On the second, highest floor, on one side, there was an apartment for Mr. Probert. In my time there I never saw it. I asked the other children; no one had ever seen it.
On that same floor, on the other side, was a room, which served as a schoolroom and chapel. There was a pulpit-like podium up front, over which, upon the wall, was written this biblical quotation:
PROVERBS 16:29.
A violent man enticeth his neighbor,
and leadeth him into the way that is not good.
Otherwise, the room had nothing but low benches.
On the main floor were two large rooms, left and right. The largest was where the poorhouse children did their work. There were some windows, but they were always shut. Meals—breakfast, dinner, and supper—were also served there.
The second room on the first floor was divided in two: half the dormitory for girls, half for boys. The beds were laid out one after the other, with a narrow space between them and an alley along the feet of the beds. The children slept two in a bed, like dead fish in a box.
There was a fireplace, but no fire.
The privy was in the back yard.
The kitchen was in the basement.
Walls were painted a uniform fog-like gray.
Floors of plain wood.
No color anywhere.
No decoration anywhere.
That was the Melcombe Regis Children’s Parish Poorhouse.
After standing before Mr. Probert for at least an hour he climbed down from behind his desk, patted his wig, and said, “Come along with me, Charles.”
I followed him down the hall, and using a key from his key ring he unlocked the door and we entered the workroom. Some forty-seven children were there, the room divided between girls and boys. They were sitting on long, low benches, hunched over like old people. No one was talking. Perhaps the reason for the silence was due to what was written on the forward wall:
PROVERBS 17:28
Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise:
And he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding.
Some of the children were quite young, hardly more than three. None, I thought, was as old as I. Boys and girls were dressed in identical gray smocks, though some were more patched than others. I wondered if their souls were patched.
To one side was a small fireplace, in which I observed two glowing coals, like eyes, half-asleep. They offered little heat.
Suspended from the ceiling, high over the children, was an enormous egg-shaped basket made of rope. Closed off, top and bottom, it was held up by a thick cord, which, by a system of pulleys, extended from the ceiling to a sidewall, down that wall, and tied to a peg. Since it was empty, I had no idea what purpose the basket served.
In front of the room—beneath the written biblical verse—was a boy sitting on a high stool facing the children. In one hand he held the handle of a brass bell. His other hand had a large pocket watch. He appeared to be about ten years old, older than the children before him. Nor did he look as pale or frail as the others.
Before each child was a block of wood on which lay a small iron hammer. On the blocks were what seemed to be two-foot lengths of something black. Some of the children were hitting these things with the hammers, even as others were picking at them. Underneath the benches were reed baskets. Around the children’s feet lay small black bits.
When Mr. Probert and I came in, no one looked around but continued what they were doing.
Mr. Probert clapped his hands. “Attention please!”
The children stopped their work and peered round.
“Is everything well, George?” Mr. Probert said to the boy who was sitting up front.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Probert.” This boy, I realized, functioned as an overseer.
“Here, children,” said Mr. Probert, “is a new boy.” He pushed me forward. “He goes by the name of Charles. His wicked father abandoned him. Happily, by the goodness of Mr. Turnsall and Mr. Bicklet, our devoted patrons, he has been rescued.”
The children stared at me with faces that could have been chopped from the white cliffs of Dover.
Mr. Probert went on: “While it might be thought that to be abandoned by a father is a bad thing, as many of us know, it is a good thing. His father is—or was; we are not sure if he lives—an evil man, who did sinful things. Charles is fortunate to be here. We intend to make him better than his father.”
No one said a word in response.
Mr. Probert looked around. “John,” he said. “You may stand.”
A boy stood up from the bench upon which he had been sitting. I supposed him to be not more than five years of age, though he was stooped like an old man. His hair was whitish, his face like cold oatmeal and gave no clue about what he was thinking, if anything. His gray smock made me think of him as a beginner ghost though his fingertips were black, as if he had only begun to be dipped into Hell.
“John, you may instruct Charles how we pick oakum, and thereby defray the cost of our town’s considerable kindness.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Probert said, “Charles”—he meant me—“you may sit next to John. George, John has my permission to talk to the new boy.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Probert.”
“The rest of you may continue your work,” said Mr. Probert, and with that, he patted his wig and headed for the door.
The moment he moved, George, the boy up front, rang his bell. The children resumed their work.
From behind, I heard the sound of a door lock snapping shut.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In Which I Am Taught a Useful Occupation.
The boy named John had been sitting close to another boy. That boy squirmed off a little to one side to make some room for me on the bench. I went forward, squeezed in, and sat down.
John did not greet me or introduce himself. He simply said, “Here is what we do.”
From the block of wood that was before him, he picked up a black thing, which I now realized was a piece of ship’s rope. It had been, as was common for ship rope, coated in tar so as to keep it waterproof.
