Pauper's Gold Page 4

  ‘Is she indeed?’ Mrs Bramwell murmured.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, and . . .’ Hannah took the plunge. ‘And I was wondering if there was any work here for her. She’s worked in a silk mill, but I’m sure—’

  Hannah got no further. Mrs Bramwell shook her head vehemently. ‘Oh no. We can’t have any relatives of the apprentices here. It’d lead to all kinds of trouble. Oh no, it’s out of the question, and if you take my advice, you’ll keep it very quiet that you’ve got a mother. Mr Edmund wouldn’t like that at all. Goodbody’s only supposed to send orphans.’

  ‘Why?’ Hannah asked candidly.

  Ethel gasped. ‘You’ve got some cheek, girl. You’d better learn to watch your tongue, else you’ll find yourself spending more time in the punishment room than out of it.’

  ‘But why should he only send orphans?’ Hannah persisted.

  Mrs Bramwell gripped her arm. ‘Never you mind that, girl. Just learn to do as you’re told and not ask so many questions.’

  The superintendent marched the girl up the stairs to a little room at the end of the attic storeroom. She opened the door with a key on her bunch and thrust Hannah inside. ‘We’ll see if an hour or so in there’ll teach you a lesson.’

  The door slammed, the key turned in the lock, and Hannah was alone. The whitewashed room was completely bare except for a rough blanket thrown in one corner on the cold, bare floor. Hannah went to the window and looked out. Night had fallen in the dale. There was no pauper’s gold illuminating the hillside now and sparkling on the river. The blackness was complete.

  She pressed her forehead against the cold pane and began to sing softly. ‘Abide with me; fast falls the eventide . . .’

  About to turn away, Ethel Bramwell paused in astonishment and stood still. ‘Bless me,’ she murmured. ‘The child is singing.’

  Never, in all her born days, as she would tell her husband later, had she ever heard any child sing when locked in the punishment room. Cry, scream, rage, bang on the door to be let out, but never, ever, had she heard them sing!

  Five

  Hannah was let out in time to go straight to bed. When she entered the dormitory, Jane ran straight to her, arms stretched wide, tears running down her face. ‘Oh, Hannah, I’m so sorry, it was all my fault.’

  Hannah hugged the girl. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, kissing the top of Jane’s head and stroking her long brown hair, now released from its plait for the night. ‘It’s not as bad in there as the room at the workhouse. At least there’s a window. I ’spect it’s quite a nice view in the daytime.’

  ‘But aren’t you hungry?’ Jane’s mouth still trembled. ‘You missed supper.’

  Hannah laughed and rubbed her stomach. ‘What, with all that stew Mrs Grundy gave us? No, I’m fine. Now, let’s get you into bed. Dry your tears and we’ll snuggle down together.’

  As they began to undress down to their shifts, some of the other girls clustered around them, staring at the newcomers. Nell shouldered her way through and began the introductions, reeling off names so fast that after a moment Hannah laughed. ‘Oh, stop, stop. I’ll never remember.’

  ‘You’ll get to know us all soon.’ Nell laughed good-naturedly. ‘You’ll be sick of the sight of us all in a bit ’cos we never get away from each other.’

  Again Hannah nodded, but silently she was thinking, Well, I will. I’ll get out of here sometimes. Walk down the lane to see that nice Mrs Grundy. Climb the hills and . . .

  ‘Come on, we’d best get into bed,’ Nell shooed the others away. ‘She’ll be up in a minute.’

  The ‘she’ was Mrs Bramwell, who walked through both the girls’ and the boys’ dormitories to make sure they were all in bed, to make sure they were all still there.

  The only segregation between the boys and the girls in the apprentice house was in the sleeping arrangements. Everywhere else they mingled freely. It was still dark when the door of the dormitory was flung open and a tall, broad-shouldered man with a stick walked between the beds, banging the end of each one to wake them.

  ‘Time to get up.’

  Dragging themselves out of bed and shivering in the cold, the girls dressed hurriedly.

  ‘Quick as you can,’ Nell whispered, ‘else you’ll not get a turn in the privy before we have to leave for the mill.’

  ‘What about breakfast?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘They bring it to the mill at eight o’clock. We can’t stop working, you just have to snatch it when you can.’

