The Orphans of Bell Lane

by Ruthie Lewis

  ‘Mela!’ cried Grace, drawing her into the house and embracing her. The two friends had not seen each other for a couple of weeks, not since before the attack on the school. ‘Where did you spring from? I was just about to write to you, and now here you are!’

  ‘I came to bring you your Christmas present,’ Mela said, handing over a small box and smiling at the children. They smiled back at her. Mela was always a popular visitor, especially if she brought sweets. ‘What were you going to write to me about?’

  ‘Come into the kitchen, and I will tell you.’

  In the kitchen Mela spotted the bundle of fur curled up on the floor next to the stove. ‘What is that?’ she asked.

  ‘That is Radcliffe,’ said Grace. The dog raised his head at the sound of his name, regarded Mela with a bleary eye, and then fell back to sleep. ‘We adopted him, or more correctly, he adopted us. He’s an extra mouth to feed, but the children adore him.’

  Grace turned to put the kettle on for more tea. Her friend studied her. ‘You look tired,’ she said.

  ‘I am, a little,’ Grace admitted. ‘Running the house is hard work, and the school grows busier by the day. We have forty-two pupils now, and I am running out of time to teach them, and room for them to sit.’

  ‘Have you thought of two classes?’ Mela asked.

  ‘Of course, but I lack a teacher. That is why I was about to write. I don’t suppose you know of anyone who would be willing to volunteer?’

  ‘I will certainly ask around. I would gladly come myself, only I am busier than ever at the Clare School. One of our young teachers has left to get married, and now I am doing the work of two.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t ask you to come and teach here,’ Grace said.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Things are quite different here, Mela. The children here are very poor, some living right on the line between life and death. One of my boys is a beggar, others are orphans who live in garrets or sheds, and the weather is so cold. When they leave each day, I do not know if I will see them again in the morning, or whether they will die in the night. It is not easy, Mela.’

  ‘And yet you cope with it,’ said Mela, ‘and carry on.’

  ‘I must,’ Grace said simply.

  After a moment Mela reached across the table and took her friend’s hand. ‘You are so brave,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘I admire you so much, Grace. I wish I were like you.’

  Grace blinked. For years she had looked up to Mela and tried her best to be like her; to hear the sentiment returned now was something of a shock.

  ‘Suppose I could come,’ said Mela. ‘Even for a few hours a day. Could I be helpful, do you think?’

  Reluctantly, Grace shook her head. ‘I cannot let you do it,’ she said. ‘It is too dangerous.’

  Mela’s eyes widened a little. ‘Dangerous? What do you mean?’

  Grace told her, for the first time, about the Bull Head Gang and the attack on the school and disappearance of Jimmy. ‘The gang is getting stronger and stronger. George told me a couple of days ago there is a rumour they are getting set to take on some the rival gangs, in Bermondsey and Deptford, and drive them out. If that happens, they’ll own not just Rotherhithe but all this corner of London.’

  Mela looked alarmed. ‘Have they molested your school again?’

  ‘No. I suspect they are too busy with their wars with the other gangs. But one day, they will come back. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Have you any protection?’

  Grace smiled. ‘I have Radcliffe. That’s about it. The local police are probably in the pay of the gang. And I have lost my night watchmen, too.’

  She told Mela about Mary and the Angels. ‘They disappeared after the attack, and I’ve been so worried about them. Especially Mary. She can’t be more than ten and she’s also looking after her little brother.’

  ‘How horrible,’ said Mela softly. ‘To be that young, and on the streets, alone.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘As I said, things are different down here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mela slowly. ‘I see that now.’

  ‘And as if the gangs were not giving me enough problems, there is our vicar and his wretched wife. I am quite certain she is spreading slanderous stories about me and George in an attempt to force me to go.’

  ‘Slanderous stories?’ asked Mela. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘She tells people that we are living an immoral life together. That we are living in sin.’

  Mela’s eyes opened wide again, and her hand flew up to her mouth. ‘Oh, Grace! Oh, my dear! What will you do?’

