‘ The stranger gazing upon the splendid brick edifice, with its surrounding territory, was surprised when he was told that it was not the seat of an ancient dukedom; but that it was a modern palace for pauper children .’
Charles Dickens, Household Words , on visiting Swinton Industrial School in July 1850.
The ride in the workhouse coach was sheer agony. I think the springs had packed up a long time ago and every bump in the road sent a jolt up the spine. Not only that, we were crammed together like sardines, all six of us kids - Cissie, Lizzie, Danny, the two Foley boys and me.To add to our discomfort we were feeling as nervous as kittens ’cos we didn’t know what was going to happen next. Mam and Eddie had already gone to Aunt Sarah’s and now we were on our own, riding into the unknown.
‘I’m scared, Kate,’ Cissie said.
She wasn’t the only one but we didn’t say it out loud.
‘Not to worry, Cissie,’ I said. ‘We’ll get by. We always do.’
As the coach rolled through Shudehill towards Salford, we heard the news boys shouting out the latest headlines: ‘Britain declares war on the Boers! All over by Christmas, says Prime Minister.’
‘Who are the Boers, Kate?’ Danny asked. ‘And why have we declared war on them?’
‘No idea, Danny. Unless by the Boers they mean boring people. In that case, they’ve spelt it wrong on their billboards.’
We trundled along Blackfriars Street past Chetham’s Hospital and soon we were moving along Chapel Street past Peel Park. Half an hour later we turned off Partington Lane through big iron gates and into a gravelled driveway that wound past green lawns and bougainvillaea bushes. Our first sight of the place did nothing to calm our fears. The building was immense with two twin towers like in those pictures of big haunted castles you see in ghost stories. And the signboard with the words MANCHESTER UNION, MORAL AND INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL FOR CHILDREN OF THE POOR didn’t help either.
‘I don’t like the look of this place,’ Danny said.
The coach stopped outside the solid oak entrance and Old Misery, the driver, got down.
‘All out,’ he shouted. He climbed onto the roof of the coach and handed down the linen bags which contained our bits and pieces. We stood there quaking in our clogs, waiting for someone or something. We must’ve looked a pitiful sight in our workhouse garb and with our cropped hairstyles. Oh, for a friendly familiar face!
God granted my wish for out of the main door came Dr O’Brien, a big smile on his face and both hands outstretched in welcome.
‘Good morning, children!’ he called. ‘I’m so glad you finally made it.’
\ *
Behind him followed a middle-aged couple - also smiling happily. The man was about fifty years old, his hair greying at the temples. Beside him stood a lady around the same age, perhaps a little younger.
‘Welcome to Swinton,’ he said warmly.
‘Let me introduce everybody,’ said the doctor. ‘Children, meet Mr and Mrs Birkby, the master and matron of the Swinton Industrial School.’ We shook hands. This was a new experience for us. Shaking hands with higher-ups! And it was that more than anything else that told me this place was a different world from the workhouse. Deep, deep down, I knew we were going to like it there.
The three adults led us into an inner office where we were invited to sit down. Another thing we weren’t used to. Mr Birkby told us about the school.
‘Our new medical officer, Dr O’Brien here, has told us about you and we do hope you’ll be happy here at Swinton
- everyone calls it SIS for short.’ He laughed. ‘I’m only sorry we couldn’t find places for you earlier but it’s only now that vacancies have occurred.’
We didn’t understand why he was telling us this as we weren’t used to having things explained to us. I think he realised this because he changed the subject.
‘Thank God you’re out of that terrible place, the workhouse. The doctor has told us about it. Now, don’t let the grand buildings here frighten you. Why, even Charles Dickens was deeply impressed when he visited Swinton many years ago - he called it a modern palace. We’re proud of it. You will be here until you’re fourteen and then we shall try to find employment for you. And even when you’ve left, we’ll take an interest in your progress and your general well-being until you’re eighteen. Here at SIS, you’ll be able to think about the kind of future job you’d like to have and we’ll give you training for it - what we call vocational training. For the boys, there’s a range of classes available - in the building trades, shoe repairing, farming
- also a chance for musical training and to become bandsmen in the army cadets. For the girls, there are
opportunities in nursing, cotton mill work and domestic service. You’ll be able to talk it over with your tutors and choose which way you’d like to go. The school also has its own farm and you’ll be given a small plot of land to look after. But I’m sure you must be feeling overwhelmed and a little bewildered. So I won’t tell you too much, not on your first day. You’ll pick things up as you go along. Now it’s time to meet your personal tutors.’
Mrs Birkby went into the hall and rang a small handbell. In a few minutes, two teachers appeared. One was a sturdily built man, in his forties; the other a tall, dark-haired lady, around thirty at a guess. But for me the most striking thing about them was the friendly smiling way they were looking at us - such a change from our scowling Mr Catchpole.
‘This is Mr Maguire, tutor to the boys,’ Mr Birkby told us, ‘and this is Miss Morrell, Miss Lucy Morrell, tutor to the girls.They’ll explain how our system works.’There was more hand-shaking and I was beginning to feel like Queen Victoria or the Lady Mayoress.
