The Workhouse Waif

by Lynette Rees

Genres: Family Life; Historical Fiction; Sagas; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Will this little orphan girl find her happy ending? After the death of her father in a mining accident, Megan and her family had no choice but to move to the local workhouse. Separated from her mother and five siblings, young Megan must learn how to stand on her own two feet. But it's on one of the days she's sent out on errands that her fate changes. She meets a young boy who's stealing apples from the local market, as well as a friendly well-to-do lady with the most melodious voice she's ever heard. With her newfound friends, can she find a new life for herself? A heartwarming saga, perfect for fans of Dilly Court, Katie Flynn and Nadine Dorries. Please note: this edition contains editorial revisions.

Release date: April 19, 2018

Publisher: Quercus

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter One

In her shabby dress, pinafore and scuffed leather hobnail boots eleven-year-old Megan Hopkins skipped down the road. The thick material of the dress scratched at her skin, but for once, it was the furthest thing from her mind. Matron had entrusted her to go shopping in the marketplace as the Board of Guardians was due to meet later that day. She rarely ventured into Merthyr town and she was excited. She swung her wicker basket back and forth as she skipped, humming softly to herself. Completely in her own world, she stopped to tie up her bootlace, and as she crouched to the floor, the most beautiful, melodious voice she had ever heard drifted to her consciousness. She stood there for a while to listen to the song and wondered where it was coming from, and who it might be. It sounded like it was coming from the Temperance Hall.

Walking in the opposite direction to the marketplace she made her way over, and read the poster which was attached firmly to the front of the building: ‘Appearing tonight, Miss Kathleen O’Hara, the voice of an angel . . .’

She was quickly pulled out of her reverie as the sharp, cold sensation of water hit her. It was a young woman with a – now – empty bucket, from which she had sloshed a whole load of dirty water onto the pavement, and also onto Megan.

The bottom of the woman’s dress was tucked into the top of her bloomers and Megan wondered if she should tell her, but then the woman glared and said, ‘Whatcha doing there, get on with yer. Don’t want any waifs and strays around ’ere!’

Waifs and strays? That woman didn’t look too fine herself. Sarky, silly cuss.

Megan drew her woollen shawl tightly around her shoulders as if it would somehow afford protection and made off for the outdoor market. That young woman didn’t know how lucky she was, and clearly didn’t appreciate good music. If she, herself, worked at the Temperance Hall as a cleaner, she’d have a high old time watching the rehearsals and would never have such a sour face on her as hers. Maybe if she got the chance she’d try singing on the stage herself.

Megan had been living at the workhouse since the age of seven. Her family had fallen on hard times when her father was killed in a pit accident, and without any other options to help them get by, her widowed mother had brought her and her five siblings to the workhouse. She had vague memories of their happy little home – it was small but it was theirs – in the neighbouring village of Troedyrhiw, just on the banks of the River Taff. It had been noisy but lively: her younger brothers, bursting back and forth playing choo-choo trains, her sisters cradling their wooden dolls and her elder brother Tom trying to help their mother by chopping up sticks for firewood in the yard. It had been a happy home and she missed it dearly.

Both her parents had been hard workers. When her dad, Neville Hopkins, would return from work, his face was slick and grimy with coal dust, yet he held his broad shoulders erect. He was strong and fit and he could carry a sack of coal for miles – it was said he was the strongest man in the whole of Troedyrhiw. Her mam had been so proud of him, as had she, always boasting to the other kids in the neighbourhood about her strong and brave father. She always looked forward to him coming home from work, his smile as he lowered his head to duck beneath the wooden door frame and his pearly white teeth that stood out against his dust-specked face. He’d often drop his metal snap tin on the table with a clatter and hoist one or two of them up onto his shoulders. Then Mam would fill a tin bath with hot water she’d boiled from the multitude of pans on the stove.

