by Ruthie Lewis
The next step was to go through Rosa’s clothes, which she had packed away after her sister’s death, and begin selling these too. Somehow this caused her even more pain than disposing of George’s things. It was like she was erasing the presence of them both from the house. When that money too ran out, she turned to her own wardrobe and pawned as much as she could. She had bought no new clothes for herself since coming to Bell Lane, and as a result most of her own things were tired and worn, but there was a fine thick overcoat which she pawned for a good price. She walked home shivering in the freezing wind, teeth chattering, but knowing she had enough money to get the family through to the other side of Christmas.
But tragedy was not yet finished with Bell Lane. A week before Christmas while a ship from Norway was being unloaded at Lavender Pool, a heavy baulk of timber crashed down from its deck onto the dock below. Two deal porters were killed outright and Mickey Doyle just failed to get out of the way. The timber fell onto his leg, trapping him. His fellow workers cut him free and the doctor provided by the Surrey Commercial Docks Company managed to save the leg from amputation, but the bones were crushed below the knee. Mickey would never work at the docks again, and indeed it would be a long time before he would even walk. Brigit Doyle came to Grace in tears.
‘I don’t know how we’ll get by, Grace. My bobbin and thread won’t keep us for long. The rent is already in arrears.’
Mickey’s salary had never been as much as George’s and Brigit worked as a lace maker, earning a pittance by weaving fine lace intended for decorating ladies’ gowns and hats. As well as Billy, she had two smaller children to feed.
‘Come and work with me,’ Grace said. ‘You can do some of the seamstress work. I’m wretched with a needle. You do that work, I’ll take the laundry and we’ll split the fees.’ She smiled. ‘With both of us together, we can take on more work.’
She knew, of course, that the work would bring money in for both their families, but not enough to save them, yet she could do nothing else. She would not be responsible for putting another family onto the street, or into the workhouse. She had not told anyone how desperately overstretched her own resources already were, and she never would. Mela had been right to call Grace stubborn, and on top of that she was also very proud.
The days before Christmas were sombre. There was no goose this year. The best Grace could manage was a salmon purchased from the fishmonger in the market. Salmon was cheap – in grand houses, servants often complained that they were fed salmon too often – and so she could spend a little extra money on trimmings, and even managed to buy some small wooden toys for the children and a book for Mary, to keep up appearances.
Then on Christmas morning a parcel arrived, sent by special messenger. Grace recognised Mela’s writing on the label, and knew it contained gifts.
‘Shall we see what is inside?’ she asked the children.
‘Yes!’ came a chorus of voices.
There were books for herself, Lorna Doone by Mr Blackmore, and The Wyvern Mystery by Mr Le Fanu, and an essay entitled The Subjection of Women by Mr Mill that reminded her of bygone days when she and Mela used to play how they would set the world to rights. For the children there were more toys, and a small mountain of sweets, oranges, walnuts and at the bottom of the box, a plum pudding. The note that came with the parcel said simply, A gift for all my loved ones in Rotherhithe. M. Exhausted and strained, it was all Grace could do to hide her tears.
At Christmas dinner she made the children eat as much as they could, taking only a modest portion for herself. Afterwards they sang Christmas carols in the parlour, with Harry conducting the others, while Edith crawled around on the floor by their feet and attempted to stand up. The mood lasted for a while, but then Daisy remembered her father was not there, and burst into heartbroken tears. Grace sat holding the girl on her lap, rocking her gently as if she was a baby, until she fell asleep.
Later, when Edith had been fed and put to sleep and the younger children had gone to bed, Mary came into the kitchen and, without a word, put her arms around Grace’s waist and hugged her tightly. ‘You still miss him too, don’t you?’ Grace said.
‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘He was so patient with me, even when I didn’t deserve it.’
