The Orphans of Bell Lane

by Ruthie Lewis

  Once again the two of them were orphans, but Rosa was already working in a garment factory back in Rotherhithe – the district in south-east London where they had been born – and had a little money and could support herself. Grace could have gone to live with her, but then fortune stepped in. Before her marriage, Aunt Edith had been in service with the Clare family, who had remained in contact with her and supported her after her husband was killed. When Mr Clare learned of Aunt Edith’s death and discovered Grace was alone, he insisted she come and join the family as Mela’s companion. Rosa had remained in Rotherhithe, working for a few more years and then meeting and marrying a bricklayer named George Turneur, while Grace had gone north of the river to live a life of comfort in the Clare household.

  *

  The laughter of children pulled Grace from her musings. The mellow notes of a brass band sounded in the distance. More heads turned to watch the two young women, smartly dressed in ruffled hooped skirts and bright silk jackets; Grace all in lavender, Mela in a rich blue and crimson outfit that made her look faintly military. Mela smiled. She liked being the centre of attention.

  ‘Did you enjoy Mr Forster’s speech?’ Grace asked.

  Mela frowned. ‘I am not sure that enjoy is the word I would have chosen, but certainly his proposal of a new education bill was very interesting. And informative, too. And it was wonderful to hear Mr Charles Dickens speak. What an admirable man he is! Not just his writing, but all the social causes he engages in. He is an example to us all.’

  ‘He is,’ said Grace. ‘Do you suppose it will ever happen, Mela? Will we see a day when education is open to all, even the poorest pauper child? What was the phrase Mr Forster used: when knowledge and science become freely available, and poverty and hardship are swept away? It sounds almost too perfect to be possible.’

  ‘Nothing is impossible,’ said Mela firmly. ‘But we must put our shoulder to the wheel. Nothing will happen unless we work for it.’

  She turned her head to look at Grace, her face serious. ‘And, you see, that is why I shall never marry. Marriage would be a distraction, and I will let nothing stand in my way. Before I die, I want to see free schools established the length and breadth of the land, open to both boys and girls, no matter what their station in life might be. This is a great cause, Grace. And I for one intend to devote my life to its service.’

  ‘And I also,’ said Grace, and she squeezed her friend’s hand.

  They found Mela’s mother beside the Serpentine, a tall woman in green silk talking to Mr Forster; or rather, lecturing him, wagging a finger firmly in the air while the MP nodded in response. Grace thought he looked rather worried. Swans drifted slowly past, necks arched and wings lifted like sails shining in the sun.

  ‘This bill must pass through the house, Mr Forster,’ Mrs Clare was saying as the two girls came up. ‘The situation is desperate. Half the children in the country have no access to education at all, and their number is increasing. Lord Shaftesbury’s Ragged Schools are gallantly attempting to stem the tide, but they cannot educate every child in need. The government must take action.’

  ‘I agree, I agree,’ said Mr Forster, nodding again. ‘But the matter is not in my gift, Mrs Clare. I have done all I can; I have talked myself hoarse trying to persuade the backbenchers, but the truth is, unless the Prime Minister signals his support for the bill, it may well fail. Mr Disraeli’s own party will not dare to stand against his wishes, and the rest are not strong enough to force the bill through.’

  In the distance the band was tootling again. ‘Then the National Education League must press Mr Disraeli to lend his support,’ said Mrs Clare firmly. ‘And you must do all you can to assist them, Mr Forster. We are counting on you.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the MP. ‘We shall do our utmost, I assure you.’

  Mrs Clare turned her head and saw the two girls. ‘Ah, Mela, Grace, there you are. Come and meet Mr Forster. May I present my daughter Pamela? And this is her companion, Miss Perrow.’

  Mrs Clare was the only person in the world permitted to refer to her daughter as Pamela. No one ever called her Pam; at least, not if they knew what was good for them. Mr Forster raised his hat and bowed, and Mela and Grace curtseyed. ‘My daughter and Miss Perrow both teach in our works school,’ said Mrs Clare.

  ‘Do you, by Jove?’ said Mr Forster, grateful for the distraction. ‘I have heard of the Clare School. By all accounts, it is an absolute model for public education. I believe your husband founded it, as a free school for the children of his employees?’

