Shadows of the Workhouse

no success. Jane would put her hands up to her mouth, cast fearful sideways glances at her teacher, and whisper: “Yes, Miss Sutton.” But after half an hour the page would still be blank.
    Jane’s mind was largely blank as well. She had very little memory of the events that led up to her flogging, and she hadn’t the faintest idea why it had occurred. She went through it all in her mind, over and again, round and round, an endless repetition of thought that got her nowhere. Everything was confused. Nothing made sense.
    She was clear in her mind that it had something to do with the day her daddy had come to the workhouse and told her that he would take her away in the summer. But why had the Master been so cross with her? Her daddy wasn’t cross, so why should the Master be cross? Why had he flogged her, and made her wear the sack? She tried and tried to think what she had done wrong, but could think of nothing. And why had the Master shouted several times: “See a nasty smelly is not your father?” This was the biggest puzzle of all. “A nasty smelly?” What did it mean? Her daddy wasn’t a “smelly”. Her daddy smelled of lavender, as she had always known he would. She had cuddled him and smelled the lavender. She had never called the Master or Mistress nasty smellies, so why had he flogged her? Like a swarm of wasps these thoughts buzzed in her mind all the time, day and night, until she felt she would go mad with the buzzing.
    But not for one moment did Jane, in her thoughts, impute any blame to her daddy or cease to love him. In fact her love grew stronger and more real because she had seen him and touched him, and he had stroked her hair, called her “my child” and said he would take her away in the summer time. The spring came, and Jane knew that the summer would follow. It would not be long now. She only had to endure and be good, and not get into any more trouble. Her daddy would come, as sure as the summer sunshine, and take her away from the workhouse for ever. This fragile dream she clung to. It was her one solace in her misery and bewilderment.

    May, June, July. The summer days were drawing out. There was a buzz of excitement amongst the workhouse girls – they were going on holiday. It had never happened before. Jane’s crushed spirits rose a little, and occasionally she allowed herself to lift her eyes from the floor.
    August arrived, and preparations were made. Summer dresses and sandals were provided. The girls could talk of nothing else. There was a fever pitch of excitement. The day for departure arrived.
    The girls were standing in the dining hall after breakfast and everything was ready.
    The Mistress entered. “Right, now. Form a line and march out quietly. We will proceed to the station.”
    The girls stepped forward.
    “Not you. Stay where you are.”
    The Mistress pointed at Jane. The other girls marched out.
    Sick disappointment took possession of Jane. She saw the last girl leave, as she stood in her place. She heard footsteps echo down the corridors and doors banging. Then silence.
    Now it was that Jane’s heart finally broke. Hitherto her suffering had been physical. Now the torture was mental, emotional, and spiritual. The utter desolation of rejection was hers to savour. Her daddy was not going to take her away. Her daddy did not love her, or want her. That was why she was there in the workhouse. He had put her there because he did not want her and she would never see him again. She knew it in her heart.
    Throughout the long weeks, alone but for the porter’s wife who brought her food twice a day, Jane lived with this bitter knowledge. She had nothing to do, day after day; no books, no toys, no pencils and paper. She cried herself to sleep alone in the dormitory; ate alone in the huge refectory; went out alone in the yard (euphemistically called a playground) and walked around the walls. She spoke to no one except the porter’s wife, twice a day.
    The other girls returned, sun-browned and happy. Jane heard stories of the seaside and paddling and catching crabs and building sandcastles. She didn’t say a word.
    The knowledge of rejection, of being unwanted, is more terrible to live with than anything else, and a rejected child will usually never get over it. A physical pain entered Jane’s body, somewhere in the region of the solar plexus, which ached all the time and from which she would never be free.
    Unknown to Jane, Sir Ian and Lady Lavinia had visited the