The Orphans of Bell Lane

by Ruthie Lewis

  ‘As well as a school, the house is also being fitted out to provide meals and accommodation for your homeless pupils,’ said Mr Clare. ‘And, as mentioned, there is also a flat. You and your family may live there, if you wish to do so.’

  The wheels of Grace’s mind began to turn, albeit slowly. ‘A caretaker will be needed,’ she said, ‘to make meals and care for the homeless children.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mr Clare.

  ‘May I ask a favour? My neighbour, Mr Doyle, has been injured in an accident, and can no longer do heavy work. But he and his wife could serve as caretakers. Would you give the flat to them?’

  Beside Grace, Mela smiled. ‘We rather thought you might say that,’ she said.

  ‘I know of Mr Doyle from the docks,’ said Mr Gould. ‘The trustees would be happy to employ him and his wife. That brings us to you, Mrs Turneur. We know you are still convalescing. When do you think you might be well enough to take up your post?’

  ‘My post?’ said Grace blankly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Clare. ‘As headmistress of the Paradise Road Charitable School.’

  Suddenly Grace felt weak at the knees. ‘Do you mean . . . this is all for me?’

  ‘Yes, silly,’ said Mela, laughing. ‘What did you think?’

  Grace did not know what to think. ‘I . . . I have to work,’ she said, thinking of the laundry.

  ‘You will be working,’ Mrs Clare assured her. ‘We have made one small modification to your earlier plan. You will still teach the children of our employees, Mr Crompton’s and Mr Gould’s and several other firms we have recruited to the scheme, but you will not do so for free. For each pupil, the companies will pay a small fee to the school in exchange for lessons, which will be free of charge to the children and their parents. This fee will enable you to pay a salary to both your caretakers and yourself. The board of trustees has proposed that your salary be set at £100 per annum, to be reviewed and increased as the school grows.’

  Mr Clare smiled. ‘As, under your guidance, it most assuredly will.’

  One hundred pounds a year was nearly twice what George had earned as a bricklayer. ‘Oh, my stars,’ said Grace faintly.

  ‘Do you accept?’ asked Mr Gould.

  Suddenly the mists in her head began to clear. ‘I accept,’ said Grace. ‘How could I possibly refuse?’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Sir Hector Ringrose. ‘And now, perhaps you would like to meet your teaching staff.’

  A door opened and three more people came into the hall. Walter Ringrose, young and handsome, smiling and bowing. Agnes Korngold, beaming. And Mrs Lane, her normally severe face lit up with a smile. ‘I don’t have much education,’ she said. ‘But I know enough to teach reading and sums to the little ones, and I’ll pick up more as I go along. If you’ll have me, Mrs Turneur.’

  ‘Gladly,’ said Grace, fighting down a rush of emotion.

  ‘And I certainly hope you’ll keep me on,’ said Mr Ringrose, smiling.

  ‘Of course,’ said Grace. She had vowed once to avoid his company, to never see him again, but somehow none of that seemed to matter now. They were all entering a new world.

  ‘The Clare School have allowed me to take an indefinite leave of absence, to serve you,’ said Agnes.

  ‘And me likewise,’ said Mela, moving over to join them and then turning to face Grace. ‘I said I wanted some adventure. I think I have found it.’

  A little silence fell. Everyone stood looking at Grace. She gazed around the hall, into the immaculate classroom where sunlight poured through tall windows, and then back at these wonderful people who had just given her the chance to make her dreams become real.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said. ‘Thank you seems so . . . inadequate.’

  ‘No need to thank us,’ said Mr Gould. ‘Just do a cracking good job, and make us all proud. That’s thanks enough.’

  The others took their leave, Mr Clare departing last of all. Grace hurried after him, putting an arm on the sleeve of his coat as he reached the door. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I know I have you and Mrs Clare to thank for this. I had promised myself I would not trespass on your charity anymore than I already have. But now that it has come to this . . . I am glad.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Mr Clare gently. ‘Grace, my child, there must never be any talk of charity between us. What Mrs Clare and I and Mela did, we did for love. Do you not realise how deeply we care for you? You are one of our own, and you always will be. We are not your benefactors, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘We are your family.’

