by Ruthie Lewis
‘Oh, my dear,’ Grace said quickly. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘I wanted to see him one last time,’ the girl said. Her eyes were dry, but Grace could see the sorrow in them. ‘He was so good to me.’ She came closer to the bed, staring at the silent figure under the blankets. ‘Why, Grace? Why do the people who love us get taken away? Why is the world so cruel?’
‘I don’t know,’ Grace said, and she drew Mary to her and held her close, and then the girl did start to cry softly, and they held each other weeping until the oil lamp began to flicker and die.
Chapter 17
‘I am sorry to hear of Mr Turneur’s death,’ said Reverend Hobbes, stiffly. ‘He was not always the most responsible of men, but I believe his heart was in the right place.’
‘He was a good father and a good husband,’ said Grace.
A frigid silence fell. They were sitting in the vicarage study at All Saints, just as they had sat two years earlier after Rosa died. Outside, rain tapped on the windows. Even the clouds are weeping for George, she thought.
The vicar, of course, had never accepted that she and George were legally married, and he and his wife were still opposed to the Ragged School. ‘I need the money from the burial fund so that I may arrange his funeral,’ Grace said. ‘And I would like him to be buried in the churchyard, next to his first wife.’
Reverend Hobbes stirred a little in his chair. ‘You may have the money, of course,’ he said. ‘You are entitled to it. But as for the burial, that is quite impossible. I know you went through a form of marriage, but so far as I am concerned, you and Mr Turneur were living in a state of sin. I cannot bury a man in consecrated ground unless he died in a state of grace.’
Grace’s temper, frayed by sorrow and weeping, snapped. She rose to her feet. ‘A form of marriage?’ she demanded. ‘We were married, sir, by Reverend Soames the rector of Bermondsey, under licence. That licence was granted to us by the Bishop of Southwark himself! Shall I go to His Grace, and ask him to confirm that our marriage was legal and honest in the sight of God and man? I am sure he will be pleased to do so.’
The vicar stared out at the rain for a moment. He knew when he was beaten. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will sanction the burial, but my conscience will not allow me to perform the service. For that, you must look elsewhere.’
Conscience, thought Grace. As if you have one, you pious old hypocrite. ‘Reverend Soames will officiate,’ she said shortly. ‘If you would be so good as to count me out my money, sir, I will detain you no further.’
After that came the usual sad details: arranging for a death certificate and a burial licence, finding and paying the gravediggers and making the arrangements for the funeral with Mr Jevons the kindly undertaker. ‘You’ll have the black plumes for the horse free of charge,’ he said. ‘No, Mrs Turneur, this is my gift. It is the very least I can do, for someone who has done so much for our community.’
Through the haze of fatigue she realised he meant herself, not George, and she wondered what she had done to deserve this. But everywhere she went that morning she found hands outstretched ready to help her. The physician also refused his fee, and under their rough exterior even the gravediggers were sympathetic. Several people stopped her in the street to say how sorry they were, watching her with anxious eyes. At the rectory in Bermondsey, Reverend Soames was so kind that she burst into tears again.
‘That’s good,’ the white-bearded rector said, offering her a handkerchief. ‘Let it out, my child. Do not be afraid to be emotional. It is good to release feelings, and not keep them bottled up inside.’
‘I don’t know what I am feeling,’ Grace said honestly. ‘Ours was a marriage of convenience, as you know. I didn’t love him, but I was deeply fond of him. He was such a good man. Everyone says so.’
‘You say you were fond of him,’ the rector said. ‘Surely that is enough? There are many kinds of love, my child. Think of the love of a baby for its mother, the love of a child for a kitten or a toy, the love of brothers and sister, the love of friends who care for and look after each other. All are very different in nature, and yet all are the same, for they are all of them part of God’s plan. All love comes from God, and all love goes back to him.’
Back at the house in Bell Lane she gathered the children around her. It was her turn, now, to comfort them.
Each of them was taking the loss quite differently, she saw. Daisy was tearful, desperately missing her father and clinging to Grace like she was the only anchor left in her life. Harry was silent and bewildered. Albert knew he was now the man of the household and was doing his best to be responsible and brave, though his eyes were red and his lip quivered from time to time. Mary was pale and silent. Strangely, it was Joe who seemed to be taking it best. He hugged both Harry and Daisy tightly, like he was trying to impart strength to them, and after a while it seemed to be working.
‘We will have the service in a little while,’ she said to them, keeping her voice soft. ‘Then your daddy will be taken to the churchyard, and he will be laid to rest beside your mummy.’
‘Beside First Mummy,’ said Harry, determined to get the facts straight.
‘That’s right,’ said Grace. ‘And they will be together for all eternity, and they will be happy.’
‘What does eternity mean?’ Joe asked.
‘Forever and ever,’ said Grace.
‘Then that is good,’ said the little boy. ‘They will be happy forever and ever. And when we die, will we go and be with them?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace, and she added firmly, ‘but that will not be for a long time yet. Now we must get on with living. We’ll remember them always, every day of our lives, but we must also remember the precious gifts they gave us, of cleverness and good health and strong bodies and clear minds, and use those gifts wisely. That is how we will honour those who have gone.’
