by Ruthie Lewis
Rosa laid down her knife and leaned over and took Grace’s hand. ‘It is wonderful to see you,’ she said smiling, her voice warm with love. ‘You do look so elegant and fine. How I wish Aunt Edith could be here to see you.’
They smiled at each other. ‘Never mind me,’ Grace said firmly. ‘Tell me about yourself. Tell me every little thing that has happened since I was last here.’
So they gossiped about the area and its people, who had married and who had produced children and who had died, who had fallen out with whom and who the vicar’s wife had offended this month, what new buildings had been built, and the activities of the gangs. ‘It really is becoming quite dreadful,’ Rosa said. She coughed again. ‘Most distressing of all is a group of girls, some of them only eight or nine. They call themselves the Angels. They’re orphans, or if they do have homes, no one knows where. They live in the rough lands over by the railway line, and spend their days stealing or getting into knife fights with other gangs. Lord knows what will happen to the poor little mites.’
She glanced at her own daughter, sucking earnestly on a sweet. ‘Every time I see them I think about my little Daisy, and how horrible it would be if she ended up on the streets like that. It breaks my heart to think about it.’
George Turneur came home an hour later to find them still talking. A gentle, softly spoken man, clothes red with brick dust and hands grimy with mortar, he gave Grace a brotherly kiss on the cheek and then knelt down to hug the children. Albert climbed onto his back while he tickled Daisy and Harry until they both shrieked with laughter. Even when he sat down at the table the twins continued to clamber over him, laughing and giggling until Rosa shooed them away to take their seats. She dished up stew and bread, serving George first, and then the children, who held out their bowls one by one, and finally Grace and herself. She ate very little, Grace saw, not enough.
They talked again about the gangs. ‘It’s getting quite bad,’ said George. ‘It’s not just street urchins, not anymore. There’s one really bad lot, called the Bull Head Gang. They started out up around Bull Head Dock, but they’re all over the place now.’
‘What do they do?’ asked Grace.
George spread his hands. ‘You name it. Thieving from the docks and warehouses, robbery, arson. They’ve started asking for protection money, too, from shops and businesses. The firm I work for pays them off. I heard the foreman say as much, just the other day.’
‘Can’t the police stop them?’ Grace asked.
‘Can’t, or won’t,’ said George. ‘The fellow what runs this gang, he’s bad and dangerous. No one wants to run foul of him, not even the coppers.’
‘Who is he?’
George shrugged. ‘Calls himself the Captain. No one knows his real name.’
He mopped the last of the stew from his bowl with the heel of a loaf of bread, then leaned over and kissed his wife. ‘Be good, you little rascals,’ he told the children, ruffling their hair, and then kissed Grace on the cheek again. ‘I’m off back to work. Good to see you, lass. Come again soon. Rosa misses you.’
‘I know,’ said Grace.
The door closed behind George. Grace helped Rosa clear the table and wash up while the children went into the next room to play, and then Rosa made tea and poured it into two chipped cups. ‘I’m afraid there’s no sugar,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Grace.
They sat and sipped their tea. Rosa coughed again. ‘I’m worried about you,’ Grace said. ‘I think you should see a doctor.’
‘Dear, you know we can’t afford it.’
‘I could find a doctor for you.’ Mr Clare’s company provided free medical care to its staff and their families; perhaps one of the works doctors or nurses could be persuaded to see Rosa.
Her sister patted her hand. ‘That’s very sweet of you, Gracie, but I really don’t need a doctor. I’m telling you, it’s just a cough. All we need is a good warm summer and I’ll be right as rain.’
Silence fell again. Rosa watched her. ‘There’s something you want to tell me,’ she said. ‘Isn’t there?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace after a moment.
‘What is it? A man?’
Grace thought briefly about Walter Ringrose and smiled, but said, ‘No. Not a man. It is a job.’
She told Rosa about Lady Ringrose’s offer, and her sister’s eyes opened wide. ‘Are you going to take it?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Gracie, you must! Don’t you see? This is your chance to spread your wings! No more Rotherhithe mud for you, my dear. You’ll have the entire world at your feet.’
