by Ruthie Lewis
She posted the letter, expecting a speedy reply. Trains carried the post rapidly across London, and in some areas there were deliveries a dozen times a day. Sure enough, Mela’s letter came the following morning.
Cracked? Grace, you are the most sensible and level-headed person I have ever met! And I knew you would not be able to stay away from teaching for long. I think what you are doing sounds brave and wonderful. Pooh to your stuffy old vicar if he won’t help you. I know someone who will. Meet me at Charing Cross tomorrow afternoon, and I will introduce you.
The sky was grey, and the November winds had stripped the last leaves from the trees, a sharp contrast to that brilliant June day when Grace and Mela had walked in the park and listened to Mr Forster speak about the Education Bill, and Lady Ringrose had offered Grace a job. An image of her nephew Walter’s kind, intelligent face passed through Grace’s mind. A man like that was far above her station, she thought sadly.
Outside the new railway station at Charing Cross the two women met and embraced. They had corresponded regularly over the past few months, but had not seen each other since Grace left for Sevenoaks. ‘It has been too long,’ said Mela.
‘It has,’ said Grace with feeling. She had been so busy that the time had flown, but seeing Mela reminded her of how much she missed her friend.
‘The house feels empty now you are no longer there,’ Mela said. ‘Mother and Father say so too. Oh, Grace, it is so good to see you again.’
There were tears in her blue eyes, and the sight of them wrung Grace’s heart. They embraced again, and Grace took out a handkerchief and dabbed at Mela’s eyes, then her own. The latter giggled suddenly. ‘That’s the Grace I remember. Always prepared for everything. Even tears.’
‘As a substitute mother, I have learned to prepare for plenty of tears, at frequent intervals,’ Grace said with feeling. ‘Mela, do you really think I can do this? Start and run a school, single-handed?’
‘I think you can do anything you set your mind to,’ Mela said. She smiled and hugged Grace again. ‘I said I knew someone who could help you. Come, let me introduce you.’
They started to walk up the Strand. ‘Where are you taking me?’ Grace asked.
‘To see a Ragged School,’ Mela said. ‘You know, of course, about Lord Shaftesbury and the Ragged School Union. They have already established schools in many poor districts of London, as well as places like Birmingham and Edinburgh.’
‘I admire their work very much,’ said Grace. ‘And I confess I should have thought of them when considering my own school. I did not know you were involved with the Union, Mela.’
‘I’m not,’ replied Mela, ‘although I have considered it. The son of one of Father’s friends has started a school not far from here. I am taking you to see it.’
*
The Strand was busy with loaded wagons and gentlemen in top hats riding on fine horses. But the wealth of London, as Grace knew only to well, was like a skin. Scratch beneath it, and you found something quite different.
York Lane was a narrow, dirty alley lined with dilapidated tenement houses, a block off the Strand and only a stone’s throw from Charing Cross. Walking down the greasy cobbles with Mela beside her, Grace could hear the hooting of train whistles echoing off the brick walls.
They reached the door of what looked like an old warehouse and stopped. Mela knocked at the door. After a moment they heard the bar inside being lifted and a serious young man with dark eyes and a close-trimmed brown beard looked out at them. His face brightened when he saw Mela. ‘Miss Clare! Do come in, do come in. To what do we owe the honour of your visit?’
His voice had a slightly drawling accent, and Grace guessed he had been to public school. He was about the same age as herself. She wondered what a man like him was doing in a place like this.
‘I have brought a friend to see your school, Mr Hogg,’ said Mela. ‘This is Miss Perrow. She desires to know more about the Ragged School movement.’
‘Does she?’ Mr Hogg peered at Grace. ‘Well, well, bless my soul. We’ve not been here long, only opened up shop a couple of years ago, so I daresay we’re still stumbling about a bit. Making it up as we go along, don’t you know. But it would be my pleasure to show you around.’
