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.Nulli Secundus -
'Second to None'
by Terence Cardwell
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Chapter
Seven - Welcome to the poor house
The
grey brick building was foreboding in its size and drab
appearance. It stood three stories high and some two
hundred feet long. There was a double row of
colonial-style small windows with curved gables above,
in groups of three, spread along its length. At each end
there was a corner tower with rounded roof fascias
designed to break up the plainness of the building.
The entrance was at one end; with a set of twenty wide
stone steps leading up to the double heavy wooden doors
that were open to anyone who wished to enter.
Very few wanted to pass through these doors.
Above the doorway, carved into a stone portal, was the
name ‘Lincoln House’: a name all poor and
poverty-stricken people in the English midlands knew
well. It had been hailed as a national step forward in
social care when it was first created, but those who had
lived there disagreed vehemently. It was located on the
edge of Lincoln town, adjacent to the Midlands County
mental asylum.
People stayed here only through necessity, some for a
short time, others for years. Most did their very best
to return to the outside world, but few succeeded. All
were trapped by poverty and unable to escape the
confining and depressing walls.
The inside was basic. The walls were painted white, with
the lower four feet a depressing dark green faded by the
years and by being repeatedly scrubbed.
This was the place no one wanted to be. To enter meant
one had slid to the bottom of the human ladder into
utter poverty and destitution.
Such people were called paupers.
When this institution and others like it were built,
bureaucrats referred to them as Social Relief Centres or
Government Assistance Centres, telling their
constituents how wonderful they were and what a great
leap forward in government assistance for the poor.
‘After all,’ they said, ‘in this new century we must go
forward and do more for the needy and destitute.’
It was now July 1904 and Lincoln House which could hold
in excess of three hundred and fifty people, and had an
average occupation of two hundred and fifty, had not met
the hopes of either bureaucrats or inmates. To others
less believing, this place of expectation had become a
place of final desperation. It was known as the
workhouse, the poorhouse: a place to go only when there
was nowhere else.
To be admitted here, a person had to attend an interview
with the visiting Relieving Officer. If he was not
available, then the Master of the house, the man in
charge of the poorhouse would see the applicant. If
accepted, the indigent would be kept in a receiving or
probationary ward until residence was formally approved
by the board of Guardians at their weekly meeting.
Once admitted, the unfortunates were stripped, bathed,
disinfected for lice and diseases and issued with a
workhouse uniforms. Their own clothes were stored until
they left. The medical officer would examine them to
check their state of health. Those suffering from
illness would be separated from the rest and placed in a
sick ward.
The women’s uniforms were generally waistless,
shapeless, blue-and-white vertically striped frocks
reaching to the ankles, with a smock over the top. Older
women wore a bonnet or mop cap, a shawl and apron cover.
Men were issued with woollen coats, breeches or
trousers, striped cotton or flannel shirts, cloth caps,
thick socks and shoes or hob-nailed boots.
All were expected to work for their living if they were
old enough and physically capable. Only the sick, frail
and elderly were exempt from working. Even young
children were expected to work once they were eight
years old. Refusal to work meant being asked to leave.
And life outside was infinitely worse.
The working hours were long and arduous, starting at
seven in the morning: weaving flax rope from old rope,
making clothes, shoes, baking, gardening or working in
the piggery. There was time allowed for meals, which
were three a day. After supper at seven, inmates were
expected to go to their beds.
The inmates were separated by gender, women to the left
and men to the right. Each side was a mirror of the
other, with large dormitories for adults and older
children. There was another dormitory for younger
children, and rooms adjacent to each section for
supervisory staff.
The infirmary was near the centre of the building, its
walls a drab, dull white. The room was approximately
twenty feet square with glass-fronted cupboards on two
walls containing medical equipment of all types
including the ‘birthing tools.’
These were basic instruments such as bowls, or the large
metal head clamps not unlike salad tongs used for
extracting infants when necessary. Should things become
complicated they had to remove the babies by caesarean
section, a fairly common occurrence with malnourished
mothers who were prone to early births and miscarriages.
There were tools for that, too.
Well-used linen and threadbare towels were stacked on
benches near two large porcelain sinks used to wash away
the blood of all the misery and suffering. In the middle
of the room were two tables used as treatment and
birthing beds; and from the roof immediately above the
end of the tables were ropes and rings used to support
the mother-to-be’s legs during child birth. That is, if
it was a natural birth. Should a caesarean section be
required, the mothers were drugged with chloroform and
the baby removed under anaesthetic. The after-effects of
using chloroform were sometimes severe: vomiting and
headaches, were the least of them.