Outside in the backyard, he’d scrub the coal dust from his skin. Then they’d sit down to an evening meal of either lamb cawl or beef pie and potatoes. Sometimes, if they had enough money, there’d be an apple pie and custard for afters or some of her mother’s Teisen Lap, which was a sort of sponge fruit cake. Megan’s mouth watered at the thought of such wholesome food. All she got at the workhouse these days was a grey tasteless gruel for breakfast, and bread and cheese or a thin watery soup the rest of the time. They’d be graced with the occasional meal which was supposedly meat and potatoes, but rations were meagre and oftentimes the meat full of fat and gristle. She would usually go to bed with her stomach still growling with hunger.

When the family had first arrived at the workhouse, Megan had been dismayed that the family was to be split up. Her mother had to go into the adult women’s quarters, Megan was sent to stay with girls aged seven to fifteen years old, and similarly, her brother Tom was to go with the boys of the same age. Their remaining siblings, Alfie, Harry, Lizzie and May, had been sent to the under-seven section. They rarely saw one another, but Megan took comfort in the fact that the little ones were all together. Alfie and Harry were non-identical twins, and like chalk and cheese, they were, Alfie being the most robust of the two. Lizzie had a mane of red curly hair and May was dark-haired like Megan; both of them were as shy as anything, and she often hoped that they weren’t finding the conditions of the workhouse too overwhelming.

And that left Tom, her older brother, who had been lucky enough to be boarded out from the workhouse to a family in Twynyrodyn. The Evans family were good to him by all accounts, and he was expected to work in the shop they owned. Tom delivered goods to customers using a pony-drawn cart, which he’d been taught to use by Mr Evans. They lived on Twyn Hill which was breakneck steep, so some nearby deliveries had to be made on foot, which was easy for Tom when he was walking downhill, but walking back was hard going for him sometimes. He was young and fit, yet still he came back red-faced, huffing and puffing. When he visited the workhouse, he brought Megan and her siblings ha’penny sugar twists or Bentley’s Chocolate Drops, but he had to be discreet as he would undoubtedly be punished if he were found out.

Megan stopped off at a stall in the town to buy two large loaves of crusty bread, a pat of cheese, and a jar of pickles, as requested by Matron Langley. Nothing was too good for the Board of Guardians – they dined like kings and queens whilst the workhouse inmates ate very meagre meals – and Cook was busy baking a selection of cakes and roasting a goose for them.

Megan loved the hustle and bustle of the marketplace, with all its vibrant colours and smells. She was in a world of her own until she turned and spotted a young lad of around her own age loitering near a fruit stall. His arms and legs were thin and gangly, and his tattered jacket and trousers had seen far better days. His flat cap was so big it almost covered his eyes. She wondered what he was up to as he was looking very suspicious; he didn’t look the sort who would have much money of his own to purchase anything. There was no adult with him either.

Curious, she moved in closer and eyed him closely. She watched open-mouthed as he slipped a shiny red apple into his jacket pocket, and then another and another. She couldn’t believe the cheek of the lad! She’d never dream of doing anything like that. It wasn’t the way she’d been brought up, to thieve off people. He turned and caught her eye and, wilfully, she gave him a hard stare and shook her head, before turning to the stallholder to catch his attention. As if realising he might be caught, the boy grabbed all the apples he could carry in his arms and elbowed her out of the way as he dashed off.

‘Oi! Stop that boy at once!’ the stallholder shouted to the group of people nearby.

Megan turned to watch the young lad scarpering off. He was headed in the direction of St Tydfil’s Parish Church, leaving a trail of dropped apples in his wake. Before she realised what she was doing, she dropped her basket on the ground and flew after him, her arms and legs taking on a life of their own. She ran so fast she felt as if her heart were about to burst out of her chest. Sensing the outrage of the baying crowd behind her, she knew she had to catch the boy before they caught him.

When she reached the boy she yanked at the back of the collar on his jacket and he fell backwards on top of her so they were both in a heap on the ground.

‘Gerroff!’ he shouted and made to get up.

‘I’m trying to help you!’ she said gruffly, cross because he’d misunderstood. She didn’t want him to get into trouble, and looking at his thin frame she had felt sorry for him. ‘Look, come this way with me, I know where we can hide.’

