The Barefoot Child. Cathy Sharp

to bring a bag home on his way from work and he needed to make a small barrow for himself, because the larger one he’d borrowed had already gone back to its owner.

      Lucy’s eyes stung with tears as she prepared their meal. Life had never been easy but it was going to be a lot worse now …

      Lucy spoke to the Reverend Mr Joseph the next day, after morning service. She explained their predicament and he immediately told her that Kitty would be welcome in his school. There would be a payment of one penny a day for five days a week, which covered the cost of hot soup and bread for lunch and a cup of milk; it was very reasonable and just within her means. Lucy thanked him and he nodded, giving her a sorrowful look.

      ‘It is hard to lose one’s parents, especially for such a young girl as you, my dear,’ he said. ‘I expect your brother has taken charge of the family, as he should being the man of the family, but you will have the care of your little sister – and she will be quite safe in my charge.’

      Clearly, he believed that her brother was older, the protector of his family. Lucy said nothing to make him change his mind, because she knew that if people thought they were not fit to have charge of their own lives they would be forced into the workhouse.

      Lucy thanked him and turned away, holding Kitty by the hand. It was a cool morning, the sun overcast by dark clouds, and the drab streets seemed unusually empty, only an old man bending to pluck something from the filth in the gutter and a ginger cat licking itself on a windowsill. As she walked home, Lucy thought about the new dress she would make for her sister; she’d kept a couple of Ma’s best dresses, which had been made of good material, for when Pa was alive money had not been so tight, and she could cut them up for Kitty so that she looked decent for school. Pa had been the third son of a country parson, and made his way in the world as a sea captain until the storm had taken his life and cargo. As she turned, Lucy almost bumped into a young girl. She had beautiful pale-blonde hair and looked to be a similar age to her own.

      ‘Forgive me,’ Lucy apologised. ‘I wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’.’

      ‘Nor was I,’ the other girl said and laughed. ‘My name is Eliza Jones – and I work for Miss Edith Richards as her assistant. She’s an apothecary and I’m taking the Reverend Mr Joseph a cure for his rheumatism – but you mustn’t tell him I told you.’

      Lucy smiled, assuring her she would not. ‘I’m Lucy – I’ve just been arranging for my sister Kitty to start school with Mr Joseph tomorrow,’ Lucy said and pushed her sister forward. ‘Say hello to Eliza.’

      Kitty hung her head and mumbled something, but Eliza smiled and bent down to look at her. ‘You are a lucky girl to be able to learn your letters, Kitty. I never learned until I went to live with Miss Edith and I should’ve liked to learn when I was your age.’

      ‘I want to go home,’ Kitty said and a tear trickled down her cheek. ‘I want Ma …’

      ‘Ma died,’ Lucy said and looked at the other girl apologetically. ‘Kitty is only eight and doesn’t understand what it means when someone dies.’

      ‘Your mother has gone to Heaven,’ Eliza said and smiled at the younger girl. ‘I hope you enjoy school, Kitty. I must go – it was nice to meet you, Lucy. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

      ‘Yes, I’d like that.’ Lucy took her sister by the hand. She’d liked the look of Eliza Jones and wished she might have got to know her better, but Eliza was busy and Lucy had a lot to do when she got back to their room. Even though it was such a poor place, it had to be kept tidy and she wanted to speak to the landlord if she could. There must be a kitchen in the house and she ought to have the use of it sometimes – just as she’d learned they all shared the toilet in the back yard. Otherwise, how was she to wash their clothes? If she took them to a laundry the charge would be more than her slender purse could afford.

      A surge of disgust went through her as she remembered taking their chamber pot to the closet in the yard that morning. It had stunk worse than anything she’d ever smelled before, making the vomit rush up her throat as she’d emptied their pot into the nauseous pool of sewage. How long was it since anyone had paid the night-soil man to come and clear the waste away? Lucy’s mind moved on to something even more troubling. It had been very late when her brother had come home the previous evening. She’d been waiting up for him, worried, because he’d never been home that late, and when he’d eventually come in at past one in the morning, it was obvious that he’d been drinking.

      ‘Oh, Josh,’ she’d said to him. ‘What have you done? I thought you had no money?’

      ‘I didn’t sh-pend any …’ he said and started giggling. ‘My f-friends treat … shed me …’ He hiccupped and grinned at her foolishly. ‘Don’t look at me like that … you’re not my …’ He’d turned away hurriedly and been sick on the floor. The smell had been awful and it had taken Lucy two trips to the tap in the back yard to fetch enough water to wash the stink away.

      Josh had apologised before falling on to his mattress and immediately started to snore. Lucy wasn’t sure if he was really asleep, but she hadn’t remonstrated with him. What could she do? She wasn’t his mother and she didn’t have the right to order him around. His recent rise in wages meant he earned almost as much as she did, and he’d always brought every penny home.

      Lucy stuck her chin out defiantly. She and Josh had decided that they could manage on their own. They certainly did not want to live in the country with their mother’s sister; Ma hadn’t liked her and so she must be awful. The only other alternative was the workhouse, and Lucy had heard bad things about the one in Farthing Lane. People crossed themselves as they hurried by and Mr Pottersby said he’d rather die than go there. Lucy was determined that neither she nor her brother or sister was ever going to set foot there and she pitied the poor devils who had no choice.

      ‘I really cannot see why you wish to inspect the kitchens,’ Mistress Docherty said when Arthur made the request that morning. ‘I assure you everything is done in accordance with workhouse rules.’

      ‘Oh, I am certain that you follow them to the letter, ma’am,’ Arthur replied with a smile that eased her frown. He was a handsome man and not many women could resist that smile; despite her resistance, she softened towards him. ‘I just wish to make sure that your employees are doing as you bid them – I am sure you would not wish your inmates to be cheated of their rights?’

      ‘Indeed not, sir,’ Mistress Docherty replied, pursing her thin lips. She was a thin woman with a straight back, pale face and dark hair that she wore scraped back in a knot. Her black button boots shone and her black dress was neat, a lace collar fastened at the throat with a cameo brooch. ‘I am looking for a trained cook, but it is not easy to find one who will work for the wages I can offer. One of the inmates does the cooking at the moment, and others help. Her meals are adequate but perhaps might be better.’

      ‘It is not easy to find cooks of the right quality,’ Arthur agreed.

      The mistress of the workhouse insisted on accompanying him to the kitchens, which was slightly annoying as he preferred to talk to the inmates alone so they might talk freely.

      A stew was being prepared in the kitchen. It was a long room with low ceilings and dark beams from which hooks were suspended so that pans and skillets could be hung close to the black range where the meal was slowly cooking. The newly whitewashed walls gave it an appearance of cleanliness and the tiled floor had been scrubbed recently. The smell of the stew was quite enticing, and Arthur asked if he might taste the broth. Given a spoon, he dipped it in the liquid and then sipped. It contained more meat than in the past and he nodded his satisfaction at Sadie, the old woman who presided over three others. He noticed that one of them was Moll; she sat by the pot and gave it an occasional stir. As he watched, she tasted it and then, when Sadie’s back was turned, she put in a pinch of salt and winked at Arthur. He smiled back, because he liked the elderly woman’s spirit.

      ‘Tasty,’ he said when Sadie looked at him for approval. She scowled at him, clearly not responding to his charm. ‘What else are you giving the inmates this evening, Cook?