Christmas Eve in the Workhouse Read online

  CHRISTMAS EVE IN THE

  WORKHOUSE

  CATRIN COLLIER

  The shadow of the workhouse looms large over everyone in Pontypridd in the 1930’s. A terrifying reminder of the fate of the sick and unemployed unable “pay their way” but Christmas is Christmas and while the workhouse staff, Drs Andrew John, Trevor Lewis and Nurses Bethan Powell, Laura Ronconi among them, try to bring cheer to the poor and dispossessed, a newly orphaned child waits for a Christmas miracle.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter One

  Nurse Bethan Powell stood shivering in the Graig Workhouse dining room between the “men’s” and “women’s” tables ranged either side of the central pillars. Her fellow nurse and closest friend, Laura Ronconi, was at the back of the room. Both were staring up at the centre point of the peaked ceiling.

  Glan Richards, Bethan’s neighbour and a long-time porter at the workhouse, opened the main doors, and he and a junior porter, Mark Eddings, hauled a long, thin, scraggy fir tree inside. They were singing a resounding if unmelodic chorus of Good King Wenceslas.

  ‘Both of you are tone deaf, and that,’ Laura Ronconi pointed to the tree, ‘looks moth-eaten.’

  ‘It’s the only one Tommy Trees on the market would give us.’ Glan fought to regain his balance when his hob nailed boots skidded on the flag-stoned floor.

  ‘Because he knew he’d never sell it,’ Laura declared.

  ‘It’s all right for those who have time to stand and stare.’ Glan heaved the tree over to one of the metal pillars. He’d left a fire bucket filled with stones at its base in readiness.

  ‘Matron put us in charge of decorating, and she wants “colourful and eye-catching”. Laura and I are trying to calculate how many yards of “colourful and eye-catching” crepe paper we need on that ceiling, bearing in mind Matron hasn’t given us a penny to buy any,’ Bethan said.

  ‘You’ll need lots to brighten this dark green and brown paint. I suggest bright red to make everyone think it’s warmer in here than it is,’ Glan answered.

  ‘That’s a real help.’ Laura was always short-tempered first thing in the morning.

  ‘You hiding any spare miracles in your pocket, Glan?’ Bethan asked.

  ‘If you can wait until I’ve set this tree up I’ll look.’

  The back door opened and a line of pregnant girls and women from the “unmarried” ward filed in under the care of two senior ward maids.

  ‘Ladies,’ Bethan turned to them, ‘we need decorations. Could you please try and find something useable in those?’ She pointed to the cardboard boxes the porters had brought in and set on a trestle table at the side of the hall.

  Laura and Bethan went to help. To their dismay all the boxes and their contents were damp, which wasn’t surprising after a year in the cellar. The paper chains were stuck together and grey with mould, the tinsel tarnished, and after they’d been lifted out there was precious little left.

  ‘Has anyone brought in any donations?’ Bethan asked Glan.

  ‘A Hopkin Morgan van driver brought in a couple of trays of fairy cakes an hour ago. Pritchard the butcher left five pounds of brawn in the kitchen last night, but no one’s brought in any decorations that I know of. Mark, hold the tree steady while I make room in the bucket.’ He crouched down and lifted out a handful of stones.

  Bethan picked up a bin and piled the mess of paper chains into it. ‘I’m sorry, ladies. I’ll go scavenging and see what I can find. To get us in the Christmas spirit, we’ll have another carol please, porters. Away in a Manger this time.’

  ‘Soon as we get this tree up.’

  Laura stifled her laughter when Glan rose to his feet and got an earful of pine branch.

  ‘As that’s the first time you’ve smiled today, would you like me to do that again, Nurse Ronconi?’ Glan enquired caustically.

  The main double doors swung open and the diminutive, yet strangely impressive, figure of Matron swept in. ‘Nurse Ronconi, Nurse Powell.’

  ‘Matron.’ Laura, Bethan and the porters stood to attention.

  ‘One of you nurses to female admittance, A Ward. There are over a hundred vagrants queuing at the gate. Twice as many as came last year looking for Christmas board and dinner. All need to be deloused, bathed, and checked for disease before lunchtime.’