Mary’s head came up at this and she gazed at Grace with those clear, disconcerting blue eyes. ‘Do you believe that?’ she asked directly.
‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘We are not put on this earth solely to please ourselves. We are here to give service to others. You of all people, Mary, should know that.’
*
They came, the friends and neighbours, crowding into the little parlour beside the coffin, the Bertons, Mickey and Brigit Doyle, a dozen others, all that would fit in the room. None of his fellow workers from the building firm came. The firm’s managers had refused to let them have time off to attend the funeral, and had threatened to fire anyone who failed to show up for work. George was right, Grace thought; we’re just tools to be used. And when one tool breaks, you throw it away and replace it with another.
The door opened and someone else came into the room, a fair young woman in a long dark coat with a black armband. Grace gasped. ‘Mela! How did you know?’
‘Reverend Soames sent a message,’ Mela said. ‘I came at once. I was afraid I would not be in time.’
‘I am sorry,’ Grace said. ‘I should have written to tell you, but I had so much to do, with arranging the funeral and everything . . .’
Her voice faltered and tears began to flow. Mela kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hush,’ she said. ‘I understand everything. I am here now, and that is all that matters.’
Reverend Soames read the service in his beautiful rich voice, and they sang ‘Abide With Me’, the hymn George had requested. He had always loved the tune, but he had learned somewhere, Grace never knew how, that the composer had also died of consumption not long after writing the hymn. He wanted his family and friends to take comfort from the words. That’s George, Grace thought, weeping silently and holding Mela’s hand tightly in her own. Even in the afterlife, he is still thinking of other people.
At the end of the service they followed the coffin out to the hearse where Mr Jevons waited, and they began the procession to All Saints. As they walked slowly, following the hearse, Grace became aware of doors opening and closing behind them, and more people coming out to join t
hem. She saw Mrs Lane and several other parents of her children, and to her astonishment, she saw the pie seller from the market place who had once refused to take her money. The little group of mourners swelled to twenty, then thirty, forty.
‘Why?’ she said to Mela. ‘Why are they here? Some of these people didn’t even know George.’
‘They’re not here for George, my dear,’ said Mela, squeezing her hand again. ‘They’re here for you.’
More people waited for them at the church. They filed into the churchyard, Reverend Soames leading the way followed by the coffin and the mourners. Once Grace glanced over at the vicarage, and saw the curtains open at one of the windows. They twitched shut again, but not before she caught a glimpse of Mrs Hobbes’s wrinkled face looking out at her. Then they gathered around the grave, and Reverend Soames read the service in his beautiful voice.
We have but a short time to live.
Like a flower we blossom and then wither;
like a shadow we flee and never stay.
In the midst of life we are in death . . .
It was over. George Turneur was at peace now, laid to rest beside the woman he loved. Grace straightened her back and turned away from the grave. Around her the people of Rotherhithe watched, extending her their silent sympathy. One day she would remember them, and draw strength from the support they gave her. For the moment, all she could feel was the empty hole in her life.
*
‘My parents send you their love,’ said Mela when they returned to the house on Bell Lane. ‘They are very sad for you, and worried too.’
‘Tell them they must be neither,’ said Grace, and she smiled, hoping Mela would not see how forced the smile was. ‘I am sad, of course, but I have much to keep me occupied and all my little ones to care for. And I shall find a way to support us all.’
‘How?’ demanded Mela.
‘I have had an idea,’ Grace said. The thought had occurred to her that morning, walking back from the rectory and passing the entrance to Potters’ Fields. She was uneasily aware that her last conversation with Mr Ringrose had been one of the sparks that gave rise to the idea.
‘Our biggest item of expense as a family is rent,’ she said. ‘If we can reduce that, we can get by much more easily. And I think it is time the school moved out of the railway arch. Even with two classes, we have too many pupils now and we need more space. I am going to find a building where we can relocate the school, and which will also be big enough to house us all. It will be our home as well as our school. Indeed, if it is a big enough building, I might be able to house some of the homeless children too, and have a kitchen to give them meals.’
‘And how will you pay for this building?’ Mela asked.
‘I intend to ask some of the local businessmen for help. There is Mr Crompton, for example, of Crompton and Rhodes. Rosa used to work for him; he might be willing to help. Or there is the friendly timber merchant, Mr Gould. I shall appeal to them both. If they will provide me with financial assistance to acquire the lease on a building, as Mr Ringrose has done in Bermondsey, then in exchange I shall offer to teach the children of their workers for free, which will benefit the children and their families. That way we would acquire both a school and a new home without needing to pay for it.’
‘And what will you live on?’ asked Mela.
‘With the rent paid for, we can live on very little. I will keep doing laundry in the afternoons, and that will bring in enough money for us to get by.’
Mela looked doubtful. ‘Father would help you acquire the lease,’ she said.
Grace shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t ask it of him, and I beg you promise me you will not mention it to him. Really and truly, I can take no more favours from your parents. Even if I worked every day of my life, I could not repay what they have done for me. I will not add further debts to the ledger.’