Once again Grace was reminded of how Mary, at twelve or thirteen, was older than her years. Now she looked up at Grace. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘I can see in your face how tired you are. Let me help with the laundry, and maybe one day you could teach me to sew. With three of us, perhaps it will be enough. ’
‘Perhaps,’ Grace said, and she bent and kissed the girl on the forehead. ‘but you must not do too much, for you are still not as strong as you should be. Now, go to bed, my dear. You need your rest.’
After Mary departed, Grace sat for a while at the table, head in her hands. Behind her, the cast-iron stove ticked quietly as it began to cool. The clock chimed in the parlour, and in the distance she could hear the ringing of church bells.
There was still no word from Mr Crompton and Mr Gould. She had pinned her faith on them, and nothing had happened. And now, too, it was not just her own family that were in trouble. With Mickey unable to work, the Doyles were on the edge. Whatever plan she came up with would have to include them as well.
Briefly, she thought about taking Mela’s advice and contacting the Clares for help, but once again her mind revolted from the idea. Her plan had failed. Very well, she would have to come up with another one.
Only, for the life of her, she could not think what it might be. She sat there on Christmas night in the light of the oil lamp, listening to the little sounds of the night, and never before in her life had she felt so alone.
Chapter 18
I knew if someone saw me in Rotherhithe, she would find out. So I struck out west, over towards Southwark where I hadn’t been since the Angels split up, carrying a basket under my coat and wearing my new shoes. I hated those shoes, they pinched my feet something horrible, but I had to admit that wearing them made me warmer.
I remembered Borough Market, over by the cathedral, was a good place to scavenge for scran, so I went there. I picked up some cabbages that had fallen off a cart – they really had fallen, I didn’t have to nudge the cart more than a little bit to make them roll off onto the ground – and some parsnips and potatoes that didn’t have anyone looking after them, and then I whipped a loaf of bread off a table when the baker’s back was turned. I used a hook on the end of a bit of line, an old trick I had learned with the Angels, to drag some sausages off another stall and then grab them before the dogs could get them, and I even managed to get half a cheese and hide it under my coat. I was feeling pretty good. I still had my old skills.
I walked back towards Rotherhithe carrying all this in my basket under my coat and thinking about the Forty Elephants and the jewellery I would buy when I was rich, and that’s when I spotted him. He’d grown a bit, but then, so had I. He was scrawny, though, and he had a patch of bad skin on his neck. He hadn’t been eating too good. He had his back turned to me, staring at something in the street, so I walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped about a foot in the air.
‘Jimmy,’ I said. ‘Jimmy Wilson, ain’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
His eyes looked like he had seen a lot of ghosts. Or maybe he was still seeing them, and maybe they never left him. I knew the look; I used to have it myself. ‘I’m Mary,’ I said. ‘From the Angels. Remember?’
He looked at me kind of dazed, but I reckoned he did remember. ‘Sorry to hear about your da,’ I said.
He didn’t say anything to that. I looked down the street towards the pawnbroker’s he had been staring at. It was a big one, probably full of gold and stuff, unlike the scruffy one in Rotherhithe where Grace pawned her coat so she could feed us.
‘You’re on lookout, aren’t you?’ I said. ‘The Bull Head Gang must be about to rob that place.’
‘Keep your voice down,’
he hissed. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’
‘Stealing food,’ I said. ‘George died, and Grace is trying to look after her kids and me and my brother. I’m helping out.’
I saw the look in his eyes change. For a moment, the ghosts stepped back a little. ‘Is she all right? Miss Perrow? I mean, Mrs Turneur?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s going hungry so she can feed us kids. Things are hard for her.’
Again he didn’t say anything for a while, but then he said, ‘Things are going to get harder. I overheard the Captain talking. They’re going to take some of the boys from the Ragged School. Not right away, but later, maybe in the spring or summer.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘The Captain is building up the gang. He wants to take over Southwark now, maybe even Lambeth too. One day, he wants to rule all London.’
‘And you’re staying with him.’
He clenched his hands into fists and put them up to his eyes, and for a moment I thought he was going to cry. ‘I don’t have a choice,’ he said. ‘I can’t do anything else. Please, Mary. Don’t tell her you’ve seen me.’
‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to worry her.’
I watched his face for a moment. ‘What would happen if you had to choose, Jimmy?’ I asked. ‘Between the Captain and her. What would you do?’
‘Don’t make me choose!’ he cried. ‘Please don’t make me!’ Then he went running off down the street. I watched him turn the corner, and then he was gone.
*
Grace was just finishing ironing sheets on the kitchen table when Mary walked in and dumped her basket of food on a chair. Radcliffe woke up and raised his head, nostrils twitching at the scent of sausages.
Grace looked at the food and then at the girl. ‘Where did this come from?’ she asked.
‘Here and there,’ said Mary.
Realisation dawned. ‘Mary,’ Grace demanded. ‘Have you been stealing?’
‘Of course,’ Mary said simply. ‘We need food.’
Grace stared at her in horror. ‘Mary! You must not do this! Take it all back, at once.’
‘I can’t,’ Mary said. ‘The market will have closed by now. I don’t even remember where I got most of it. Anyway, I took it all from Borough Market. No one around here will know anything about it.’
‘I will know!’ Grace planted her hands on her hips. ‘Mary, stealing is wrong.’
‘It’s better than starving,’ Mary said. She was looking mutinous again, like she had in the days when she first arrived and they tried to make her do something she didn’t want to do. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘No one is going to starve,’ Grace snapped. ‘And we are not eating stolen food. Take it away, get rid of it, I don’t care how or where.’
Mary did not move. ‘I’m only trying to help,’ she said. ‘I know stealing is wrong. But which is worse? A butcher misses a few sausages? Or Daisy and Harry and Joe go hungry? Or you? I know you’re missing meals, and giving your food to the kids. What did you have to eat yesterday, Grace? A bowl of porridge and a piece of bread. You can’t do this. I know what hunger does to a person, how tired it makes you. If you go on like this you’ll kill yourself, and then where will the rest of us be? Do you want to see Albert and the twins and little Edith in the workhouse?’
They looked at each other for a long while, Mary’s blue gaze never wavering. ‘Don’t throw good food away,’ she said. ‘Let’s eat it for dinner. And since it upsets you so much, I promise not to steal food again.’
‘I will hold you to that promise,’ said Grace, resuming her ironing.
‘Why?’ asked Mary. ‘Food is food. Why does it matter where it comes from?’
Lord, thought Grace, how do you explain morality to a twelve-year-old who has lived most of her life in the jungle? But, of course, it was not just a matter of morals. Deep in her heart, Grace knew the real reason she was angry was that she felt like a failure. She had sold her family’s clothes and pawned her own, and still she could not make ends meet, to the point that this child felt she had to go out and steal in order to help. Her plan to rescue them all had failed.
She tried again. She wrote to some of the other factory owners and importers in the district, using her dwindling stock of Penny Red stamps, and received not a single reply. Hope began to dwindle and fade.
Somehow they made it through January of 1870 without falling behind on the rent, but Grace grew thin and hollow-cheeked, and the effort of doing laundry began to tell on her. Her hands, when she looked at them, were cracked red claws worn raw with effort. At school she was listless, and sometimes when reading to the children she lost her place and had to start over again. When not teaching she worked every hour of the day, sometimes alone, sometimes with Brigit Doyle for company. Mickey’s leg was improving, but he still could not stand for very long. One afternoon Brigit came into Grace’s house in floods of tears.
‘I couldn’t pay the rent last week. The agent says he will give us only one more week to find the money, and then if we can’t, he’ll turn us out. Holy Mother, Grace, I can’t look after Mickey and the children, not without a roof over our heads. What am I going to do?’
Grace embraced Brigit and dried her eyes. She was weak and shivering with exhaustion and hunger. She had given all the porridge that morning to the children. Little Edith had wanted more, and had broken into wails of distress when her bowl was empty; Mary had fed the baby from her own bowl until she stopped crying. Things were desperate.
