The Orphans of Bell Lane

by Ruthie Lewis

  ‘Where you going to do that?’ demanded Ness. We were a long way from home now, way over in Lambeth, wandering and wandering always, trying to find somewhere we could settle down. But always something happened; if it wasn’t the traps moving us on or trying to round us up and put us in the workhouse, it was the local gangs who didn’t like us on their turf.

  I wanted to go back to Rotherhithe, but the others wouldn’t have it. It was too dangerous. Those big bastards who smashed up Miss Perrow’s school told us what would happen to us if they caught us. They’d break our necks, sure, but they’d do something else to us first. I knew a girl they’d caught once. She was never right again, died on the street a while later. So, maybe the others were right. But I still missed Rotherhithe. Not that for a moment I could have told you why.

  Missy was coughing again. In the houses along the street you could see lights and green wreaths, and they were singing some Christmas songs. I held onto little Joe. He was too young to remember Christmas the way it had been at home, but I remembered it, just about. Mince pies and fruit and singing. There wasn’t no singing on the streets. There was just cold, and slow death.

  Missy wouldn’t last much longer. We’d have to take her to the workhouse and leave her at the door, then knock on the door and run away so they didn’t catch us. Hopefully someone would take her in and give her medicine. Even then, she probably wouldn’t make it.

  I knew my turn would come soon. I wasn’t going to live long enough to join the Forty Elephants. I was going to die out here on the streets. I didn’t mind much for myself, but who would look after Joe? That thought made me desperate. I didn’t know what to do.

  I heard the singing again. I remembered a line from a book Miss Perrow had read at the school, about a poor family who suddenly had plenty on Christmas Day. The last line of the book, it was ‘God bless us, every one.’

  Well, He wasn’t blessing the Angels, not that Christmas night. I knew where the workhouse in Lambeth was, we had passed it earlier and I had smelled the misery in the air. ‘Come on,’ I said to Ness. ‘I know what to do with Missy. Give me a hand.’

  *

  In the warmth of the parlour on Bell Lane, Grace stirred. ‘George,’ she said, ‘we must talk.’

  George looked up from his mulled ale, which once again he had barely touched. ‘About what, lass?’

  ‘You and I,’ Grace said.

  There was a long pause. ‘Ah,’ said George quietly. ‘You’ve been thinking about it too, then.’

  Relief flooded through Grace; this was going to be easier than she had dared hope. ‘I don’t care about my reputation,’ she said. ‘But I do care about you and the children. It might be a way out of the problem.’

  George sighed heavily. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s what I was thinking, too. Like you, I don’t give a fig for what people say about me. But I’m worried about the nippers. And, there’s no denying they need a mother.’

  He looked at Grace. ‘But it’s asking an awful lot of you. I always assumed one day, when the kids were older, you’d go back to your old life, and do all the things you intended to do. And find a man of your own.’

  ‘I supposed I assumed it too, when I first arrived,’ Grace said. ‘But George, I can’t leave and there are no men on the horizon. The children will need me for years to come, and then there’s the school. My place is here.’

  George said nothing.

  ‘I know I’ll never be Rosa to you,’ Grace said, ‘and I don’t even want to try. But I can be a good wife to you, in many ways.’ She forced a smile. ‘Most ways except one. If that’s all right by you.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said George, and she saw the relief in his face. ‘I’d never ask that of you, Grace, really I wouldn’t. To me, you’re still my sister-in-law and always will be. This is just a face we put on things, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Grace. ‘We’re making ourselves respectable to the public eye. Inside this house, we go on exactly as before.’

  Another silence fell. ‘How do we explain it to the kids?’ George asked.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll need to explain much,’ Grace said. ‘They’re wiser than we are, in some ways. Indeed, I think Albert may be expecting it.’

  They looked at each other. ‘So, that’s it then,’ George said.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ Grace repeated, and she smiled suddenly. ‘I didn’t know how you would take to the idea. I’ve been waiting for days, trying to get up nerve to ask.’