  ‘We founded it together,’ said Mrs Clare firmly. ‘We now educate more than sixty children.’

  ‘How splendid! And I understand you yourself are the headmistress, Mrs Clare?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ said Mrs Clare. ‘And I am flattered that you should have heard of our little establishment. May I ask if you would honour us with a visit one day?’

  ‘I should be delighted.’ Mr Forster pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. ‘And now, my dear Mrs Clare, I fear I must abandon your company. I must be in the House this afternoon, for the debate on the situation in Abyssinia. But I shall take up your invitation, most certainly. My secretary will contact you.’

  The MP bowed and departed. Mrs Clare beamed fondly at the two young women. ‘Well, my dears. Did you hear him? Recognition at last for all our hard work.’

  ‘For all your hard work, Mother,’ Mela corrected her. ‘You and Father have carried the burden of this school for many years. Grace and I are merely your helpmeets.’

  ‘I would call it a duty, not a burden,’ Mrs Clare said. ‘Nevertheless, we shall continue to bear it. Unless, of course, Mr Forster’s bill succeeds in passing through the House of Commons, and the government really does provide free education for all.’

  ‘Do you think the bill will pass?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Of course not, my dear. It will fail at the first attempt, that much is plain to see. Failure to enlist Mr Disraeli’s support was their first mistake.’ Mrs Clare clicked her tongue. ‘Honestly, I would sooner entrust a matter of important public business to a haddock than to Mr Forster. Now, it is time we were away. Mela, dear, go and find your father; I will summon the carriage.’

  *

  Mela and Grace found Mr Clare with Sir Hector Ringrose, a prosperous cloth manufacturer from Bedfordshire. Mr Clare owned a textiles trading concern and the two men often did business together. Now they stood talking earnestly, discussing prices. Lady Ringrose, a matronly woman in a dark old-fashioned gown and hair pulled up in a bun, smiled at Grace and Mela.

  ‘They are discussing matters of commerce,’ she said. ‘They will be finished shortly, or so I devoutly hope. How are you, Miss Clare? And you, Miss Perrow?’

  ‘We are very well,’ said Mela as they both curtseyed.

  Lady Ringrose beckoned to someone standing nearby. ‘Allow me to present my nephew, Walter Ringrose.’

  It was the young man in the grey frock coat and top hat. More bows and curtseys were exchanged. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Miss Clare, Miss Perrow,’ said Mr Ringrose. He had a gentle, rather cultured voice. ‘Are you also supporters of the National Education League?’

  ‘We are,’ said Mela firmly. Grace smiled, content to let her friend take the lead. ‘We are both teachers at the Clare School.’

  ‘Ah, that splendid institution.’ Mr Ringrose looked impressed.

  ‘The Clares are an example to us all,’ pronounced his aunt. ‘As are you yourselves, young ladies. I have no doubt that you, Miss Clare, will one day succeed your mother as headmistress.’

  ‘I do not think Mother intends to step down any time soon,’ said Mela smiling. ‘At least, I hope she doesn’t. But when she does, then yes, I hope to follow in her footsteps.’

  ‘And you, Miss Perrow?’ Lady Ringrose asked. ‘What is your intention?’

  Grace smiled too. ‘I am content to serve,’ she said.

  Mr Ringrose looked surprised at this statemen
t. ‘Have you no ambitions for yourself, Miss Perrow?’

  ‘My ambition, sir, is to be the best teacher I can be and help children to learn and grow. The Clare School is a good place to be.’

  Mr Ringrose, smiled warmly at her. ‘That is a noble ambition indeed. I feel sure your ambition is well on its way to being realised.’

  Grace returned his smile. ‘I do hope so, sir. There are so many children to help.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Lady Ringrose surveyed Grace. She knew that she had been a child pauper before coming to live with the Clares.

  ‘You should think of your prospects beyond the Clare School, my dear,’ said her ladyship. ‘As it happens, I am establishing an endowed school for girls in Sevenoaks, in Kent. I need talented young women to serve as teachers. The post would command a good salary, plus all found. Are you interested?’