He nodded and helped her onto her feet. She let out a long breath as she steadied herself.

They were behind the Three Salmons Inn, and to the right of them there was a gap in the wrought-iron railings which led into the church grounds. There, they could both hide behind a large oak tree until the coast was clear.

They quickly crept over, and from the safety of the tree watched a crowd of people run past.

Megan giggled and soon the lad was giggling too. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, wide-eyed and blinking in expectation.

‘Megan. Megan Hopkins. And yours?’

‘Griff. Griff Rhys Morgan.’ He wiped his runny nose on the back of his sleeve.

Megan rolled her eyes in disgust. ‘Yuck, mun. Doing that. You should use a handkerchief.’

‘Oooh, hark at you, quite the lady, aren’t you? I ain’t got one, have I?’

‘Haven’t got one,’ Megan corrected. ‘Why did you steal those apples?’

‘Cos, I’m blooming starving.’ As if suddenly remembering, he lifted one of the few he had left, shined it first on the knee of his well-worn trousers and took a bite.

‘You ought to be careful, though. I heard of one lad who stole some pies a lady had left on her windowsill to cool, and he ended up going before the judge and jury.’

‘Pah!’ Griff scoffed. ‘Won’t happen to me, I’m too quick for them all.’

Megan tossed back her curls. ‘Are you now? Well, I managed to catch you didn’t I?’

He frowned and nodded. ‘Suppose so . . .’

He inspected the apple as if examining it for worms.

‘In any case, that poor boy I told you about ended up in Australia.’

‘Australia?’ He gulped.

She nodded. ‘Yes, it’s miles and miles away. The furthest place you could ever get to. He was transported with all the other boys and girls who’d been up to mischief in the town. They can do you for the slightest thing, you know. One lad was sent there for nicking just one loaf of bread.’ She paused. ‘Though I can see as how you’re hungry.’

Griff stared into space, digesting all Megan had just said. ‘I didn’t realise that could happen. I often run around with the Rodneys.’

‘Rodneys?’

‘Aye, they’re a bunch of boys who live in China where I lives, see. I stay there with me Uncle Berwyn. My parents died and he gave me board and lodgings. He’s been kind to me but he lost his job at the ironworks because of his drinking and he’s not been the same man since.’

‘Oh dear.’ Megan settled herself down on a granite tombstone, forgetting why she was there in the first place. Somehow she felt drawn to Griff and she didn’t know why.

He finished his apple and tossed the stump on a mossy verge, then promptly offered her one. Should she take it? They were stolen goods but she was hungry too. She took it from his outstretched hand, and he smiled at her. It was great to be free of the workhouse for a while, she thought as she chomped on the rosy red apple, tasting its sweet flavour. It tasted far better than anything she got in the workhouse. At night, she had dreams of eating with her family in the days when Mam had made sticky sponge puddings covered in strawberry jam, and her mouth watered at the mere memory of it. She drew on those happy memories whenever she felt sad or lonely.

‘So where do you live?’ Griff asked when they’d both finished eating, breaking into her thoughts.

‘At the workhouse. Been there a few years now. My dad died and my mam and brothers and sisters had to go there too.’

He gazed at her quizzically. ‘What’s it like in there? I often wonder.’

She thought for a moment because no one had ever asked her that question before, then said, honestly, ‘Well, the Master and Matron run a tight ship and they’re firm but fair. Kind enough to me, but some inmates there, I stay away from. Some scare me. I’ve heard them weeping and wailing during the night.’

Griff’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t think I’d like it in there myself.’ He shivered.

‘Well let’s hope you never have to go in there. There’s a Board of Guardians meeting this afternoon and—’

‘What’s wrong? Your face ’as turned white as a corpse.’

‘My basket! I was shopping for Matron and I dropped it when I ran after you!’ Now she was going to be in trouble; she’d spent most of the money Matron had given her and she had no basket to take back with her to the workhouse. That meant no bread or cheese or pickles. She was going to arrive empty-handed and that wouldn’t do at all. She’d be in trouble for sure, and that didn’t bode well, especially as one person at the workhouse in particular had it in for her.

