The Guardians of this Union will at their meeting, to be held in the Board-room at the Union Workhouse, on Tuesday, the 9th of March instant, at 11 o'clock in the forenoon, proceed to elect a Master and Matron for such Workhouse. The salary of the Master will be £60, and that of the Matron £40 per annum, together with rations, coals, candles, washing, and unfurnished apartments in the house. Candidates must be man and wife (without children will be preferred), and their respective ages not to exceed 50 years. They must be fully competent to discharge the duties of their respective offices, as prescribed by the General Orders of the Poor Law Board, and the Master will be required to find security by bond with two sureties in the sum of £100. The persons appointed will have to enter upon their duties on the 1st April inst. Applications in the handwriting of the candidates, stating age and previous and present occupation, accompanied by recent testimonials as to character and competency, must be sent not later than Monday, the 8th inst. Candidates are required to attend in person on the day of election, but at their own expense.

I told John that this might be the answer to our prayers. I had worked as schoolmistress at the Workhouse in Newmarket before we married, but that is quite a different thing from taking over control completely. John is an accountant, a useful profession for a workhouse master, but he was very worried that the task would be too time consuming - too involved - too much like hard work. Now that he has lost his job, suddenly the idea of him getting £60 a year, and me getting £40, with all our food and accommodation already paid for sounds very attractive.

So we answered the advert, and went to be interviewed. The Guardians seemed very pleased with us, and offered us the job on the spot. But John was still reluctant to commit himself, so I agreed, so we accepted conditionally, saying that before we could finally decide, we needed to go and talk it over others in a similar situation to see how they coped with it all.

We could have gone to any number of workhouses, but I had heard good things about the one in Stanwell, Middlesex, and I knew somebody who knew the Mistress there, Mrs. Julia Saunders, so I wrote and asked if we might have a look around their institution, and also have a chat with them about what was involved, and how they were getting on.

Mrs. Saunders wrote straight back and invited us for this Sunday, the 20th of March. we had travelled down the previous night, but rather than putting up with the Saunders, we stayed at the local inn, the Five Bells, and went to St. Mary’s the Virgin church in the morning before going to the workhouse. The church was packed to the rafters with the paupers from their workhouse, and I could see John’s reservations coming to the fore - by the expression on his face. But I nudged him and reminded him that our workhouse, if we should take it on, would have only a third this number.

Our meal was fixed for 1 p.m., after the normal lunchtime for the paupers, and we were met at the door, by Mr. John Saunders, who looked about our age, we are both 45. He was effusive in his welcome, and showed us the various parts of their establishment as we went by.
“That buildings out there on the left, is the Infirmary. I don’t know if you know, but it was advised in the poor law revival in 1862 that the sick paupers were to be separated from the others. And they have extra privileges, of course. We have a professional nurse, and various paupers whom she has trained to deal with it all very efficiently.

“The other building, to your right, is the laundry. Again, it is advantageous to have it separate from the main building, and as you can see, there is adequate space behind where the washing is hung out when the weather permits.”

We walked down a long corridor, and he pointed out to us the meeting room where the Guardians gathered, several times a month, he said, for interviews with the staff and paupers.

Now we were coming to his living quarters, and as we entered the parlour, his wife, Julia, who was heavily pregnant, came forward to greet us.

“How nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Stanley,” she said effusively. “May I introduce our children? This is Edith, who's 18. She is the school teacher for the girls. I understand that you had that job yourself when you were younger, Mrs. Stanley.”

“Yes, I worked at Newmarket from as soon as I was qualified,” I answered her.

“These are my other children, Cordelia, who is 15, Herbert and Constance who are twins and are 11, and Ethel, who is 9. Our baby Ernest is 2, but he is having his nap at the moment.”

“How nice to meet you all. Have you lived here long?”

“About 12 years now, it has been. And we have been very happy in this life. That is what you want to determine, is it not? Whether this is a good life? Well I for one can vouch for it.”

At this stage Mrs. Saunders went to the dining area, to check if all was in order for the meal, and when she found it was, she came back and asked us to go in and be seated.

The table was laden with good fare - roast beef, roast potatoes, carrots, with ale to drink. And it tasted as good as it looked.

“Your cook is to be complimented, Mrs. Saunders,” I said.
“But I don’t expect your paupers eat quite like this.” I didn’t mean it to sound like a criticism, but she obviously took it that way.

“We have no choice in what we feed the paupers. It is all set down in the rules of the organisation. They have three meals a day at set times, and the food is specified as to the type and amount. Was that not the case when you were at your previous workhouse?”

“I remember that I had sufficient to eat, and quite tasty food, but I wasn’t required to eat with the children I taught,” I replied.

“There are complaints,” pitched in her husband who had been fairly quiet up to this time. “Paupers are never happy. No matter how much you do for them, they want more. What most of them need is a good kick up the backside. They are not here on holiday, you know. They are here because they have nowhere else to go, and we do not aim to make their stay here so pleasant that they do not want to leave. Our objective is for them to find work and to no longer need our care.”

