Pauper's Gold (14 page)

Ernest Scarsfield was rewarded with Hannah’s wide smile. Her blue eyes sparkled with grateful tears. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Scarsfield. You’re so kind. I don’t know how to
thank you.’

He straightened up, feeling an unaccustomed lump in his throat. ‘There, there,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Don’t fret. I’ll see what I can do.’ He patted her
shoulder. ‘Run along into work now.’

As he watched her go, Ernest stroked his moustache, still marvelling over the child. Not only had the young girl done something remarkable – she’d made him involve himself in the
life of one of the workers, a thing he’d vowed he’d never do – but for some reason he couldn’t explain, he believed her story. He actually believed the child had meant to
return to the mill.

And that, to him, was the most incredible part of it all.

That morning, despite the soreness of her back that would take some time to heal, Hannah sang at her work.

At last, someone really believed her.

Hannah had to be patient – something she wasn’t very good at. Ernest Scarsfield had said he’d try to make enquiries for her and she believed him, but the
wait was agonizing. She busied herself with work, trying to keep her mind off thoughts of her mother, even asking Mrs Bramwell for extra chores in the evening. ‘Jane’s so tired. Please
let me do her jobs.’

Ethel Bramwell was amazed at the resilience of this girl. After a beating like she’d taken, many another would have moaned and begged to be excused from work for weeks. But Hannah made no
complaint even though her back was smarting and she would always bear a faint scar or two where the cane had cut the deepest. Ethel believed Hannah’s story now and was secretly trying to
think of a way to help the girl find out about her mother. They were all supposed to be orphans that came from the workhouse. It was Goodbody’s fault for sending Hannah, no one else’s
and certainly not the girl’s.

‘Can we do something, Arthur?’ Ethel asked her husband. ‘I can’t help liking her. I know she’s a bit of a rebel.’ She smiled with something approaching
fondness. ‘But I have to admire her spirit. We don’t get many like her in this place. You should have seen that beating he gave her.’ The woman shuddered. ‘He was like a man
possessed.’

Arthur’s kindly face was grim. ‘I expect there was a bit more to it than that.’ He nodded knowingly at his wife. ‘You know what I mean, love. Beating a young girl. Gave
him a thrill, I expect. By, he’s a nasty piece of work and no mistake.’

‘I know she’s a handful, but she didn’t deserve that. She’s a funny little lass. She’s – she’s . . .’ Ethel sought the appropriate way to describe
Hannah. ‘She’s rebellious for the right reasons.’

Arthur nodded. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

‘So?’ Ethel prompted. ‘Is there anything we can do to help her?’

‘I’ll have a word with Ernest. He’s a decent bloke. Mebbe he can think of something.’

Ethel smiled. ‘D’you know, she’s still doing all her little friend’s chores at night? The little pasty-faced one. Pickering.’

‘And you let her? Spoiling the other lass though, isn’t it?’

Ethel grimaced and shrugged. ‘Like Francis says, the other child’s dropping on her feet when she gets back from the mill. It’s plain to see and I can’t argue with it. I
have to let the little ’un rest else she’ll not be fit for the mill and then you know what’ll happen. It’ll be us to blame. As usual.’ They exchanged a glance, then
Ethel asked, ‘D’you know what job Pickering’s doing?’

Arthur shrugged. ‘No, but I’ll mention it to Ernest. See if he can put her on something a little less tiring.’

They met in the Wyedale Arms at the top of the hill – Ernest Scarsfield, Arthur Bramwell and Ollie Grundy. Several of the male mill workers also climbed the steep slope
two or three times a week. The ale was worth the tough climb and the walk back home was easy, unless of course one too many had been imbibed and then there was the danger of falling and rolling
home quite literally.

The three of them tucked themselves away in a corner and almost before they’d got settled with their pints in their hands, Arthur said, ‘Now, Ernest, my missis has made me promise to
ask you about that little lass who’s desperate for news of ’er mother. You know, the one that ran away and spent a week in the punishment room for her trouble.’

Ollie Grundy pricked up his ears, knowing at once that it was Hannah they were talking about.

Ernest was nodding soberly. ‘He beat her himself, didn’t he?’

‘Beat her? Who?’ Ollie had spoken aloud before he could stop himself.

‘One of the lasses tried to run away,’ Arthur explained. ‘She
said
it was to see her mother in the workhouse, that she meant to come back—’

‘Oh, she did,’ Ollie said, without thinking. ‘She did mean to come back.’

