The Surplus Girls' Orphans

by Polly Heron

  Danny sat up straight and turned to him. The lad’s eyes almost glowed. Aaron was startled. He had been ready for tears or despair, but Danny looked positively cheery.

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry, sir, honest. If they put Auntie Betty’s picture in my case, it means they sent Mum’s photograph to Dad in the sanatorium, so that’s all right.’

  Best not pursue that. ‘Couldn’t you live with Auntie Betty?’

  ‘Stop with.’ A stubborn note entered Danny’s tone. ‘Not live with. Stop with. I don’t need to live with anyone. My dad’s going to get better.’

  ‘Couldn’t you stop with Auntie Betty?’

  ‘She’s dead an’ all. But there is Uncle Angus. Auntie Betty was Mum’s older sister and Uncle Angus is Dad’s brother.’

  ‘Couldn’t you stop with him?’

  ‘Huh. He lives miles away. We used to hear from him sometimes and Mrs Rostron says she’s in touch with him now. Anyroad, I don’t need to go and live with him. Dad’s going to get better and come home. I don’t like St Anthony’s, but it’s near where we used to live, so that’ll make it easy for Dad and me to find somewhere new to live. I’m not stupid. I know our old home is rented by another family now. But we can find somewhere nearby.’

  Aaron hoped so with all his heart, but realistically what were the chances of Mr Cropper returning to his son? He cast about for something to say that would be acceptable to Danny, but without providing false hope. Danny didn’t seem to require a reply. Perhaps he didn’t want one. Perhaps he was used to ignoring what he didn’t want to hear. He was watching a man in a flat cap, who was walking by with a folded newspaper under his arm. The silence lengthened between Danny and Aaron as the man went to another bench and took a seat.

  Danny looked at Aaron. More confidences? But Danny said in an oddly grown-up way, ‘I mustn’t keep you from your work, sir.’

  ‘And I mustn’t keep you from your tea. Come along.’ He slapped his palms on his knees and stood up. ‘Time to make tracks.’

  ‘Must I? Only…’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘On your feet, Cropper.’

  Aaron used a friendly voice, but didn’t get so much as a smile in return. Was Danny going to refuse to come with him? If so, he would throw the boy over his shoulder and carry him. He had let Danny get away with a certain amount, but there were limits. Danny’s mouth screwed briefly into a sulk, then he frowned. Finally he stood up. That little cleft in his chin made him look even younger.

  Aaron set off, Danny by his side. The boy glanced back. Aaron looked over his shoulder. Around the edge of the Green mature trees threw welcome pools of shade. Beyond the far end, over the road, stood the handsome lych-gate with its distinctive octagonal bell-tower, that guarded the entrance to the disused graveyard on the site of what had been the original St Clement’s Church. On the Green children played. Girls sat in the shade, stringing daisy chains. A young lady twirled a frilled parasol as she strolled in the company of an older gentleman with a handlebar moustache. The man in the flat cap rose from his bench and walked away.

  ‘What’s so interesting, Danny?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Danny.

  Chapter Fifteen

  MOLLY SAT AT her desk, writing up notes about the visits she had been on with Mrs Wardle. It wasn’t easy, when she disagreed with so much of what Mrs Wardle said, but she couldn’t give any indication of that in case Mrs Wardle asked to see what she had written. Warmth rose in her cheeks at the memory of the first time Mrs Wardle had stood over her, hand outstretched, demanding, ‘Give me that, Miss Watson. I wish to see it,’ as if she were a schoolgirl being pounced on for passing notes in class.

  The office was deathly quiet. It always was when the great lady herself was present. Behind Molly, Miss Cadman and Miss Byrne sat silently at their desks. She caught the occasional scratch of a pen. Mrs Wardle was seated behind her desk, running her eye over the minutes of a meeting she had attended, clicking her tongue every minute or two and scribbling in the margin. By the look of it, much of the next meeting would be devoted to matters arising and the committee members would be lucky to have much time over to attend to fresh business.

  What a relief to escape at dinnertime. Molly ate in the canteen, then went outside to sit in Albert Square. She was wearing a new drop-waisted dress of duck-egg blue linen, its hem a whole two inches shorter than anything she had dared wear before. Vivienne had helped her to make it.