Changing this rather touchy subject, my husband John then asked, “What sorts of in-house jobs do you provide here?”

“We have cobblers, and wood workers. But don’t get me wrong. We do not train these paupers in their professions. Occasionally they will show an aptitude for some aspect - like some of the young girls ask if they can work in the kitchen, or others in the infirmary. Then with the experience they get, they might well get a job in a manor house. We get regular requests for our girls and boys from the wealthy in the area. And each time one of them gets placed, that is another shilling in our coffers.”

“I wanted to ask you about the financial side of it,” said John. “I am an accountant, and so don’t anticipate that I will have any problems with managing the workhouse we are thinking of going into, but how much leeway does one have in how the money is spent?”

“Well, our union provides that we are to have seven shillings per pauper per week. We keep accurate books, and they are audited regularly by the guardians, so there is no way we can pretend that we have more paupers in order to gain more income. And the food, which is the main expense, is all carefully calculated and costed. We make sure we have enough in the kitty to have a huge spread at Christmas each year. But if I am understanding your question correctly, you want to know if I can spend the seven shillings per pauper on something other than porridge and bread - perhaps you think they might like rice or potatoes - but as far as I know, we must keep to the prescribed menu and specific amounts which are down to the ounce and according to the age, and sex and hardiness of the individual pauper. We spend much more on our elderly folk , and as I think I already mentioned to you, those in the infirmary get many extra treats. It all has to be paid for. I don’t think you can assume that you will have money to play with if you take the job. Experience shows that what we get in, is what we need, in order to do the job that we do as best we can.”

Just then a thought seemed to occur to him, and he said to one of the paupers who was removing our dishes, “Just ask King to come in for a moment, will you?”

So the girl, who looked about 11, bobbed a curtsey and went off into the kitchen area. In a few moments back through the door came a man, aged about 50, but looking thin and rather peaky. Yet there was something special about him, as if he didn’t really belong in this place at all.

“This is Mr. William King or King William as we laughingly call him,” said Mr. Saunders. "He has not been with us long - but he has proved an enormous asset to our establishment. You see, King William owned a grocery in his previous life, as did his father before him, so we are very pleased to have his expertise now at our beck and call.”

“King, these good people are considering taking charge of a workhouse in Wiltshire - a place called Calne. They are concerned about how well the money matches the needs of our little family. You are now my food manager, so to speak, and so I want you to tell him how well we do.”

Mr. King looked embarrassed and rather reluctant to put forward his point of view. But eventually he spoke, rather softly at first. “We have a certain amount to spend on food, and I know how many we are to feed, and I get in accordingly.”

“And tell me, Mr. King, you presumably eat the same meals as the other paupers. Do you find the amount of food you get adequate to sustain you?” I asked.

Again he looked as if he would rather not answer, but with a quick glance over at Master Saunders he replied, “It is adequate, and in fact, better than would be served in many workhouses, or so I am told by my friends.”

Mr. Saunders beamed, “Thank you King. You can go now.”

I could see why they jokingly called him King. He had a sort of air about him of the nobility and his accent was an educated one. I was very curious as to how he happened to be here, but, of course, I could not ask.

“Well, what would you like to see now? Being Sunday, nobody works, except for those who prepared the meals of course. I’ll show you the day rooms. You will see that we have books, and jigsaws, and chess sets to keep the men and women happy. They can write home if they wish. We have a special room for the families to be together on Sundays too, which is always a very lively place.”

So with that, we got up from the table, thanked Mrs. Saunders for the meal, and followed Mr. Saunders on a tour of his establishment. I cannot say it looked much different, and certainly no worse from the place I worked before.

We spent perhaps another half hour with our host, and then said our goodbyes, and made our way to the railway station which was just outside, very convenient for our return trip to Buckingham.

I waited until we were on the train to put the question to John. I was relieved that the place was as friendly and as well run as I had expected. “Well, what did you think? Shall we do it?”

“I have no doubt that the Saunders have quite a good life. And I have no doubt that the paupers get the minimum at least of what they need to keep them alive. But it was so grey, so soulless , so much like a prison. I just don’t know if I can live that sort of life.”

“What alternative do those poor people have? They have no families that care for them, or they would not be there. They would be sleeping rough outside and begging if they didn’t have the workhouse to go to.” I knew I sounded defensive, but having already decided that this was the best move for us to make, I didn’t want him getting cold feet now.

“Well, Emily, if I do agree to take on the Calne Workhouse with you, then I want you to know that I will do everything within my power to make it the best workhouse in the country. I will spend every penny in a way that is most appropriate for the needs of those in my care. If I cannot do it my way, then I will not do it at all. But I am willing to give it a six month trial period, if you will agree to me being allowed to have free rein in how it is managed - as least to the extent that we are allowed by those who have employed us.”

“Oh, thank you John, “ I said, so relieved. “I am sure you will not regret it.”