The Orphans of Bell Lane

by Ruthie Lewis

  ‘Yes, again. You too?’

  Grace nodded and told him about her meeting with the Captain. ‘He offered me a bargain with the devil,’ she said. ‘The school stays open, but he can take the boys whenever he wants. I refused, of course, but I don’t know how to stop him.’

  ‘We could try spiriting the boys away,’ he said. ‘Send ’em to another part of London, or out of the city altogether.’

  She shook her head. ‘All too often the boys are taken with the full consent of their parents. The fathers, at least, if not the mothers,’ she added, thinking of Sara.

  There was a short pause. ‘Have you tried the police?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. They’re worse than useless. I reckon the local bobbies are in the pocket of the gangs.’

  ‘That is likely,’ said Grace. ‘I don’t know what to suggest, Mr Ringrose. We can let them take the boys, or we can oppose them, in which case they will destroy our schools and take the boys anyway.’

  He regarded her for a moment. ‘But you’re not going to lie down in front of them,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to let them have their way.’

  Grace sighed and stirred her coffee. ‘No. But . . . It breaks my heart to say it, but I don’t know what to do. Mela said we needed to get the community on our side to help fight for the boys, but in truth, I don’t know if that is possible.’

  She looked up. ‘I am sorry. You invited me here hoping I could help you, and I fear I have nothing to offer you.’

  ‘That’s not true at all,’ said Mr Ringrose. ‘Now I know you’re in the same situation, I don’t feel so alone and helpless. We’re in the same pickle together, aren’t we? No, Mrs Turneur, what you have given me is hope. I reckon if you and I put our heads together, we can figure out how to use our communities to get the gangs off our backs.’

  He realised what he had said, and blushed bright red again. ‘That is . . . er . . . of course, if you would be willing to join forces. As it were.’

  ‘I am willing to help in any way I can,’ said Grace. ‘We are in this together.’

  The young man perked up, looking eager, his embarrassment once again forgotten. ‘Well, by Jove, that’s a start . . . Perhaps we need to play King Log for a while. You know, keep our heads down, lie low and wait for an opportunity. I reckon that now they’re running things, the Bull Heads will start to get cocky. With no other gangs pushing them, they’ll grow arrogant and then they overreach themselves. A chance will come, I’m certain of it. That’s when we’ll make our move. And we’ll work together, won’t we?’

  ‘We certainly will,’ said Grace, smiling.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask another question?’ he asked. ‘Forgive me if I am being too personal, but what will you do when the baby comes? About your school, I mean? I understand you run two classes, Mrs Korngold taking one and you the other.’

  Mr Raikes must have told him that, Grace guessed. She had notified the Ragged Schools Union that she was taking on another volunteer. ‘I am not quite decided,’ she said. ‘I had thought of asking my friend Miss Clare, but if she cannot come, I’ll have to combine the two classes and ask Agnes to take both for a few weeks, until I am up and about again.’

  Mr Ringrose nodded. ‘I’d be happy to take your class, if you like. I teach one class in the afternoon; I could easily come down and cover for you in the mornings.’ He smiled. ‘I would like to help, if I can.’

  She gazed at him for a moment, meeting his eyes. He blushed suddenly. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, and smiled. ‘That is a most generous offer.’

  They parted, he thanking her profusely for coming and blushing again as he bowed. Riding the train back to Rotherhithe, she wondered about him. Gauche and flustered one minute, poised and certain of himself the next, she thought. What makes the difference? He was energetic and full of ideas when talking about the school, but the moment they strayed into any personal topic he became awkward.

  Suddenly she put her hand to her mouth. Goodness, do I make him nervous? Is he . . . Is he attracted to me?

  She told herself it was ridiculous, but the thought, once established in her mind, would not go away. For her part, she had to acknowledge that she found his eagerness infectious. It was impossible to be worried or unhappy in his presence. No matter how gloomy things might be, he would find a shaft of sunlight. He had energy, too, and quick wits. He’s the sort who will always walk into a room and make his presence felt, she thought. It is impossible to ignore him.