  Vivienne. It felt good to be on first-name terms. Chummy. Even Miss Patience had taken to using their first names in private. It was because of Lucy. Her arrival had lightened the formal atmosphere in the house – not that you’d know it from observing Miss Hesketh. She was as starchy as ever.

  ‘Here you are.’ Vivienne dropped onto the bench beside her. ‘I’ve been looking for you. I called at St Anthony’s this morning and found them all at sixes and sevens. Have you met Miss Allan, the secretary? She’s caught shingles, poor old love, and is going to be off work for some weeks. They’re in need of administrative help.’

  ‘There are agencies, aren’t there, where offices can get temporary assistance?’

  ‘There are, but Mrs Rostron doesn’t want any old stopgap. Miss Allan has been at the orphanage longer than anyone and although her work doesn’t require her to have much to do with the children directly, she knows all about them – their family backgrounds and what have you. So I thought of you.’

  ‘Me?’ Molly’s hand flew to her chest. ‘I don’t know the children.’

  ‘You’ve already shown an interest by raising money for the May Day bash. Now you can step in and save the day, honing your new office skills in the process. Plus, you get to escape from Mrs Wardle’s clutches. Plus plus, you could learn a lot from Mrs Rostron that would stand you in good stead. I suggested you to her and she’d be glad to have you. What d’you say?’

  A dozen questions flashed through Molly’s mind. ‘What about my job here? I can’t give it up.’

  ‘I’m sure the Board of Health would be pleased to assist a worthy institution like St Anthony’s, especially at no inconvenience to itself, since you don’t have your own workload yet.’

  Molly laughed. ‘What a joy to be free of Mrs Wardle – and a joy to get to know the orphanage better. I’ll start to build up some expertise at last.’

  ‘Mrs Rostron is going to write to Mr Taylor with her request – in fact, her letter will already be in the post; and she’s writing to Mrs Wardle as a courtesy, since she knows you’re currently attached to her. They’ll receive their letters this afternoon.’

  Molly bounced a knuckle thoughtfully against her mouth. ‘If Mrs Wardle says no, Mr Taylor will never stand up to her. If she says yes, she’ll make it seem like all her own idea and expect me to be eternally grateful to her for the opportunity.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Vivienne agreed. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  Shortly after three, Vivienne sauntered into the office. Glancing up with feigned casualness, Molly caught her tiny nod. Slipping from her seat, she left the room and tapped on Mr Taylor’s door. According to Miss Cadman, when he was first appointed he used to leave his door wide open so as to be available at all times to the staff, shutting it only when he was in conference, but since Mrs Wardle had moved herself into the department, he kept his door permanently shut.

  ‘Hiding,’ sniffed Miss Cadman, ‘when what he should really do is put her in her place.’

  ‘Come,’ called Mr Taylor. ‘Ah – Miss Watson.’ Was that relief in his bright blue eyes?

  ‘Please may I have a word?’

  ‘Of course. Take a seat.’

  Molly closed the door and sat facing him. In Mrs Wardle’s absence, he was a different person. Without the scared rabbit look, you could understand what the interview panel had seen in him. He was serious, informed and well-intentioned. If only Mrs Wardle didn’t put the wind up him, he might make a real difference.

  She explained about
Miss Allan. ‘Mrs Rostron intends to ask the Board of Health if St Anthony’s may have me on loan. It would give me the chance to learn something of how the orphanage runs and about the children and their backgrounds, which would broaden my knowledge and benefit me when I return here.’

  ‘It isn’t the Board of Health’s duty to provide staff to other organisations. It could, however, offer you valuable training, Miss Watson, as well as assisting St Anthony’s in its time of need. Perhaps we can accommodate Mrs Rostron.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Taylor.’ She held a joyful tingle at bay: it wasn’t safe to feel anticipation yet. ‘There’s just one thing: Mrs Wardle.’

  The scared rabbit look appeared on Mr Taylor’s face. He cleared his throat, a nervous sound.

  ‘Dear me, yes. You’re under her wing at present, aren’t you? Maybe…’

  That thought mustn’t be allowed to run its course. ‘Perhaps you could write her a memorandum, explaining that you’ve assigned me to other duties.’