  Chapter 20

  Spring turned into summer, gloriously warm with the sun shining nearly every day, although the smoke of the factories and mills still hung heavy over the city. Grace walked the short distance to work each morning with her little brood surrounding her, Edith toddling and clasping her hand and Radcliffe trotting behind them, her nostrils full of the thick air. This cannot be good for the children’s lungs, thought Grace. It cannot be good for any of us.

  The streets were busier than ever, crowded with heavy wagons, and she kept the children close beside her while they walked. But Paradise Row was quieter, the sound of the main thoroughfares only a distant murmur. The masts of ships moored at the wharves along the river rose over the rooftops. Grace opened the door of the school and went inside, followed by the children. Some pupils had already arrived, and more were coming in, ragged waifs from the streets mixed with the tidily if plainly dressed children of factory workers and dock hands. The smell of porridge drifted through from the kitchen, where Mrs Doyle was feeding the homeless ones. The children greeted her, their voices reminding her of a flock of birds. She smiled at them, glowing with pure happiness.

  Two months had passed since the school opened its doors, and all was going well. They had five classes now, running six hours a day, ranging from Mrs Lane working with the very smallest and teaching basic reading and arithmetic, up to Mr Ringrose and Mela taking the more advanced classes and teaching them mathematics and music. Grace and Agnes took the intermediate classes, with Grace reserving to herself those who struggled hardest to learn. This group still included Lettice the match girl and Nathan the beggar boy although, with proper accommodation and food, both were beginning to grow both physically and mentally; no longer did they struggle with their lessons thanks to pure exhaustion. They had a hundred and sixty pupils now, and every week a few more came to enrol.

  She sent her own children away to their classes, and then met as she did every morning with her staff, including Mr and Mrs Doyle. Despite his impairment, Mickey had proved to be an excellent caretaker, tending to the fabric of the building and doing running repairs while his wife looked after the kitchen and the children in the dormitory.

  ‘All is well?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Nothing to report,’ said Mickey cheerfully. He looked out the window. ‘’Tis a fine day out. Reminds me of summer days back home in Galway. Only, perhaps rather more smoky.’

  Grace smiled. ‘You have seen nothing suspicious? No one hanging about in the street?’

  She asked this question every morning. ‘No one at all,’ said Mickey. ‘Are you still worried about the gang, Grace?’

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘They are the one shadow on my present happiness.’

  ‘I reckon we’ve seen the last of them,’ said Mr Ringrose confidently. ‘They know how big the school is now, and how the communities are behind us, Bermondsey and Rotherhithe both. They won’t touch us now.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘Our success has been wonderful to see,’ she said, ‘and you have all played such a great part in making our dreams come true. But that same success also makes us more visible; and indeed, more of a threat to the Bull Head Gang. The Captain may tolerate us for the moment, but he will not do so forever. We must all be watchful.’

  They nodded, sober for the moment, but nothing could dent their good mood for long. Mr Ringrose was whistling when he went off to take his class. Agnes Korngold looked ten years you
nger, and Hermione – as Mrs Lane now insisted Grace call her – had changed character almost out of recognition. The old stiff, severe poise had gone. The other day she had even made a joke.

  Mrs Doyle took charge of Edith. She had offered her services as baby-sitter during the day, and Grace had gratefully accepted. Almost overnight, Edith had gone from being a clumsy toddler to a creature rather like a cross between a rabbit and an eel, capable of remarkable speed and able to wriggle out of just about any restraint placed on her. Fortunately Edith liked Mrs Doyle, whom Grace suspected spoiled her rotten. Smiling, Grace went up to her office and collected her papers, and then came downstairs to her own classroom in the old drawing room. Thirty children sat on benches, hands clasped solemnly in front of them on their desks, looking at her with bright expectant eyes. Joe was one of them. ‘Good morning, children,’ she said, smiling again.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Turneur!’ they chorused.