  ‘I’ll go, Matron.’ Bethan left the dining room by the back door. An unappetising stench of boiled cabbage emanated from the kitchen. She tried not to breathe in too deeply when she headed for the storage cupboard.

  Admitting vagrants was an unpleasant job. As well as the emotional strain, the staff who supervised the proceedings ran the risk of picking up lice, fleas, and ringworm – or worse. She and Laura had set up an informal but strict rota with the other junior nurses. It was her turn, and no nurse was excused admittance duty unless they were absent through illness.

  She opened the cupboard where protective clothing was stored and donned a brown canvas overall and thick calico apron over her uniform.

  ‘Glan,’ she called to him when she walked back through the dining room. ‘Do me a favour?’

  ‘Your slightest wish is my command.’ Glan bowed like a pantomime genie but he was careful to keep his grip on the tree Mark was securing to the pillar.

  ‘Idiot.’

  ‘Idiot, maybe, but your idiot.’

  ‘If you or any of the porters get a break, go down the market and the bigger stores like Rivlin’s, Gwilym Evans, and Leslie’s, and beg for Christmas decorations.’

  ‘You nurses are so much better at begging than us, Beth.’

  ‘If that’s meant as a back-handed compliment, forget it. If there really are a hundred people at the gate I won’t be going anywhere except Ward A for hours.’

  ‘Can we take Nurse Ronconi with us if we’re allowed out?’ Mark asked.

  ‘I’m her colleague, not her mother. Ask her, not me. Have to go.’ Bethan walked quickly. Running on duty incurred a black mark and a dressing-down from Matron as well as a risk of a fine from her pay, and Matron wore thick-soled soft shoes that enabled her to materialise silently and unnervingly anywhere in the hospital – always where she was least expected.

  Bethan opened the door that led directly outside from the dining room. Although dawn hadn’t long broken, the atmosphere was one of grey twilight. The tarmac that floored the female exercise yard glistened black below her feet, the stone walls of the workhouse complex gleamed, pewter-grey. The wind hurled sheets of ice-needled sleet, soaking her uniform through the canvas, making her wish she’d taken the time to fetch her cape from the nurses’ cloakroom.

  She pushed open the door of A Ward and gusted inside. Sister Leyshon was in the communal washroom, splashing disinfectant from a large brown bottle into a row of baths. The stench of carbolic stung Bethan’s nose, but Sister Leyshon carried on pouring, regardless of spillage on the white and green brick tiles. She smiled when she saw Bethan.

  ‘I’m imagining it’s Attar of Roses.’

  ‘My imagination is good, but not that good,’ Bethan took her handkerchief from her pocket and dried her face.

  Glynis Leyshon had worked in the Graig Hospital for over twenty years. No one knew Pontypridd or the workhouse better. She was often to be found on “admittance duty, because Matron had faith in her ability to sort the genuinely ill from the malingerers amongst those seeking “indoor” relief.

  The people in real need of medical attention were sent to the infirmary where they were given more nutritious food than the workhouse inmates received, and a bed where they
were allowed to rest. The fit were found beds on the “pauper” wards, and put to work, the women on kitchen, laundry, or cleaning duties, which usually meant scrubbing the floors with disinfectant and lye. The men chopped firewood or ground bones for fertiliser.

  ‘Sorry you drew the short straw, Beth?’ Glynis asked.

  ‘No. I enjoy working with you, Sister.’ Bethan meant it. She’d long discovered that beneath Sister’s Leyshon’s façade of starched efficiency beat a kind and generous heart.

  ‘Check we have enough towels, workhouse uniforms, flea powder, and tooth combs, in the cupboards please, Beth.’

  ‘Matron said there were over a hundred people at the gate.’

  ‘One hundred and seven as of five minutes ago.’

  ‘You looked?’

  ‘Through the window, Nurse Powell.’

  Bethan glanced up at the “Nurse Powell” and saw Matron in the corridor with young Dr John, the disturbingly good-looking, newly-qualified son of the doctor in charge of the infirmary side of the workhouse.

