The Workhouse Girl (9 page)

‘Why would I care?' Mrs Trigg bent over to pick up the dress. ‘Take them petticoats off too.' She draped the frock over her arm. ‘This lot will keep us in gin for a week, Trigg.'

He was about to light his clay pipe with a spill from the fire but he paused, frowning. ‘We don't want the brat to die of pneumonia. She's worth more alive than she is dead.'

Mrs Trigg uttered a humourless cackle of laughter. ‘I thought of that, Mr Trigg.' She snatched the red flannel from the floor as Sarah took off her petticoat. ‘I went to the dollyshop on the corner earlier. I didn't think she'd turn up wearing the workhouse duds.' She waddled over to a chest of drawers on the far side of the room and took out a couple of garments, tossing them to Sarah. ‘Think yourself lucky to have any rag on your back, and stop complaining.'

Sarah was too cold and scared to argue and she dressed hurriedly. The skirt was made from shoddy and smelled like the coat of a wet dog. The coarse material scratched her bare legs but at least it gave some protection from the cold rising from the stone floor. The calico blouse was soiled and patched with oddments of material, but it was infinitely better than nothing. Mrs Trigg eyed the result with pursed lips. ‘You look like a ragbag, Sal Scratch. But it's only what you deserve. If we wasn't God-fearing people you'd have ended up in the river with a lead weight tied to your ankles.'

‘But I never did you any harm.'

‘We lost everything because of you.' Mrs Trigg's eyes narrowed to dark slits in her pudgy face. ‘We had a good living at the workhouse, but the mill owner's words carried more weight than ours. We was sent packing just afore Christmas and we ended up here in this disgusting hovel. You're going to pay for that for the rest of your life, devil's daughter.'

‘What are you going to do to me?' Sarah's lips were dry and her heart was beating so fast she thought that her captors must be able to hear it thudding against her ribs.

Trigg puffed smoke at the soot-blackened ceiling. ‘You'll find out soon enough.'

‘You've got too much to say for yourself,' Mrs Trigg added, giving Sarah a push that sent her staggering against the wall. ‘Sit down and keep quiet or the Tickler will have his revenge, and you know what the Tickler can do to unruly children.'

Sarah slid to the ground, huddling up in an attempt to keep warm. She glanced round the room, looking for a way of escape, but the windows were shuttered on the outside, and Trigg had locked the door when they came in. The dank room was filled with moving shadows created by the guttering of a single candle, which was the only illumination other than the feeble flames from the coal fire. Three ill-assorted wooden chairs were set around a deal table in the centre of the room, and there was an iron bedstead in the far corner. A crust of bread and a heel of cheese were the only evidence of food, but Trigg had taken a bottle from the mantelshelf and was taking swigs from it in between puffs on his pipe.

‘Save some for me,' Mrs Trigg said, tossing a shoe at her husband. ‘And it's time we had supper. You'll have to go to the pie shop afore it closes.'

Trigg rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet. ‘I'm going to the pub to meet Grey. We got some haggling to do.'

‘Then I'm coming with you.'

‘What about her?' Trigg pointed the stem of his pipe at Sarah. ‘We can't leave her on her own.'

Mrs Trigg bared her teeth in a semblance of a grin. ‘What's she going to get up to here? We'll lock her in.'

‘Supposing she makes a noise and shouts for help?'

‘Who is there to hear her? Those that are in their rooms will be too drunk to care, or too befuddled with opium to notice, and even if they did they wouldn't interfere.' Mrs Trigg turned to Sarah, scowling ominously. ‘Try anything and it'll be the worse for you.' She snatched her cloak from the back of a chair. ‘There's bread and cheese on the table and if he's left any there's some gin in the bottle. Drink that and it'll shut you up for the night.' She made for the door, pausing with her hand on the key. ‘You'll sleep on the floor. If I find you in my bed I'll throttle you with me bare hands and enjoy doing it.' She unlocked the door and stepped outside, followed by Trigg.

The door closed on them and Sarah heard the key scrape in the lock. She rose stiffly to her feet and went to warm herself by the fire.

She sat on the hearth and buried her face in her hands, giving way to the tears that she had so far held back. She cried for her mother and father and the little siblings who were laid to rest in a pauper's grave. She cried for Nettie and Miss Parfitt, whom she loved, and for Dorcas and Cook who had been kind to her. She cried for her kind employers who had taken her in and had treated her more like a daughter than a servant. They would all be wondering where she was and why she had left the house without a word. Perhaps they would think that she had run away. One thing was certain: no one would know where to look for her. And it was Christmas Eve. There were presents under the tree in Mrs Arbuthnot's parlour and she was certain that one of them was for her. Who would have it now? Fresh tears spurted from her eyes and she curled up on the floor, her small body racked with sobs.