The boys went off with their tutor to the boys’ department and we three went with Miss Morrell to the girls’ section.
‘This is your bedroom which you will share with nine other girls,’ she informed us.
‘A sort of dormitory?’ I asked.
‘No, not a dormitory. A bedroom. We think it’s more homely and we try to keep the numbers down so you don’t feel lost in a great crowd. My own bedroom is close by in case I’m ever needed.’*
‘Are we your only group, miss?’ I asked, thinking that twelve was a small number for one teacher.
‘Oh, no,’ she laughed. ‘I’m in charge of four bedrooms - that’s forty-eight girls in all. Everyone at Swinton calls them Lucy’s ladies.’
We went into the bedroom and found twelve single beds, six on each side. Next to each bed was a chair, a locker and a clothes rail with a curtain which served as a wardrobe. Over each bed was a shelf for books or flowers or other ornaments. Mentally, I reserved a place for the Sacred Heart statue and the glass swan.
‘Where are the other girls?’ Cissie asked. She was worried about what they were like and what sort of reception we’d get when we met. The workhouse had made us nervous and suspicious.
‘The other girls are at their lessons but I think you’ll find they’re friendly and will make you welcome. You’ll meet them at dinnertime because you’re on the same table.’
The three of us pulled faces, sucked in our breath and gave each other the ‘hope so’ look.
‘The first thing we must do for you girls,’ Miss Morrell continued in a kindly voice, ‘if you’re going to become one of my ladies, is to get you out of those revolting workhouse uniforms, give you a hot bath and into some decent dresses. You’ll have three of everything, which I think is right and proper - one on, one for the wash and one in the drawer. We can’t do much with your hair until it’s grown a little. But when you wash it, make sure you dry it properly; if you go to bed with wet hair, you’ll catch your death of cold.’ That last comment reminded me of my mother and her endless sayings.
She was as good as her word and soon we were soaking in glorious hot water with a piece of Sunlight soap each - our first good wash since we’d left Butler Court eighteen months ago. The Swinton School uniform dresses were made of a soft cotton material with a blue gingham pattern. We felt like new people and our spirits soared. Already the workhouse seemed like a nightmare from which we’d woken up.
The girls’ dining hall, too, was a different affair. For one thing it was nowhere near as crowded, the tables were smaller and the girls sat facing each other. And wonder of wonders, they were talking to each other - quietly perhaps, but the surprise was that they were allowed to talk at all. We new girls sat with our mouths agape. Grace was said by Miss Morrell on the stage. ‘Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts . . .’
The girl at the head of our table presented herself as Joan Irving. ‘I’m the prefect of our bedroom. I’m responsible for our little group. I’m supposed to see that we behave ourselves and keep the place clean. I have to report back every day to Miss Morrell.’
‘I hope these workhouse girls have been fumigated,’ sneered a fat girl at the other end of the table. ‘I don’t want any of their fleas or bugs.’
‘You can cut that talk out, Vera Paxton,’ Joan Irving snapped. ‘Miss Morrell told us always to make newcomers welcome. You were new here once yourself. How would you have liked it if people had made remarks about you? Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’
‘I know, I know,’ the Paxton girl replied. ‘Old Morrell’s always spouting old-fashioned sayings but she doesn’t have to live in the same bedroom.’
It was time for me to say my piece.
‘You’ve no need to worry about our bugs,’ I said quietly. ‘They like only good solid meat and hate fat.’
My comment caused a titter round the table and Vera went red with anger. If she wants trouble, I thought, she’s picked on the wrong one.
‘I’d like to apologise for our friend Vera,’ a pretty, darkhaired girl said, looking at the three of us. ‘Vera’s got a chip on her shoulder because of her shape though we’re
always telling her she’s not fat, it’s just that she’s not tall enough for her weight. My name’s Peggy Turner and I think I speak for the rest of us when I say you’re most welcome to our set.’
‘Thank you, Peggy,’ I replied. ‘You don’t know how glad we are to be here.’
Joan Irving stood up and told us it was our table’s turn to go to the central counter to collect dinner. And what dinner! Rabbit Pie! As far as we were concerned it was Gordon Blue or whatever they called it. I never forgot that first meal at SIS, the most delicious dinner we’d eaten since heaven knew when. We picked the bones out and scraped the meat off with our teeth. And since it was Saturday, there was even rice pudding as a dessert. This is living the high life, I said to myself.
The meal concluded with Grace After Meals. ‘We give Thee thanks, Almighty God, for all Thy benefits . . .’
We joined in the prayer happily.
After dinner, Joan Irving took us on a tour of the school farm. First we looked at the garden which was divided into dozens of little beds which were assigned as plots for the pupils to cultivate. Many of the girls from other bedrooms were hard at work raking and hoeing their allotments. Joan showed us our own plots which were all next to each other.
