Without Sin

Beyond the black wrought-iron gates, the three-storey, red-brick building surrounded by high walls was an ominous threat. Its regimented rows of windows were like watching eyes. The young girl,
face like a thunderstorm, wild long red hair, glanced at her mother, willing her to say something. But Sarah’s pale face was expressionless, her eyes dull with defeat. Her thin frame drooped
with weariness, yet she held one arm protectively around the mound of her belly. Sarah’s time was near and she was anxious to have a decent place for her confinement. Despite their dire
circumstances, Sarah didn’t want to lose this baby. She’d lost so many that even the humiliation of the workhouse was better than giving birth in a ditch. Beside her, five-year-old
Bobbie sucked his thumb and said nothing. He gripped his mother’s hand tightly, his huge brown eyes glancing nervously between his sister and father.

Reuben Kirkland passed his hand wearily across his brow. ‘I’ve no choice, Meggie. I’m sorry, we’ve nowhere else to go and till I can find work again . . .’ His
voice trailed away and he avoided meeting his daughter’s belligerent gaze.

Reuben’s sudden dismissal from his work as a wagoner at Middleditch Farm had come as a shock to all the family, but Meg was the only one who had dared to voice her indignation. Sarah had
said nothing.

‘Why, Dad?’ Meg had challenged him the previous evening when, still in their cosy tied cottage, Reuben had brought home the devastating news. ‘What’s happened? And what
about me?’ Meg worked for the farmer’s wife in the dairy, but she helped with outdoor work too, at haymaking and harvest and at potato-picking time. ‘Am I to go an’
all?’

Wordlessly, Reuben had nodded.

Meg bit her lip, casting about in her mind. Was it her fault? Had she done something wrong, something so dreadful that her whole family were being put out of their home? Eyes downcast, Reuben
had muttered bitterly, ‘It’s the missis. Got her knife into me, she has. The mester’d’ve been all right, but her with her tittle-tattling.’ He had spat the last words
out with unusual viciousness.

Fresh hope had surged in Meg as she cried out eagerly, ‘But what about Miss Alice? She’s my friend. Her dad’d listen to her. She’ll not let him turn us out.’

Her father had refused to listen. He’d turned away towards the back door, wrenched it open and disappeared through it. Meg had stared after him. Then she’d felt her mother’s
light touch on her arm. ‘Leave it, love,’ Sarah had said softly, speaking for the first time.

Why? Why?
Why?
Meg had wanted to scream. But her mother’s pinched face and tear-filled eyes had stilled her angry outburst. Instead, she’d been sorely tempted to run to the
farmhouse, to bang on the door and demand to be told the reason for her father’s dismissal. And, more importantly, her own. She was sure there had been nothing wrong when she’d left the
dairy earlier that evening. The mistress – Mrs Mabel Smallwood – was a hard employer. She was strict and humourless, but she’d never been cruel or unjust.

Meg couldn’t understand the sudden, soul-destroying change in their fortunes. How had they come to this? A sorry little group in the pale light of early summer, standing outside imposing
gates. The workhouse lay on the outskirts of the small town of South Monkford, the nearest place to Middleditch Farm and the home they had been obliged to leave. They’d left at dawn, tramping
the five miles here. As they walked, the rising sun heralded a warm day. Pale pink wild roses dappled the hedgerows and elderflower bushes were laden with their heavy cream blossom. Birds flew
overhead in frantic frenzy to feed their young. But Meg saw none of it.

‘Why can’t we look for work?’ the girl persisted, in no mood to ‘leave it’ as her mother suggested. ‘You and me, Dad? There must be something. It’s
shearing time. There must be plenty of work—’

‘I’m a wagoner, Meg. ’Osses is all I know about. What would I know about sheep?’

‘But—’

‘We’ve been sacked without a reference. Both of us.’

Meg gasped. That was the worst thing that could possibly happen. New employers always, but always, demanded a reference from the previous master or mistress. Without it, finding work was almost
impossible except for the most menial, disgusting of jobs.

Like in the workhouse.

Standing at the gate, which seemed to the young girl like the bars of a prison, Meg shuddered. ‘Why, Dad?’ she whispered, once more searching her mind for something – anything
– she might have done wrong. ‘What’s happened? It’s not because of me, is it?’

She knew she was often pert and saucy, but the mistress wouldn’t dismiss the whole family just because the dairymaid was a bit cheeky sometimes, would she? More than likely, Mabel
Smallwood would have let Meg feel the back of her hand.

Then a far more worrying thought came into the girl’s mind.

‘You’re a bad influence on my lass,’ Mrs Smallwood had said more than once. ‘She should be making friends of her own age. Nice girls who aren’t fluttering their
eyelashes at the farm lads half the time.’

‘Alice talks to the farmhands, missis,’ Meg would begin defiantly. Wasn’t it from Alice that Meg had learned to laugh and flirt with the boys? ‘So why can’t
I?’