She was awakened by a sudden burst of sound as the door opened and Mrs Trigg staggered into the room with Trigg and another man close on her heels. The candle had gone out but there was enough light from the dying embers of the fire to see that the third party was no stranger. It was the man who had attempted to snatch her on the night of the pea-souper, and Sarah stuffed her hand into her mouth to stifle a scream. She lay very still, closing her eyes again and feigning sleep, but a sharp kick in the ribs from Mrs Trigg made her yelp with pain and she sat up.

‘Light the candle, Trigg. We'll have another drink with our good friend afore he sets off.' Mrs Trigg bent over to grab Sarah by the ear and yank her to her feet. ‘See here, Grey. This is the nipper you were supposed to bring to us.'

‘Never mind that now,' Trigg said, pulling the stopper from a bottle with his teeth. ‘Let's have something to keep out the cold.'

Grey pulled up a chair and sat down. He put his battered top hat on the table and unwound his muffler. ‘It'll be a long night. I need something to keep me going. Are you sure it won't wait until daybreak, Trigg?'

‘Very sure. Old Arbuthnot will have the peelers out looking for the kid the moment they realise she's missing.' Trigg handed the bottle to him. ‘Help yourself but don't get so swipey that you lose your way, cully.'

Mrs Trigg abandoned Sarah and went to the table, snatching the stone bottle from Grey before he had taken more than a sip. ‘That's enough of that. You'd best hand over the money and be off.'

‘All right, Mrs T. I don't want to hang around here anyway. I need to get away from town for me health, if you know what I mean.' Grey thrust his hand into his pocket and took out a leather pouch.

Sarah watched helplessly as he opened it and counted out the coins, laying them in a line on the table. ‘There you are. There's your blood money.'

Mrs Trigg clipped him round the ear. ‘Less of your cheek. And there's only five sovs there. Where's the rest?'

He grinned. ‘Expenses, Mrs T. A chap's got to live.'

‘You was supposed to get ten quid off the person in question.'

‘She's no fool,' Grey said, shaking his head. ‘She knows the score and she wouldn't cough up any more. Seven sovs was her final offer.' He rose to his feet, turning his gaze on Sarah. ‘We'll have to gag the kid and tie her up. I got enough to do driving all the way to the Essex coast without having to act as nursemaid.'

Mrs Trigg reached out and grabbed Sarah by the hair. ‘Fetch some rope, Trigg.'

He raised himself from his seat. ‘Where am I going to find rope at this time of night, my love?'

She curled her lip. ‘Tear up a sheet then, Mr Trigg. Do I have to think of everything?'

Sarah tried to resist but it was useless and she was gagged and trussed up like poultry ready for the roast. Grey wrapped her in his caped greatcoat and once again she found herself tossed over a man's shoulder, where she hung helplessly until he threw her into the back of a cart. She landed with a thud on bare boards which temporarily winded her. She struggled to free herself and after several minutes of wriggling about she managed to stick her head out of the smelly material and inhale the cold night air. Exhausted, cramped and sore, she could do nothing other than lie still, staring up at the stars as the cart rattled and bumped over the cobblestones. She was uncomfortable but at least she was reasonably warm and eventually she fell asleep.

She was awakened by birdsong and opened her eyes to a cold, white morning. Above her head she could see the bare branches of a tree with a robin perched on one singing his head off. Frost decorated the leafless twigs in the hedgerows and dusted bunches of scarlet berries with glittering diamonds. The air was fresh and clean with a hint of fragrant woodsmoke, and that alone was enough to convince her that they were far away from the putrid stench of the city. She tried to move, but her limbs were stiff and she could not feel her feet at all.

Grey loomed above her and she saw a knife clasped in his hand. She thought he was going to kill her, but the gag prevented her from uttering a sound. He leaned over the side of the cart and with a swift movement slit the cotton sheeting tied over her mouth. He reached in and pulled her to a sitting position. ‘I ain't going to hurt you, kid,' he said gruffly. ‘You've been a good girl, so I'm going to trust you not to try to run away.' He cut her bonds and sheathed the knife before lifting her out of the cart, setting her on her feet. She would have fallen but he steadied her and helped her to the hollow beneath the tree. He took a pile of sacks from the cart and spread them on the ground. ‘Sit there and I'll give you something hot to drink.'