John took this length of black rope and laid it on the block. Holding his hammer with two hands, he struck the rope length with a smart rap. The tar, no doubt old and stiff, cracked in many places. John now took up the rope piece in his hands and began to pick at the cracked tar. Small bits dropped to the floor. In the process, John’s fingertips turned darker.
Once John had peeled away the tar, which took a while, he began to shred the rope, pulling apart its small fibers. These small, thin threads he deposited with care into the basket under his bench.
While he demonstrated this, John said not a word. Only when he had thoroughly picked apart the rope did he turn to me and say, “That is what we do.”
“What are the fibers for?” I asked.
He shrugged listlessly. “It’s our work.”
(I would learn later that these fiber bits were oakum, about which Mr. Probert had spoken. It was used for caulking between ship planks, rendering boats leak-proof. In a busy port like Melcombe Regis – Weymouth, there was a ready market for it.)
Then, with a nervous glance at George—the boy at the head of the room—John added, “You need to start. We are not meant to be idle.” He handed me a length of rope. “You may share my hammer,” he said.
I took the rope and did what I had seen John do. At first it did not seem hard. But very quickly it grew tedious. My fingers began to ache, even as they turned black with the tar.
I don’t know how long I had worked when George rang his bell. There was a general rustle in the room. The children put down their work and sat up. There was even some quiet chatter among them. Five girls stood and left the room. I looked to John for an explanation.
“The girls will be bringing dinner,” he said.
That pleased me, for I was famished. “Is the food good?” I asked.
“Today we have oatmeal pudding,” he said and then added,
“with a pat of butter.”
For the first time the boy on my other side spoke. “Tomorrow’s dinner is milk porridge.”
“Sunday,” said the boy in front of me, “we have beef, pudding, and broth.” He spoke with little energy.
“What is for supper?” I asked.
“Today we’ll have bread and butter.”
“Tomorrow bread and cheese.”
“And breakfast?”
“Hasty pudding.”
“Or milk porridge.”
“Sometimes beef broth.”
The girls who had left the room returned with wooden bowls and spoons, the bowls half filled with the pudding. They distributed all they had, then left to return with more, until every child had a bowl. George, the boy at the head of the class, had two bowls. No one ate until all had bowls.
Ravenous, I consumed my pudding in moments. Others ate more slowly as if not wanting to reach the bottoms of their bowls too soon.
The bell was rung again. The bowls were collected, the work on the ropes resumed for the rest of the afternoon. No one spoke or left their benches.
As the hours went by my fingers ached badly. I was bored beyond belief. My plan had been to stay at the poorhouse for two weeks or until such time as my father returned. But as I sat there, I told myself I could not, would not stay that long. I had to get out. The sooner the better.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My Time in the Poorhouse, During Which I Grew Rich with Experience.
I spent the rest of the day picking oakum, monotonous beyond belief. My fingers became numb and black. My arms and back ached. Any number of times, I had to stop working, sit up and stretch. Each time I did, George, the boy at the head of the class, called, “You! New boy! Learn the rules! No idleness! Keep on!”
I loathed him.
Work did not cease until five o’clock, at which time the bell was rung. The black bits were swept up. For supper, as promised, bread with butter was served. The bread was cut to a one-inch thickness, but the butter was very thin. I had to tilt the slice to see its sheen.
During our bread and butter dinner the boys and girls were again separated. I sat with John.
“How long have you been here?” I asked, keeping my voice low. I had already learned that to speak loudly was an offence.
John looked at me as if he had never been asked that question. After a moment, he whispered, “I don’t know.”
“No idea?”
He shook his head.
“How old are you?”
Once again he shook his head.
I turned to the boy on my other side. “What’s your name?”
“Richard.”
“Richard what?”
He shrugged.
“How long have you been here?”
He seemed to think, only to say, “A long time.”
Once dinner was done—I was still hungry—we were led to the chapel by the same monitor, the boy called George.
Mr. Probert was waiting for us, standing behind the podium when we entered. We sat on benches, boys on one side, girls on the other. I noticed Mr. Probert had brought his hourglass, which he rested by his side and in sight of us all. As always, he clutched his keys, and was continually caressing his wig.
He began by saying, “There will be no fidgeting during chapel. I will call out anyone who even twiddles. I trust I am being understood by you, Charles.”
None of the children said anything. They just sat there. Mr. Probert began to speak. His talk was about how lucky we children were to be in the poorhouse, learning a trade, how to read, being well housed and fed. “If you weren’t here, you—abandoned by your wicked fathers and mothers—would be dead,” he proclaimed.
In the middle of his sermon he suddenly called out, “Mary!” He pointed. “Stand up!”
It was the same little girl who had opened the front door.
“Mary, I would have thought after two years here you would have learned that you must remain still. Very still. Now, stand as straight as a pin. No moving. None. Pin!” With those words Mr. Probert turned his hourglass so that the white sand began to slither slowly down.
Mary stood quite still, though I could see her small fingers twitch behind her back.
