie. I’m so sorry. But you still have us. We’re your family now.’
Mam and Lizzie were allowed by the Guardians to attend the funeral Mass which was held in St Michael’s Church. The rest of us stayed behind and said our own private prayers.
‘Now we’ve got another soul to get out of purgatory,’ Cissie said plaintively. ‘That’s three we’ve got to suffer for now.’
‘No, Cissie,’ I said. ‘I think Lizzie’s suffering has been enough to get Uncle Jack out, and as for our own dad, I’m
sure he must be up in heaven by now after all we’ve gone through.’
After that tragic Sunday, we resigned ourselves to being in the workhouse for ever. We were becoming like some of the other inmates who had been there for years and years. In class, old Catchpole once asked the McBride lad what he wanted to be when he grew up.
‘I want to be the head of our dormitory,’ he replied.
That made me determined never to accept the work- house as my destiny. Every time I gazed on that glass swan of mine on the shelf above my bed, I was reminded of where I’d come from and I swore that some day we’d escape from this awful place. I looked next at the statue of the Sacred Heart. ‘Come on, God. You can do it. Get us out of here. We’ve scrubbed enough floors to get Dad out of purgatory. Now it’s our turn for a leg-up.’
It was all very well begging God for a miracle but I couldn’t see how even He could help, apart from sending down a thunderbolt to strike Jock McTavish and his hideous family. Where were those Bible miracles when you needed them? We simply ticked over; the days became weeks, and the weeks months. But God works, so they say, in mysterious ways.
I was constantly concerned about Lizzie. She seemed to have withdrawn into herself completely. Never smiled, never laughed any more, but went round with a sad, grief- stricken expression. A few weeks later, though, my worries switched to my brother Danny.
One Sunday a few weeks after Auntie Gladys’s death, we met in the dining hall for our family get-together. We exchanged the usual news of happenings during the week but when it came to Danny’s turn, he broke down in tears - a rare thing for him to do.
‘They’ve taken us off oakum picking,’ he wept, ‘and put us on bone-crushing. I don’t think I can take much more of it.’
‘Bone-crushing?’ I asked. ‘What does that involve?’
‘They bring in tons of horses’ bones which we have to crush into powder and they sell that to the farmers as fertiliser. They make us use a huge rammer which even the strongest men can hardly pick up.’
‘So how do you manage it?’
‘They put two boys to each rammer. I’ve been working with one of the Foley boys for the whole of Saturday. It’s not only back-breaking but our hands are blistered and the smell is so bad that one or two men have fainted. Andrew McTavish comes round and whips us on the legs with his cane if he thinks we’ve been slacking.’
We listened to Danny with horror. We knew bonecrushing was sometimes used as a punishment. We’d once heard Old Jock cry out, ‘Keep that man well to the bone tub!’ instead of sending him to New Strangeways.
‘If it doesn’t stop soon,’ said Danny, ‘me and the Foley boys are going to do a bunk.’
Something within me turned to ice when I heard this. Mam looked distraught.
‘Whatever you do Danny,’ she implored, ‘don’t try that. They’re sure to catch you and you’ll be brought back in chains. You’ll get solitary and Diet Number Three - bread and water for a whole week.’
Danny didn’t answer. I had the feeling he’d already made up his mind.
When we parted after Benediction, I was troubled in my heart and for the rest of that day I was worried sick. I hoped and prayed Danny and the Foleys wouldn’t be so stupid as to make a run for it. On Monday morning I was so relieved to see them at breakfast. They’ve used their
brains and common sense has won the day, I thought. But my relief was short-lived for on Tuesday they’d gone. Andrew McTavish was on roll call duty when the absences were reported.
‘Table Twenty-five,’ reported the table head, ‘three missing - the two Foley boys and Danny Lally.’
There was a gasp of horror throughout the hall.
Andrew McTavish was aghast. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely,’ the table head replied.
The McTavish son lost no time and ran out of the hall to report the matter to his father. No doubt Old Jock would have a heart attack when he got the news. Young boys absconding from his workhouse! It was unknown!
