Sarah Laker

13 - Friends Forever

As Phoebe from 'Friends' would say, Clara Trench was Sarah Laker's BFF. They spent all of Sunday 26th April 1981 getting ready for the school trip the next day, to Gressenhall Workhouse. Sarah's grandfather was helping them with the costumes they needed to make. Victorian smocks and floppy caps - basic white cotton cut into an apron and for the mop cap a circle stitched with elastic to fit on their heads. Sarah's grandfather was doing the sewing, along with a bit of swearing under his breath.

"Bloody needle keeps slipping! How are you coming along with that circle Clara? Nearly done?"

Ten-year-old Clara was perched on the edge of the dining room table, swinging her legs. Her tongue was sticking out of the side of her mouth as she concentrated on cutting out the perfect shape. It made Sarah giggle to see her so intense when she knew just how silly she could be.

"Okay, there you go Mr. Laker. How come you know how to do this? If you don't mind me asking?"

"From my time in the Navy, darlin'. Now, go fetch me that elastic from Sarah."

Clara slipped off, and skipped to the end of the table to snatch up the reel of thin elastic. Sarah couldn't help herself. She threw down the apron she was working on and slapped her hand on top of the reel a millisecond before Clara could claim it.

"Hey," she squealed at Sarah. "That's not fair. I need it."

"You'll have to wait. I'm not finished."

Clara huffed and stood with her arms folded, looking every part of the hard-done-by Victorian orphan in her white smock. Her face scrunched up with fake annoyance.

"Give it now. Please?"

"Eat cheese."

"Pretty please?"

"On your knees."

The old man gave up trying to thread the cotton through the eye of the needle, the girl's incessant prattling upsetting his aim.

"Sarah," he barked, making them both jump. "Give her the bloody elastic right now!"

The girls shot each other a grin and Sarah pushed the reel across the polished surface to her friend. She returned to snipping away the frayed edges of her smock, humming along with Kim Wilde on the radio.

"Have you been to the Workhouse Mr. Laker?" Clara was back in her position, on the corner next to his chair.

He took the reel from her and puffed on his pipe, billows of sweet tabacco smoke curling around his head. He choaked slightly as the girl's phrasing seemed to tickle him.

"Not to live, luckily, but yes. I went there a few times to help out on the restoration of some of the old farm equipment they've got on display, so I know it well enough."

Sarah recalled the nightmare she'd had the night before. She'd told Clara about it and now she had the opportunity to get some reassurance. She cleared her throat and spoke to her grandfather in as normal a voice as she could muster.
"So, have you seen the room with the bars then?"

The old man didn't look up from his work, his reply just as light and airy as her question.
"You mean the punishment cell?"

"Yes. Where the girl cries."

"You don't want to be near there, Sarah. Neither of you need bother with it. It's the residue of a sad, little girl, no point in disturbing it. The gardens are much better to be in."

Sarah watched him carefully. Weighing up the crinkle of the lines on his face, assessing his expression. He must have felt her eyes on him and he flickered a quick glance her way before returning to the costume.