London
, 1881
“Eat your porridge.”
“It’s rat brains.”
Polly put bowls in front of the poorly scrubbed children in their ragged clothes. “Now, now, Jas. You know I always save rat brains for pudding—and only if you eat your porridge!” she teased with a wink. “Henry, you bring me that jacket tonight, and I’ll see if I can mend it. Anna, you collect up those bowls.”
“Yes, Polly.”
“Yes, Polly.”
Bunson’s Home for Unwanted Urchins was always loud and chaotic. Polly moved through the place with a quiet, cheerful will, unperturbed by quarreling children and clattering dishes.
“Polly.”
The oily voice startled her, cutting through the din in the kitchen in a way nothing else could. “Ah, yes, Mr. Bunson?”
“Look at this list. 40 yards of muslin, 50 of cotton, tincture of iodine... This runs into money, you know. I keep these little sprats fed and housed—at a loss, mind you.”
“Yes, Mr. Bunson.” Polly didn’t argue with the owner of the glorified workhouse. At twenty, she knew she was there far past the time when most were turned out and that Mr. Bunson only kept her on because she was such a good worker who didn’t give him any lip. Even if the children needed new clothing and the sheets had been patched, turned to the middle, and patched again, she wouldn’t ask again. She’d seen little ones as young as six put out in the street for less.
“Well, I suppose I could find the money for it this time. But you’ll not be sitting and sewing during the day when there are mouths to feed and floors to scrub. You’ll have to do it in your own time, after the little ones are in bed.
“Of course, sir.”
“I’ll... I’ll have it brought to the storeroom tonight, but I’ll expect you to be there to carry it up to your room if you expect to sew it.”
“Yes, sir.” Polly nodded, eyes carefully blank, smile wide and pleasant. If she wanted to say that the children could help her sew—since they were busy sewing feed sacks for the Bunson Brothers to sell to the granary, or to point out that they had twenty strong, young boys who could easily carry things to the attic instead of her, she didn’t.
She had long ago made rules for herself. Be quiet. Be good. Don’t argue. Smile. Mr. Bunson and his brother, the younger, thinner Mr. Bunson, always liked her cheer and hard work. They kept her on, even though they’d had a dozen other matrons to oversee the children since she’d been there. She couldn’t remember anyone ever staying as long as her. In , when you had no family and no money, food and a warm-ish bed were worth any price.
“You’re a jewel, Polly.”
Polly jumped as Mr. Bunson brushed past her and left the kitchen. He’d never complimented her before.
She’d heard him give compliments to others.
Ada. Martha. Mary. Carrie. Kitty. Even Gertie, who was as sour-faced as month-old milk.
But they all left very soon after he began to praise them.
His silence or his irritable shouts were far more comforting.
“Thank you?” she whispered to herself long after he was gone.