'umble Horigins

Like many who grew up in the workhouse, I don't know how old I am to within any greater accuracy than a year or two. I’ve only a single vague memory of a robust, shabbily-dressed man with an honest-looking face tying me to the workhouse gate with a note pinned to my dress saying, “FATHER GONE FOR A SOLDIER,” and that is the sum total knowledge of my parents. I presume that my mother was already dead. It was no uncommon story, anyway; sometimes whole families booked in together and sometimes just some members were put inside while those on the outside tried to make money/got drunk/did whatever folk do when they’re suddenly relieved of their family responsibilities.

The first thing one learned as a child was never to believe anything the others told you about their folks, so I could at least blend in. At first.

As a child, I had an insatiable appetite for both food and learning, both of which remain with me to this present time. My days consisted of eating everything I could get my hands on, learning what I could in their somewhat basic school classes, and beating the bejasus out of  kids who resented other kids trying to learn something.  As I’ve stated, I know nothing about my family, but I suspect that one of my forebears must have been a bareknuckle prizefighter or at least a shipyard plate worker who bent armour with his bare hands, as no kid – however robust or confident – ever tried to bully me twice. 

As a girl with a peach complexion and spindly build, I naturally evoked the sympathy of my overseers, so whatever happened was always the other kid’s fault. Heh. At first, anyway. My overseers gradually learned to treat me with circumspection, which gave me an early introduction to the customer-relation skills that were to prove so useful when I found my position in society. It wasn’t all grind and bullying, though; from time to time artists visited us to put on recitals of whatever they did. Comedy acts, pantomimes – my favourites were what’s commonly called “Classical.” Sarah Bernhardt sang for us once; the other kids were all mumbling and scratching their heads, and boring grubby fingers into ghastly little body orifices etc, but I was transported to another world. If I ever had the chance to leave the workhouse, that was what I wanted to do.

At the age of twelve, I was separated out from the kids and put with the female inmates, as workhouses practice strict segregation of the genders. My first accomplishment in the adult world was to be forbidden to sing. The overseers thought it’d be such a treat to put the sweet angelic-faced girl in the chapel choir, but after my first efforts, they decided they couldn’t afford to replace the roof every time I opened my mouth. 

There went any hope of a professional career, but it excused me chapel, so I’m not complaining.