‘Eh?’ Ernest stared at him.

Ollie sighed, realizing he’d said too much. Now he’d have to explain. ‘My missis helped her. Lent her some money. Lily trusted her – believed her.’ He faced the
other two fiercely. ‘And so do I.’

Ernest and Arthur exchanged a glance.

‘But who beat her?’ Ollie persisted.

‘Mr Edmund,’ Arthur said. ‘Thrashed her till she bled, my missis says. I’ve never seen the wife so upset over any of the young ’uns.’

Ollie’s face was grim and Ernest shook his head sadly.

‘But d’you know what?’ Arthur said, leaning forward. ‘Ethel said that he only stopped when the little lass fell to the floor almost in a faint, but she was still trying
to defy him. She was still trying to sing.’

The three of them sat in silence, until at last Arthur said, ‘Well, then, is there anything we can do to find out about her mother for her? She’s a good worker – at least she
is at the house. Even does some of the jobs for her little friend. And that’s another thing – that little girl Pickering is fair done in when she gets home at night. A’ you
working ’er too hard, Ernest?’

‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ Ernest remarked, drily. ‘But you know I don’t make the rules, Arthur.’

There was silence between the three of them whilst Ernest took a long swig of his ale. Ollie was saying nothing now, but he was listening intently. His Lil would certainly want to hear about all
this. Ernest wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then twirled the ends of his long moustache. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve already asked a pal of mine to inquire at the
Macclesfield workhouse about her mother.’

Arthur beamed. ‘That’s good o’ yer. The missis’ll be pleased.’ He shrugged and gave a wry laugh. ‘Don’t know why ’cos Francis is a troublesome
little baggage, but the missis has taken a liking to her. I ’ave an’ all, if truth be known.’

Ernest laughed. ‘I know what you mean.’ He leaned towards Ollie. ‘D’yer know, she sings hymns. All day long while she’s working.’

‘Aye. She does at the house, an’ all,’ Arthur put in.

Ollie, who had promised himself to say no more, could contain his curiosity no longer. ‘Sings, you say? In that place? What on earth has the poor little lass got to sing about?’

‘Francis is a good little worker,’ Ernest said. ‘I’ve already set her on as a piecer alongside Nell Hudson. You know Hudson, don’t you, Arthur?’

‘Oh aye. I know her,’ Arthur said wryly.

‘And the two lads that came at the same time – the twins,’ Ernest went on. ‘They’re doffers now. But that other little lass you’re on about – Pickering.
She’s not making much progress. She’s still sweeping up.’

Ollie’s face was grim. ‘What, under them machines?’

The two mill employees glanced at each other uncomfortably. They remembered only too well what had happened to Lucy Longmate, Ollie’s niece.

‘I’ll watch out for the little lass,’ Ernest said gently.

Two days after this conversation had taken place, Hannah woke with a start as Arthur came into the girls’ dormitory, banging the ends of their beds with his stick as he
always did. She sprang up, wide awake at once. She never seemed to suffer the weariness that the others did. Some had to be fairly dragged out of their beds every morning. And Jane was one of
them.

‘Let me be,’ she whimpered as Hannah shook her awake. ‘I can’t get up. Not today. I really can’t. I’m so tired.’

It was the same complaint every day and Hannah took no notice. ‘Come on. Up you get. If you want me to plait your hair, you’ll have to get up now.’

There was no answer – Jane was asleep again.

With a sigh, Hannah ran to the bowl and ewer at the end of the dormitory and splashed her face with the cold water. She liked to be first to use it; by the time fifty girls had washed their
sleepy faces in it, the water was cloudy with scum. Hannah dressed quickly and tied up her own long hair. Then she bent once more over the sleeping girl. ‘Do come on, Jane. We’ll be
late.’

‘I’d leave ’er,’ Nell commented. ‘Let Mrs Bramwell find her. She can deal with her. She’s a pain, that one.’

‘She’s just tired out.’

‘So’s a lot more that work in the mill. She’s nobody special.’

‘She is to me,’ Hannah snapped back.

‘Oh, sorry I spoke, I’m sure.’

‘No, I’m sorry, Nell,’ Hannah said quickly, not wanting to fall out with the girl who had become such a friend to her. To them both, if it came to that. ‘It’s just
that I don’t want to see her in trouble. The work’s more than she can manage without being put in the punishment room.’