  Summoned by the bell in the tower on the roof of the main building, they hurried down the steep hill towards the mill, following the clatter of the other children’s clogs.

  Hannah greeted Luke and Daniel. ‘You all right? Sleep all right?’

  ‘Not really,’ Luke yawned. ‘There was a boy in the next bed to us. Joe, I think his name is. Well, he—’

  ‘Snored,’ Daniel added.

  ‘How about you?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Slept like a log. We were both tired.’

  Luke grinned. ‘Is it true you were sent to the punishment room last night?’

  Hannah laughed wryly. ‘Yeah. Made a good start, didn’t I?’

  ‘Whatever did you do? You’ve only been here five minutes. I’d’ve thought even you could’ve kept your nose clean for that long.’

  Hannah pulled a face and murmured, ‘I’ll tell you sometime.’ With her eyes, she gestured towards Jane running alongside her.

  Luke glanced from one to the other. ‘Ah, right.’

  Jane said nothing. She was still clinging to Hannah’s hand as if she would never let it go.

  ‘Don’t we get breakfast before we start work?’ Daniel grumbled as they passed through the gate into the mill yard.

  Hannah repeated what Nell had told them, and Luke murmured, ‘You know, I reckon this could be worse than the workhouse.’

  For once, Hannah said nothing. She had a feeling that he could well be right.

  A man was standing by the door into the nearest building. At the sight of him, the children behind them began to run forward, passing the four newcomers until they were left at the back, the last to arrive before him. He was more smartly dressed than the workmen hurrying into the mill from all directions. He wore black trousers, a waistcoat and jacket, with a crisp, white shirt and red necktie. Whereas all the workmen wore caps, this man wore a black top hat.

  ‘Ah, you’re the new ones. How do?’ As he stroked his drooping moustache and long sideburns, Hannah noticed that the third and fourth fingers on his left hand were missing. His voice was gruff and his face pockmarked, but she thought his brown eyes were kindly.

  The four youngsters stared up at him wordlessly, until Hannah shook herself, cleared her throat, and said politely, ‘Good morning, Mr Critchlow.’

  The man stared a moment and then threw back his head. His laughter echoed through the morning mist shrouding the hilltops. ‘Lord bless you, I’m not Mr Critchlow. I’m his overlooker, Ernest Scarsfield. I work for him just the same as you’re going to.’

  Hannah’s gaze travelled upwards to marvel at the grand hat he was wearing.

  Reading her thoughts, he laughed again. ‘Ah, now you’re admiring my top hat, aren’t you?’ Hannah grinned and nodded. The man’s eyes twinkled and he bent forward, resting his hands on his knees. ‘Well, you see, that’s my sign of authority in this place. When folks see my top hat coming, they know they’ve to be working hard.’ He winked and chuckled. ‘But I’m sure I’m not going to have any trouble from you four, now am I?’

  They smiled a little uncertainly as Mr Scarsfield scrutinized them. Dear me, he was thinking as his glance rested upon Jane, they’re sending them younger and younger. This little one looks no more than eight years old. ‘From the workhouse, are you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Hannah answered, once again taking the lead.

  ‘You needn’t call me “sir”, lass. You call Mr Critchlow “sir”.’ He sniffed, ‘And Mr Edmund too, I suppose. But you call me “Mr Scarsfield”. Now, follow me
and I’ll take you to Mr Critchlow’s office. You have to sign a paper first and then we’ll see what jobs we can set you to do.’

  They followed him across the yard and in through a door at the end of the main building, up spiral stone steps to the first floor.

  At another door, Ernest Scarsfield paused and turned to say, ‘This first room is what we call the counting house. It’s where Mr Roper sits to do all the bookwork. Beyond that is the master’s office. Mr Nathaniel Critchlow is the owner of the mill, but his son, Mr Edmund, is in the business too now. He’s the manager of the mill, really.’ He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice, as if imparting a confidence. ‘The old man still likes to keep his hand in, but it’s really Mr Edmund who runs the place.’ Ernest straightened up and winked. ‘With me to help him, of course.’

  The children smiled dutifully, yet they were all feeling apprehensive, not knowing what to expect. Even Hannah felt her knees trembling.

