Normally, this office took her about three hours, but after one hour, she had scarcely cleaned one tenth of it. She felt so weak she could scarcely drag herself around, and there was still the scrubbing to do. She returned to the basement to get the bucket – the one that had felt impossibly heavy when empty – and filled it with water. She pushed it along the floor with her feet and then lifted it up the stairs one by one, resting it on each stair as she did so. She reached the second storey this way, and then her failing strength must have given out. She fell down the stairs that she had climbed so laboriously, knocking the bucket over as she fell. She was drenched with water and lay on the stone floor all night. In the morning they found her dead at the bottom of the stairs.
Frank had never spent a night away from his mother. There was only one bed so they had all slept together even when his father was alive. He had never even contemplated a time without the comforting warmth of her body beside him. Now, in the dark and cold of the room, the bed felt like a hostile and alien territory, and he wanted to run away from it, run to the next-door neighbours, screaming. But there was Peggy to think of. She was quietly sleeping, unaware that anything was wrong. So he bit his lips, rubbed his fists into his eyes and cuddled up close to her.
He was six years old.
He must have slept, because it was daylight when he was awoken by Peggy crying. There was some milk and water left from the night before but it was cold and she pushed it away. He did not know what to do. He took a wet nappy off her, as he had seen his mother do, but then he didn’t know what to do with it, so hid it under the bed. There was no more wood for the fire. He drank the cold milk himself and crept back into bed. They fell asleep again.
He awoke as a crowd of neighbouring women entered the room.
“Oh, it’s a shame, oie tells ya.”
“Poor li’l kids. Vey didn’ ask ’a be born.”
“Both dead in six months.”
“It makes yer wanna cry, don’ it?”
Frank looked around him in bewilderment and held Peggy defensively, pulling the blanket up higher.
A man entered the room. “Are these the children of the deceased?” he enquired.
A chorus of voices answered.
“Yeah, more’s the pity.”
“Poor li’l lambs.”
“Vey don’ know wha’s ’appened.”
“And is there no relative to look after them?”
“No’ as ’ow I knows on, do you, Lil?”
“Nah, no one.”
“They will have to come with me, and the effects sold to contribute to the Guardians’ expenses.”
He looked around the room at the meagre furniture – one bed, one table, and two chairs, a small cupboard, a washing bowl, a chamber pot, a candlestick, some tin plates and cups – all back-breakingly acquired by the father, to provide for his family.
“Will someone get them ready while I take an inventory?”
Two women stepped forward, and Frank grabbed the back of the bed, clutching Peggy. “Where’s Mummy?” he asked plaintively.
“Yer mum’s dead, luvvy, more’s the pity.”
“No, my dad’s dead,” he insisted.
“An so’s yer mum, dearie. Found dead vis mornin’ in ye office.”
“Blue, she was,” chorused the women to each other.
“Froze stiff, vey say, an’ soakin’ wet.”
“Wet froo, an’ all, and ’er wiv her weak chest.”
“No’ surprisin’, is it?”
Frank looked from one to another, and horror struck his heart. Was his mother dead? He had promised his father that he would look after her! What had gone wrong? Peggy was beginning to whimper again. Kind hands were placed on him. He clung to the bars of the bedstead with all his strength and turned his back on the women, holding Peggy, who was beginning to scream now, between his body and the head of the bed.
“You will have to get him free,” said the man. “They cannot stay here alone.”
It took four women to loosen his fingers from the bars. A child’s fingers can be incredibly strong if they are curled around something. Eventually two women were holding him and Peggy in their arms. He was biting and scratching and kicking in a hysteria of fear and rage. He shouted at the woman holding Peggy, “Give her to me. She’s my sister. Don’t take her away.” Tears were streaming down his face.
“We will have to go. Does anyone know where the key is kept?” said the man.
The door of the room was locked, and they made their way downstairs. The woman holding Frank was badly bruised. They walked through the streets, collecting a crowd of onlookers as they went.
Frank and Peggy were admitted to the infants’ section of the workhouse, where boys and girls under seven years of age were housed. They were undressed and bathed and treated not unkindly. In fact, Peggy’s tiny stature and wispy blonde hair evoked a stream of sympathy from the women who received them. Frank had exhausted his fury, and sullenly allowed himself to be washed and his hair examined for fleas.
“We’ll have to cut it off. You know the rules.”
He submitted to having his head shaved, but when he saw a large woman doing the same to Peggy, he rushed at her and butted her in the stomach with his head. She collapsed onto a chair winded, then grabbed the boy and thrashed him soundly, whilst another officer shaved Peggy.
“It’s a shame, cutting this pretty hair. But it will soon grow again.”
Poor little Peggy looked like a tiny Martian when they had finished, and Frank sobbed with impotent rage.
The children were dressed in workhouse clothes and taken to the playroom to meet the other children. We would not call it a playroom today, because there was nothing to play with. It was just a large, bare room, about forty feet long by twenty feet wide, with high, uncurtained windows and rough floorboards.
“Now you play quietly with the others until tea time.” The door was shut, and the officer left.
They stood shyly in the doorway, looking at about forty other children, all wearing the same clothes. Frank, acutely self-conscious that he and Peggy had no hair, tried to hide her under his jacket. A boy of about his age ran up to them, shouting: “You’re new. You’re new. Where’ve you come from? What’s your name, baldy? An’ who’s this little squirt, then?” He pulled at Peggy’s arm and tickled her scalp.
Frank flung himself at the boy, fighting with savage fury. All the rage that had been building up during the day was concentrated in his attack. The rest of the children stood back to watch the fun. The other boy was no slouch when it came to fighting and the two were evenly matched. There were no adults in the room to stop them.
Peggy was terrified and ran screaming to a corner, where she crouched down, hiding her head. A little girl with dark hair left the others, came over to her and put her small arms around the sobbing child. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry. They’re only fighting. Boys are always fighting. Boys are awful. Here, sit on my knee.”
The girl sat down on the floor and Peggy climbed onto her knees. She played with a long, dark ringlet hanging down near her face, and laughed when she pulled it and it bounced back up again.