‘But I would be so far away,’ said Grace.
‘Oh, nonsense. Sevenoaks is only half an hour from London Bridge by train. You can come back and forth whenever you like.’
‘I still don’t know,’ said Grace.
‘Well, I for one will be very cross if you don’t go. You might never get another chance like this. When would you start?’
‘The end of September.’ The secretary of the new school had sent a letter, confirming Lady Ringrose’s offer and giving details, including the salary which was far more than she earned with the Clares.
Rosa took her hand again. ‘I am so happy for you,’ she said, and her eyes were shining now. ‘I think it is wonderful, Gracie. It’s nothing less than you deserve, you know.’
*
Rosa is right, Grace thought later, riding on the train back to London Bridge. I should take the job. I am still not certain where it will lead me, or what I want to do with my life, but this is the chance to make a new start. I love the Clares and I always will. But it is time I stood on my own two feet.
That evening she sat down at her writing desk and wrote a reply to the secretary, accepting the offer of the post. But even as she dusted the letter with sand she remembered Rosa coughing, and heard again her voice on that day long ago.
I will always be with you, Gracie. Remember it’s me and you together, for always.
Chapter 2
Returning to her home in Hackney after visiting Rosa, Grace was unable to stop worrying about her sister. It was not just the cough, but the lack of appetite. Both, she knew, could be symptoms of consumption. But there was nothing she could do for the moment. Her duties at the Clare School kept her busier than ever, and she loyally supported Mela and Mrs Clare as they threw themselves into campaigning for Mr Forster’s Education Bill. It was three weeks before she could escape and visit the house on Bell Lane again.
When she next saw her sister in early July, she was horrified. Rosa had stopped eating almost entirely and had wasted away to nothing, skin stretched tight over her bones. Her face was like a death mask, and she was coughing up blood.
Racing back to Hackney, Grace had sought out Mr Clare and begged him to let the works physician see her sister. Mr Clare had agreed at once and sent the doctor down to Rotherhithe that very afternoon. After a brief examination of the sick woman lying in her bed, the doctor had beckoned to Grace and they went downstairs to the parlour.
‘Is it consumption?’ Grace asked directly.
The doctor nodded. ‘I am afraid so. And what is more, the disease is very advanced.’
Grace stared at him. ‘How can that be, sir? She has only had the cough for a few months.’
‘She has been ill for much longer than that,’ the doctor said. ‘She has been concealing the signs from you, and from her husband and children.’
‘Can she be cured?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Miss Perrow. Your sister is beyond the help of medical science.’
Even though she was half expecting it, the shock was still numbing. ‘Is there anything that can be done?’
‘Make her comfortable,’ the doctor said gently, ‘and wait for the end.’
She wrote to Mr Clare, who responded by return of post, telling her to stay as long as she was needed. In the house on Bell Lane she cared for Rosa as best she could, tryin
g to coax her to eat, changing her bedding when she soaked the sheets and blankets with sweat, wiping the blood from her lips. She looked after the family too; the children were silent and frightened, not really understanding what was going on, and George walked through each day like a man trapped in a nightmare, silent and dull-eyed. He adored Rosa, had done so since the day they met, and the prospect of losing her terrified him.
‘I don’t know what I will do without her,’ he said once Rosa was asleep. They were talking in whispers so the children would not hear. ‘She is everything to me.’
‘You have to carry on,’ Grace said. ‘If nothing else, the children need you. You must go on, George.’
‘I don’t know how,’ George said. There was a sob in his voice, and he was shaking like a man in a fever. Grace put her arms around him. ‘I’ll help you,’ she said. ‘I will do everything I can. I promise.’
*
Now, ten days since the doctor came, she sat watching the desperation in George’s face as his wife slipped away from him. In the lamplight, Rosa’s breath wheezed and bubbled as her ravaged lungs fought for air. Downstairs on the mantelpiece the clock ticked softly, the seconds counting down to the end. ‘It won’t be long now,’ Grace said quietly.