Chapter Two

‘I’ll come with you, we’ll find your basket together,’ Griff offered, reaching out to touch her arm in reassurance.

‘No, you lie low here. People will remember what you look like. We don’t want no Bobbies catching you and sending you to Australia. It’s a long way and you’ll never see your Rodney friends nor your Uncle Berwyn ever again.’

Griff grimaced. ‘All right, but I hope you find your basket and don’t get into any trouble because of me.’

Megan wished she could be sure of that but she wasn’t. Miss Hamilton could mete out the punishment of her choice, and if it wasn’t the swish of the birch she could be made to work for a full twenty-four hours in the laundry room. It was like torture: not being allowed to have any sleep, nor any food, only water.

‘It’s my own silly fault,’ she said with tears in her eyes. ‘Look, it will be dark soon. Stay here until you’re sure you’re safe and then go home. And stay away from the market for a while in case they remember you.’

‘I will, for sure.’ Suddenly he leant forward and pecked a swift kiss on her cheek, taking her by surprise. ‘Thank you, my lady!’ He tipped his Dai cap.

Megan’s cheeks flamed hot. No one had ever called her a lady before, and no young lad had ever kissed her either, not including the times her young brothers did on the rare occasions she got to bump into them at the workhouse.

‘I’d better go,’ she said, the panic rising in her throat.

‘If you ever need me and can’t find me, go to the Vulcan Inn. My Uncle Berwyn is always in there, he’s more at home there than in his own house . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I know it’s not a place for a young lady like yourself, but the barmaid, Florrie, is a helpful sort. She’ll help you find my uncle.’

‘Very well.’ She nodded, looking at him one last time, and then ran in the direction of the marketplace. It was getting late and they would be packing up their stalls now.

She’d dropped her basket near the fruit and veg stall, and as she arrived, puffing and panting, she had to elbow past a few stragglers who were after last-minute items, hoping to bag a bargain.

‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ she asked one lady. ‘Have you seen a wicker basket on the ground? I lost it earlier . . .’

The woman shook her head and carried on walking.

Next, she tried a man in a top hat. ‘Excuse me, sir, have you seen my wicker basket? I drop—’

But the man dismissed her with the wave of his hand. Why would anyone want to help a workhouse girl? Going by her appearance, they probably thought she wanted to pick their pockets. She guessed he had a nice fat wallet in his jacket pocket, but, unlike Griff, it wasn’t her style. She liked to earn her keep, not steal off others.

Dismayed, she searched around for the basket but it was nowhere to be seen. She didn’t dare tell the stallholder of her plight as he might think she was associated with Griff, and that wouldn’t do at all. She didn’t want to get transported to Australia either, with all those other young villains. The only thing she could do was go back and tell the truth: she’d lost everything; or she could pretend someone had accosted her and stolen everything – though she didn’t feel good about doing that at all.

She began to sob, scared of the punishment she would get for this. Matron and Miss Hamilton would be so cross with her.

‘What’s the matter with you, child?’ She heard a soft feminine voice enquire. It had an Irish lilt, which wasn’t surprising as there were many Irish people in Merthyr. They came to work in the ironworks and the accent was familiar to her. There were even some who had fallen on hard times at the workhouse. But this voice was entirely different, and Megan knew immediately that this was a voice she wanted to hear again.

She looked up to see the most beautiful lady she’d ever seen in her life. Even though it was beginning to get dark, she could make out the faint glimmer of sparkling emerald eyes and the woman’s auburn hair cascaded in waves upon her shoulders. She was wearing a green velvet gown and cape, which gave her a kind of elevated presence amongst the other people in the street, giving her an altogether regal quality. Megan noticed several passers-by stopping in their tracks to whisper and stare.

Megan stopped sobbing long enough to answer the beautiful lady. ‘Please, miss, something happened earlier. I had to chase after someone and dropped my basket as it was so heavy. I’m from the workhouse, see, and I was shopping for Matron. There’s a Board of Guardians meeting later . . .’ Her bottom lip quivered in distress.