  She gazed at him expectantly. Dear heaven, did she have to word it for him?

  There was a tap at the door and Vivienne stuck her head in, not a moment too soon.

  ‘Pardon the interruption, Mr Taylor. I met the post-trolley in the corridor and I’ve got our office correspondence. There’s one for you personally. I think the handwriting is Mrs Rostron’s.’

  ‘Thank you. Is, um, is Mrs Wardle at her desk, do you know?’

  ‘At the moment she is, but she’s going out presently and won’t be back until tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, right, well… A memorandum might be in order, then. I, um, wouldn’t wish to distract or delay her if she’s preparing to go out.’

  Back in the main office, after Mrs Wardle had departed, Mr Taylor appeared, memorandum in hand. He placed it on Mrs Wardle’s blotter and backed away.

  ‘Miss Cadman, if memory serves, you’re going to the infirmary first thing tomorrow morning to meet the new lady almoner. I’ll accompany you. Mrs Atwood, would you kindly make a note in the diary that I’ll be unavailable all morning?’

  As he left, Vivienne rose and went to the table where the diary was kept and made the required entry. Then she delved in her pocket, bringing out an envelope.

  ‘Whoops.’ Her blue-grey eyes twinkled. ‘I forgot to give this to Mrs Wardle. Never mind. I’ll leave it on her blotter and she’ll see it tomorrow.’ She pretend-sighed. ‘She won’t discover you’ve gone until after you’ve left for pastures new, Miss Watson. What a shame she won’t have the chance to wish you luck.’

  Molly arrived early at St Anthony’s, determined to make a good impression. In her handbag was a new notebook, which she had purchased before going home yesterday. She had shown it to Dora last night when they went for a walk together, explaining her intention to write up all the information necessary for her Board of Health colleagues to make a better fist of assisting, not just St Anthony’s, but orphanages in general. Upon her return to the Board of Health, perhaps there would be a meeting at which she would be invited to share her findings.

  One of the double-gates stood open and she drew her shoulders back as she set foot in the grounds of her new place of work, but her pleasure was tempered by the sight of the building and what it represented. What a pity the orphanage wasn’t a more attractive place. Its once red brick had darkened almost to black beneath coat upon coat of soot; and those ground-floor windows set so high up in the walls guaranteed that no one, not even an adult, could possibly see out without a stepladder. It was the way schools were built, only it was worse than that, because this was a home for children.

  Was home the right word? Did the orphans enjoy the warm, comforting feeling of being at home or was this merely somewhere that kept them dry until they were booted out once they were old enough to fend for themselves?

  ‘Morning.’

  Startled, she spun round. Mr Abrams was by the wall, standing in a pool of clippings and twigs, a pair of lopping shears in his hands. There was an ease and confidence in his stance, as if physical work came naturally to him. Twisting stems, some of them as thick as your fist, were heaped in a pile behind him. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up. His shirt was collarless, the top button open, and not just the top button but the next one as well. Her eyes were drawn to a glimpse of chest between his neckerchief and shirt-front. She lifted her gaze to his face; his eyes were nut-brown. Having grown up among builders and labourers, Molly was accustomed to the sight of working men smeared with brick dust and paint and smelling of grime, but the orphanage caretaker sported bits of ivy and crumbs of faded soil and he smelled of earth and greenery and fresh air.

  He pushed his cloth cap to the back of his head, revealing thick dark hair with the suggestion of a curl in it, and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, causing dirt and sweat to mingle in a grubby smear of honest toil. Molly’s fingers twitched, wanting to wipe the mark away. Ridiculous!

  ‘Good morning.’ How stiff she sounded. ‘I’m—’

  ‘Miss Watson. Yes, I know. And I’m—’

  ‘Mr Abrams, the caretaker. You introduced yourself when you came to Upton’s.’

  ‘Morning. Lovely day.’ A dark-haired girl of around eighteen came through the gates. Under her shawl she wore a long-sleeved dress of dark blue beneath a white bibbed apron. ‘You must be the new lady – Miss Watson. I’m Carmel, one of the nursemaids. Shall I show you where to go?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  As Carmel led her away, Molly looked over her shoulder to say goodbye to the caretaker, but he was already working on the ivy, squeezing the shears together to cut out a substantial branch. Annoyance twisted inside Molly’s chest. If he had waited just one moment, instead of plunging back into his work, she could have said a polite goodbye. Now she looked rude and it was too late to do anything about it.

