Ettie was taken through a dark, unpleasant smelling passage and shown into a room at the far end. A man sat at a desk, his stomach protruding from his waistcoat and his bleary, red-veined eyes, unwelcoming. Ettie saw a half-full glass of amber liquid among the many papers.
‘What’s this, Matron?’ he demanded.
‘A latecomer. Says she’s from Soho.’ There was something in the Matron’s voice that Ettie didn’t care for.
‘Does she indeed?’ The Master leaned back and wiped his lips with the back of his cuff. ‘Name, wench?’
‘Henrietta O’Reilly, Sir.’
‘Age?’
‘Fifteen, Sir.’
His gaze grew interested. ‘So you’re a working girl, eh?’
‘I was an assistant to the tobacconist of Silver Street, until his recent death.’
He quirked an eyebrow under his thick, greasy black hair. ‘And what else did you do in Soho? Speak now and be honest!’
‘Sir, it’s the truth.’
‘Have you any money?’ he asked with a frown.
‘No, none.’
‘Friends, relations or enemies wanting you?’
Ettie shook her head. ‘I am from the orphanage of the Sisters of Clemency.’
‘Hmm.’ He narrowed his gaze intimately over her body and Ettie shivered from head to foot. ‘They taught you right from wrong I suppose?’
‘I was given a Christian education, Sir.’
His expression told her that he was not impressed. ’I care not what you have learned, only that you cause me no trouble. No fighting, no cursing, no meddling. Keep a civil tongue in your head and you’ll be fed and given shelter in return.’ With a flick of his hand he barked, ’Scrub her up Matron and tomorrow we’ll put her down the tunnels. See if she knows the meaning of real work.’
Without a pause the Matron grabbed her shoulder and marched her off. Ettie sensed that even before they entered the washroom in the yard this would be a humiliating experience.
Matron pushed her forward into the rank-smelling room soured by strong disinfectant. A large stained tub stood amidst a puddle of dirty water. Beside it, an assortment of stiff bristle brushes hanging from the peeling wall.
‘Strip, O’Reilly! Every article,’ ordered the Matron, folding her arms. ‘Now we shall see what the cat’s dragged in.’
Chapter 48
Part Three
The Workhouse
November 1896
Ettie gazed into the fetid waters of the underground sewer. It was here in this cramped space that she had been put to work as a flusher for the past three months. Leaning heavily against the slimy wall, she closed her tired brown eyes. How much longer could she endure this backbreaking work?
From the day Ettie had arrived, she had fallen foul of the Matron, who had been only too eager to make her life impossible. The very next morning, Matron had marched her into the yard.
‘Your work is down there,’ she had instructed, pointing to a wooden grate in the cobbles. ‘Don’t come up until I call you!’
The stench that had issued from the hole as she lifted the heavy covering almost made Ettie faint. After climbing down the rickety ladder into the underground tunnels, Ettie had discovered how treacherous a flusher’s work could be. Her job was to break up the piles of London’s sewage as it flowed towards the river. Clogging the main arteries were rats, mice, corpses of dogs, cats and even cattle. But it was the remains of tiny babies and children that were the most distressing. Sometimes it was only a pathetic limb or tiny fingers that made them recognizable.
At first, Ettie had retched and gagged as she pushed the spade to clear the congestion. Her stomach had turned. Her skin had crawled, but over the weeks she resolved to survive all that befell her. She refused to die in this loathsome place.
And therefore, she continued each day, leaving the dormitory in the morning where the women and children slept. She returned at night to eat a paltry supper and join the army of roaches that infested their quarters.
‘Keep yer head down,’ the women always advised her. ‘Make sure you keep out of that bugger’s way,’ they warned. ‘The Master’s a devil that escaped hell. And even Satan himself don’t want him back.’
And so Ettie had avoided the attention of the Master. But at times like this with the smell of death all around her in the tunnels, she almost wished that death would take her, too.
’You’re wanted,’ Matron’s voice suddenly bellowed from above.
Startled, Ettie gazed up. The small ring of daylight from where the summons had come almost blinded her.
‘I’m not finished,’ Ettie called back nervously.
‘The Master wants you. Them’s your orders,’ returned the Matron who unhelpfully dropped the drain’s cover. The light vanished and gloom returned.
Ettie knew she was left with little choice and hung her spade to the ladder’s hook by the Tilley lamp. She grasped the damp rungs, each one more slippery than the last. At the end of the day her fingers were sore and each movement was hazardous. Below her, the giant lumps of fat and excrement floated, grotesque islands of filth bobbing along on a putrid sea. Even a brief dip into the rotting tide would soak her tunic.
Carefully she ascended, leaving behind her prison. What could the Master want? All the women scattered when they saw him and Ettie was no exception.
She paused unsteadily on the top rung. Raising one hand, she pushed on the heavy grate. It refused to give way. Why hadn’t Matron left it open? She knew the answer, though. Nowhere in the workhouse rules did it say that inmates must be treated with care and consideration. Instead, they were thought of as vermin; less than the rats that ran freely in their millions in the tunnels below the streets of the East End.
‘One more push,’ Ettie encouraged herself. Finally, the cover gave way. A world of daylight engulfed her and she gasped in the fresh air. Pulling herself up, she sat on the ledge for a few minutes to recover. She was back in the world of the living.
Across the workhouse yard stood Matron. Her sleeves were rolled up to her nobbly elbows and her fists curled