  ‘Well,’ said Grace. ‘I have been thinking.’

  She had, too, walking back from the school or while working in the kitchen or lying awake at night holding Daisy close to her and listening to the sounds of male breathing coming from the other bedroom. The thoughts had made her uncomfortable, but there was no escaping them.

  ‘The way I see it, there are three things I can do,’ Grace said. ‘I can ignore the rumours and hope they go away.’

  ‘They won’t,’ said Mela.

  Grace shook her head. ‘Especially not while Mrs Hobbes continues to stir the pot. I don’t care for myself, but I’m worried it will affect George and the children. What if his employer decides he is a man of bad moral character? He could lose his job. And the children will suffer too. Albert has already heard how some people talk to me, and I know it hurts him. My second choice is to leave, go back to Hackney or perhaps find a position as a schoolmistress somewhere else.’

  ‘But you would have to abandon your Ragged School,’ Mela said, still shocked by Mrs Hobbes’s vindictiveness. ‘And your sister’s children, too.’

  ‘And I’m not willing to do either of those things. I left them once. I won’t do it again,’ said Grace. ‘I’m not going to let Mrs Hobbes beat me, either.’

  Mela looked worried. ‘But Grace, what will you do? You said there is a third thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace. She looked down at her teacup for a moment, and then up at Mela again. ‘George and I could get married.’

  Neither of them spoke for quite some time. ‘Is that possible?’ Mela asked finally. ‘He is your sister’s husband. Would the church permit you to marry him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Grace. She forced a smile. ‘Remember history lessons? King Henry VIII did it. Catherine of Aragon was married to his brother, before she married him.’

  ‘But marriage,’ said Mela. ‘Oh, heavens, Grace. It is a big step.’ She paused, and then asked quietly, ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘No!’ said Grace hastily. ‘No, lord no! We’re fond of each other, and I know George needs my help, but we don’t love each other. George still misses Rosa. She was the love of his life, and I don’t think anyone will ever replace her. And I certainly don’t intend to try. It would be a marriage of convenience only.’

  ‘Your sister died five months ago,’ said Mela. ‘Would George be allowed to marry yet? Women are supposed to wait for at least a year after their husband dies.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Grace said. ‘I expect things are different for men. You’re right, Mela, it may not be possible. But it would sort things out. No one could complain about me living in the house if we were lawfully married.’

  Mela’s eyes were suddenly full of tears. ‘Oh, Grace. But you had such dreams of finding someone as passionate about teaching as you are. A helpmeet to share your worries with late in the evening while the rest of the world slept.’

  ‘Those dreams belonged to a different Grace. This is my place now. You’re right, Mela, they are my family. George needs my help, and I think he always will. Albert and the twins need a mother. And there’s the other children too, the ones at the school. For some of them, the school is all they have. I must stay, Mela.’

  ‘You are sacrificing yourself,’ said Mela. ‘All the hopes and dreams you once had, the world at your feet, and you are turning your back on it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gr
ace quietly. ‘That is how it must be.’

  *

  Christmas was only two days away. The temperature had fallen more sharply still and the mud in the roads had frozen hard. In the morning Grace saw a robin tapping its beak on the ice in a puddle, trying to break through so it could drink. The bird flew off when Grace went over and broke the ice with her foot, but when she walked on it came back again, fluttering down to land beside the puddle.

  At midday that day Grace dismissed the children until after New Year. Some of them, she knew, would have a very meagre Christmas. ‘It breaks my heart,’ she had said to George the previous evening. ‘I wish I had the resources Mr Hogg has, and have a kitchen to feed our waifs and orphans.’

  ‘One thing at a time,’ George said. ‘Get your school in order first, lass. Have you had any more thoughts about a teacher?’

  Grace shook her head. She still could think of no one locally, and she had no real confidence Mela would be able to find anyone willing to uproot from comfortable Hackney and move south of the river. Not everyone is as mad as me, she thought.

  But it turned out that someone was that mad. That day as Grace was finishing reading to the children there came a knock at the school door.