One of the tables was in use at the moment and the woman
lying on it had her legs tied in the rings and pulled up
in the air, holding them wide open so she was unable to
move them. She was moaning and yelling curses at all
within range.
‘Oh shut up, you stupid woman, you’re not the only one
to have a baby,’ snapped one of the nurses assisting the
birth. The nurse was dressed in a white uniform and
white cap with a white apron for protection, stained
with blood where she had wiped her hands.
‘Where’s a doctor? I want a doctor,’ moaned the woman.
‘You don’t need a doctor; we don’t waste doctors on the
likes of you.’
Another nurse added, ‘We’ve delivered more babies than
you’ve had hot dinners. Now quit moaning and start
pushing if you want to get rid of this baby.’
The two nurses stood, one at the end of the table and
the other at the top, ready to hold the mother-to-be’s
hands, wipe her face and give her encouragement. They
had limited medical skill and had gained what knowledge
they had from assisting in treatment of the poor and
childbirths like this one. Fortunately for the woman on
the table they had attended a very large number of
births.
‘What’s your name, love?’ the nurse at the head of the
table asked in a softer tone, intended to take the
woman’s mind off the pain.
‘Annie Lawson,’ she replied through clenched teeth.
‘Well, I’m Irene and this is Frances. You married?’
‘To a bloody publican, till the bugger kicked me out and
left me with this lot,’ Annie replied, moaning the last
words.
‘Well it won’t be much longer, it’ll soon be over,’
Irene soothed, wiping Annie’s brow with a cold wet
cloth.
‘Uuugh,’ Annie groaned.
‘Push, come on love, push,’ Frances encouraged. ‘Yes,
that’s it, come on. I can see the top on the baby’s
head… keep it up.’
Annie pushed harder and pain rippled through her as the
contractions came again. They were now down to every
thirty seconds and she felt she would pass out with
exhaustion.
Irene held her hand even though Annie was squeezing the
very life out of it. She continued wiping her brow with
the wet cloth; there was little else she could do. All
the hard work was up to Annie, and the baby would come
in its own time.
Annie groaned again.
‘Push harder; it’s coming… push, push.’
‘You bloody push,’ Annie moaned. ‘I can’t do it any
more.’
‘Yes you can, you’re nearly there,’ Frances replied.
‘Don’t stop now.’
Annie took a deep breath, and with what little strength
she had left pushed as hard as she could. The pain was
intense and she could take no more.
‘It’s almost here, stop pushing now,’ urged Frances.
Suddenly Annie felt the pain fall away, leaving her with
a strange emptiness inside, yet one of extreme relief.
‘She’s here,’ Frances said excitedly. ‘You’ve got a
lovely baby girl, and she’s perfect.’ She lifted the
baby by the ankles and slapped her bottom, clearing her
lungs of remaining fluid. The baby gave a healthy cry .
Irene cut and tied the umbilical cord while Frances laid
the baby in a small tub of warm water, quickly washed
her down and wrapped her in a worn piece of blanket.
Irene removed Annie from the stirrups, applied a light
dressing and covered Annie with a blanket.
‘Here she is love, she’s beautiful,’ Frances said,
laying the infant alongside Annie. ‘And look at that
beautiful crop of black hair.’
‘What are you going to call her?’ Irene asked.
‘I know what I’d like to call her. Now I’ve got to worry
about another mouth to feed, I can’t even look after me
other kid properly.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll be no trouble,’ replied Frances.
‘If you don’t want her I’ll have her myself. She’s
beautiful.’
This nearly always worked on mothers who were rejecting
their offspring, and this time proved no exception.
‘Oh, I suppose one more won’t make any difference. I’ll
keep her; I don’t suppose she will cost much to feed.’
‘God will look after her, you wait and see. Now, what
are you going to call her?’ Irene repeated.
Annie folded back the blankets near the baby’s head and
looked at her. Her heart softened as she stared at the
tiny wrinkled face topped with a shock of black hair.
She reached out a finger and the baby wrapped her tiny
fingers around it. Annie’s heart filled with pride for
this beautiful baby and knew she could not let her go. A
decision she had made a number of times during her
pregnancy to dispose of it by adoption or giving it away
was quickly forgotten.
‘There you go, she knows you already,’ Frances said,
although she knew it was not a conscious act on the part
of the baby but an instinct. But it always worked to
endear the mother to the baby.