  Just for a moment, an invisible finger walked up her spine. She shook herself. Don’t be ridiculous, Grace, she told herself. Remember what you told Mela. You’re a married woman, carrying your husband’s child. And even if you weren’t, he is beyond you. You are an orphan from the slums; his uncle is a knight of the realm. That’s far too wide a gap ever to be bridged.

  A voice in a corner of her mind said, but you are thinking about it.

  The train pulled into Rotherhithe. She shook herself and stood up, reaching for her stick, and then realised it wasn’t there. She must have left it in the café. Your wits are addled, she told herself. This is what you get for daydreaming.

  She stepped out onto the platform, seeing her breath steaming in the cold air, and made her way carefully down the icy steps to the road and began to walk toward home. The streets were slippery with ice and frost and she walked slowly, planting her feet carefully and missing the stick even more. But she made slow progress, walking out onto Jamaica Road and seeing the street almost empty in the dusk. Her boots crunched a little on the frozen ground. Her foot slipped briefly on a patch of ice and she stopped. I must be careful, she told herself. If I fall, I might damage the baby.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked forward again, planting her feet carefully. A wall loomed up beside her, a drainpipe running down from the roof. She made for this, hoping to use the drainpipe for support, and then suddenly both her feet were sliding and she was falling. Crying out, she grabbed for the drainpipe and clung onto it, feet flailing on the ice – but she could not regain her balance. Slowly she slid down the pipe until she was kneeling on the ice, hanging on for dear life to prevent herself falling over.

  This is undignified, she told herself, but then came a much more serious problem; she could not get up again. She raised one leg, then the other, but each time she tried to plant her feet on the ice, her boots slipped out from under her. Again and again she tried with the same result. She looked around for help, but could see no one in the shadows. Already the night cold was biting into her bones. Panic began to rise. I cannot stay out here, she told herself, or I will freeze to death. But still, hampered by the baby and the extra weight, she could not rise.

  Then, suddenly, someone was kneeling beside her. ‘Take my arm,’ said a female voice. ‘Lean on me. I will support you.’

  The arm she took was thin and bare and very cold, but strong. Gasping again, feeling entirely undignified but at the same time grateful for the help, Grace managed to get up onto her knees and then, leaning on her helper, drew herself to her feet.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and then she looked at her saviour and stopped in shock. Despite the matted, tangled hair hanging over the girl’s face, there was no mistaking her identity.

  It was Mary.

  *

  I didn’t even think when I saw her go down, I just let go of Joe’s hand and ran towards her. It was so cold I couldn’t feel my hands and feet, but I was used to that. I knelt down alongside her and helped her up. She looked like she was all right, though I could see she had a baby in her, and falling couldn’t be good for women who were carrying. But there wasn’t nothing I could do about that, so once I was sure she could stand without help, I turned back to find Joe.

  ‘Mary,’ she said. ‘Don’t go. Stay a moment, please.’

  I turned around again and faced her. She looked pretty much the same, except for the baby, of course. ‘You can’t stay out here’, she said. ‘The night is bitterly cold. Come home with me, and get warm.�
��

  Joe’s head turned. Someone was coming, hurrying along the street towards us. ‘Mrs Turneur!’ I heard him call, ‘Mrs Turneur!’

  I trusted her, a little, but I didn’t trust no one else. For all I knew her friend might try to grab us and put us in the workhouse. I took Joe’s hand and we ran, like we ran so many times before. I heard her calling me, but I didn’t look back.

  We didn’t go near the school, in case it was a trap. We found an old bit of carpet on the side of the road that night, and pulled it over us as a blanket and we slept. In the morning I found some frozen bread someone had dropped. I was lucky I managed to get to it before the dogs did. We ate it, chewing it slow so it would melt in our mouths, and for a while the cramps in my belly eased a little. We made it through another day.

  *

  ‘You left your stick behind,’ called Mr Ringrose. ‘I came to return it to you. I thought you might need it on a night like this. I say, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ said Grace. ‘I had a small slip on the ice, that’s all.’ Her hip ached, but she could feel no other pain. She had been lucky; the baby was safe.