Nell moved to the other side of the bed. ‘Come on, then. I’ll give you a hand.’

Together, they pulled back the thin grey blanket, grasped Jane on either side and hauled her upright. The girl’s head lolled to one side.

‘Come on, you,’ Nell said sharply. ‘Up with you, else I’ll throw that bowl of mucky water all over you.’

They got her standing, and Nell held her whilst Hannah pulled on her skirt and blouse. Jane just stood there, swaying limply, her head down, her eyes closed. If they hadn’t held on to her,
she’d have fallen over. She was quite literally asleep on her feet.

Hannah grasped hold of her hair and began to separate it into three hanks ready to plait it.

‘You haven’t time to do that now,’ Nell said. ‘We’ll all be late. Everyone else’s gone already.’

Hannah bit her lip, but she couldn’t argue.

‘Put her bonnet on and tie it tightly. That’ll have to do her today.’

Together they dragged the girl out of the room, stumbling awkwardly down the stairs with Jane between them.

The blast of cold morning air seemed to wake her, and she pulled herself free of Hannah and Nell to walk on her own. She pulled her shawl closely around her and hurried into the mill.

‘Thanks for your help,’ Nell muttered sarcastically, her eyes following Jane, but it was said with a grin. She linked her arm through Hannah’s. ‘Come on, there’s a
lot of broken threads waiting for our fingers.’

‘They’re late with the breakfast, aren’t they?’ Nell said, when they had been worked for over two hours.

‘I dunno, I left me gold watch at home this morning,’ Hannah mouthed.

‘Oh, very funny, but I wish they’d hurry up. Me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’

‘You carry on here,’ Hannah suggested. ‘I’ll just pop me head outside and see what’s happened.’

To her amazement, groups of workers were standing about the yard, whispering together, their faces solemn. But there was no sign of Mr Scarsfield. She saw Luke and ran to him.
‘What’s going on? Why’s everyone out here? And where’s breakfast?’

As Luke turned to face her, Hannah was shocked to see tears in his eyes. Fear gripped her insides. ‘What is it? What’s happened? Is . . . is it Daniel?’

Luke shook his head. He took hold of her hand. ‘It’s Jane. She . . . she got her hair caught in one of the machines . . .’

Hannah felt as if the breath had been knocked from her body. The colour drained from her face, and her legs gave way beneath her. If Luke hadn’t caught hold of her, she would have crumpled
to the ground.

There was no hope that the child could survive. Though she was mercifully unconscious now, her injuries were so terrible, the loss of blood so much that by the time the doctor
arrived, Jane was slipping away. Her unplaited hair had escaped from beneath her bonnet, and as the exhausted child had crawled beneath the clattering machines, she’d failed to keep her head
low enough. The cruel machine had caught at her hair and whipped it up. Jane’s petrified screams had been heard even above the machine noise. The operator had stopped the machine immediately,
but the damage was done. They had pulled her out to find hair and skin torn from her scalp and blood flowing everywhere. Luke had been there when it had happened. He’d been the one to crawl
underneath to release her. His eyes were dark with the horror of what he’d seen as he told Hannah about it.

Then, for the first time since he’d known her, Luke saw Hannah cry. She burst into noisy sobs and clung to him. ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I didn’t plait
her hair. We were l-late and I . . . I didn’t do it. And . . . and I always do it. Oh, Luke – Luke – it’s all my fault.’

He put his arms around her and held her close, not caring who saw them. But everyone was dealing with their own shock at the horrifying accident.

‘Of course it’s not your fault. It’s not up to you to look after her.’

‘Yes, it is. It is. I always look after her. She’s so little and pale and gets so tired.’

‘That’s not your fault. It’s them. They shouldn’t work her so hard. A little thing like her. And if anyone should see she’s got her hair plaited, it should be Mrs
Bramwell.’

Luke’s words were meant to comfort her, but they didn’t. Hannah blamed herself and there was nothing anyone could say to her that would ever take away her guilt.

‘I want to see her. Let me be with her.’ Outside the room where Jane lay, Hannah tussled physically with Mrs Bramwell, who was trying to restrain her.

‘You can’t do her any good, Hannah.’

‘She’s going to die, isn’t she?’

The woman nodded.

‘Then let me be with her,’ she begged. ‘Let me hold her hand. Please!’

Mrs Bramwell was firm. ‘Promise me you’ll stay here if I go and ask the doctor.’