  ‘Sister Leyshon, Nurse Powell. Dr John and Dr Lewis have volunteered to examine any vagrants exhibiting signs of disease. A temporary surgery has been set up in in the Committee Room next to the General Office. Needless to say, you’ll send them patients after they’ve been bathed and deloused.’

  ‘Yes, Matron.’ Sister Leyshon corked the bottle of disinfectant and set it aside.

  ‘You’re ready to begin admittance procedure for the females promptly at ten o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, Matron. With your and Dr John and Dr Lewis’s permission, I would like to bring the women with children in first. From what I saw through the window several appear to be coughing and some may require hospitalisation in the infirmary.’

  ‘Dr John?’ The Matron turned to him.

  ‘I agree with Sister Leyshon, Matron. I’m certain Dr Lewis will concur.’

  ‘Process them as quickly as possible, Sister Leyshon, but not before ten. I’ll ask Mr Harris if he’s ready to begin admittance for the male patients. Dr John, have you checked the committee room has been prepared?’

  ‘Yes, Matron. Dr Lewis is there now and Sister Clark is organising everything we need.’

  The Matron swept out. Dr John followed, and Bethan and Glynis breathed easier.

  Constable Huw Davies walked even more slowly than usual into the Police Station. It might be Christmas Eve but to him it was an exhausting ‘changeover’ day. He hadn’t finished his evening shift until two in the morning, and moving on to ‘days’ had given him an eight o’clock start.

  ‘You brought the major and his three stooges in last night, constable?’ Sergeant Bowen reproached when Huw signed in.

  ‘They set fire to the shed they were sleeping in over Pit Road. They’re lucky they got out with only scrapes, scratches, and singes. It burned to the ground.’

  ‘Did they do it to get a bed here?’

  ‘I doubt it. They scavenged potatoes from the market yesterday and tried to roast them.’

  ‘Inside a shed? I wouldn’t have said even the stooges were that stupid.’ The sergeant was incredulous.

  ‘They tried to contain the fire in a wooden crate. They said they had trouble getting it going so they tipped in the dregs from an old oil can they found behind Smiler’s repair shop. The flames caught after that. They caught so well that the crate, potatoes, and shed burned to ashes in less than ten minutes, despite the rain. Rees the milk saw fire shooting up behind the houses in Llantrisant Road, and phoned us and the Fire Brigade. By the time we got there, all that was left was a few cinders and a damp, battered Major and his stooges.’

  ‘So, as a reward for arson, you gave the major and his stooges a nice warm cell?’

  ‘I couldn’t leave them out in the cold and rain, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They volunteered to fight for us in the Great War,’ Huw reminded. ‘It’s not their fault they were gassed and ended up the way they are.’

  ‘You’re a bloody soft touch, Davies. No wonder the cells are always full of lame dogs. Bring the major and his stooges up, and send them packing. Sharpish! No tea and biscuits, and no sympathy.’ The sergeant glanced at the clock. ‘Tell them if they want a bed tonight and Christmas dinner tomorrow, they’d better start queuing now at the side gate of the workhouse on Llantrisant Road. If they don’t, they’ll find themselves spending Christmas Eve in a gutter.’

  An immaculately and expensively dressed elderly man laden with carrier bags negotiated a crowd of women who were complaining about pickpockets in Taff Street.

  The sergeant’s tone muted to one of subservience when the man reached the counter. ‘Alderman, a very Happy Christmas to you, sir. What can we do for you?’

  Huw didn’t wait to find out what the alderman wanted. In his experience when the crache called in the police station it usually meant unpaid overtime for at least one unfortunate constable – more often than not him. He went down to the cells.

  ‘Here to pick up the major and three stooges,’ he informed the rookie who’d drawn cell duty.

  ‘Just given them tea and toast, sir.’

  ‘I’m a constable, boy, same as you. Call me constable when superiors are around, Huw when they’re not. You are?’

  ‘Stephen – Steve, sir.’

  ‘Word of advice, never tell anyone, especially superiors who guard our precious station supplies with their lives, that you’ve given anyone in the cells tea, toast, or a kind word. If you do, you’ll find yourself on clean-up duty for a month.’

