Shadows of the Workhouse by Jennifer Worth Page A

very still, so that he seemed to be asleep. But he often lay awake for hours, his heart bursting.
    During these wakeful hours he often – nearly always, in fact – heard movements and soft footsteps, grunting and puffing and cursing sounds, as iron bedsteads rattled and straw mattresses squeaked. Each dormitory had an officer in charge who had himself once been a workhouse boy. The officer slept in a closed cubicle at the end of rows of beds, and each night a boy would slip quietly out of bed and go into the cubicle.
    What can one expect if a crowd of boys are thrown together, with no escape and no female influence? All the boys were lonely. All of them were motherless. They had only each other in whom to find comfort and, let us hope, a little happiness because for them life would be short. From 1914 to 1918 the older boys in Frank’s dormitory – those born in the 1890s – were destined to be sent straight from the workhouses of England to the trenches of France, to die as cannon-fodder in defence of King and Country.

    It was September 1914. A costermonger by the name of Tip called at the workhouse and asked to speak to the Master. The Master was prim and pompous; the coster flashy and talkative. He explained, in a husky voice inclined to sudden squeaks, that his lad had gone off to the war, and he had been left without a boy, and a coster must ’ave a boy, how else was he goin’ to do his trade, like, an’ what he was lookin’ for was a sharp little lad of about eleven or twelve, eleven being the preferential age, seeing as how they learns quickest, a boy who was a good worker, an’ quick, an’ it didn’t matter about no book learning, because he never could see no use for that in the fish trade, and them as ’ad book learning never seemed to get on spectackiler in the trade, but he, Tip, would edicate the boy himself an’ make a right sharp coster out of him, as how he could earn his living honest-like, an’ keep his head up with the best, an’ he would supply his lodgins an’ his victuals, least as to say his doxy would, an’ ’ad the Master got such a boy, who was hard-workin’ an’ willin’?
    The coster delivered all this in a curious voice that growled and gurgled sometimes, and squeaked and whistled at others. The Master paused to think, and the coster, who never paused and could not conceive of anyone else doing so, started again, “An’ he’s gotta be strong, ’cause its no place for a wimpish lad, an the doxy’ll feed him well an’ keep his strength up, an’—”
    The Master held up his hand to silence the man. “Just wait here, will you?” he said, as he left the office.
    Workhouse masters were encouraged to off-load inmates in order to reduce expenses, but they were not allowed to turn them out onto the streets unless provision for their maintenance was assured. The apprentice system was the answer.
    The Master thought carefully about the coster’s request, and his mind fixed on Frank – he was eleven, he was strong, he was hard-working, he was obedient, and he was, according to his school reports, one of the “has ability but must try harder” type – the despair of every honest schoolmaster.
    The boys were at tea, and Frank was called out.
    “Now stand up straight, look lively and don’t answer back,” said the Master as he cuffed him round the ear. “There’s a man here wants to see you.”
    They entered the office, where the coster was whistling. He had a beautiful, mellow whistle that seemed a most unlikely adjunct to his peculiar speaking voice.
    “This boy seems to answer your requirements. I give you my assurance that he is hard-working. All our boys are trained to work.”
    The coster looked Frank up and down and sucked his teeth. He had only two, one in the upper and one in the lower jaw, both at the front, so he was able to vary his sucking with singularly comic effect.
    He pinched Frank’s ear. “You’re a skinny li’l sprog. Can you lift a box of