  Ernest knocked on the door, and, hearing a murmur from within, opened it, standing aside to usher the children ahead of him. Finding herself once more in the lead, Hannah took a deep breath and stepped into the room. Jane, though still clinging to her hand, managed to hide behind Hannah. The two boys followed, with Mr Scarsfield bringing up the rear and closing the door behind him.

  A man – thin, sour-faced and already balding though only in his thirties – was perched on a stool at a high desk, hunched over it, and writing in a thick, leather-bound ledger. He was dressed in sombre black from head to foot, the only relief being his stiffly starched white collar and blue silk cravat.

  ‘Morning, Roper,’ Mr Scarsfield said cheerfully, but he didn’t pause in moving the children on towards a door halfway down the left-hand side of the room.

  The man at the desk glanced at the children with grey, lifeless eyes over the top of his small, steel-framed spectacles. His only reply to Ernest Scarsfield’s greeting was a disapproving sniff.

  Mr Scarsfield opened the door to the inner office and stepped in first this time.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he greeted the man sitting behind the desk in the centre of the room. This time, Hannah noticed, his tone was far more deferential.

  ‘Morning, Scarsfield.’ His glance rested on the four youngsters. ‘Well, well, and who have we here?’

  The portly man, with a red face, thinning grey hair and long bushy side-whiskers, spread his podgy hands on the desk in front of him. He was dressed in a black frock coat, dark grey trousers and a light grey waistcoat, with a black stock knotted beneath a white, stand-up collar. Hannah had never seen anyone dressed so grandly in all her life.

  ‘Mr Goodbody’s latest arrivals, sir,’ Ernest Scarsfield said. ‘Now, tell Mr Critchlow your names. You first, lass.’ He tapped Hannah’s shoulder.

  The children spoke in turn. Jane’s voice was scarcely audible and Daniel mumbled, but Hannah and Luke spoke up fearlessly.

  ‘Have they brought everything they should have?’ Mr Critchlow glanced towards his overlooker.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t checked with Mrs Bramwell. They only arrived late last night.’

  Mr Critchlow looked impatient. He turned back to Hannah. ‘You’ve been given some clothes?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And two guineas?’

  Reluctantly, Hannah nodded.

  ‘Have you got it with you?’

  The four youngsters glanced at each other and then nodded. All of them had had the sense to carry it, fearing that if they left it in the apprentice house, it might disappear. They’d no way of knowing at this moment just how honest their fellow apprentices were. If their life in the workhouse was anything to go by, then they should trust no one.

  ‘It’s to be handed to my clerk, Mr Roper, as you go out.’

  ‘But it’s ours,’ Hannah burst out.

  Mr Critchlow frowned. ‘It’s to pay for any fines you might incur.’

  ‘Fines? What – what fines?’

  ‘We call them stoppages. We fine you for bad behaviour, lateness or poor work.’ He frowned at them over his bushy eyebrows. ‘And of course, the more serious the crime, the more you will have to pay. Mr Roper keeps a ledger. Now,’ Mr Critchlow went on briskly. ‘We’ve a paper for you to sign. Has it been explained to you what this paper is?’

  Four heads shook in unison.

  Nathaniel Critchlow reached into a drawer in his desk, and brought out eight sheets of paper covered in small, neat writing. He cleared his throat. ‘This is what we call an indenture. It’s a legal piece of paper. We each have a copy and we each have to sign both copies.’ He pointed a finger towards them and then at himself. ‘You and me. You’ – his finger pointed again at the children – ‘are promising to bind yourself to me and my heirs for a fixed term of years – usually that’s until you reach the age of eighteen. You’re promising me that you will be a good and faithful apprentice, that you will not leave or absent yourself from your place of work without my consent. You will not steal, damage or destroy anything that is my property. You will obey all the rules and behave at all times in a manner befitting your station as an apprentice. And providing that you keep your side of the agreement, in return, I’ – his finger now turned towards himself – ‘and my heirs promise to employ you for that number of years in a suitable occupation and teach you all you need to know. Now,’ he smiled down at them. ‘Is that all clear?’

  ‘Please, sir,’ Hannah asked. ‘What wages do we receive?’

  ‘Wages?’ Mr Critchlow frowned. ‘We don’t pay wages to apprentices.’