Rosa reclined on the bed, propped on pillows and bolsters to help her breathe more easily. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks sunken, her skin waxy and pale. There was a little dribble of blood at the corner of her mouth. Grace reached out with a handkerchief and gently wiped it away. The July night was hot and humid, and the oil lamp made the air in the room hotter still, but Rosa’s skin was cold to the touch.
George Turneur sat on the other side of the bed, staring at his dying wife. He clasped Rosa’s hand tightly in both his own, as if he was somehow struggling with the forces that were taking her away from him, trying to drag her back into life. Like Rosa herself, he was losing the battle.
Grace was surprised at how calm she was herself in the presence of death. She had already had her time of grief, a shattering storm of tears when she realised that Rosa was about to die. But Rosa would die, and no power on earth could prevent it. She had to come to terms with this, and quickly. It was Grace’s duty now to care for the others and be strong for them. When the end came, George and the children would need her strength. And so she had wiped her eyes and squared her shoulders, and taken the advice she had given George; she had carried on.
Rosa coughed again, her breath whining in her throat. Her eyes opened for a moment. George gripped her hand hard as she struggled to speak. ‘Where are the children?’ she whispered.
‘Asleep in the other room,’ George murmured. ‘Do you want to see them, love?’
‘No. Let them sleep. I don’t . . . want them to see me . . . like this.’ Rosa’s voice was no more than a sigh. ‘Gracie . . . Are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ said Grace, taking her other hand.
‘Thank you,’ the dying woman whispered. ‘For everything. I don’t know . . . what we would have done . . . without you.’
‘You promised you would always be here,’ Grace said softly. ‘And I am here for you.’
Another cough, shallow and painful. Rosa closed her eyes again. Her breathing was calmer now, her pulse weak and fluttering. Her mouth moved a little, and Grace leaned forward to hear the ghostly whisper coming from her blood-stained lips. ‘Love . . . you,’ Rosa said.
Whether she was speaking to George, or to Grace, or to both of them could not be told. They sat in utter silence, watching her face and listening to her struggling for breath. An hour later, her breathing stopped. Her pulse flickered one last time, and then was still.
*
Quietly, George reached out a gentle hand and closed his wife’s eyes. Then he sat for a moment, staring at the sunken face lying on the pillow. Grace waited for a few minutes, and then touched him softly on the sleeve. ‘Come away,’ she said. ‘There is nothing more to be done.’
The strength seemed to have gone from George’s limbs. Taking the oil lamp in one hand, Grace helped him rise and go down the narrow stair, leaning heavily on her. In the little parlour he sank into a chair and then sat immobile, staring at the wall. Her heart a solid mass of pain in her chest, Grace went into the kitchen. The cast-iron stove was still hot. Despite the summer heat she had kept the fire going, just in case Rosa should want anything. She made two cups of tea and carried them into the parlour. There they sat for a while without speaking.
‘Will you tell the children?’ Grace asked finally.
‘Yes,’ said George. His voice echoed the pain she felt. Rosa was gone. The sister who had looked after her, cared for her and loved her when everyone else who loved her had died, was gone. There was a hole in her heart, in her life, that could never be filled.
But she had been granted twenty-three years of Rosa’s love. The children had been cut off just when they needed their mother most. In years to come, Daisy and Harry would barely remember her. That thought was the most painful of all.
Grace swallowed the lump in her throat. I must not cry again, she thought. Now more than ever, she needed to be strong. She looked across at George.
‘The vicar must be told,’ she said. ‘The funeral will have to be soon.’
The summer heat made this a grim necessity. George said nothing, staring down at his hands. ‘The vicar is also secretary of the burial fund, isn’t he?’ Grace said.
For a moment she was not certain he would answer. ‘Yes,’ George said finally.
Grace nodded. ‘I’ll go to him in the morning. I will make the arrangements. You look after the children.’