‘These beds were cultivated by the three girls who left in the summer to take up jobs and they’re yours now,’ Joan said. ‘I should warn you that the school expects you to devote at least two-thirds of your patch to growing vegetables for the kitchen. You can treat your sections separately if you want to but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t work them as one large plot.’
‘Oh, yes, let’s do that,’ said Cissie. ‘We can grow different things and work together.’
‘We could have one bed for flowers, the other two for vegetables,’ Lizzie said warmly.
It was good to see Lizzie joining in. Since the death of her mother and what with the workhouse regime, she’d been so withdrawn.
‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘Flowers - daffodils, anemones, pansies. Vegetables - cauliflowers, cabbages, carrots. I can see it now.’
To tell the truth, it wasn’t easy to see it at that time of the year. It was October and there wasn’t a great deal growing but the soil looked a rich brown colour and I was sure we would succeed.
‘Most girls cultivate their gardens on Saturdays when they’re free from school and if their parents are not visiting them,’ Joan informed us.
‘You mean parents are allowed to come to visit?’ I asked.
‘Every Saturday afternoon, if they can make it,’ Joan replied. ‘Unfortunately, for many it’s too far.’
Next we looked at the livestock - pigs, cows, sheep, poultry. It was new to us and we weren’t sure we’d fancy the job of looking after them. Besides, that job seemed to be the boys’ department.
Joan read our thoughts, for she said, ‘Generally we leave the livestock to the boys but there’s nothing to stop you from helping to feed them if you feel that way inclined.’ She added quickly, ‘I mean feed the livestock, not the boys.’
We joined in the laughter.
After the tour of the farm, Joan took us indoors to wash and to our surprise we found it was five o’clock and time for the next meal - suet pudding. We’d never eaten so good.
‘Are all meals like this?’ I asked Joan.
‘Not quite. Saturday’s a special day but generally
speaking, the food here is good. Most of the milk and the food comes from the farm and our own bakehouse.’
At nine o’clock, it was time for bed. We put out the oil lamps and by the light of the candles we said our night prayers. Not Catholic prayers but the kind we could all join in. Then it was out with the candles and we lay there in the darkness with our own thoughts thanking God that he had brought us to this wonderful place. It had been a long day and so much had happened that I was ready to drop off to sleep as soon as I closed my eyes. It was not to be. Not right away.
In the darkness came a voice which I recognised as that of Peggy Turner’s, the one who’d told us that we were welcome as members of the set.
‘Does anyone know any stories?’
The question was left hanging for a while.
‘Why not let Workhouse Kate tell us one?’Vera Paxton taunted. ‘That is, if these waifs and strays know what a story is.’
‘You will stop that sneering, Vera Paxton, at once,’ said Joan Irving, ‘or tomorrow I shall give you a few extra chores to keep you busy. Well, Kate,’ she continued encouragingly, ‘do you know any?’
‘I know many Irish tales that my father used to tell me when we were younger.’
‘What kind of tales?’ Peggy asked.
‘Fairy tales, and folk tales. They’re usually about goblins, leprechauns, giants, demons, fairy rings, and humpbacked men.’
‘Tell us one about the humpbacked men,’ said Joan.
I cleared my throat, took in a deep breath, and began.
‘Many years ago, there lived in County Wicklow two humpbacked brothers named Kevin and Desmond . . .’ The tale told how Kevin had his hump removed by the
fairies when he helped them remember the days of the week. But when poor old Desmond tried to help, he got it wrong and instead the fairies punished him by giving him an extra hump.
When I’d finished my story, there was silence and I wondered if I’d put everybody to sleep. I heard Joan’s voice again.
‘That’s the best story I’ve ever heard,’ she said. ‘Also the saddest. Do you know any more like that?’
‘Hundreds,’ I said.
‘You must tell us them all,’ Joan said. ‘From this night I appoint you as our official story-teller. You can tell us the next one tomorrow night.’
Hearing that made me happy. We were accepted.
Next day was Sunday and we went to Mass in the morning in the Catholic chapel of the school.
There we met the school chaplain, Father O’Dwyer, a small round priest with a strong Irish accent.
‘Dr O’Brien has told me about you and the terrible time you had in the Bastille,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope that you find things a little better here. Remember, children, if ever you need me, I’m here at your service.’
Everywhere we went, we met nothing but friendliness and the offer of help. Looking back, I felt as if we’d had a taste of hell and now it was time for a spot of heaven.
On Sunday evening, we went to Benediction.
‘You know,’ I said to the other two as we left the chapel. ‘I think we’ve died and come to paradise.’
The second night when the lights were out, I told my second Irish tale.
‘Many years ago, there lived the most famous hero in all Ireland. His name was Cuchulain and he was the nephew of King Conor of Ulster . . .’
My story was met with the same attention and I could tell that once again the story had gone down well. The only trouble was that I was beginning to feel like the Sultana Scheherazade in the Arabian Nights. I only hoped I could keep going with a story every night, but if I ran out of the tales my dad had told me, there was always the Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Andersen.