  ‘It is indeed a very good morning,’ Grace said. ‘Now, today we shall attempt our multiplication tables. Let’s see who has managed to learn them. Nathan, you shall go first.’

  *

  She had said the gang was the one thing disturbing her happiness, but that was not quite true. The other source of disquiet, buried deep for the moment but threatening to bubble to the surface, was her feelings for Walter Ringrose.

  That she had feelings for him was something she could no longer deny to herself. Just being in the same room with him made her feel warm and brought a faint blush to her cheeks. Being alone with him – something she tried very hard not to do – was even worse. Her heart began to beat more quickly. She became tongue-tied and could no longer remember what she wanted to stay. She reminded herself of him when they first met. She became aware of physical longing. She wanted to touch his hand or his cheek, to know what his skin felt like. He used Pear’s soap, and she could smell his scent so clearly that she knew he had entered a room even before she saw him, or heard his clear, melodious voice.

  Get hold of yourself, she told herself sharply. You’re a widow, still technically in mourning. You are the mother, to all intents and purposes, of six children, and you are a busy schoolmistress. There is no time or place in your life for a man, and especially not that man. His uncle is a knight, and you are the illegitimate daughter of a seamstress. Stop these foolish dreams and fantasies and get on with your work.

  But the dreams and fantasies refused to stop, and she did not know how to make them disappear.

  Away from the school, life at Bell Lane continued as usual. The house was still far too small for all of them, but Grace was glad she had not moved to the school; apart from the fact that the Doyles needed a place to live, she was still reluctant to uproot the twins in particular from the only home they had ever known. But they were growing fast now, as was little Joe, and Albert was bidding fair to become a big strong lad.

  Mary was growing too. She was about thirteen now, and her temper had changed completely. The tantrums and anger had gone; she worked hard, and Mr Ringrose reported that she and Rebecca Berton were his star pupils. At home, she was Grace’s faithful lieutenant, helping her to keep the crowded household running and get the youngest children fed and dressed each morning. She and Albert put dinner on the table in the evening. As time passed, Grace found herself depending on Mary more and more.

  Going to the school one day, Grace found Mr Ringrose reading a newspaper. Usually he was unfailingly positive, but today his mood was sombre. ‘What is wrong?’ she asked. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Yes, in a manner of speaking.’ He looked up from the newspaper. ‘Mr Charles Dickens has died,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Oh!’ Grace gazed at the newspaper, lips parted in astonishment. ‘I did not know he was ill,’ she said.

  Mr Ringrose nodded. ‘He had a stroke last month, apparently, and has not been well since. He was a great man. A fine writer, of course, one of the very best, but I admired him most of all for his campaigns against poverty and in support of education. He was our great ally and supporter, and we shall miss him.’

  ‘I read A Christmas Carol to the children every year,’ said Grace. ‘You are right, it is a terrible loss.’

  Mr Ringrose smiled a little. ‘It was his letter describing his visit to the Ragged School in Field Lane that first determined me to be a teacher, and to work with poor children if I could. He was one of two people who have inspired me. Come to that, they still continue to inspire me to this day, and probably always will.’

  ‘Who is the other?’ Grace asked.

  Mr Ringrose’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He closed it again, looking down at his hands. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m blethering, as usual. I should probably go and prepare for class.’

  ‘No, please,’ said Grace. ‘Will you not tell me who the other is? Perhaps I too share your admiration for this person.’

  Mr Ringrose smiled suddenly. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘You’re not that sort, thank God. Modesty is just one of your many virtues.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Grace.

  Mr Ringrose looked at her. Their eyes met. ‘The other person is you,’ he said.

  Quite a long time passed before Grace regained the power of speech. Even then, to her embarrassment, her voice came out as a kind of strangled croak. ‘Me?’ she said.