  ‘This is the girls’ playground,’ Carmel said, ‘and this,’ as they walked around a sticking-out wing of the building to where the maypole dancing had taken place, ‘is the boys’ playground. You never get girls playing here, but the boys are forever going to and fro through the girls’ playground, because that’s the way to the BB.’

  ‘BB?’ Was this the first piece of information for her notebook?

  ‘The bog block.’ Carmel pulled a face. ‘The outside privies. Sorry, miss, but that’s what the children call it. They’re not meant to, of course.’

  ‘Oh.’ So much for that. ‘You said you’re a nursemaid. Does that mean you look after the babies?’

  ‘Bless you, miss, you don’t know much, do you? The posh folk from fifty years ago who built this place all had money and grand houses and servants to do their bidding. Their children were looked after by nannies, helped by nursemaids, so that’s what we’re called: nursemaids, because we look after the kids. It’s got nowt to do with how old they are. We do the housework an’ all, when they’re at school.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We work in shifts. There have to be people here all the time, obviously. There’s a dormitory we sleep in when we stop overnight. Mrs Rostron has her own bedroom for when she’s on night duty and there’s another bedroom that’s used by the other senior members of staff. That means them as is in charge of the nursemaids.’

  ‘Don’t tell me: they’re called nannies.’

  ‘You catch on quick. I’ll give you that.’

  They approached the stone steps that led to the main door. Inside, a young girl hovered in the corridor. She wore a grey serge skirt and white blouse and her mousy-brown hair was fastened into a bun, several hairpins anchoring the sides in position where presumably wisps would otherwise work themselves free.

  She bobbed a little curtsey. ‘Miss Watson? I’m to take you to Mrs Rostron’s office, if you please.’

  ‘I’ll leave you in Ginny’s capable hands,’ said Carmel as she left them.

  Molly smiled at the girl. ‘Thank you, but there’s no need. I know the way.’

  Ginny’s eyes widened and her top teeth caught at her lips. ‘Oh n
o, miss. Mrs Rostron told me to. This way, if you please.’

  She darted ahead, as if scared Molly might ignore her and take the lead. Round the corner and up the long flight of stairs they went, then around the head of the staircase and along the dark, narrow passage. Molly wanted to pause and drink in the sight of Miss Allan’s, now her, desk and cupboards, in the gas-lit alcove, but Ginny was already tapping on the door at the end.

  Molly followed her into Mrs Rostron’s office, nearly falling over her as Ginny dipped her knee to the woman behind the desk. Mrs Rostron raised an eyebrow as they righted themselves.

  ‘That will be all, Virginia. Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Rostron.’ Ginny turned to go.

  ‘Thank you, Ginny,’ Molly said quickly. She had already been uncivil to Mr Abrams, albeit inadvertently. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.

  ‘You may use my coat-stand to hang up your coat and hat,’ said Mrs Rostron. ‘Please be seated. You seemed fazed by Virginia’s curtsey. All the girls will curtsey to you, and the boys will bow their heads, the first time they see you each day. They curtsey to me, to the nannies and now to you.’

  ‘Goodness. I’ll try to get used to it.’

  ‘You won’t merely try, Miss Watson. You shall succeed. I suggest setting you to work immediately at Miss Allan’s desk, so you can begin to accustom yourself to your clerical duties. After school, I’ll assign a pair of the fourteens to show you round the building.’

  ‘The fourteens?’

  ‘Yes. When St Anthony’s was founded, it took children to the age of twelve. Then the school leaving age rose to thirteen and St Anthony’s was required to keep orphans for an extra year. After the war, the government in its wisdom increased the school leaving age to fourteen, so now we accommodate still older children – though you can hardly call them children at that age.’

  ‘That must put a strain on the bedrooms and so forth.’

  Mrs Rostron nodded. ‘Good. You are able to think things through. And to reply to your point, no, it doesn’t put a strain on the dormitories: don’t refer to them as bedrooms, please. Our building is only so big and we can house only so many children.’