He led the way deeper into the building, and they followed a central corridor with several doors opening off it. There was a strange scent in the air, like dried leaves. The first door opened into a classroom where about thirty boys sat on wooden benches, slates on the desk in front of them. They ranged in age from five or six to about thirteen Grace saw, and all of them were in rags; clothes patched and torn, with elbows and knees often showing through. Some had shoes with holes in them; most had no shoes at all, and Grace reckoned they must have been grateful for the cast-iron stove that sat in a corner, pumping out heat. Several had dirty faces.
That, Grace knew, was the definition of a Ragged School; where the children were so poor that they could not afford proper clothes or shoes. The school was their one alternative to life in the slums, or in the workhouse.
The boys were doing sums, instructed by a tall thin man in a black schoolmaster’s robe. He smiled when he saw Mr Hogg, and then bowed to the two young women before carrying on with the lesson. ‘Mr Kinnaird,’ whispered Mr Hogg. ‘Great chum of mine. Plays football for England, you know. When he’s not teaching here, that is.’
They moved on to another class of boys chanting out the letters of the alphabet as a teacher pointed to them on a blackboard, and then two classes of girls, skinny, half-starved little things whose eyes seemed to bulge out of their sunken faces. ‘We’re setting up a kitchen too,’ said Mr Hogg as they closed the door on the second class. ‘No point in trying to educate them if they’re too hungry to think. We’ll give ’em all a good meal before lessons.’
‘How many pupils do you have, Mr Hogg?’ Grace asked.
‘A hundred and twenty in the day school, and then we run a Sunday school as well. There’s another ninety in that, though the numbers go up and down.’
He led the way into a small room at the rear of the building that served as an office. Another young man rose to his feet and bowed as they entered. ‘This is another of our volunteer teachers,’ Mr Hogg said. ‘May I present Mr Walter Ringrose? Miss Clare, Miss Perrow.’
‘W-we are are already acq-quainted,’ said Mr Ringrose, stuttering a little. He seemed nervous, Grace thought. ‘It is a pleasure to see you again, ladies.’
‘And you, Mr Ringrose,’ said Mela brightly. ‘I didn’t know you were teaching here.’
‘I started j-just last month.’
‘And are you enjoying it?’ Grace asked with interest.
A look of intensity crossed the gentle young man’s face. ‘Very much so, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I think I may have found my calling. Like you, I find teaching children is vastly rewarding. Your ambition seems to have become mine also.’ He blushed a little and stepped back.
Grace smiled at him and said, ‘I am sure that the children will learn a great deal from you. Where do the children come from?’ she asked.
‘Mostly from the rookeries,’ said Mr Hogg. ‘You know, the slums up at Seven Dials, and around Covent Garden. Nasty, ghastly places, full of poverty and every kind of vice imaginable. How these children manage to live, heaven only knows. Sometimes they just stop coming; there one day, gone the next. We never know what’s happened to the poor little mites.’
Beneath the fashionable accent there was real sympathy, even sorrow in his voice. Grace spoke without thinking. ‘Why did you do it, Mr Hogg? Why set up this school?’
Mr Hogg looked perplexed for a moment. ‘We just had to,’ he said. ‘Look, all this came as a bit of shock to me, you know. I mean, Father is a lawyer, pretty well minted. I lacked for nothing when I was a little ’un, didn’t even know poverty existed. Then I came out of Eton and . . . well. I started looking around. I saw what the world is really like. I remembered Eton was originally set up to educate poor children, even if
things are rather different now. I had to do something.’
‘I came here one day to look around and see what Quintin was up to,’ said Mr Ringrose. ‘Half an hour, and I was hooked. I knew I couldn’t walk away. I had to stay and help.’
Grace noticed his stutter almost disappeared as his passion for the school took over and she found herself smiling at the man. She felt that she and Mela were in the company of kindred spirits here.
Mr Hogg looked around the building. ‘This was an old tea warehouse,’ he said, and Grace realised the smell she had noticed was tea leaves, engrained in the fabric of the building. ‘I’m in the trade, along with my cousin. We don’t use this building anymore, all the warehouses have shifted closer to the docks. So, two of my chums and I converted it into a school. We teach here when we’re not working, and we also have good old Walter here, and a couple of lady volunteers. Smashing ladies, they are. Couldn’t run this place without them.’
