‘Thank you. Thank you very much, Matron.’ Eleven shillings with the prospect of a rise after three months. For the first time since she had arrived in Newcastle, Ruby felt a spark of her old self ignite deep inside. Unbeknown to Ellie and once her friend was asleep, every night she had lain awake for hours, tears seeping from her eyes and tormented by thoughts of home and what might have been. She had written to her mother to let her know she and Ellie were safe and had found lodgings but had not given her address for a reply, and in her letter to Mrs Walton she had asked the old lady not to divulge her whereabouts to anyone. But from this day she would take hold of her emotions, she told herself firmly. A phase of her life had ended, and with it had gone everything she had ever known and all her dreams for the future as a married woman and mother. That was over.

‘Perhaps you would send Miss Wood in to see me and wait outside until her interview is over, Miss Morgan. If she proves satisfactory, one of my staff will take you both along to the laundry and show you where you will work before fitting you with the necessary uniform. You understand that your position is superior to that of hers, of course? I trust that will not prove a problem?’

‘No, of course not, Matron. We’re friends—’ Ruby stopped abruptly as the matron held up her hand.

‘A friendship that will be left at the front door when you enter this building and taken up again when you leave. My officers do not liaise with those beneath them.’

This one would. Ruby nodded sweetly. ‘Yes, Matron.’

Ellie was sitting waiting on a hard-backed chair in the corridor outside and looked up anxiously as Ruby left the matron’s office, shutting the door behind her.

‘She wants to see you,’ Ruby whispered. ‘Just say yes, Matron and no, Matron and three bags full, Matron, and it’ll be all right.’

‘Is she awful?’

‘She’s fine. Go on, don’t keep her waiting. Knock and wait for her to say you can go in.’

Ruby seated herself on the chair Ellie had vacated and once the matron’s door was shut behind her friend, glanced about her. Everything was painted a dull green and there was a peculiar smell in the air, a fusty, unpleasant odour even though there didn’t look to be a speck of dirt anywhere. She supposed that came from the waiting rooms and receiving wards where inmates were first taken before being processed through into the workhouse proper. Poverty had its own smell, she had found.