  Grace blinked. ‘Me?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Ringrose. Her nephew stood to one side, watching Grace with interest. ‘Will you consider the offer?’

  ‘I . . . I will, of course,’ said Grace, starting to blush, and she curtseyed again. ‘Thank you, my lady. You are most generous.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lady Ringrose, as if the matter was settled. ‘Ah, here come Sir Hector and Mr Clare. Goodbye, my dears. It was a pleasure to see you again. Come, Walter, we must be away.’

  *

  The following day Grace taught as usual at the Clare School in Hackney, a solid brick building overlooking the marshes where wild ducks quacked among the reeds. She taught reading and writing to a class of twenty girls – as in most schools, boys and girls were taught in separate classes – in a simple room furnished with wooden chairs and desks and shelves of books. Her pupils, faces shining and scrubbed, beamed at her as she moved around the room, correcting the work on their slates. They adored her, and she them. But today as she worked she was restless, her mind wandering.

  The bell rang for the end of lessons and the children streamed out, chattering like little birds. Grace remained behind for a moment, gazing out of the window while silence settled in the room around her. The fine weather of yesterday had passed, and dark clouds drifted over the marshes. She heard a distant rumble of thunder.

  The interest in her own career by Lady Ringrose and her nephew Walter was at the heart of her wandering thoughts and she was pondering the scene and the offer again when the classroom door opened and Mela came in, skirts swishing. ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ she said smiling.

  ‘‘I was just thinking about Lady Ringrose’s offer,’ Grace said. ‘I cannot make up my mind what to do . . . Why did she ask me, of all people? Why not you?’

  Mela came across the room to stand beside her. ‘Because she knows Mother wouldn’t let me go,’ she said. ‘And she knows you are clever and bright and very hard-working. She has spoken to Mother about you, several times.’

  ‘But why should Lady Ringrose take an interest in me?’

  ‘It is as she said. She thinks you have prospects, and Mother agrees. You could go far, you know.’

  Prospects, thought Grace. I am not even sure what that means . . . ‘What do you think I should do?’ she asked. ‘I would value your opinion, Mela.’

  Mela wrinkled her nose. ‘An endowed school for girls? Do you really want to teach the pampered children of bankers and lawyers and merchants, people who can fully afford to pay for education privately? What about the people who cannot pay? Remember yesterday, when we talked about education for all?’

  ‘Endowed schools take in poor children too,’ Grace pointed out. ‘And I have been thinking that I need a change. I cannot stay here forever, living off your parents’ charity.’ She sighed. ‘The truth is, Mela, I don’t know what I want to do, beyond helping children to learn.’

  Mela smiled. ‘Then stay here, you silly goose. Stay with the Clare School, until you decide what you really want. Heaven knows we need you.’

  She kissed her friend on the cheek. ‘Come along. It’s time to go, and we mustn’t keep Mother waiting.’

  Arm in arm, they walked through the school and outside towards the coach. In the distance, thunder rumbled again. ‘I was also thinking about my sister and her family,’ Grace said. ‘It has been a month since I visited them. The children are growing so quickly now.’

  ‘Then you must go and see them,’ Mela said. ‘You have a day off tomorrow, why not go then? Shall I accompany you?’

  Grace smiled. ‘You are kind. But no, I shall go on my own.’

  ‘Have care,’ said Mela seriously. ‘According to the newspapers, the gangs south of the river are growing increasingly dangerous.’

  Rosa had said the same thing. But Grace was not worried about the gangs; she knew the streets of Rotherhithe well, which streets were safe and which to avoid. She squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘I will be fine.’

  *

  The following morning Grace took the train from Hackney into the city and then walked across London Bridge teeming with people and horses and wagons, seeing the river Thames crowded with ships and barges below. At London Bridge station, another train took her to Rotherhithe. She sat on the train watching the streets of London slide past, thinking.

  She was still undecided about her future. As Mela’s companion the Clares had housed her, fed her and educated her until she was eighteen, and then offered her a teaching post at the school with a small salary, making it clear that she could continue to live with them for as long as she wished. More than anything else, they had given her their unstinting affection.