He looked at Grace. ‘Do you mind my asking what your interest is, Miss Perrow?’
‘I am starting my own school down in Rotherhithe,’ Grace said.
Mr Hogg’s serious face relaxed into a grin. ‘Are you? By Jove. All I can say is, you must be mad. Take it from one who knows.’
Mr Ringrose laughed, and Grace smiled. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions, sir?’ she asked Mr Hogg.
‘Of course not. Happy to help if I can. Fire away.’
‘What is the hardest thing about establishing a Ragged School?’
‘Oh, finding premises, beyond a doubt,’ said Mr Hogg. ‘We were so fortunate to have this place. Some schools really struggle. I know of schools in sheds and stables and upstairs rooms of pubs. Sometimes they get evicted and have to close down, which is very unfortunate. What about yourself, Miss Perrow? Have you found a place?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘I shall use a railway arch.’
The two men stared at her. ‘My word,’ said Mr Ringrose. ‘That really is roughing it. Are you certain there is no place else for you to use?’
‘I fear that in a growing area like Rotherhithe there is little choice,’ said Grace. ‘My brother-in-law and his friends are going to make it weatherproof, and as soon as I can lay hands on a stove, we shall be snug as bugs. What about furniture? How did you acquire benches and desks?’
‘The charity of our friends and neighbours,’ said Mr Hogg. ‘And, of course, we have dipped into our own pockets to pay for some things.’ Mr Ringrose nodded in agreement. ‘We didn’t have benches and desks at first, and everyone sat on the floor. But gradually, things came trickling in.’
‘What curriculum do you teach?’ Grace asked.
‘The four Rs,’ said Mr Ringrose. ‘Reading, writing, arithmetic and religion.’
Grace blinked. ‘Religion?’
‘Oh, yes. The Ragged Schools Union insist we have a religious education class every day.’
Grace thought that the vicar of All Saints would not be pleased if she started teaching religious education. ‘How much help do you receive from the Union? Would they provide chalks and slates, for instance?’
‘No,’ said Mr Hogg. ‘The Union has willing hearts and hands, but not a lot of money. We buy slates and chalk out of our own pockets. But the Union is very helpful with the curriculum. They provide reading materials and lesson plans free of charge, and plenty of good advice, too.’
‘If I were you, Miss Perrow, I would get in touch with them straight away,’ said Mr Ringrose. ‘The sooner that you get to their notice the more help they can be, even if it is only with advice and lesson plans. The head of the Union is a good man.’
Grace nodded. ‘What is the best way to reach them?’ she asked.
‘I’ll give you the address before you go,’ said Mr Hogg. The fellow to write to is Mr Raikes, Solomon Raikes. He’s a bit of a dry old stick, but as Walter says his heart is in the right place. He’ll see you right.’
Mr Hogg watched her. ‘Well, you’ve seen the set-up here, Miss Perrow. Do you still want to carry on?’
‘More than ever,’ said Grace. ‘It’s as you said, Mr Hogg. I have to do something.’
Mr Hogg nodded. ‘Then I wish you good luck, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Thank you, both,’ said Grace. She looked around the plain bare brick walls of the warehouse. In the distance she could hear some of the girls singing a hymn. ‘I think I’m going to need it.’
As they were leaving, Mr Ringrose came over to Grace and said, ‘My aunt was so disappointed to lose you from her school, especially in such sad circumstances. I think what you want to do is marvellous. I sometimes have time to spare, so do write and ask if there is anything you think I could do to help.’
Grace blushed. ‘It is very kind of you to offer, Mr Ringrose. I am sure that you have your hands full here though, without running down to Rotherhithe to help us.’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Yours is a noble enterprise, and I would be happy to help out. Please do remember that.’ He smiled warmly once again at Grace, and then Mr Hogg came to see the two women out.
*
Back on the Strand Mela and Grace faced a whipping east wind, gritty with soot and harsh with the promise of rain. ‘What did you think?’ Mela asked.
‘I am full of admiration,’ said Grace. ‘I only hope I can do half as well. I cannot hope to recruit as many pupils of course, but if I can get twenty or thirty, I will be very happy . . . And it was so pleasing to see Mr Ringrose there. He looked in his element, didn’t he? I think the teaching bug has well and truly bitten him.’
