Shadows of the Workhouse

his horse, and called out to the boy as he entered, “You look after her, lad, while I’m away.”
    Frank heard the words, and the ghost came back and sat down beside him. He remembered, at first dimly, and then as clearly as though it were yesterday, that he had promised his father that he, Frank, would look after his mother and his sister. The spotted dick nearly choked him, and he could eat no more. Did Betty hear him mutter, “I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry,” as he glanced sideways, or was she imagining it? She certainly saw him brush a tear from his eye with his sleeve, and said to Marge, the cook, in her motherly way, “Vere’s somefink up with vat young ’un. Can’t eat ’is spotted dick, an’ all. Sumfing’s up, I tells yer.”
    Frank sat at the table for a long time, unable to move. The ghost left him, but the memories remained. His mother was dead but his sister, as far as he knew, was alive and in the workhouse. He thumped his fists on the table and dug his nails into his hands as he remembered the tyranny and cruelties he had endured. He prayed that it had not been as bad for his sister in the girls’ section. Perhaps they were kinder to girls. He remembered the time they had spent together in the infants’ section, and carrying her to his bed when she cried at night. He recalled fighting a bully who had called her “baldy”, and he grinned with satisfaction. He remembered a little girl called Jane, who was a friend to them both, and he prayed that Jane had looked after Peggy when he had been transferred to the boys’ section. He had never prayed before, but now he did so, and he vowed to heaven, his teeth and fists clenched, that if his sister was still alive he would find her and get her out of the workhouse. He would look after her as he had promised his father.
    Betty came over, concerned, and cleared the table.
    “How about a nice cup o’ Rosie Lee, luv, good an’ sweet? On the ’ouse, o’ course.”

PEGGY

    Frank found himself in the workhouse once more. This time he was waiting in the Master’s office. He had smartened himself up, as best he could in a communal lodging house, and was waiting with dread in his heart. Was she still alive? Children died in workhouses. He had seen it himself, and had heard stories from people he had met. If Peggy had died, he’d kill those responsible and swing for it. Footsteps came along the corridor, and he stood up.
    Frank’s first surprise at meeting the Master after nearly four years was how little he was! He had a childhood memory of a large, terrifying man, whose word was absolute law and who had the power to beat and flog for the slightest misdemeanour. Yet here was this flabby little man, about a head shorter than Frank himself, who looked as if he hadn’t the strength to lift a bit of cod off a plate, never mind a box of them off a slippery quayside. Frank looked at his puny muscles and compared them in his mind with the lean and muscular men he had worked with for years, and nearly laughed out loud. Was this the terror of the workhouse, this pathetic-looking jellyfish?
    But he had come for a purpose, and must be polite. He enquired about his sister: was she still alive? Yes, the Master replied, without giving anything away, she was. Frank gave a huge, shuddering sigh of relief. Where was she, then? The Master replied, guardedly, that she was in the girls’ section, where she was well cared for. Frank’s joy was unconfined. Here, in this very building? Could he see her, then? His eyes were eager. The Master was prim. No. Boys were not allowed in the girls’ section.
    Frank was nonplussed. “But I can’t help bein’ a boy,” he blurted out. “If I was ’er big sister you’d let me see ’er, wouldn’t you?”
    The Master smiled, and agreed, but rules were rules, he said, with such finality that the interview ended.
    Frank’s joy at knowing she was alive was greater than his disappointment at not being allowed to see her. But he would see her – damn the Master – and he changed his round so that he would be near the workhouse gate at 4 p.m. when the girls returned from school. He hung around, shouting “whelks and eels” as the crocodile of girls marched past him. But he couldn’t pick her out. There were a couple of dozen little girls with blonde hair, about the age that she would be, but even though he went every day for a fortnight and looked carefully at them, he couldn’t recognise his sister. Several of the