‘I’ll call her ‘Annie Louise’ after me and her
grandmother. I always thought it a pretty name, and if
it was good enough for us, it’s good enough for her,’
Annie said emphatically.
‘Well. Now we have her name we had better record her
details,’ Frances said, picking up a large, dark-red
book with ‘Birth, Deaths and Marriages’ written on the
front in black lettering. She opened it to the
appropriate section.
‘ Annie Louise Lawson— that right?’
‘Yes,’ Annie murmured, nodding in agreement.
‘Born, fourth of July, nineteen oh four— hey that’s
American Independence day, your daughter’s a Yankee.’
‘Not bloody likely,’ retorted Annie in a stronger voice.
‘She’s a beautiful English lady.’ She stroked the cheek
of baby Annie. She glanced around at the depressing
surroundings and kissed the child on the forehead. ‘Why
did I bring something as beautiful as you into a
miserable place like this? You should have chosen a
better mother.’ The tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘Where they’re born does not make the child. A child
has no control over where it is born and only those
toffee nosed, arrogant snob bastards in London would
think otherwise. Some great men and some great women
have come from very humble beginnings like this,’
encouraged Irene.
Annie looked at Irene and tried to smile. ‘Thank you.
Maybe she’ll meet a rich, good-looking young man one day
who will marry her and give her lots of love and make
her very happy.’
‘What a lovely thought,’ Frances sighed. ‘It’s too late
for us though. I guess we’ll have to put up with the old
buggers we’ve got.
‘Well, we’ll let you rest for a little while then we’ll
transfer you to a proper bed. We’ll take baby Annie for
now,’ Irene said, picking up the baby.
Annie lay on the table looking around the room and down
the hall through the open doorway. She desperately
wanted to escape this place but the lack of money or any
assets kept her there as securely as any locked prison.
She wondered how she could escape from this prison
without bars, a thought that had been considered many
times.
‘Where do you find a man with money in here? I must do
something. Maybe like the nurse said, God will look
after you, but I doubt it. God only helps those that
help themselves. So I suppose you are on your own,
kiddo,’ Annie mused.
Annie recovered quickly and was back in the general area
of mothers with children in four days.
The mothers and children’s ward was similar to the
other areas: a large open dormitory with beds along the
wall. A small area alongside the bed held trunks or any
containers they had to put their few possessions in, and
cots for the babies. The nurses had placed one alongside
her bed for baby Annie.
It was well used; most of the paint had long been worn
off, but it had been scrubbed clean to minimise the risk
of the many diseases that preyed upon the unclean and
uncaring people who lived here. It was lined with pieces
of old blankets, worn from use and only suitable for
tearing into pieces and lining the cots.
Annie finished breast feeding the baby just as the
bells sounded for dinner, a part of the day that all
inmates looked forward to even though the meals were
basic. The nurses had said to Annie, ‘The food is basic
but wholesome and will put meat on your bones.’
Annie looked around for the nurse who watched over the
babies whilst their mothers ate. She saw her attending a
baby four beds away and, waving to her, left for supper.
The dining room was in a room that did double duty as
the chapel. It had high white walls and ornate timber
ceilings. At one end were three arched ornate windows
that were intended to give the room a religious
appearance. Such was the cold comfort offered by the
workhouse that few ever felt that effect. The room was
huge with stone paved floors that did little to keep the
room warm. Within the hall were rows and rows of long,
plain tables and benches where the inmates sat to eat
their meals, men to the left and women to the right.
They were not allowed to sit next to each other or talk
to each other.
Annie walked into the hall, speaking to no one. It was
forbidden to talk for any reason whilst in the dining
hall under the threat of punishment. Anyone found
talking was denied food for two days, and further
misdemeanours could result in being asked to leave. She
stood in the queue until it was her turn, then picked up
an enamel bowl and held it out to receive tonight’s
meal: thin broth with vegetables, thickened with barley
and oatmeal. The main meal was boiled meat, the cheapest
cut of beef, with potatoes from the workhouse garden;
and for a sweet, suet pudding with a few sultanas added.
Not a very palatable meal, but better than starving on
the streets.
Annie sat at on a bench halfway down the hall, eating in
silence and avoiding eye contact with the other inmates.
She looked around the mass of inmates and saw the same
hopeless, resigned look on all their faces. Those who
had come to accept their lot in life appeared somewhat
happier for it, but Annie resolved never to be that
complacent about this place.
‘Well, I suppose I’ll just have to make the most of it
until I can save a few shillings,’ she thought to
herself. ‘Then I’ll find myself another husband to look
after us.’
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