‘I think so too,’ said Mela smiling. ‘I think I might know where the bug came from, too.’
Grace blushed at the implication of Mela’s words. ‘Someone of Walter Ringrose’s background and education is not likely to be influenced by me,’ she said firmly.
‘Mmm,’ said Mela. ’What will you do next?’
‘Go home and write to Mr Solomon Raikes,’ said Grace. ‘And then, start canvassing the merchants and shopkeepers of Rotherhithe for donations. I know Mr Hogg’s pupils sat on the floor at first, but the ground under the railway arch will be very cold, even with a fire. I need benches and desks, and I need a stove.’
‘And what about chalks and slates?’ asked Mela. ‘And books?’
‘I still have some savings,’ said Grace. ‘Like Mr Hogg, I shall dip into my own pocket.’
‘I think Mr Hogg’s pockets are rather deeper than yours,’ said Mela, laughing. ‘Right, my dear. You need to come with me.’
‘Where?’
‘There is a cab rank at Charing Cross. We need to get a cab before it starts to rain.’
‘But where are we going?’
‘I am kidnapping you,’ said Mela, laughing again. ‘You will see when we get there.’
*
The cab took them to Hackney, back to the house where Grace had lived for nine wonderful years. She felt a lump in her throat as she stepped over the threshold, for she realised that this house and the people who lived here were very dear to her; more dear, perhaps, than she had realised up to that moment.
Mr and Mrs Clare were in the library, reading before an enormous fire. They rose when the two young women entered, exclaiming with pleasure when they saw Grace. They insisted she take a seat by the fire and Mrs Clare poured her a cup of tea, and they pressed her for news of her family in Rotherhithe. ‘And what brings you back to us, my dear?’ Mr Clare asked.
‘Grace is starting a Ragged School,’ Mela said proudly, before Grace could speak.
Mrs Clare’s eyes opened wide. ‘Why, that is wonderful news!’ she said. ‘Oh, Grace, my dear. I am so happy to hear you are returning to teaching, and what a noble venture you are embarking upon! I confess I am almost envious. Were I twenty years younger, I should follow in your footsteps.’
‘My congratulations,’ said Mr Clare, smiling. ‘What can we do to help you, Grace?’
‘She needs slates,’ said Mela, again before Grace could respond. ‘About thirty will
do for a start. We have plenty of spares, don’t we, Mother? And slate pencils and chalk as well, of course?’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Clare smiling. ‘What about furniture, Grace? You will need benches and desks.’
‘I was thinking—’ Grace began.
‘There are some old desks and benches down in the cellar,’ said Mela. ‘We no longer use them. And I think I remember a couple of blackboards, too.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Clare. ‘And the library can spare some books, I am sure. They will fit nicely into that oak cabinet in my office that I never use. Shifting it out will give me more space. I will make up a chest of medicines for you as well. You know how children come down with every complaint known to man.’
‘No, really,’ Grace said weakly. ‘You must not go to so much trouble.’
They ignored her. ‘Lamps,’ said Mrs Clare. ‘You will need oil lamps for light during the dark winter days. Wyndham, could your warehouse spare some lamps?’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Clare, ‘and I will send over a couple of gallons of lamp oil too, to keep you going for a while.’
The three Clares sat and smiled at Grace. She thought, briefly, about refusing their offer, and then felt suddenly ashamed of herself. The truth, of course, was that they wanted to help, and it would be churlish in the extreme to refuse.
‘You are wonderful,’ she said to the Clares. ‘Thank you, so much, for helping me to get started. I promise I shall make no further demands on you.’
‘Nonsense, my dear,’ said Mrs Clare. ‘If ever you need help you must come to us.’
They made her stay for a while and then, reluctantly, as evening fell they let her go. Mela walked her to the door and they waited while the maid fetched Grace’s coat and bonnet. ‘Can I do anything?’ asked Mela. ‘Do you need another teacher?’
Grace smiled. ‘You have more than enough work at the Clare School, and your mother would be furious if I stole you away.’