  ‘The roads are very slippery,’ he said in concern. ‘Here, let me see you home.’

  Grace smiled in gratitude. ‘That would be very kind of you.’

  Mr Ringrose took her arm and started to walk with her, glancing after the fleeing children. ‘Who were they?’

  ‘A homeless girl and her brother,’ said Grace. ‘I used to let them sleep in the school, but they disappeared after it was attacked. I’d not seen them again until now.’

  ‘Poor little creatures,’ he said quietly. ‘Wearing nothing but rags, and no shoes. My God, barefoot in this weather! It passes all imagination, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace.

  Mr Ringrose nodded. ‘We’re not going to lie down and let the gangs walk over us. How can we, when children roam the freezing night without food, or home, or hope? We’re going to change things, Mrs Turneur, even if it’s the two of us against the whole world.’

  ‘We won’t be alone,’ said Grace. ‘We’ll have other friends and allies, Mr Ringrose. We do already. You too were right, sir. We must wait, and our chance will come.’

  Chapter 14

  ‘My!’ said Mela Clare. ‘Look at dear little Edith! Isn’t she a bonny lass? She has grown so much since I last saw her.’

  It was early June, two months since Grace had given birth to her daughter. She had wanted to call the child Pamela, but her godmother had resolutely refused. ‘It is the worst name ever invented,’ she insisted. ‘You cannot possibly inflict it on this poor innocent girl. Name her after your aunt instead.’

  Now Mela leaned over the baby’s cot, cooing and smoothing her downy hair with a gentle finger. ‘And she looks healthy as a horse.’

  ‘She certainly eats like one,’ Grace said with feeling. ‘George says she’s like a drunk at last orders. Not the most elegant of comparisons, but I know what he means. She feeds like she’s afraid supplies might run out, and she had better get as much into her as she can while it lasts.’

  ‘That explains why she is growing so much,’ said Mela laughing. ‘How is George? Working hard as ever, I assume.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He is as always a model husband and father.’ Grace paused. ‘I am worried about him, though.’

  ‘Oh? Why is that?’

  ‘He is in a melancholy mood these days. To the children he is sunshine and light as usual, but when we are alone I see the darkness descend. I fear he is missing Rosa very badly. The baby, I think, reminds him of her.’ Grace stopped. ‘I don’t know for certain. I’m just guessing. The truth is, I don’t really know what goes on in his mind. When I ask him, he just smiles and tells me not to worry. But I do worry. He is coughing more and more, like the winter chill won’t go away.’

  ‘Shall I ask Father to send the doctor?’ Mela asked. ‘He will gladly do so.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I’ve already suggested he see a doctor, but he refuses. He says it’s just the brick dust in his chest, and it will pass.’

  She paused. ‘I don’t know whether to believe him,’ she said.

  ‘If we can help in any way, call on us,’ Mela said.

  Grace shook her head again. ‘Mela, we can’t live off the charity of your family, as much as I love them. I’m already greatly in your parents’ debt. I can’t take anything more from them. Really I can’t.’

  Mela regarded the child sleeping in the cot. ‘Well, Edith,’ she said. ‘If you grow up to be half as pig-headed as your mother, you’re going to be quite a handful . . . How are things at the Ragged School?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Grace. ‘Mr Ringrose has done a very good job of looking after my little ones. Albert and the twins think the world of him. I am starting back to work tomorrow, but I suspect my pupils would prefer that I remained at home and he stayed on as teacher.’

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ said Mela.

  Mr Ringrose had been as good as his word. After baby Edith was born, she had stayed at home and he had taken her class. She received regular reports of his progress from Albert, and was pleased to find that he was popular with the children. He had read to them from Captain Marryat’s The Children of the New Forest, which they loved.

  They moved on from talking about the Ragged School to Mela’s work at the Clare School. Grace thought Mela sounded dissatisfied. ‘Out with it,’ she said finally. ‘What is wrong? Has something happened?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mela. ‘Mother runs the place like a well-oiled clock. Everything ticks along very satisfactorily.’

