Gressingham Workhouse, Norfolk
Stuck in the Workhouse by Hannah B – Y8
A Competition Entry for Workhouse Voices - The National Archives - November 2020
I hate this place. I hate how Papa lost his job and I hate how my older brother, Robert, and I can’t see Mama and Papa anymore, let alone each other. We were sent to Gressingham Workhouse three years ago but now that it is 1845, I can’t remember what it’s like outside of this dungeon. Robert and I were sent here because Papa lost his job when he was caught nicking a necklace from his stall. He was a goods seller and a rather fine one he was. I used to help him with my brother but now I am stuck picking oakum and Robert has to be a chimney sweep. We miss our old lives.
In the workhouse, we have to wake up at 5:45am in time for breakfast at 6:30am. My meal isn’t even enough to feed a baby so how is it going to feed ten-year-old girl like me? We must work from 7am-7pm and by the end of the day we have to be asleep by 8pm which would not be a problem for most people as we were exhausted. If we were not, then we would be beaten.
Today, I met a young girl called Layla who works in a factory. She is so sweet and lovely, and she just joined this place today. When we were eating our lunch in silence, she must have forgotten the rule and accidentally spoke. I felt awful and now she has to eat stale bread and potatoes for two days. Whenever we finish lunch, I look out for my brother, but I don’t see him often.
The next morning, I was woken up by Layla screaming, “Adelaide, Adelaide, Master says we have to watch a boy be hit by the cane for refusing work!” I awoke immediately and all I was thinking was ‘Not Robert, not Robert’. As soon as we arrived, I saw a boy on the floor, all beaten and sore. When he turned his head, I realised it was my brother at an instance. With my head in my hands I couldn’t do anything but weep.
As I was working with the oakum and my hands bled, I saw many girls looking at me. Soon Master took me away from my work which never happens, so I knew it was serious.
“I am sorry to tell you this, but Robert fell down a chimney this morning and died. We have informed your parents and I expect you should get back to work immediately.” I broke down to the floor crying and just sat there while I tried to gather my thoughts. ‘He’s gone.’
Hopefully one day I can leave too.
Maybe.
The Workhouse by Rachel B – Y8
A Competition Entry for Workhouse Voices - The National Archives - November 2020
Darkness blinded us as we lay in our rigid bed. Moonlight streaked through the prison bars of which our cell kept us from breaking free. The illuminated ball disappeared behind the wispy clouds just like our hopes and dreams fading into the abyss. Gone. I hate this hell hole. Everyone does. But this is the only way I can earn money for Mum and the baby. I miss them so much. They're the only reason why I'm going through this flaming fire of doom. This day was as burning as the last. Getting up at the early hour of 5:45pm with the banging of the booming door. One thought going through my mind. Suffering.
I slipped out of the hard bed as I got ready for the day ahead. As I dragged my feet across the floor, I realized what we had on the mean. Cold, sloppy gruel. Again. I sighed heavily enough that not even God could hear. I picked up the cold bowl, bowed my head slowly and sat down on the wooden bench. Silence. Everyone's eyes glued to their gruesome food; the Master clattered his feat menacingly down the grimy path, breaking the dead soundless room. I stared at the goo. Brown droppings floated onto of the gruel like dead bodies in a still, icy pond. Rat droppings. Again. Food is food, at least I have something to eat than nothing at all. Suddenly, I heard a scream at the other end of the long hall. A fluffy rat scampered past petrified of the yell. Heads shot up at the speed of a bobbin unravelling in the direction of the rat ran from. Someone is in trouble. The Master stomped towards the wail and yanked the child down the aisle. Well, they’ll will only be getting stale bread and potatoes for the next two tiring days. Ding...dong....ding.... dong. Time for work.
I started to pick the oakum. Fibbers rub against my skin. The rope burned my hands as if I was being slit in the hands by a knife. Red oozed out of my hands. Pain. Staining the rope ruby red, I continued to endure the agonising torture. The Master’s hawk eyes glared down on us with disgust and hatred. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. There is no pain. There is no one watching you. There is nothing. Just a few more hours of strain. Just a few more hours. We finally were able to have our lunch. Back to work. Breaking stones. I picked up the unwieldy axe. Swinging it over my shoulder slamming it down upon the rock. Nothing. I used all my strength to crash upon it. Still nothing. I kept on hammering down onto the unbreakable rock. My arm ached as much as the pain in my hand. Heaving with all my might, I broke it in half. Sigh.
After our sickening supper, we went to get ready to sleep. I collapsed upon my bed, knocked out.