Mela leaned over and tickled her god daughter who was lying in her basket waving her arms, oblivious to all that was going on around her. ‘Pig-headed,’ she said. ‘And stubborn as an ox. Grow up quickly, little Edith, so you can come and help me talk some sense into your mother.’
‘This is sense,’ Grace said. ‘The Bull Head Gang is still threatening our schools and our children. If I can persuade some of the local businessmen to stand up to them, then we have a chance to rally the whole community. This is not just a matter of securing my family’s future. We’re going to make Rotherhithe safer, if it is the last thing we do.’
*
George was gone, but the grinding burden of work went on. She wrote to Mr Ringrose the following day, thanking him for his assistance and telling him she was returning to duty. Mary was sceptical. ‘You can’t teach all morning and work all afternoon and look after the little ones at the same time. You’ll work yourself into the ground. Let him keep the school.’
‘No,’ said Grace. ‘That is my school, and I am not letting go of it.’
Through a growing haze of exhaustion she worked on. Teaching the children was her inspiration, the rock of foundation to which she clung. Going into the classroom under the railway always invigorated her, no matter how tired she might be. But the afternoons and evenings of laundry and sewing were sheer drudgery, and the money she made never quite repaid the effort she put in, nor did it quite manage to pay the rent and put food on the table. She was glad she had saved some money before George stopped working, for she had to dip into those savings time and again. But they would not last forever.
She took a break from her work one afternoon and went to see Mr Crompton at his office in the new carpet factory. Sitting outside his office and listening to the thump and clack of the power looms on the workshop floor, she was conscious that her clothes were tattered and the leather of her shoes had begun to crack. She needed new shoes, but there was no money. She had set a little sum aside to buy shoes for Mary as soon as she could persuade the girl to wear them; her need was more important.
Mr Crompton was a thin, pale, rather harassed looking man. ‘Yes, I recall your sister well,’ he said. ‘A very fine worker. We missed her very much when she left to get married. How may I help you, Mrs Turneur?’
Grace outlined her scheme for the school. ‘I’m hoping some of the other employers will also back me, sir, so the cost of the lease would be spread around. In return, I will be happy to take in the children of your employees as pupils, free of charge.’
‘I see. And how will you yourself earn a living?’
‘I have other employment as well,’ Grace said.
Mr Crompton looked dubious. ‘I will give it some thought. I have concerns, however. Your school, like that in Bermondsey, has received attention from the Bull Head Gang. If I support you, they might decide to attack my business as well. I already have enough trouble from that quarter.’
‘I have received an assurance from the leader of the Bull Head Gang that my school will be allowed to continue,’ Grace said, trying not to think about the other part of the Captain’s bargain.
Mr Crompton’s eyebrows rose. ‘I am not certain that any promise made by that scoundrel is likely to be kept. Nonetheless, I will consider it.’
At Acorn Dock the following day Mr Gould was similarly doubtful. ‘One of my warehouses was burned to the ground a couple of months back, and they have also made threats against my employees and their families. I’d like to assist you, Mrs Turneur. But you could end up by putting us all in greater danger.’
‘But will you consider it?’ Grace pleaded.
‘Of course. And if I can see my way forward, then I will surely help you.’
It was not what she had hoped for. That night, Mary came into the kitchen while Grace was washing the dishes after dinner and found her in tears. Wordlessly, Mary embraced her and they held each other close for a moment. ‘It will be all right,’ the girl said.
‘Yes,’ said Grace, drying her eyes. ‘It will.’
‘I’ve got something to say that will make you feel better,’ Mary sai
d.
‘What is it?’
‘I think I might be ready to try wearing shoes.’
They stared at each other for a moment, and then from nowhere, Grace started to laugh.
*
Autumn turned to winter, Grace’s third since she came to live at Bell Lane. The grinding routine of life in Bell Lane went on. Try as she might, she could not bring in enough work to pay the rent and put food on the table, and her little stock of savings ebbed away. By December, it had vanished entirely. Logic dictated she should either give up the school, or approach the Clares for financial assistance, but Grace rebelled against both ideas. I will not admit defeat, she told herself. I will find a way. I am not giving up.
There were, she realised reluctantly, other things she could do to raise money. For a start, there were George’s clothes, which were no longer needed. It would be years yet before Albert was tall enough to wear them. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she packaged up his clothes and boots and took them to the pawn shop on Jamaica Road, a grimy establishment that dealt in every known commodity. The owner was not interested in lending money against the clothes, but he offered instead to buy them outright, and Grace had little choice but to agree. His work boots, which were strong and of good quality, fetched a good price, but the owner would pay no more than a few shillings for the rest. Still, that would buy a few more meals for the children.
Life has come to this, Grace thought as she walked home through the freezing wind. I am selling my dead husband’s clothes to feed our children.
She wrote to Mr Crompton and to Mr Gould to ask if they had considered her idea, but received no response. A week later she called at the carpet factory and was told by an unsympathetic secretary that Mr Crompton was away in Germany on business. When she went to Acorn Dock to find Mr Gould she learned that he too was away. His father had died after a long illness, and he had gone to Dorset to arrange the funeral and sort out the family affairs. No one knew when he might return.
