rattled in their frames and steam fell in thick clouds.
Ragged children stopped playing with marbles or at hopscotch, and followed on behind, asking them if they had any sweets or a penny to spare.
Women, their faces etched with the lines of poverty, their bodies worn out with too many pregnancies and too many mouths to feed, came out on to doorsteps, nodding an acknowledgement and warning the children to leave them alone.
Even so, Lydia glanced nervously over her shoulder.
‘Take no notice. All will be well,’ Ursula assured her. ‘They are poor but they respect and appreciate what we do for them.’
The moment they entered the house, Lydia knew that the smell of poverty would stay with her for the rest of her life. Bare boards, boiled potatoes, clothes worn for at least a week and washed in carbolic, ash smouldering in the fireplace, and children with that peculiar smell of sticky jam mixed with peed pants.
The father excused himself, telling them he was on night shift at the docks and had to get some sleep before he clocked on.
‘If I get picked,’ he told them.
Lydia didn’t know what that meant and this must have shown on her face.
‘The dockers have to stand in a row and wait to be selected,’ explained Sister Ursula. ‘Sometimes they are picked and get to earn some money, and sometimes they are not. It depends if your face fits; if the ganger favours you.’
She told Lydia all this as they ascended the uncarpeted stairs, their footsteps clumping all the way to the top.
‘In ’ere,’ somebody called out from one of the two bedrooms.
A double bed took up most of the room in which a woman was propped up against a striped bolster. Lydia noticed it didn’t have a cotton slip and two pillows with it like the one on her bed at home. Just the bare bolster.
The woman looked to be in her late thirties, perhaps even her early forties. Two young girls, one of about twelve and the other ten, were at the washstand, a rickety piece with dented woodwork and broken tiles. Besides the bed, it was the only other piece of furniture in the room. They were pouring hot water from a jug into the basin.
‘We got everything ready for you, Sister,’ said the eldest in a forthright manner.
Lydia followed Sister Ursula’s lead and began pulling off her gloves and unfastening her cape.
‘We will need more water. Can you get some from the pump please?’ Sister Ursula asked the two girls.
The two girls looked at their mother. ‘Ma, we can’t.’
Their mother, her straggly hair clinging in wispy fronds around her pale face, shook her head. ‘Sorry, Sister. They ’ave to go to work, Sister. Our Lil’s got a job in the sugar factory and our Flo’s ’elping out at the greengrocer’s.’
‘Never mind. If one of your girls can show Nurse Lydia where the water pump is …?’ Sister Ursula asked. ‘Whilst you’re doing that, I’ll get started here,’ Sister Ursula said to Lydia.
Flo, the youngest, guided Lydia back down the stairs and out through the rear door into the back yard and along a path to an ancient water pump.
‘You need to give it a good tug,’ said Flo with the no nonsense manner of someone three times her age. ‘You ’old it and I’ll give it a pull.’
Lydia eyed the skinny girl with the long arms and eyes that seemed far too big for her face. The poor child; she looked too thin and weak to walk let alone battle with the water pump.
She suggested an alternative. ‘I’m older, bigger and stronger than you, so how about I tug the handle and you hold the jug beneath the spout?’
Flo shrugged her bony shoulders, prominent through the threadbare bodice she wore.
‘Up to you. ’Ave a go if you like, but I’m warning you, this pump ’andle’s got a mind of ’is own.’
‘I’m sure I can manage,’ said Lydia feeling too smug for her own good.
Flo folded her arms across her chest, a faint smile on her face as she moved aside to make room for Lydia.
Lydia took a deep breath, and
Ragged children stopped playing with marbles or at hopscotch, and followed on behind, asking them if they had any sweets or a penny to spare.
Women, their faces etched with the lines of poverty, their bodies worn out with too many pregnancies and too many mouths to feed, came out on to doorsteps, nodding an acknowledgement and warning the children to leave them alone.
Even so, Lydia glanced nervously over her shoulder.
‘Take no notice. All will be well,’ Ursula assured her. ‘They are poor but they respect and appreciate what we do for them.’
The moment they entered the house, Lydia knew that the smell of poverty would stay with her for the rest of her life. Bare boards, boiled potatoes, clothes worn for at least a week and washed in carbolic, ash smouldering in the fireplace, and children with that peculiar smell of sticky jam mixed with peed pants.
The father excused himself, telling them he was on night shift at the docks and had to get some sleep before he clocked on.
‘If I get picked,’ he told them.
Lydia didn’t know what that meant and this must have shown on her face.
‘The dockers have to stand in a row and wait to be selected,’ explained Sister Ursula. ‘Sometimes they are picked and get to earn some money, and sometimes they are not. It depends if your face fits; if the ganger favours you.’
She told Lydia all this as they ascended the uncarpeted stairs, their footsteps clumping all the way to the top.
‘In ’ere,’ somebody called out from one of the two bedrooms.
A double bed took up most of the room in which a woman was propped up against a striped bolster. Lydia noticed it didn’t have a cotton slip and two pillows with it like the one on her bed at home. Just the bare bolster.
The woman looked to be in her late thirties, perhaps even her early forties. Two young girls, one of about twelve and the other ten, were at the washstand, a rickety piece with dented woodwork and broken tiles. Besides the bed, it was the only other piece of furniture in the room. They were pouring hot water from a jug into the basin.
‘We got everything ready for you, Sister,’ said the eldest in a forthright manner.
Lydia followed Sister Ursula’s lead and began pulling off her gloves and unfastening her cape.
‘We will need more water. Can you get some from the pump please?’ Sister Ursula asked the two girls.
The two girls looked at their mother. ‘Ma, we can’t.’
Their mother, her straggly hair clinging in wispy fronds around her pale face, shook her head. ‘Sorry, Sister. They ’ave to go to work, Sister. Our Lil’s got a job in the sugar factory and our Flo’s ’elping out at the greengrocer’s.’
‘Never mind. If one of your girls can show Nurse Lydia where the water pump is …?’ Sister Ursula asked. ‘Whilst you’re doing that, I’ll get started here,’ Sister Ursula said to Lydia.
Flo, the youngest, guided Lydia back down the stairs and out through the rear door into the back yard and along a path to an ancient water pump.
‘You need to give it a good tug,’ said Flo with the no nonsense manner of someone three times her age. ‘You ’old it and I’ll give it a pull.’
Lydia eyed the skinny girl with the long arms and eyes that seemed far too big for her face. The poor child; she looked too thin and weak to walk let alone battle with the water pump.
She suggested an alternative. ‘I’m older, bigger and stronger than you, so how about I tug the handle and you hold the jug beneath the spout?’
Flo shrugged her bony shoulders, prominent through the threadbare bodice she wore.
‘Up to you. ’Ave a go if you like, but I’m warning you, this pump ’andle’s got a mind of ’is own.’
‘I’m sure I can manage,’ said Lydia feeling too smug for her own good.
Flo folded her arms across her chest, a faint smile on her face as she moved aside to make room for Lydia.
Lydia took a deep breath, and
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