The Surplus Girls' Orphans

by Polly Heron

  ‘What brings you here?’ …to spoil my perfect afternoon.

  ‘The local orphanage,’ said Lawrence.

  ‘Ah yes, you’ve taken an interest in it, haven’t you, Evelyn?’ Prudence let their surprise stretch out for a moment before putting them out of their misery. ‘I believe you met Miss Watson, the temporary secretary. She’s one of our pupil-lodgers. She asked if you were any relation.’

  ‘An agreeable girl. I’m sure the tuition she receives from you will stand her in good stead.’

  ‘Praise? You must want something.’ She looked at Lawrence.

  Unabashed, he crossed one leg over the other, making himself at home in Pa’s old armchair. ‘I do, as it happens. It would be inconvenient for Evelyn to have much to do with St Anthony’s, because of our living a few miles distant.’

  ‘Then why go there in the first place? Oh, don’t tell me. She was doing a spot of toadying on your behalf.’

  ‘You employ such a disagreeable turn of phrase at times.’ The way Evelyn lifted her chin and sniffed might have suggested something in the oven was burning. ‘I was most certainly not toadying. I was invited to go there in the company of Mrs Wardle, who is well known for her good works.’

  ‘Mrs Wardle and Evelyn are friends,’ said Lawrence, ‘and I don’t mind saying that Mr Wardle is a useful fellow to know.’

  Wardle, Wardle… ‘Oh yes,’ Prudence said, ‘you found him most useful when Pa secretly wrote his new will, leaving everything to you.’

  ‘That’s beside the point. Diggory Wardle—’

  ‘Diggory? What sort of name is Diggory?’

  Lawrence’s jaw set. ‘He knows many of the councillors. He sits on various committees and is chairman of more than one of them. He is au fait with many charitable initiatives.’

  ‘Does he know he’s going to help you become an alderman?’ Her honeyed tone was calculated to get on Lawrence’s wick.

  ‘As I say, he’s a useful fellow to know. I’m pleased that Evelyn has been invited to take an interest in his wife’s charitable concerns.’

  ‘I bet you are,’ Prudence murmured.

  Lawrence threw a dark look her way. ‘The fact that this may be of benefit to me in the long run is an unexpected bonus.’

  Unexpected? Just whom did he think he was fooling?

  ‘It is gratifying when one’s womenfolk support one’s ambitions.’

  ‘But Evelyn won’t be supporting them, will she, as you live too far away.’ Dear lord, she knew what was coming next.

  ‘We’ll make a donation in the form of offering to pay for new pinafores or something,’ said Lawrence, ‘but I still require to be represented in the orphanage on a regular basis.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Prudence said obstinately.

  Lawrence looked her straight in the eye.

  Just before the hour of eleven struck on the grandfather clock in the gloomy passage downstairs, Molly set her paperwork aside, anchoring it beneath a glass paperweight, and hurried down to help at morning milk time. Since taking Carmel to one side to apologise for getting swept up in Mrs Wardle’s wake, she had been accepted by the nursemaids, much to her relief.

  At home, when she had remarked on getting along well with the staff, Miss Hesketh had frowned.

  ‘I wasn’t aware that there were other clerical workers at St Anthony’s.’

  ‘There aren’t. I meant the nursemaids.’

  Miss Hesketh had raised a single thin eyebrow. ‘Be careful, Miss Watson. You have a position to maintain. You aren’t there to fraternise with lowly members of staff.’

  How old fashioned. Molly had looked away lest her face should betray her. Obviously, a secretary in a company dominated by men would have to watch her Ps and Qs to ensure there was no familiarity, but surely it was different in a setting like St Anthony’s.

  At any rate, she didn’t intend to be stand-offish. She had checked with Mrs Rostron that joining the nursemaids and children at specified times was acceptable.

  ‘I don’t imagine Miss Allan felt a need to do so,’ she explained, ‘but I believe it would help me understand St Anthony’s better.’