  ‘You,’ said Mr Ringrose. ‘When I heard from the Clares what you were doing in Rotherhithe, I was full of admiration. To start a school under a railway arch in one of the toughest and most lawless districts of London, to start from nothing and face down the gangs and build it up until it became one of the most successful schools in the entire Ragged School Union . . . Well, I came down to Bermondsey and started my school because I wanted to emulate you. And I still do. You’re my lodestar, Mrs Turneur. What I am as a teacher, what I have become, is all down to your example.’

  Before Grace could think of anything to say, Agnes Korngold entered the room, looking from one face to the other. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘Am I intruding?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Grace hastily. ‘We were just talking about poor Mr Dickens. It is so sad that he has died.’

  ‘Indeed, his death is a great loss to literature,’ Agnes said gravely. She looked at them both again. ‘But it is another fine day, no?’

  *

  ‘How long do you think it will take?’ Agnes asked Mela Clare later that day.

  Mela giggled. ‘I have no idea. I was wondering whether to start a sweepstake.’

  Agnes shook her head. ‘To use one of your English sayings, it is plain as the nose on your face what is happening. Why can they not see what the rest of us can see? Even some of the children know.’

  Mela laughed again. ‘Walter Ringrose is an old-fashioned gentleman. He won’t want to put himself forward. He also idolises Grace, which is why he is often diffident around her. And I love Grace dearly, but she is so dedicated to her duty that she never thinks of herself. It could be years before they come to their senses.’

  Agnes looked at Mela. ‘You are her friend. Do you think it will be a good match?’

  ‘Honestly, I think they were made for each other. He’s brave and handsome, but he wants a good woman to manage him, and Grace will do that better than anyone I know. And she needs someone who will cherish her. She needs love.’

  Mela paused. ‘Also, while he is not exactly well off, he does have a little money, enough for them to move to a better home. I understand why Grace is reluctant to leave Bell Lane, but they are living on top of each other in that damp little house. The children need light and air. Come to that, so does Grace herself. So, yes, I think it is an excellent match. I just wish they would get on with it.’

  Agnes smiled. ‘And you? Is there no young man on the horizon for you? No future husband waiting to sweep you off your feet?’

  ‘I have promised myself I will never marry,’ said Mela. ‘I shall devote my entire life to education.’

  ‘Then you are foolish,’ said A
gnes with her usual bluntness. ‘Your friend has shown the way. One can devote oneself to a cause and still be happy. Let me give you a word of advice, Miss Clare. Never say never. You do not know what is waiting around the corner for you.’

  *

  And so they carried on, Grace happy in her new role as headmistress and the others, teachers and pupils alike, following her like the wake of a comet. The local trustees, Mr Crompton and Mr Gould, called in every so often to see that all was well, and once a month Mr and Mrs Clare took the East London Railway through the tunnel under the river and called in too, admiring the school and the progress Grace had made. ‘I hope I have justified your faith in me,’ Grace said during one visit in late June.

  ‘Our expectations of you were high,’ said Mrs Clare, kissing her cheek. ‘And you have exceeded them. You are an inspiration to our entire movement, Grace. Everyone is talking about you. Lord Shaftesbury mentioned you and the Paradise Row school in a speech just the other day.’

  ‘He did?’ said Grace, feeling once again at a loss for words.

  Another frequent caller was Reverend Soames, the kindly white-bearded rector of Bermondsey. As chance would have it he called in at the school just after the Clares departed. Grace was in her office packing up for the day, Mary and the other children waiting for her downstairs.

  ‘I have some news for you,’ he said. ‘I have been offered a new parish, at Orpington out in the country. I shall be departing soon.’

  ‘I shall be sorry to see you go, Reverend,’ Grace said. ‘You have been a good friend to us.’

  The rector smiled. ‘Do not fear, my child, I shall not be a stranger. Orpington is only a dozen miles away. It is a poor parish, or rather, there are many poor people in it. Many of my new flock are agricultural labourers and there is a large population of Romanies. I want to start a free school to educate their children, and I shall want your advice on how to do so. Would you be free to travel down to Orpington from time to time and assist me?’