  ‘Then – then how are we to live?’

  His face cleared. ‘Oh, I see. Didn’t I say? We provide you with accommodation and all your food – and clothes.’ The last item was added as if this were a great benevolence.

  Ernest Scarsfield leaned forward. ‘You can earn a bit doing overtime. You’ll be paid for that.’

  ‘A-hem, oh yes, of course. But it’ll be a while before they’re useful enough to do that, Scarsfield. Don’t mislead them.’

  ‘No, sir, of course not,’ Ernest said dutifully, but out of sight of his employer, Hannah felt him squeeze her elbow and understood that, as soon as he could, he would likely put some work their way so that they could earn a few coppers.

  But Mr Critchlow’s next words dampened even that hope. ‘And don’t forget the stoppages ledger, Scarsfield. Make sure they understand that anything they break or do wrong will have to be paid for.’

  ‘Sounds as if we’ll end up paying to work here,’ Hannah muttered. She felt a sharp dig in the ribs from Luke and another squeeze on her elbow from Mr Scarsfield. This time it was a warning.

  ‘What? What did you say, girl?’ Mr Critchlow demanded.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ she replied, but she was thinking quickly, debating whether to sign the paper that would bind her here for six long years. She thought of her mother, who had begged her to behave, to work hard and learn a skill. ‘It’s a great chance for you, Hannah,’ Rebecca had said in her gentle voice. ‘Take it.’ And it was a chance too, the young girl reminded herself, to find employment for her mother. Then they could be reunited.

  Hannah smiled brightly and stepped forward. ‘Where do you want me to sign, sir?’

  A few moments later, when they’d each laboriously scratched their names (or, in the case of Jane, made her mark – an untidy, squiggly cross), they watched whilst Mr Critchlow filled in their names in the appropriate blank spaces in the document. At the bottom of the paper he added the date, his signature and a big, red seal of wax.

  ‘There, that’s all done, and now Mr Scarsfield will show you around the mill and then what work he would like you to do.’ He looked up at his overlooker. ‘Come back here later, Scarsfield. We’ve matters to discuss.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ernest Scarsfield nodded as he led the children out of the room, Hannah once more bobbing a polite curtsy and bestowing her most beaming smile on the man whom she was now bound to serve for the next six years.

  S
ix

  ‘Now,’ Mr Scarsfield said, smiling down at them as they clattered back down the stone steps and into the yard once more. ‘We’d better find you all a job to do.’ He looked them over, assessing them. ‘We usually start the apprentices off just sweeping up and keeping the place tidy. After a while, we’ll try you on other jobs so’s you work your way up, see?’

  Four heads nodded.

  ‘You three’ – he pointed to the twins and Jane – ‘are small enough to crawl under the machines to sweep the fluff up, but you . . .’ Now he pointed at Hannah. ‘You’re a bit tall for that. I don’t want any accidents.’ He frowned. ‘The mill is a dangerous place, ’specially for you youngsters and ’specially’ – he laid emphasis on the word – ‘when you’re crawling about under the machines. Watch your heads and your backs and you, Pickering, mind your hair is plaited and covered by your bonnet.’

  ‘What about me?’ Hannah asked. ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘I think I’ll try you scutching.’

  Hannah blinked. ‘Whatever’s that?’

  Ernest laughed and his brown eyes twinkled. ‘It’s part of the preparation of the raw cotton. Come on, let’s set these three to work and then I’ll take you and show you.’

  He led the children into the mill. Now the noise of machinery was much louder, and the newcomers were tempted to put their hands over their ears to block out the din.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Ernest mouthed at them. ‘And you’ll soon learn to lip read an’ all. It’s the only way you can hold any sort of conversation in here. Mind you, don’t let me catch you chatting, though.’

  ‘Fat chance,’ Luke muttered, though above the noise, the overlooker didn’t hear him.

  Ernest led them into a long room where dozens of machines were working. The noise was now deafening, but the workers standing before the machines didn’t seem to mind. Ernest was pointing at a small girl darting between the machines and then crawling beneath them to sweep the dust and fluff collecting under each one. The newcomers stood watching for a moment and then the two boys picked up a brush and emulated the girl.