  ‘Who is there?’ she called.

  ‘It’s Mr Ringrose, Miss Perrow. I hope I am not disturbing you once more?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Grace, hurrying to open the door. The children greeted him with smiles and said ‘Happy Christmas’.

  Mr Ringrose bowed to her and to them. ‘It is jolly good to see you all again,’ he said.

  ‘And you too, sir,’ said Grace. ‘Please do come out of the cold. Children, the lesson is finished. God speed you all home, and I wish you a very merry Christmas.’

  ‘You too, miss!’ they chorused. Her own three waited for her while the others streamed out of the school, talking happily. ‘How may I help you?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Well, I-I . . . I wanted to wish you a happy Christmas. And to see how things are going, you know. My word,’ he said looking around. ‘You seem to have more children than ever.’

  ‘They keep coming,’ Grace said smiling. ‘I need a second teacher so I can open another class.’ A thought struck her. ‘Mr Ringrose, I don’t suppose you know of anyone who might be willing to volunteer?’

  ‘I will certainly ask around,’ Mr Ringrose promised. ‘It might not be easy to find someone, though. There are more and more rumours about the gangs hereabouts now. It sounds like these fellows have an animus against schools.’

  ‘They know that by educating the children, we are encouraging them to move away and find good work, rather than staying here and becoming involved in crime. As you know, they have threatened me and attacked my school once. They may well try to stop you as well, sir.’

  ‘If they try, I’ll be waiting for them,’ said Mr Ringrose with a young man’s bravado. ‘Well, thank you very much, Miss Perrow. I won’t take up any more of your time. It was very good to see you once more,’ and he blushed deep crimson, much less at ease than on his previous visit. He took his leave, walking back towards the railway station, and Grace collected the children and went out, locking the door behind her. She puzzled over Mr Ringrose as they walked home. He was a nice, charming young man, far above her in station of course, but perfectly friendly. Why was he so nervous?

  *

  The approach of Christmas affected the household on Bell Lane in different ways. Daisy and Harry were visibly excited by the preparations, especially the delicious smells that came from the oven when Grace was baking; but once, forgetting, Daisy asked when Mummy would be coming, and then remembered and burst into inconsolable tears. Albert came to help in the kitchen, rarely speaking, just watching Grace while they worked together with large solemn eyes.

  George too grew more sombre. In front of the children he was always cheerful, but sometimes when he and Grace were alone he relaxed his guard, and she could see the sadness in his face and the lines around his eyes. She knew he was thinking of Rosa, the Christmases they had once had, and would never have again.

  Despite her own sorrows, Grace did everything she could to lift the mood. Some of the fir and spruce trees that came as lumber into the docks from Canada and Norway still had boughs on them, and the dockers’ wives made Christmas wreaths and sold them in the market for a farthing. Grace bought two and hung them in the parlour, where their sweet scent helped mask the damp. From another stall she bought – at an expense that made her wince – a nativity scene made of papier mâché, complete with sheep and shepherds and angels, and set this up on the side table in the parlour. The twins in particular were fascinated and wanted to play with the sheep, until Harry picked one up with fingers covered in sticky jam, rendering the sheep a peculiar shade of pink. Thereafter, handling the figures was gently forbidden.

  On Christmas Eve George came home early from work with a goose tucked under one arm and a sovereign in his pocket, a bonus from his firm. Grace extracted the sovereign and marched off to the market again with Radcliffe escorting her, leaving George to play with the children, and spent the money on as many treats as she could find, walnuts, oranges, stick candy and a plum pudding to go with the small mountain of mince pies she had already made.

  Coming back from the market in dusk, snowflakes drifting down and dusting her coat, she saw Mrs Hobbes in the distance. The vicar’s wife saw her, too, and crossed the road to avoid her. Two other women had already cut her dead in the market, looking at her and then pretending she was not there. Grace ground her teeth. She had not spoken to George about her idea, although she was fairly certain he had heard the rumours too; she had been waiting for the right moment, and so far the right moment had resolutely refused to come. But she knew she could not delay much longer.