  Grace watched her for a moment. ‘You’re bored,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps I am, a little,’ Mela confessed. ‘My life seems rather . . . humdrum. You’re the one having all the adventures. Marriage, a baby, running your own school, facing danger, confronting gangs . . .’

  ‘That is not an adventure I wish to repeat,’ Grace said.

  ‘I know, but all the same, you’re doing something wonderful. And Mr Ringrose, too, giving up his comfortable life to come down here to teach. It is exciting, whereas my own life just plods along. I suppose I just feel I’m not doing enough.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your parents?’ Grace asked.

  ‘No. I’m not sure they would understand. I’m not sure I understand. I have everything I could possibly want in life. So why do I feel as if something is missing?’

  The baby stirred, waving her tiny hands in the air, and began to wail. Grace rolled her eyes. ‘I’m on duty in the taproom again,’ she said. ‘It will only take a few minutes.’

  ‘No, I should go, and get out from under your feet.’ Mela rose and picked up her gloves, and kissed Grace on the cheek. ‘Take care, my dear friend. I will call again soon.’

  *

  After she had gone Grace sat for a while in the parlour, holding Edith while she nursed happily, making little snuffling noises from time to time. The thought that Mela might envy her life was odd, to say the least. As her friend said, she had everything she could want. She had her work, to which she was devoted, and had seemed content. What had changed?

  Grace’s mind wandered. For no particular reason she found herself thinking, as she often did, about Mary. She had not seen the girl and her brother since February; they had not come near the school. It was quite possible, of course, that something had happened to them during the winter and they were no longer alive, but she felt that this was not true. Mary was tough, a true survivor. She would always find some way to stay alive, even if only for her brother’s sake. But what a terrible life she lived! Even Grace’s own orphan pupils, Gabriel and Isaac and Nathan, had somewhere to sleep at night. But in the midst of a great and civilised city, Mary and Joe lived in a wilderness.

  The baby had fallen asleep. Gently, Grace laid her back in the cot. In an hour or so George would be home; it was time to get the dinner on. Quietly she moved into the kitchen, putting on
her apron and shovelling more coal into the stove. Everything is calm now, she thought, calm and quiet. How long can it last?

  *

  The following day she returned to work, and wrote Mr Ringrose a long letter thanking him for his help and inviting him to call at the school at any time. She and the children would always be ready to make him welcome. His reply was short and cheerful and, she thought, summed up the man.

  My dear Mrs Turneur, there is absolutely no need to thank me. It was an honour and a pleasure to help you. I am deeply fond of your boys and girls, and I like your railway arch. It has a nice homely feel to it, more than my battered old house, and I grew to quite enjoy the sound of the engines puffing overhead; I imagined each one as a train of thought! Do please call on me again if I can ever be of assistance.

  She thought about the letter as she dismissed her class, and it made her smile. Albert and the twins helped her to tidy the schoolroom, chattering cheerfully. Albert was nearly eleven now, and growing in height. Grace thought he was going to be tall, like his father. The twins were seven, bright and happy as they had always been but growing into proper little people.

  They heard the rumble of a train passing along the line over their heads. Then, as the noise began to fade, someone outside rapped hard on the door.

  The mood in the classroom changed at once. Radcliffe’s hackles rose and he growled. The children went silent, staring at her. The Captain’s men, thought Grace, full of sudden dread. Please Lord, let it not be them . . .

  ‘Who is there?’ she called.

  The voice that answered was comfortingly familiar. ‘It’s Walter Ringrose, Mrs Turneur. May I come in? I have some news for you.’

  The children relaxed at once. Letting out a sigh of relief, Grace opened the door.

  ‘I . . . I hope I didn’t startle you,’ he said anxiously.

  ‘Only a little,’ said Grace smiling. ‘Say good morning to Mr Ringrose, children.’

  ‘Good morning!’ they chorused happily. Radcliffe wagged his tail. Mr Ringrose grinned and bowed to them, and then turned back to Grace, his face serious. ‘I’m so sorry to intrude on you, but I had to see you. May we talk in private?’