‘Thank you.’ George fell silent again, lost in his pain. They sat together in the lamplight, while outside the sorrowful night drew to an end and the shadows began to grow pale.
*
Dawn came with cruel brightness. The sun, shining red through the haze of smoke over the docks, reminded her of lost hope. George sat slumped in a chair in the parlour, asleep at last. The children were still sleeping upstairs. Grace waited until the clock struck eight and then, as quietly as possible, lifted the latch and let herself out into the hot, foetid morning.
Even at this hour, Lower Road was busy with traffic. Wagons loaded with bricks and timber rumbled past, kicking up dust. Clouds of sulphurous steam rose from the vitriol works near the Albion Dock, and more steam billowed from the wash house further down the street. Passing the parish workhouse Grace heard a hymn being sung, the usual morning service after breakfast, and she repressed a shudder as the memories crowded in again.
All Saints was a foursquare stone building topped with a spire, solid and lacking in grace. Its architect had been a noted designer of warehouses, and the church looked a little like a warehouse itself. The vicarage was a big, lumpen brick building next to the church, set well back from the road. A servant answered Grace’s knock at the door. ‘The reverend is at his breakfast, ma’am.’
‘I will wait,’ said Grace.
Fifteen minutes later the servant returned and ushered Grace into the vicar’s study. The Reverend Elijah Hobbes, a white-bearded man in his fifties, sat behind his desk, hands clasped across his waistcoat. ‘Miss Perrow, is it? Sit down.’
Grace sat, looking around a little enviously at the shelves full of books. ‘How may I be of service?’ the vicar asked.
‘My sister died last night, sir. Mrs Turneur, of Bell Lane.’ Saying it brought the lump back to her throat, and tears welled up behind her eyes. She fought down the rush of emotion as best she could.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ the vicar said. ‘Bell Lane. Turneur. Yes, George Turneur has an account with the parish burial fund. Let me see.’
He reached into his desk and pulled out a black ledger and opened it, leafing through the pages until he found the one he wanted. Frowning, he ran his finger along the page and then looked up.
‘The account is in arrears,’ he said. ‘Mr Turneur is behind on his payments.’
Oh, Geo
rge, Grace thought in despair. The contribution to the burial fund – an insurance scheme that provided money to cover a family’s funeral expenses – was only a few pence a week. ‘How much in arrears, sir?’ she asked.
‘Four shillings and tuppence,’ said the vicar. ‘A considerable sum.’ His frown deepened. ‘How did this come to pass?’
‘Mr Turneur is not very good with money, sir,’ said Grace.
‘I see. What does he spend it on? Drink?’
‘No, sir. He . . . He is a man of gentle nature. Others take advantage of him.’
‘He allows himself to be gulled, you mean. Very well. You may have the money, but I shall deduct the arrears from the amount I pay out to you.’ The vicar looked at her sharply. ‘That is only fair, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She would make up the difference out of her own pocket. The vicar opened another drawer in his desk and took out a small iron-bound strongbox and unlocked it. He counted out a small sum of money onto the desk and then, very ostentatiously, took back the four shillings and tuppence and returned the coins to the strongbox.
‘Warn Mr Turneur to keep his accounts more carefully in future,’ he said. ‘You may inform Mr Jevons the undertaker that I will conduct the service at twelve noon. Tell him to be punctual. If the arrangements are not complete, I shall not wait. I am a busy man.’
Putting the money into her reticule, Grace rose to her feet. ‘Thank you, sir. I shall be sure to tell him.’
*
As she departed the vicarage Grace glanced into the churchyard behind All Saints. A flicker of motion caught her eye. Four children, barefoot girls in tattered smocks or shifts, were crouched down beside one of the larger tombs, tearing a loaf of bread to pieces and stuffing it into their mouths. A small boy knelt beside one of the girls, holding her hand, and every now and then she turned to feed him as well.
She saw too that all four girls had knives at their waists. One of them turned her head, and saw Grace. She whistled like a bird, and in a second they had snatched up the remainder of the bread and were running out of the churchyard, taking the little boy with them.