  The thought of leaving them to go and live and work in Sevenoaks felt like a betrayal. But at the same time, Grace was growing restless. She had meant what she said to Mela. She felt she was living off the Clares’ charity, and it was time this stopped. She needed to make her own way in the world, as Rosa had done.

  She gathered her things and got off the train at Rotherhithe. Even though it was only a month since she had last been there, Grace found the area had changed. More houses and warehouses were going up, blotting out the green fields, and from everywhere came the sound of hammers and the rasp of saws. Wagons loaded with brick and timber rumbled past her, the harness of the teams jingling like bells. In the distance she saw the brick arches of the South Eastern Railway viaduct, a train shooting white plumes of steam into the air as it ran up towards the City. Turning her head, she saw the cranes and warehouses of the Surrey Docks rising over the rooftops, clouds of smoke billowing among the tangled masts and yards of sailing ships. There was a sweet tang of freshly sawn wood in the air, mingled with acrid coal smoke and the heavy aroma of brick dust.

  Bell Lane was a cul-de-sac, two rows of small rough-and-ready brick houses with tile roofs separated by the lane which oozed foul-smelling mud. Grace knocked at the door of number twelve. A woman in a faded blouse and skirt and fraying apron opened it. She had dark circles under her eyes and her fair hair was coming down from its bun.

  ‘Grace!’ Light came into the other woman’s tired eyes and she hugged Grace, clinging to her, arms around her neck. ‘Oh, come in, come in! Oh, my dear, you look so fine! How are you?’

  ‘I am very well, Rosa.’ Before she could say anything more the children, three little shapes in threadbare clothes, launched themselves at her, squealing with delight. She knelt down and hugged them each in turn; Albert, a sturdy boy of eight, and the twins, Harry and Daisy, just turned five, planting grimy kisses on her cheek. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of sweets. The squealing intensified as the children pounced on these, stuffing them into their mouths. ‘What do you say?’ instructed their mother.

  ‘Thank you, Auntie Grace!’ three small voices chorused. The children sat down on the floor, faces a picture of concentration as they sucked on the sweets, determined to extract every last ounce of satisfaction, and Grace rose and faced her sister again.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked quietly. ‘Are you still feeling unwell?’

  ‘No, I a
m much better,’ said Rosa. She turned to the fire, where a cast-iron pot full of stew bubbled on the hearth. It was nearly noon and George, her husband, would soon be home for his midday meal. ‘It’s just a cough, that’s all. It will go away. Some fine weather this summer would help, but I suppose that is too much to ask for.’

  Fine weather in this part of London usually brought a blanket of smoke and foul air from the river, which would hardly help a woman suffering from a persistent cough. Grace watched her sister for a while. They did not look much alike. Grace was small and neat with a round, serious face, while Rosa was tall and fair. The difference wasn’t particularly surprising, as the two weren’t related by blood. Grace had been adopted at birth, taken in by Rosa’s parents after her birth mother – a dear friend of the couple – had died in childbirth. That fact that Grace was adopted did not matter. Rosa was her sister, her family, and Grace would do anything for her.

  ‘How is George?’ she asked.

  Rosa smiled. ‘You know George. Always the same. He never changes.’

  Yes, thought Grace, and that is part of the problem. She was very fond of George Turneur, her brother-in-law, but she was under no illusions about him. He had kindness bred in the bone, but although he had steady work as a bricklayer, money never seemed to stay long in his pockets. His salary should have been enough to sustain the family, but George was forever lending money to someone. Before she married George, Rosa had been a fine seamstress, one of the best in London. Her ambition as a young woman was to save money and start her own business, but then she had met George and realised their lives lay together. But she still worked part-time from home, making and mending clothes for the well-to-do, and it was largely her income that enabled the family to put food on the table.

  Rosa picked up a bowl of potatoes and a knife and sat down at the wooden table. ‘Let me help you,’ Grace said. She took off her coat and laid it on a bench, rummaged around for another knife and then sat opposite her sister and began to peel potatoes. They worked in silence for a while, and she could see her sister struggling not to cough. She saw too the old red mark on Rosa’s arm – the scar from the boiling water – half-covered by the sleeve of her blouse, and once again the memories swirled around her.