The lady brought a lace-edged handkerchief out of her reticule and bent down to dab at Megan’s eyes. ‘Now there’s nothing we can’t sort out . . .’ She smelled of soap and lavender. ‘What was in the basket all together?’

‘Two loaves of bread, a lump of cheese and a jar of pickles.’ She huffed out the words as she was so short of breath from the rushing and the crying.

‘Come with me,’ the lady said kindly. She approached the same stall where Megan had earlier bought the goods and Megan followed meekly behind. She spoke to the stallholder in a murmur and Megan couldn’t quite make out their words, but when she turned back to her the lady said, ‘Now, I’ve managed to get us a good deal.’ She handed a large wedge of cheese wrapped in a muslin cloth to Megan. It was even bigger than the one Megan herself had bought earlier. She also handed her a jar of pickles and held two loaves of bread herself. ‘I’ll take you back to the Temperance Hall with me. There’s an old wicker basket there we use as one of the props . . .’

Realisation dawned on Megan. ‘So you are the lady whose voice I heard earlier, singing inside the theatre?’

‘Yes, that was me. I was rehearsing ready for tonight. If you had more time I’d take you in to show you around but I know how keen you are to return.’

Megan nodded. ‘I really don’t know what to tell Matron or Miss Hamilton.’

‘You must tell them you bumped into me, Kathleen O’Hara, and I needed your help as I’d fallen in the street. They will know who I am, and if they come here to enquire whether it ’tis the truth, I shall back you up. T’ain’t right that a young lady like yourself should be punished for going back late. At least you now have the items you lost.’

‘And it’s all thanks to you, miss,’ Megan said, in awe of the beautiful lady stood before her.

‘Come on then, let’s get to the Temperance Hall to fetch that wicker basket and pack those goods inside it, then you can return to the workhouse.’

‘I don’t know how I can repay you, miss,’ Megan said sadly.

‘Don’t worry about that, child. Maybe you can return the favour to me in some other way some day.’

Megan left the lady feeling that maybe all would be well, after all; the wicker basket even looked the same as the one she had lost. No doubt, someone would have whipped that up as soon as it touched the ground. There were many people starving in Merthyr Tydfil.

When she returned to the workhouse, the dark, foreboding building made her stomach lurch. It was then she realised that she had never been allowed out of its confines on her own during the hours of darkness before. That would be another strike against her.

Bill Harris, the porter, was at the lodge and she was relieved to see him stood on the doorstep as she returned. He was a friendly face and he lived in Troedyrhiw, on the street next to her childhood home in fact, so was familiar with her family. ‘Hello, young Megan. What’s the matter with you, cariad?’

‘Oh, Mr Harris, I’m in big trouble. I was supposed to get back sooner than this. Cook sent me to buy some food for the Guardians’ meeting and I lost my basket.’

He stared at her a moment under the gaslight. ‘Hmm, I think you still have your basket, Megan, on your arm.’

‘No, sorry, this is another. A kind lady who is a singer at the Temperance Hall found it for me and helped me buy more food not for me to get in any bother. But I’m scared Miss Hamilton will see me sneaking in.’

‘Hang on, we’ll get you in this way. Over here . . .’ He led her to another entrance she’d never used before and unlocked the heavy wooden door with a key he had on a chain in the pocket of his jacket. ‘Take care and mind as you go,’ he warned as he departed.

‘Thanks, Mr Harris.’ She bustled off down the dimly lit corridor and, after passing a couple of rooms she didn’t recognise, found herself at the foot of a flight of stairs opposite the entrance to the kitchen.

Breathless with anxiety, she entered the steamy kitchen to find Cook in a stew as the kitchen maids clattered. There were saucepans of food on the boil and frying pans on the stove. ‘Come on, girl, where the heck have you been? The bread, cheese and pickles should have been laid out ages ago!’ She dipped her hand into the basket she had placed on the scrubbed pine table, and Meg. . .