  ‘Yes, sir … Huw. Their cell is open.’

  Huw pushed open the unlocked door. It grated over the stone floor. The four men were sitting hunched over on the lower metal bunks, blankets around their shoulders, drinking tea from tin mugs. The scent of warm bread and two tin plates that Huw suspected had been licked clean of every smear of margarine were the only evidence of toast. ‘How are you this morning, Major, boys?’

  ‘Fine thank you, constable.’ The major rose to his feet, placed his hand over his heart, adopted a solemn stance and said. ‘We would like to thank you officers for the accommodation and the breakfast. It was most gracious of you’

  ‘Our pleasure. How’s the hand, Major?’ Huw opened the door wider.

  ‘The bandage and dressing of goose grease you applied has taken away the pain of the burn, constable.’

  ‘The sergeant suggested that, as you’re now homeless, you should go up to the workhouse for Christmas bed and board. Ask them to see to that hand while you’re there and perhaps they can give you something to stop your itching,’ he added when he saw the stooges scratch their armpits.

  ‘We’ll take the sergeant’s advice, constable, but not wanting to be a drain on parish funds we’ll remain guests of the Parish Guardians only until we find a suitable new billet.’ The major walked out of the cell. ‘Fall in, boys!’ The three men marched out in single file behind him. They lifted their caps in unison. ‘A Merry Christmas to both of you, officers.’

  ‘And a Merry Christmas to you and your boys, major,’ Huw called after him.

  ‘Was he really an army major?’ Steve asked Huw when they were out of earshot.

  ‘No, boy. A corporal. Rumour has it he was busted back to private by the end of the war. The four men who returned in 1918 were very different from the boys who volunteered in 1914. They’d been gassed and they’ve never recovered.’ Huw signed the discharge sheet and started filling in forms he’d conveniently “forgotten” the night before. Before he finished, the sergeant bellowed down the stairs.

  ‘Constable Davies!’

  Huw filled in the last box. ‘I’d better go before he has a fit.’ He climbed the stone stairs. Sergeant Bowen was waiting for him at the top, his face purple above his collar.

  ‘You released the major and his stooges?’

  ‘As ordered, sergeant.’

  ‘The alderman’s bags have disappeared.’

  The alderman was standing behind the sergeant. ‘There w
ere four of them. Full of Christmas decorations for the Gelliwastad Club …’

  ‘Retrieve them, Constable Davies,’ the sergeant interrupted. ‘That’s an order.’

  Huw looked around. The public area was packed with people. ‘Did anyone see the major and the stooges take them, sergeant?’

  ‘No one needed to. We know they’re thieving …’ mindful of the alderman’s presence the sergeant amended the word he was about to say, ‘… beggars.’

  ‘All I’m asking, sergeant, is if anyone saw something to indicate it was them.’

  ‘Look at this station! It’s worse than Piccadilly Circus! Now get out there and find those bags before they disappear for good.’

  Huw took his notebook and pencil from his pocket and turned to the alderman. ‘Can you describe the bags to me please, sir?’

  ‘Davies! You’re wasting time.’

  ‘Hardly, sergeant,’ the alderman intervened. ‘You can’t expect the constable to find my bags if he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. They were plain brown paper and string, constable. There were a dozen fold decorations, six large bells, and six large baubles in one bag. Thirty rolls of wide crepe paper in various colours – you know the sort that twists?’

  ‘I have an idea, sir.’

  ‘They filled two bags. And there were two dozen packs of cut paper to make chains, and six assorted tinsel stars in the last bag. I think that’s everything.’ The alderman unbuttoned his overcoat and slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He extracted his wallet and pulled out a receipt. ‘I forgot the four pots of glue I bought for the paper chains. Do you think you’ll find them?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘Try and find them quickly please, constable. The Gelliwastad Club staff are standing by waiting to put them up. If they don’t get them by midday it will be too late. The club’s party for children of members is due to start at two o’clock and there won’t be time to trim up the rooms between the time that finishes and the adults’ party starts at seven o’clock.’