  Mrs Rostron had given her a considering look and tapped the end of her pen on her blotter. ‘Very well. You may join the smalls for morning milk and you may occasionally assist in supervising the children at their homework, your other duties permitting.’

  Arriving in the dining room now for morning milk, she greeted the smalls. Now that they were used to her, they brightened at her arrival. A couple of tots came in a waddling rush to fling their chubby arms round her legs.

  She bent down to unpeel their fingers. Her arms ached with the need to scoop them up and cuddle them, but it was against the rules.

  ‘They have to be treated all the same,’ Carmel had told her. ‘If you hug one, the whole lot might come swarming at you, wanting to be held, and then what would you do?’

  Hug them all, of course – but she couldn’t say so.

  ‘Stand up, stand up,’ the nursemaids encouraged the little ones. ‘What do we do when we see Miss Watson?’

  The wobbly attempts at bows and curtseys turned Molly’s heart to wax.

  ‘And what do we say? Good morning…’

  ‘Good mor-ning, Miss Wat-son.’

  It was like being a teacher. Now that the formalities were out of the way, she could sit down. At her first appearance at morning milk, she had attempted to help pour, only to have Nurse Eva remove the jug from her hands.

  ‘You mustn’t, miss. You’re above such things.’

  Now Eva handed her a cup of tea while Carmel and the others handed round beakers of milk to the smalls, who sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor.

  ‘I’m gasping for this.’ Carmel plonked herself onto a chair. Reaching for her tea, she drank deeply. ‘Eh, I needed that.’

  ‘Busy morning?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Always.’ Leaning forward, she eyed the children in mock-exasperation. ‘This lot run us ragged.’

  The children giggled, milky moustaches on show.

  ‘What about you, miss?’ Eva asked. ‘You’ve been with us a week now. Have you settled in?’

  ‘I think so. It wasn’t so easy to start with, not least because folk thought I was Mrs Wardle’s handmaid, but that’s behind me now. I’m learning more every day.’

  ‘Starting to feel part of the furniture, eh?’ said Eva.

  ‘I started another job as well on Saturday afternoon – not paid work,’ Molly added quickly. ‘Part of the course I’m doing is that I have to gain experience of relevant work, so Miss Patience Hesketh finds suitable jobs for us, just for three or four hours a week.’

  ‘Even though you’ve got this job here?’ asked Carmel. ‘What work is it?’

  ‘Clerical work in a hotel.’

  ‘Johnson Four,’ said Eva, ‘don’t slurp your milk. It’s not polite.’

  As much as Molly felt she was settling in, there were things that still gave her a jolt. Hearing the boys addressed by their surnames was one of them. It was one thing to call the school-age lads by their surnames – but the smalls? It didn’t feel right.

  The doorbell clanged. A minute later, Nurse Louise, who was on housework duty, came down the couple of steps into the dining room. Crossing to the group, she lowered her voice so the smalls couldn’t hear.

  ‘Her majesty’s arrived.’

  Soft groans greeted this.

  Molly stood up. ‘I’d better get back upstairs.’

  ‘Aye, quick smart.’ Carmel gave her a sympathetic smile.

  As Molly rounded the newel post at the top of the stairs, Mrs Wardle was in front of the alcove, her hand hovering over the paperweight. Was she about to read the documents?

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Wardle.’ She went to stand behind her desk, feeling like the last line of defence before the castle was stormed. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘Where have you been? You shouldn’t be away from your post.’

  ‘I’ve been at morning mi
lk.’ Not that it’s any of your business, she added in her head.

  ‘At morning milk?’ The berries on Mrs Wardle’s hat trembled indignantly. ‘You forget yourself, Miss Watson. The Board of Health has released you for the purpose of attending to clerical duties, not to racket about with the orphans.’