  ‘Me too,’ said George, and he smiled too. ‘Proper couple of duffers, aren’t we?’ The smile faded. ‘Grace, are you really sure this is what you want? I know how much you gave up when you came to live with us. Marry me now, and you’ll be giving that up forever.’

  ‘I know,’ said Grace. ‘But I promise you, George, with all my heart. This is what I want.’

  They said no more. They sat in silence in the low glow of the oil lamp and the fire, while outside snowflakes curled soft against the windowpane.

  Chapter 10

  They broke the news to the children the following day. Harry and Daisy were curious, but too young to understand how it would make any difference to them. All that mattered was that Grace would still be there. Albert sat and listened very solemnly while his father and Grace explained the situation.

  ‘Are you doing this because of the bad things people say about you?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Partly,’ Grace said honestly. ‘But mostly, my dear, so that we shall be a real family, all together, now and forever.’

  Albert thought about this. ‘Auntie Grace,’ he said, ‘does this mean you will be my new mummy?’

  They had thought this question might come, but had struggled to think of how to answer it. ‘You must never forget your mummy,’ said Grace gently. ‘She was loving and kind and good. But if you want to think of me as a kind of second mummy, who looks after you, then you can do so.’

  Albert gave the matter further consideration. ‘The other children at the school might think it odd if you are married to Fa and I still call you Auntie Grace,’ he said. ‘So I think I ought to call you Mummy. Would that be all right?’

  ‘If that is what you wish,’ Grace said, thinking it might take her a while to get used to being called ‘Mummy’.

  Albert smiled. ‘Then it is settled.’

  Getting the children on side had been easier than expected. Finding a place to be married, however, proved rather harder. Coming out of church on the first Sunday after New Year, George addressed the vicar. ‘Might we have a moment of your time, Reverend?’

  Reverend Hobbes nodded reluctantly. George and Grace waited, the children fidgeting around them, while the last of the parishioners filed out of the church and the vicar finally turned to them. The day was clear and cold, the blue of the sky for once unstained by smoke.

  ‘Well, Mr Turneur?’ the vicar said. ‘Make it quick, if you please, I am a busy man.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said George. ‘Me and Miss Perrow would like to get married. We were wondering if you would marry us here at All Saints.’

  Mrs Hobbes could be seen lurking in the background, staring at them, her wrinkled face framed by the fur collar of her coat. The vicar looked at them, his own face disbelieving.

  ‘Marriage?’ he said. ‘Of course not. It’s quite out of the question.’

  ‘May I ask why, sir?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, man. Have you not heard of consanguinity? No man may marry his own sister. It is completely forbidden.’

  ‘But she’s not my sister, Reverend,’ George protested. ‘She is my late wife’s sister, and even more than that, she was adopted. We’re not related by blood, not at all.’

  ‘In the eyes of the law, Mr Turneur, it does not matter,’ said the vicar. ‘According to both canon law and the Marriage Act of 1835, a man’s wife’s sister is deemed to be his sister also. And the fact Miss Perrow is an adopted child has no bearing on the matter. Any relations between you would be tantamount to incest.�
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  George looked appalled. ‘Please, Reverend,’ said Grace. ‘It’s to be a marriage of convenience, no more. It’s only so I can stay in the house and take care of the children and to stop the rumours flying around.’ The rumours your wife has been circulating, she thought of adding.

  The vicar’s eyes bulged. ‘A marriage of convenience?’ he repeated, in a tone of voice that suggested he had just stepped on something nasty. ‘Do you not understand the purpose of marriage? A true Christian marriage is undertaken for the sole purpose of rearing children and giving them a loving home.’

  ‘Yes, Reverend,’ said Grace. ‘That is what we are trying to do.’

  ‘But they are not your children, Miss Perrow. And they never will be. For the good of your soul, and the souls of Mr Turneur and his children, I strongly suggest you leave their house forthwith, and return whence you came.’

  The vicar and his wife never give up, do they? Grace thought. She could feel her temper rising. ‘Come, children,’ she said shortly, and took George’s arm. They walked away, the three children following, and Grace caught a glimpse of Mrs Hobbes’s face as they passed. There was no mistaking the gloating look in her eyes.