She had no choice other than to obey him and she sat down, chafing her legs in an attempt to get the blood circulating. She watched him as he made a fire and hung a tin can from a metal hook over the flames. Within minutes its contents were bubbling and sending clouds of aromatic steam into the frosty air. He poured the brew into two tin mugs. ‘Got no milk or sugar,' he said, handing one to Sarah. ‘Be very careful, it's hot.'

She took it gratefully, blowing on the tea until it was cool enough to sip. She kept a wary eye on Grey, but he seemed a different man now that he was away from the evil influence of the Triggs. He busied himself hacking slices of bread from a loaf and he passed one to her with a slice of cheese. ‘Eat up. We've got a long way to go yet.'

She would have liked to refuse, but she was hungry and she took a bite. The bread was a bit stale but the cheese was tasty and she savoured each mouthful, washing it down with tea. ‘Where are you taking me?' she said at last. The food and drink had given her courage, and it was hard to be scared of a man who had given up his overcoat for her benefit and was munching bread and cheese with evident enjoyment.

His stern expression was tempered with a hint of a grin. ‘Don't bother your head with details, kid. You'll find out soon enough, and no one's going to harm you.'

‘Well, where are we now?'

‘Questions all the time; don't you never shut up?'

‘We're not in London. I know that.'

‘Sharp little thing, ain't you?' He gulped down the last mouthful of tea and shook the dregs from the mug. ‘We've wasted enough time. Get in the cart and we'll be on our way.'

Sarah scrambled to her feet, but she was reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire. She remained motionless, shivering despite the thickness of his greatcoat, which hung about her like a tent. He doused the flames and was busy stamping on the embers when he looked up and saw her staring at him. ‘You look perished. The old bitch should've given you something warm to wear.' He picked her up and lifted her onto the driver's seat, wrapping the sacks around her legs for added warmth. ‘That'll have to do.' He stowed his belongings in the back of the cart and climbed up beside her. ‘Sit tight and keep quiet or I'll have to tie you up again. I can't afford to lose you, Sal Scratch. You're worth two quid to me.'

‘My name is Sarah Scrase, not Sal Scratch.'

His hazel eyes twinkled but he kept a straight face. ‘It's all the same to me, kid. You're just market goods to my way of thinking. You're a barrel of molasses or a tub of lard – I'm just the delivery man.'

‘If that's the case then why did you give me food and drink?' Sarah said, eyeing him curiously. ‘You didn't have to wrap me in your coat. You've only got your jacket and you must be cold.'

‘I'm tough and you're just a little girl.' He flicked the reins. ‘Walk on, Boxer.'

‘You must have been chilly, but you let me sleep. You wouldn't have done that if you were really a bad man.'

He shot her a sideways glance. ‘I am a bad man. Don't ever doubt it, Sarah Scrase.'

She was warm beneath his coat and the sacking and she had seen enough of life to know the difference between someone who was inherently bad and a person who could on occasions show kindness and understanding. ‘I know what I know,' she said, nodding her head. ‘And if you take me home to Wellclose Square, Mr Arbuthnot will reward you. He's got a big sugar mill and lots of money.'

‘And I'll end up dancing a Newgate hornpipe.'

‘I don't know what that is.'

‘Keep it that way.' He reached into his pocket, took out a clay pipe. ‘Now shut up. I can't be doing with all this talk.' He stuck the pipe in his mouth and stared at the road ahead.

Sarah lapsed into silence, but her mind was busy planning ways of escape. She had no idea where they were or how far they had come from London. They seemed to be travelling along country lanes miles from anywhere, but when they came to a town or a village she would take the first opportunity to leap off and ask for help. There must be kindly citizens who would take pity on a girl, especially on Christmas Day. She bit her lip as she thought of the house in Wellclose Square, and the large goose that Mrs Burgess would have put in the oven to roast. She had helped to make the plum pudding and it would be simmering in the washhouse copper. Her present would still be under the tree and she wondered what it could be. Perhaps it was something to wear? It might be a muffler and a pair of woollen gloves: she could really do with them now. Or perhaps it was a storybook. That would be lovely, especially if it had pictures in it. She wrapped the sack closer round her knees as a cold east wind whipped her hair around her face and slapped her cheeks with spikes of sleet.