Dear diary,
I’m currently lying on my cramped bed. I’ve got to share it with 2 other girls. It must be about 4 am right now, I’m not quite sure. Its hard to tell the time here with no clocks and the long hours stretching, making it feel like each day is a whole week. I’m in my dorm waiting for my master to wake me up as he usually wakes us up at 4:30 am. I should be sleeping but it’s far too cold. I can’t see very well either, we’re not allowed any candles in here because our master says they’re too expensive to be buying for filthy little kids like me. Sometimes, I wish I never came here but there’s nothing that I can do about it now.
Every day here is the same. We wake up by a loud bell rung and then taken outside to wash our faces by the water fountain. It’s a small metal bowl that probably hasn’t been washed in years that throws freezing water at us when we press a rusty button at the bottom. While we waited in line for the water, we all cuddled up like penguins for more heat. It’s the middle of winter and all that we are wearing are the short, dirty dresses that we were given when we got here. I’ve only got 1 of them and it gets scrubbed every 2 weeks or so. I tried to look for my little brother, I haven’t seen him in months. Ever since we got here really, the master demands for all boys and girls to be separated no matter how young. I’m 12 but my brother is only 5, I think. It’s finally my turn. I can see icicles hanging from the tap and I dared myself to put my hands in. I immediately went pale as soon as the cold water touched me, bits of ice were spat out onto my hands.
We then got taken into the main hall where we were served our breakfast, it’s the same as it is every day- cold, watery porridge. I mixed it around a little with my dirty spoon, disgusted at the look of it, but I ate it anyway. It’s the most I’ve gotten in days. After we sat in silence, eating the “porridge”, I was taken back outside and sat down on a cold metal stool in front of a large table. A huge basket of rope was slammed onto my lap and I immediately began to work. Picking oakham this is. I sit here for roughly 7 hours doing this, my hands crimson read from all the blood that came out of the cuts I get from the rope. It hurts so bad, but I know there’s no use of crying. If we get caught shedding even one tear, we get beat with the master’s cane. Last week, a young girl was whipped in front of us all, it was painful just watching. She used to sit right across from me at the table, but we got the bad news that she later died from the beating.
Suddenly a loud shout came from the master, calling us in for supper. I got a tiny bowl of gruel and a slice of leftover stale bread from yesterday. One of my mates didn’t get anything because he got caught faking sick. I would sneak him some of my bread but the last time I did that, we got caught and were both starved for a whole week. Just a short bit later, and diner was over and we were forced to go back to work. It must be around 1 pm now meaning I’ve still got to work for another 8 hours.
It turned 9 pm and it was our pay date. We sat patiently in a line in front of the master. He payed us all 2 shillings and a penny. We were then rushed into our rooms where we sent straight to bed. I wasn’t allowed a shower as I had already had my one of the month. I can hear my master coming, I’ve got to go. I’ll write to you as soon as possible. Bye.
The Chimney Sweep by Cerys H - Y8
A story about a chimney sweep living in London, 1910 – a 500 Words Malala Competition Entry
Grab, pull, sweep, grab, pull, sweep. I listened to the rhythm of myself struggling up the chimney and dragging my brush up from behind me. Looking up, I saw that I was only a few feet away from the top of the chimney, only a few feet from freedom. I emerged from the imprisoning brick fortress I was trapped in and gazed at the scene below me. A dazzling yellow light crept around the small houses in the distance, painting the sky all sorts of colours and informing me that it a new day was dawning in London, another day in the year of 1910. Chariots had started their chaotic travelling, darting from street to street and passing the market stalls selling their freshly baked goods, toys and trinkets. As I looked down on the storybook scene, I so wished I was a part of it. I wished I was free. For I was a chimney sweep, the 'apprentice' to my master, George Williams, a stout man that I doubted had ever climbed up a chimney in his life. Unlike the waking people strolling along the market square, I did not have any rights. I worked from the hours before dawn to late in the night. Then I would lay on bags of coal and dream about the life I could have had. If only if I didn't run away from my mum in the marketplace that day... Or if I didn't follow Mr. Williams into his dark warehouse... I snapped myself out of those thoughts, no point dwelling on the past. I glanced at the now risen sun and made the same promise I always did, that I would find a way out of here, no matter how long it took.
I turned around, picked up my brush and started down the chimney. Grab, pull, brush, grab, pull, brush, grab, pull... My eyes began to droop, and I had to concentrate harder than ever to keep my focus. As I was halfway down the chimney, I doubled over in a fit of coughing, trying my hardest to take a breath of air.
"What is going on?" I thought. Then I noticed the thick black smoke coming from the fireplace below me and the unbearable heat that came with it.
"Help! Help me!" I tried to scream, but the black smoke coated my lungs and making talking any louder a whisper impossible. I was left here to die. There was no way up, no way down. As I closed my eyes for the last time, I accepted my fate and thought about the life I could've had.
Great writing!
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