‘What we’re going to do,’ she said to Brigit Doyle, ‘is work even harder than before, and make enough money to pay your rent.’
For the next several days they sat sewing late into the evening, straining their eyes in the light of the oil lamps, and somehow managed to earn enough to pay off the Doyles’ arrears. It had saved them for a week, but it would not last. The Doyles owed money to the doctors who had looked after Mickey’s leg, too, and the pharmacist for ointments and salves for his slow-healing wounds, more money than Brigit could earn on her own. We are trapped, Grace thought, trapped in this terrible circle of debt and poverty, and the only way out is through death. She told herself in one wild moment of despair that George and Rosa were the lucky ones. They at least were at peace, and no longer had to dwell in this vale of tears.
To make matters worse, a letter from Mela arrived.
My dear friend,
I am so sorry not to have visited you of late. The truth is that I have been ill; nothing serious, nothing to worry you at all, just a chill in my chest. But the dreary doctors have warned it could turn into pneumonia, and have ordered me to stay indoors and rest. Mother concurs, and has told the servants to ensure that I do not go out. Can you believe it? I feel like a prisoner in my own home.
And, to my distress, I have had to give up teaching, at least for the moment. A substitute has been found and the Clare School carries on perfectly well without me, but I miss my charges and their faces. They were, and are, my delight. I cannot wait to be fully recovered so I can resume teaching and then, my dear, I will come once more and call on you. Give precious little Edith a kiss from me,
I remain your beloved friend,
Mela
And so now, along with all her other cares, she was worried for Mela. Her fear was that Mela was more seriously ill than she claimed. Could that ‘chill in the chest’ be the beginnings of consumption? She wrote to Mrs Clare seeking reassurance, and Mrs Clare wrote back saying only that Mela had been in bed for several weeks, but seemed to be recovering. She asked after Grace’s own situation. Grace did not reply.
Two things helped her get through that bitter winter. The first was her own family, her children, and that included Mary and Joe. They were no longer guests in the house. She loved them as her own, and she knew they were beginning to love her too. The strength and power of that love was her foundation, and she drew strength from it. No matter how exhausted or weak she felt, when she looked at them – Joe talking to the dog, the twins
crouched on the floor playing with their toys, Albert in a corner explaining something in a book to Mary, Edith toddling across the floor waving her arms in the air for balance – she felt a surge of strength, and knew she could carry on.
The other was the Ragged School. She had thought about closing it, but every day that passed made her more and more glad that she had not. She arrived at school each day, shivering in the wind without a coat, and looked at the shining hopeful faces of her pupils as she gave them their lessons and moved among them, gently correcting their work, or watched them listening rapt as she read to them, and she knew it was all worthwhile.
But as time passed and the slow descent into abject poverty deepened, Grace realised that there would be a day when she could no longer carry on. If she fell ill or was unable to work, then that would be the end. She would lose the house, and be forced to move away or go into the workhouse. And then the Ragged School would die, and her dreams and the dreams of all her boys and girls would die along with it. The Captain would have won.
Winter began slowly to fade. Spring arrived, dreary under the smoke from the mills and docks, the mud of the streets stinking of ooze and salt water, the new flowers in the marshes stained with soot. More buildings were going up in Rotherhithe, more houses, more people moving into the area, many of them poor working people hoping to find prosperity in the factories and warehouses that sprang up around the docks. The streets were full of wagons laden with timber and bricks and tiles. In Bell Lane they worked and waited and hoped, but for Grace Turneur and her family, no hope came.
*
The East London Railway Company’s new line offered travellers, for the first time, the chance to cross the Thames from north to south by train. It took Mela Clare only a few minutes to travel from Wapping station on the north bank through the old tunnel dug under the river by the Brunels, father and son, to Rotherhithe. Stepping out onto the platform she wrapped her scarf around her neck, remembering her mother’s instructions to stay well bundled up – it was early April now and the sun was warmer, but the wind from the north still had a bite – and walked to Bell Lane.
