All That Glitters Read Free

even the Christmas penny St Matthew’s parish church gave all the orphans resident in Maesycoed homes. Every one of them was safe, knotted into a handkerchief her house mother had given her as a going-away present when she had left Church Village Homes on her sixteenth birthday. This would make it one and elevenpence she had hidden. And she defied anyone to find her secret place.
    ‘Jones! Jane Jones!’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Keeping her eyes lowered, she dropped her brush, rose to her feet and turned to face the porter who had called her.
    ‘You’re wanted in the ward right away. Here, I’ll take your bucket.’ He held out his hand, but she shook her head.
    ‘No. I’m responsible for it. Sister said she’ll have my guts for garters if I lose it.’
    ‘Have it your own way. Just run to your ward double quick. Or you’ll get us both into trouble.’
    He walked away, Jane following at a slower pace watching as his broad-shouldered, athletic figure turned right at the inner gate and headed for the male wards. Struggling with her heavy bucket. she turned left. Pausing outside the door to the female ward she tipped the rim into the drain, straining the filthy water through her fingers until the penny dropped into them.
    ‘Jane Jones, whatever do you think you’re doing? Just look at yourself. Your hands and face are filthy, and your dress – fresh on only four days ago – is covered in mud.’
    It didn’t occur to Jane to protest that it was impossible to scrub outside steps and remain clean. Life hadn’t been fair in either of the orphanages, or the workhouse; and having no other kind of existence to compare it with, she simply accepted injustice as an immutable fact.
    ‘Get into that washroom this minute and clean yourself up. Six girls are wanted to line up for an employer who’s offering a live-in position. Although what he’ll say to the sight of a filthy ragamuffin like you, Jane Jones, I don’t know.’
    Jane walked through the door that led into the ward, past the twin rows of beds each made with unbleached calico sheets and a single grey blanket, and into the tiled washroom. Three girls were washing at the row of sinks opposite the door. She walked past them to the toilet cubicles. Closing the door of the last one in the row, she listened hard. No one was close; she would have heard their breathing if they had been. The toilet in the cubicle was old and cracked. All the women avoided it, except Jane. Standing on the edge of the wooden half-seat she reached up to the cast-iron water tank high above her. The lid was heavy. Very heavy. But she managed to push it aside and open up a gap just wide enough to insert her fingers. Tied to a hook on the inside of the lid was her handkerchief, dripping wet, stained and filled with her precious hoard of coppers. Lifting it out, she returned the lid to its resting place and stepped down on to the floor. The cloth was soaking and slimy, difficult to untie. The sister shouted her name before she had slipped the first knot. She pulled down on the chain. There was no time to replace the handkerchief. She’d have to risk a search and the loss of all she owned. No inmate was allowed to keep money, not when the Board of Guardians needed every penny they could get to pay for the parish paupers’ keep.
    She pushed the new penny into the makeshift purse. Lifting her dress she looked for loose threads she could tie the bundle to. Finding a few at the waist, she heaved until they frayed, knotted the ends of the handkerchief securely to them and pulled her dress down. She brushed at the freshest mud spots ineffectually with her fingers as she walked out of the cubicle. The handkerchief banged cold and wet against her naked skin. One of the worst things about the workhouse, and one she hadn’t got used to in two years, was the uniform: rough, wooden clogs, grey flannel dress and nothing else. No stockings, no petticoats, no bloomers, no underclothes. Unlike the children’s homes