  *

  ‘I never knew that was the law,’ George said later that day. They were resting after dinner, the children asleep. ‘Well, lass. What are we going to do?’

  ‘We still need to get married, George. We may never win over Reverend and Mrs Hobbes, but at least it will stop other people from spreading rumours . . . I don’t believe what he said about adoption,’ Grace said. I’m sure adopted children are treated differently in law.’

  George looked dubious. ‘How can we find out?’ he asked. ‘There’s not many lawyers round here, even if we could afford one.’

  Grace thought for a few moments. ‘We could go to St Mary’s and ask the rector there.’

  The church of St Mary the Virgin was the oldest church in Rotherhithe, situated among the crumbling buildings that formed the core of the ancient village along the Thames, surrounded and all but swamped by the newer docks and warehouses. George shook his head. ‘The rector there is a crusty old fellow, even more set in his ways than Hobbes. I doubt he’ll give us the time of day.’

  ‘All right,’ said Grace, ‘we’ll go to Bermondsey. I remember the rector there, Reverend Soames. He conducted Aunt Edith’s funeral service, and he was such a kind man. We’ll go next week and talk to him.’

  ‘You want to start going to church there as well?’ George asked.

  ‘Why not? It is a little further to walk, but I shan’t set foot in All Saints again, not while that fat hypocrite and his horrible wife are there.’

  *

  That week the weather turned bitter, with freezing rain and lashings of sleet, but that was not the only affliction Rotherhithe had to endure. On Wednesday evening George came home from work, his face grim.

  ‘You know that war between the gangs everyone’s been talking about? Well, it’s started. A bunch of toughs from Deptford came up to pick a fight with the Bull Head Gang. We were working on the warehouses, and we had to run for it to get out of the way. Proper nasty it was, hammers and knives and even a couple of shooters.’

  ‘What happened?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Don’t know for certain. We didn’t hang around to find out. I heard there was a couple of folk killed, but I don’t know who they were.’ George looked at her in concern. ‘You take care at school, lass, and any time you’re going out. Make sure you have Radcliffe with you.’

  ‘I always do,’ Grace said.

  The violence continued into the next day, and in the afternoon on her way to market, with Radcliffe trotting at her heels, Grace saw a fire engine go rushing past, bell clanging, mud flying from under the horses’ hooves. Smoke was rising from somewhere down near Greenland Dock. ‘It’ll be the gangs, fighting again,’ said a woman selling vegetables.

  ‘The Deptford lot?’ asked Grace.

  The woman shook her head. ‘Word is the Black Crows from Peckham are trying to move in while the Bull Heads are fighting the Deptford mob. And the police are sitting on their hands as usual, doing nothing. God help us poor people caught in the middle. There ain’t no one to look after us, is there? We could all be murdered in our beds and no one would care.’

  On Sunday the family walked to Bermondsey warily, keeping to the main roads, and went to church. Afterwards, filing out the door, Grace went up to the rector to introduce herself, but found there was no need.

  ‘Bless my soul, it’s Grace Perrow,’ the rector said, eyes twinkling. He was in his sixties, with snow-white hair and beard and a gentle face with lines of laughter around his eyes and mouth. ‘How good it is to see you again, my child.’ He looked at George and the children. ‘And who do we have here? Is your name Perrow no longer?’

  ‘It is, Reverend,’ said Grace. ‘But in a way, that is why I am here. Sir, could we talk to you?’

  A few minutes later they were seated in the study at the rectory, the children looking around in wonder at the big room full of books and politely taking the sweets the rector’s wife offered them. ‘What brings you back to these parts, my dear?’ the rector asked.

  ‘I came to Rotherhithe to look after my sister’s children after she died last year. And then I got involved in things, and I have set up a Ragged School.’