Oh, the stupid, stupid boys, I said to myself. They’re bound to get caught and Old Jock’ll make their lives hell.
The rest of the week was pure misery. A cloud hung over me and I was filled with deep disquiet. In the mornings I awoke to a feeling of panic. Something bad was going to happen, I knew it. The days went by but there was no sign of Danny or the boys. Rumour had it that in the early hours of the morning the three lads had climbed the workhouse wall and bolted. Searchers with dogs were out everywhere looking for them.
It was Friday at breakfast when things came to a head. We’d got our skilly and the prospect before us was the usual stint with the buckets and the scrubbing brushes when McTavish with his wife and son in tow strode into the hall and onto the stage. As Jock and his missus stalked past our table, they left a powerful whiff of beer, whisky and snuff behind them. Whatever they intended doing required Dutch courage.
The whole dining hall froze.
‘Before you begin stuffing yourselves,’ Old Jock thundered, swaying a little as he spoke, ‘we have a matter
of discipline to attend to. Bring on the absconders.’
Two big male trusties frog-marched our three boys onto the stage. What a sorry sight they were! Bedraggled, dishevelled, and shivering with fear.
‘These boys thought they could deceive me by running away. Ungrateful wretches! They thought they could give this workhouse a bad name by telling lies about the treatment they’ve received here. I’ve been too soft. I’ve been kindness itself and this is the way they have repaid me. Well, today my kindness and generosity come to an end. I intend making an example of these three absconders for all of ye to see in case any of ye out there are entertaining similar ideas.’
The audience of diners watched spellbound. For them it was pure theatre.
‘For these two boys,’ McTavish shouted, pointing to the Foley brothers, ‘it was their first offence and so I’m going to be lenient. They will each receive six of the birch. Bring them here.’
One of the trusties dragged the two boys forward by the scruff of the neck.
‘Touch your toes!’ McTavish growled.
As each vicious stroke hit the mark, the boys cried out in pain. When McTavish had finished, he thrust the boys to one side. ‘Now, stand over there while I deal with the real villain, the ringleader of this little episode.’
My blood ran cold. Standing alone, Danny had turned grey and was trembling like a leaf. What was coming? I looked back to see how Mam was taking this. She had covered her face with her hands and put her head on the table. She couldn’t bear to look. Danny glanced round the hall and his eye caught mine for an instant in a look of pleading as if he expected me to save him from the terrible punishment that was to come.
‘As for this boy,’ McTavish snarled, ‘this is a different kettle of fish. Not only is he the ringleader, he already has a criminal record with the Railway Police. We are dealing with a wild animal here. I think his rebellious and disobedient nature needs to be tamed and I intend to do it right here and now.’ He pointed to Danny with his birch. ‘Take off your shirt, you ungrateful wretch. I’ll teach you to defy me.’
He turned to the trusties and said, ‘Bring on the whipping horse.’
The two men left the stage to carry out his instruction.
‘As for you, Master Danny Lally,’ McTavish bellowed, ‘I sentence you to six of the cat.’
Everyone in the workhouse knew about the cat, or cat- o’-nine-tails. It was like flaying someone alive, they said. We’d heard that it used to be the official punishment in the Royal Navy for serious crimes like rape or robbery with violence but it had been abolished some time ago. Surely McTavish was not reviving it in the workhouse and against a young boy of eleven. For me, this was sure proof that McTavish had gone off his head and was stark staring mad. He was not going to use that whip on my brother, Danny! No, sir! Someone had to do something to stop him. I made up my mind. All eyes watched me as I stood up and dashed out of the room. I had to get help and there was only one person in the workhouse I could think of. Dr O’Brien. I ran along the corridor and up two flights of stairs to the infirmary. I burst into the ward where I found the doctor and a nurse attending a bedridden patient.
‘Doctor, doctor, please come at once to the dining room,’ I gasped. ‘Mr McTavish is about to give our Danny a public flogging with the cat and I’m afraid it’ll kill him. Please hurry!’
Dr O’Brien took one look at me and saw the urgency. He asked no questions but said quietly to the nurse, ‘Take over, sister. I shall be back soon.’ Turning to me, he said, ‘Let’s go! This time, McTavish has gone too far. It’s the last straw.’