  Back at the house, she showed George what she had bought. ‘And I fetched you a bottle of porter. I know you enjoy it.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a good lass.’ George opened the bottle and poured himself half a glass; unlike many of their neighbours he never drank to excess, even on the rare occasions when he had money in his pocket. Grace watched him, seeing again the sombre, faraway eyes.

  ‘George,’ she said softly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re going to have a good Christmas. For the little ones.’

  ‘Of course.’ George forced a smile. ‘Don’t worry. You know I’d do anything for them.’

  ‘I know.’ Her heart aching, she watched him settle back in his chair, glass forgotten in his hand, eyes dreaming, far away.

  *

  But despite the memories and the pain they did have a happy Christmas, largely because both George and Grace were determined that it should be so. After church where Grace avoided the eyes of the censorious, the morning continued with stockings filled with toys and good things to eat, and the smell of orange peel and of chestnuts roasting on the coal stove filled the air with a delicious perfume. Harry and Daisy both had toy horses on wheels – Grace had learned early on that giving the twins different toys was a recipe for arguments and tears – and Albert had a picture book with scenes from foreign lands; he sat rapt over it, turning the pages slowly, his face a study in dreams.

  Rather awkwardly, George gave Grace a little parcel. Inside was a small locket on a chain. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said a little awkwardly. ‘I know I shouldn’t have spent the money.’

  He was right, but Grace kissed him on the cheek. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘It was a kind, kind thought.’

  ‘You do so much for us,’ said George. ‘I wanted you to have something in return.’

  Later, Grace opened the box Mela had left for her and found, as expected, a selection of books; newly published works, straight from the bookbinder, their covers still smelling of calfskin. There was Mr Trollope’s The Last Chronicle of Barset, and Mrs Braddon’s new novel Circe, and the first volume of a new history of England. Firmly repressing the urge to sit down and start reading now, Grace went into the kitchen to begin preparing dinner.
For a moment she thought of Rosa, and how many times over the years her sister had stood before this very stove and done the same things on Christmas Day, and she bit her lip to stop herself from crying.

  Oh, Rosa, she thought. I don’t want to take your place. I don’t want them to forget you. But I don’t know what else to do.

  At dinner they gorged themselves on goose and trimmings, and Albert ate so many roast potatoes that George began to tease him. ‘You’ll burst if you eat any more,’ he said, at which point Albert picked up another potato and crammed it into his mouth. ‘Manners!’ said Grace, but she was laughing. After the goose came the plum pudding, lit with a thimbleful of brandy Grace had found in a bottle in the back of the larder, and mince pies and a cup of mulled ale for herself and George. They played games, and sang Christmas carols, ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and ‘See, Amid the Winter’s Snow’, Harry insisting on conducting them like he had seen bandmasters do and piping away in his treble voice.

  At length, stuffed and tired out, the children were put to bed, where all three fell quickly asleep. Grace tiptoed downstairs and joined George again, who was sitting before the fire deep in thought. On impulse, Grace kissed him on the cheek and sat down beside him.

  ‘That was a good day,’ she said. ‘Better than I dared hope.’

  ‘Yes,’ said George. ‘All thanks to you, lass.’

  Grace smiled. ‘You should give yourself more credit,’ she said. ‘You’re so good with the children, and they love you so much.’

  George coughed a little. ‘I dote on them. Sometimes when I look in their faces and . . . well, I see Rosa looking back at me. Especially when they’re happy, like today.’

  ‘You bore up very well,’ said Grace.

  George glanced at her. ‘And you. I know how much she meant to you, and how you miss her too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Silence fell in the little room. Grace sat and wondered where Jimmy was, and where Mary and the Angels were spending this cold Christmas night. Outside, a few snowflakes came curling down.

  *

  Missy was sick, bad sick. She couldn’t stop coughing, and there was this sticky fluid coming up out of her chest. ‘We’ve got to get help for her,’ I said.