Shadows of the Workhouse

parasol-making in summer.
    He went on to tell me that she had applied to the Poor Board for relief, but was told she was not of the Parish, and to go back where she came from. As a special concession, the chairman had offered to take three of her children, saying that she would then be relieved of the burden of having to feed them, and would have only five children left. The three children would be put in the workhouse. When his mother refused, they had called her ungrateful and improvident, and told her that she need not trouble herself to come back to them, because the offer would not be repeated. They sent her away, saying she would have to manage as best she could.
    “She did manage, but I don’t know how. She kept a roof over our heads, and provided enough food to keep us from starving. But we seldom had a fire, even in the coldest weather. We never had shoes, and our clothes were thin, and mostly in rags. All the families around us were just as poor, and it was made far worse by drunkenness. Most of the men drank, and that meant a lot of violence in some of the homes. Many women were in such despair they drowned themselves. Every week the cry would go up: ‘A body in the Cuts,’ and it was always a woman. You can imagine how the children felt . . . always scared their mother might be next . . .”
    He sat thinking for a while, puffing his pipe, then chuckled. “It’s a funny thing, you know, but children can accept almost anything when they feel loved and secure. In spite of being cold and hungry, my brothers and sisters were always laughing, always playing out in the court, always inventing new games. I never heard any of them complain. But I was different. I was thirteen when my father died; I remembered the old life and hated our new one. I hated seeing my dear mother working eighteen or twenty hours a day for a pittance. She would sit late into the night, sewing shirts by candlelight, in a freezing room, with no food inside her, all for sixpence. I resented the injustice of it. Of course, I was out each day looking for work, but times were hard and the best I could find were odd jobs, like holding a horse, or running errands, or sweeping out a yard.
    “I tried to get work in the docks. You would think there was plenty of work in London’s Docklands, wouldn’t you? Well, there was, but there were thousands and thousands of men after the same work. I reckon there were ten men for every job – no chance for a young boy like me.”
    In those days such jobs as there were went mostly to the boys whose fathers and grandfathers had been dockers, Mr Collett explained. There were frightening scenes at the dock gates: hundreds of half-starved labourers, clad in rags, crazed and desperate, fighting for the chance of a few hours’ work. Perhaps fifty would be taken on for the day while five hundred would be turned away to idle their time away in the streets. No wonder men were violent.
    “At low tide there was always scavenging to be done in the mud. Some lads found things of value, but I never did. The best thing I found was bits of coal, washed off the barges, and drift-wood. At least that made a fire for the evening.
    “The worst thing was the way the gentry was so suspicious all the time. I was looking for honest work, but I was called “ragamuffin”, “varmin”, “lout”, “thieving dog”. Just because I was thin and ill-clothed and looked hungry, they assumed I was a thief.”
    Mr Collett’s mouth tightened. His proud face stiffened at the memory of the insults. I had finished his second leg and sat back on my heels looking up at him, thinking that the accumulated experience of old age was much more interesting than the chatter of the young.
    I had a glass of orange juice, whilst he drank a cup of tea. It was a good compromise, because he gave me a glass, which was dusty, but not filthy.
    I was enjoying his company and conversation and didn’t want to leave him, as he seemed so happy. On impulse I said: “I must go now, but it’s my evening off tonight. Can I come and have a glass of sherry with you, and you can continue your stories?”
    The joy on his face answered my question. “Can you come, my maiden? Can you come? I’ll say you can come, and a thousand times welcome.”

YOUNG JOE

    Cycling back to Nonnatus House, I had misgivings about my quixotic suggestion of returning that evening. Medical people are warned about the difficulties that can develop when friendships with patients