We hurried back as fast as our legs would carry us. As we got near we heard the sound of a whip on flesh and a scream of pain. In the dining room a deathly hush had fallen and every eye was focused on the stage where Danny had been strapped to a wooden horse. There was a bar of livid flesh across his back. McTavish raised his whip and was about to bring it down a second time on Danny’s back.
I winced in anticipation.
‘Stop!’ Dr O’Brien’s voice rang out clearly and with great authority across the hall. ‘Enough is enough!’
McTavish froze in the act. ‘What the . . .’ he blustered.
‘You will put that whip down - nowV the doctor commanded. ‘Or I shall see to it that you are prosecuted for malicious cruelty.’
‘Be about your own affairs, sir,’ a flustered McTavish shouted back. ‘Your remit is to look after the sick.’ But his whip hand did not move.
‘You will release that poor unfortunate boy immediately,’ the doctor cried, ‘or I shall be forced to take the law into my own hands.’
‘You have no right to interfere in matters that do not concern you,’ Old Jock ranted but he sounded less sure of himself.
‘Untie the boy!’ Dr O’Brien ordered the big trusty who was standing by, bewildered and confused as to who he was supposed to obey. ‘Do it - nowV
The inmate did as he’d been commanded. Whimpering, Danny got up and rushed from the stage into the waiting arms of Mam in the body of the hall.
‘I’ll see you in my office, doctor,’ McTavish raged. Together they stormed out of the hall.
When they’d gone, a strange thing happened. For the first time, the silence of the dining hall was broken by the excited hum of conversation as the inmates discussed the drama they’d witnessed.
From that day on, our fortunes changed. I don’t know the details of what happened between Dr O’Brien and Jock McTavish in the inner office. Perhaps the doctor had been waiting for Old Jock to overstep the mark. I only know that a few days later we had a number of visits from important people on the Board of Guardians and we were asked lots of questions about food, punishments, work programmes, and how we’d been treated. A nice posh lady called Mrs Pankhurst talked to us in Dormitory 16.
‘They have no right to keep women and young girls in such dreadful conditions,’ she said, and wherever she looked she kept repeating the same words over and over again, ‘I’m appalled! I’m appalled!’
She was on our side and it soon brought action.
A full investigation was carried out and a new workhouse master appointed. Mr and Mrs McTavish and their son Andy landed up in clink not only for their cruelty but also for half starving the inmates and putting the food money in their own pockets. Served them right, I thought.
As for us Lallys - and I include Lizzie now in our family - our lives took a complete turn about. Mam got a part- time job in a bagging factory through Aunt Sarah and went with baby Eddie to live in her front parlour. Dr O’Brien came to the rescue of the rest of us kids by getting us places in a school called Swinton Industrial School. He showed us pictures of it and it looked like Buckingham Palace. He even arranged for us to be moved by the workhouse coach, driven by Old Misery himself. Oh, how
we looked forward to getting out of the Bastille! The memory of the McTavishes and the nauseating smell of beer and whisky were forever imprinted on my brain.
The Foley family were in luck as well. Mr and Mrs Foley went to live in a furnished room in Jersey Street ’cos Mr Foley had found a job with a furniture firm on Great Ancoats Street, and the two boys went with us to Swinton.
It was sad to say goodbye to our friends in the dormitory - to Mrs Clynes, Jessie, Bertha, Queenie, and Hannah - but at least they were to get a new workhouse master who promised to be kinder and more generous. We were not at all sorry to say goodbye to the other things.
‘Goodbye to workhouse skilly and the watery soup,’ said Lizzie.
‘Goodbye to scrubbing floors,’ added Cissie.
‘Goodbye to Catchpole and his spelling book,’ from Danny.
‘And goodbye to our friends, the fleas, bugs, and cockroaches,’ I said to round off our farewells.
On the day we left, I said to Cissie, ‘It’s been worth it. We’ve got both dads out of purgatory and I’m sure Auntie Gladys won’t be long in there. From now on, things can only get better.’