‘I’ll hear no more of that sort of talk from you, miss. My Alice is different. She knows how to behave, knows where to draw the line. I can trust my Alice.’ Her tone implied
that she did not trust Meg. ‘But how can you know at your age? Fifteen, indeed! Playing with fire, my girl, that’s what you are. You’ll come to a bad end, if you don’t watch
out. You mark my words.’

Remembering all this, Meg, suddenly afraid, asked her father, ‘Is it to do with Alice? Is it because I’m friends with Alice and the missis doesn’t like it?’

Beside her, Sarah gave a little sob and covered her mouth with her fingers. Reuben glared at Meg for an instant and then his gaze fell away. He turned towards his wife. ‘I’m sorry,
Sarah. Truly. I – I will come back for you. But I must get right away from here so – so that I can find work. You do understand, don’t you?’

White-faced, Sarah lifted her head slowly and stared back at him. She bit her lip so hard that she drew blood, but she made no gesture of understanding. Her eyes held only suffering and silent
reproach.

Meg gasped. Her mother’s look was directed, not at her as she had feared, but at Reuben. Sarah held her husband entirely responsible for their predicament. Meg pressed her lips together,
making her firm jawline even more pronounced with new determination. ‘Well, you needn’t think we’re going in there, Dad, cos we’re not. I’m going back to the farm.
I’m going to see Miss Alice. She’ll speak up for us. I know she will.’

She started to turn away but her father’s hand shot out and gripped her arm. ‘You’ll do no such thing, girl. You’ll go in there with your mam and your brother and
you’ll look after them. You hear me?’

Meg gaped at him and twisted her arm free. ‘You’re hurting me.’

Reuben was at once contrite. ‘I’m sorry, love—’ He rubbed his forehead distractedly. ‘I just don’t know which way to turn. Now, be a good girl, Meggie, and
take care of your mam and Bobbie. Will you do that for me, eh?’ His brown eyes were pleading with her. He touched her face gently and Meg was lost.

‘Oh, Dad!’ She flung herself against him, hugging him. Muffled against him she said, ‘You will come back for us, won’t you? Promise?’

For a brief moment, Reuben held her close whilst Meg clung to him. She felt his chest heave beneath her cheek, heard the gulping sound in his throat, but then, without warning, he tore himself
from her, turned and stumbled away.

‘Dad,’ Meg cried, ‘Dad, don’t go. Don’t leave us . . .’ But Reuben hurried on and though the forlorn little family stood staring after him, not once did he
look back.

Two

The small, whitewashed cottage on Middleditch Farm, owned by George Smallwood, had been home to the Kirkland family for the past three years. Meg’s childhood had been
punctuated by moves almost every year as her father shifted from farm to farm. With a new home in a strange place, a different school where she was cast adrift in a playground full of strangers
with scarcely a friendly face amongst them, Meg had learned early to rely on no one but herself. Often she had been the butt of bullies, the object of ridicule for her bright red hair and her
second-hand clothes.

‘Look at carrot tops,’ some boy would tease, pulling her red curls. The name would be taken up by them all – even the girls.

‘A’ them clothes your mam’s hand-me-downs?’ A jeering ring would form around her in the playground and the laughter and the pointing would begin. ‘Look at ’er
shoes. Reckon they’re ’er dad’s.’

‘I’ve seen better shoes on ’osses.’

That most of the other children were similarly dressed to Meg didn’t seem to matter. She was the new girl, the object of derision, fair game for the bullies.

As a little girl Meg had worked hard to become one of them, to earn friends, but as she grew older she learned not to care. She would stick her nose in the air and make some scathing retort. She
became handy with her fists and many a time a harassed teacher had to prevent the red-haired she cat from pulling the hair of her opponent out by its roots. But at the age of ten Meg learned
another way to deal with the taunts and jibes. She joined in the teasing directed at herself. She was the first to say, ‘This is me mam’s old skirt –’ then she would pull a
wry face and add – ‘and you should see the bloomers I have to wear.’ Instead of using her fists, Meg used her lively wit. She would laugh the loudest at herself, but behind the
laughter in her green eyes, there was a hint of steel. Meg was learning fast how to stand on her own two feet in an unkind world.

There was only one reason why Meg was still goaded into using her fists now and then – if anyone dared to tease little Bobbie. Then his assailant would end up with a bloody nose and
running to his mother.

‘She hit me. That big girl hit me.’

Meg would clench her fists, narrow her eyes and, gritting her teeth, turn to face the irate mother.

‘You’re old enough to know better than to hit a little chap half your size.’

‘Then your little chap shouldn’t hit my brother.’

‘My Arthur wouldn’t do a thing like that.’

‘Then why has Bobbie got a black eye?’

‘ ’Spect you did it and you’re trying to put the blame on someone else.’

Meg would take a step closer and the older woman would back away, intimidated by the young firebrand. ‘I
never
hit my brother.’