Chapel over, we washed our faces in a great pot of cold water that stood next to the privy. As for the privy, we were lined up and allowed to use it in turn.
Afterward we were marched to our bed area. I was paired with John, the two of us in a narrow bed; we slept on thin flock mattresses. Over us was a thin blanket.
The candle was capped. It became dark.
For the first time John asked me a question. He spoke in an undertone: “Did your father truly abandon you?”
“Not really,” I said. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Everybody says that,” he said. “What happened to your mother?”
“She died when I was born.”
“A lot of children say that, too.”
“What happened to your parents?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you ever think of running away?” I asked John.
He thought a moment and then said, “Where would I go?”
“Does no one object to the work?”
“If you do, the punishment is terrible,” he said.
George must have had his bell, because it rang, so that John rolled away, making it clear he did not wish to talk anymore.
I lay under the cover and rubbed my hands, one against the other. They ached.
After a while I could tell by John’s steady breath that he had fallen asleep. I sat up. Moonlight came through the windows, enough so I could see no movement in the room. I was fairly sure that all the boys in the room slept.
As I lay there I made up my mind to run away, go home, fetch the money, and take the early stagecoach to London. Even so, I remained perfectly still wanting to make sure no one was awake. Now and again one of the boys twitched but it was to no account.
Sure I would not be discovered, I swung my legs out from the blanket and stood up on the cold floor. Moving quietly, I walked down the aisle between the bed rows and tried the dormitory door. It was open. I stepped from the room into the main hallway, where the moonlight allowed me to make my way.
I crept down the hallway until I reached the front door. Grasping the door handle I pulled. It was locked.
Frustrated, but more determined than ever, I went into the workroom and attempted to open one of the windows. It would not budge. I tried another window. It too would not move. I didn’t bother with the other windows, assuming that they were also shut. Finally I made my way to the back door, which led to the privy. It was locked.
I now understood why Mr. Probert carried his keys about. The poorhouse was little more than a prison.
Disheartened, I made my way back to the boys’ sleeping room and returned to bed. As I lay there I had a new and disturbing thought: I had left no message as to my whereabouts at home. When my father returned, if he returned, how would he know where I was?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
During Which, Following Mr. Probert’s Educational Principles, I Rise High.
Winter may not have truly come, but it was brittle cold the next morning when we were summoned at six a.m. by the sound of a ringing bell. Half-asleep, yawning, stumbling, rubbing faces, a long shivery line was made for the outside privy. In the workroom we had a breakfast of hasty pudding—bread crumbs with some wheat flour and a little butter, cooked in milk until it becomes a slushy batter.
Breakfast consumed, we took our places in the upstairs chapel and heard a brief sermon from Mr. Probert, interrupted by his constant adjustments to his wig.
For his text he used Philippians 2:14 – 15: “Do all things without grumbling or disputing that you may be blameless and innocent.” His eyes were fastened upon me.
We marched back into the workroom. The door was locked behind us. George directed me to my own place and I was provided with my own wood block, hamme
r, and basket for fibers. Once all were in place the bell rang and we commenced picking oakum. There was little noise save for the continual tat-tat-tat of hammers, and the sound of small fingers plucking at the tar, like the scurrying of mice in walls.
George was perched upon his stool up front—reminding me of a gargoyle—bell in one hand, large watch in his other. Now and again he would call out such things as, “William! No fidgeting!” Or, “Charlotte! Attend to your work!” At one point he addressed his remarks to me: “Charles! Do not look at me!”
I worked, trying to keep to my task. It took no thought whatsoever. Picking at the rope was drearisome beyond belief, repetitious, and painful to my hands, whose fingertips again turned black with tar. After a while I fell into a stupor, so that my thoughts were the color of the walls—gray.
The bell rang for lunch. Lunch consisted of a bowl of three baked ox cheeks. Gritty. Tough. Awful.
The door was unlocked and we were offered privy time. Then a return to work, the door locked. The bell rang and we started to work again.
I don’t know how long I picked at the oakum—perhaps for as long as two hours beyond lunch. All the while I felt a growing rage until at last I threw down the hammer and cried out, “This is completely . . . stupid!”
As I told you, the children in the room worked in near silence. When I cried out as I did, all work stopped. The silence grew yet deeper, as if emptiness could empty into something even less than vacant. The children, openmouthed, swiveled round to stare at me, making it clear something unique had happened.
“Charles!” cried George from the front of the room. “Did you call out?”
“My name is not Charles!” I returned. “It is Oliver! Oliver Cromwell Pitts. And I said this work is stupid! S. T. U. P. I. D. Dead-hearted! I won’t do it anymore!”
“You are not allowed to say that,” returned George. “You’re a homeless child. You are obliged to do as you’re told.”
“It’s boring! Pointless!”
“Richard!” cried George. “Fetch Mr. Probert!”
The boy named Richard jumped up and ran to the door, and tried to open it. “It’s locked,” he said, his voice full of dread.