  ‘Ah, an admirable institution. I heard one had been established in Rotherhithe, though I did not know you were the mistress. Although I should have guessed.’ The rector smiled. ‘Even as a child, it was easy to see you would grow into a young woman of determination. Did you know we have a Ragged School here in Bermondsey now? It is in Potters’ Fields, very near here.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I am acquainted with the gentleman who has set it up. Reverend, we – that is, Mr Turneur and me – we have a problem. We’re hoping you can help with it.’

  Grace explained. The rector looked grave. ‘I fear Mr Hobbes is right. The Marriage Act states quite explicitly that no man may marry his wife’s sister. It is iniquitous, of course. All over London, sisters of deceased wives come to look after the children just as you have done. But they are prevented from entering into a state of wedlock that would regularise their union, and so are condemned to live in a state of sin. It is quite wrong, and many people are campaigning for a change in the law, but I fear it will be some time before their efforts bear fruit.’

  ‘We have no intention of living in sin,’ Grace said firmly, and George nodded. ‘I wondered if my being adopted would make a difference.’

  The rector pondered for a moment, stroking his white beard. ‘Do you know,’ he said finally, ‘I think it might.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said George. ‘Adopted or no, Grace was Rosa’s sister, and there’s an end to it.’

  ‘Not in the eyes of the law, Mr Turneur, and it is the law that matters here. You see, adoption is not a legally recognised process. Your mother, Miss Perrow, God bless her soul, took you into her home and raised you as her daughter and Rosa’s sister. But in the eyes of the law, you are no such thing.’

  Grace was horrified. ‘Then the law is callous and unfeeling!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘It is all of those things, Miss Perrow, and much more besides. Rest assured; in the eyes of all who know you, and in the eyes of God Almighty who watches over us, you and Rosa were sisters. And right now, be grateful for the law, for it works in your favour. There is a loophole here which I think we may be able to exploit. As you are not legally Rosa’s sister, there is no impediment to you marrying Mr Turneur.’

  Grace felt her heart skip with excitement. ‘Then . . . Reverend, would you do it? Would you marry us?’

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ said Reverend Soames. ‘You once lived in Bermondsey, after all; you are one of us. But we shall marry you by common licence, I think. There is no point in reading the banns as neither of you resides in this parish, and in any case, we don’t want to give your Reverend Hobbes or his supporters time to object
. I shall arrange for the bishop to provide a licence. No, no my dear, there is no question of a fee. I shall be pleased to do my part. Shall we set the date for a month from now?’

  *

  She told herself repeatedly that it was a marriage of convenience, but despite this Grace could not prevent a flutter of nerves as her wedding approached. She told their neighbours in Bell Lane, Louisa Berton and Brigit Doyle and a few others, with strict instructions not to spread the news. Reverend Soames was right, it would not do for Reverend Hobbes or, still worse, his wife to hear about it. They would almost certainly try to stop the wedding from taking place.

  She thought long and hard about what to wear. Finally on the morning of the wedding she decided on a simple dark green wool skirt and blouse that she used to wear when teaching at the Clare School, and which was still in good order. No jewellery, she thought, but then she relented and put the locket George had given her for Christmas around her neck.

  She put on her bonnet and coat and looked at herself for a moment in the mirror, seeing once again the serious dark eyes and level eyebrows. She disliked her eyebrows and always had. Who cares, she thought, making a face at herself in the mirror. George is marrying me so I can look after him and the children. Eyebrows don’t enter into it.

  She took a deep breath and went downstairs. George waited for her, looking a little sombre in his church suit. Albert looked at them both, his face equally solemn. ‘You look nice,’ he pronounced.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Grace. ‘Be a good boy, and if you need anything, run next door and fetch Rebecca. We won’t be away for long.’

  They kissed the twins and then walked outside. January had passed while they waited for the marriage licence to arrive, and it was February now. The air was slightly warmer, but the wind from the west was raw and damp and brought with it the rich dark smells from the glue factory mingled with smoke from the railway. The streets were quiet, even though it was Saturday, and people walked past them quickly, heads down against the wind. The violence of the gangs continued unabated. The day before, two people had been stabbed to death in Jamaica Road. Both were gang members; one was fifteen years old. Grace thought again of Jimmy, and wondered a little desperately where he was now.