  ‘I have Mrs Rostron’s permission,’ Molly said stiffly. It was all she could do not to fold her arms. ‘She wishes me to acquaint myself with the daily life of St Anthony’s.’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Wardle sniffed so deeply Molly could have sworn the pelt rippled on her fox-fur.

  The office door opened and Mrs Rostron came along the passage.

  ‘Mrs Wardle, this is an unexpected pleasure. Miss Watson, please would you type this report as a matter of priority?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Rostron.’ Molly took the densely written sheets of paper.

  ‘Miss Watson tells me she joins the children for morning milk,’ said Mrs Wardle.

  ‘Indeed. It was her own idea. I approve.’

  ‘Her own idea? Well, that doesn’t surprise me.’ Oh no. Was she about to lambaste Molly for acting beyond her remit? ‘That’ll be my training, you know. I showed her the necessity of thinking things through carefully. It is gratifying to see her using her initiative.’

  Molly’s nails bit into her palms. How dare Mrs Wardle take the credit? Was Mrs Rostron fooled?

  The superintendent merely said, ‘Miss Watson is giving satisfaction. What brings you here this morning, Mrs Wardle?’

  ‘I’d like to make an appointment. I wish to discuss the Cropper boy.’

  ‘Again? Very well. I have a free half hour now, as it happens. Daniel Cropper’s file, please, Miss Watson.’

  Molly retrieved it, her skin prickling at the memory of wrongly accusing the boy of theft. Did the others remember that too?

  They disappeared into the office, closing the door. Molly got on with typing the report. Her typewriting had improved with practice, thanks to the extra time she put in at home each evening, clacking away on one of the business school’s two machines after lessons had finished.

  Presently, the office door opened. Mrs Rostron accompanied Mrs Wardle as far as the alcove.

  ‘I’ve signed these.’ Mrs Rostron handed Molly a couple of letters. ‘Would you post them at once, please? Perhaps you would like to show Mrs Wardle out.’

  ‘Of course.’ Was it obvious her teeth were gritted?

  With the two of them waiting for her, there was no chance to titivate in front of the looking-glass. She pulled the cloche into position, smoothed her hair and hoped for the best. Mrs Wardle preceded her down the stairs, turning to her at the bottom.

  ‘What is your opinion of the Cropper boy, Miss Watson?’

  Molly remembered the last time she had expressed an opinion in Mrs Wardle’s presence. ‘I can’t say I know him.’

  ‘You were quick enough to blacken his name over that business with the missing money. Well, you’re wise to keep that one at arm’s length. He’s a runaway, as you know.’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, there haven’t been any incidents recently.’

  ‘He does appear to have settled, that’s true.’ Mrs Wardle sounded grudging. ‘Not that that means anything. It would be a mistake to let our guard down.’

  Distrustful creature. Why couldn’t she think well of the boy, be glad he seemed to have accepted his lot? Molly opened the heavy front door. Mrs Wardle swanned out. Molly followed her down the steps onto the playground. There was something sad about a playground that was empty of children.

  ‘I firmly believe,’ said Mrs Wardle, ‘that it would be in Cropper’s best interests to be sent to live with his uncle in Cumberland. It’s where he’ll end up anyway, when his father dies, so why wait? The end of the summer term is fast approaching. It’s a good time to move him on.’

  ‘Is his father going to die?’

  ‘Almost certainly. Poor people do. One could call it a waste of money to send them to the sanatorium when they have so little hope of recovery, but there are charities that fund these things, no matter how ill-advisedly.’

  ‘Are you suggesting the poor aren’t worth helping?’

  ‘Charities and the authorities have limited resources. It behoves those of us in positions of influence to ensure that funds are spent in the most appropriate manner.’

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘That’s what? Unfair? It’s the way of the world. Would you rather funds were squandered? As an employee of the Board of Health, you have a duty to understand these things. Take the Cropper boy, for example. Mother dead, father as good as. Despatch him to the uncle, say I, and be done with it. While Cropper remains here, there is the constant threat that he might run away again. He may not have made any attempts recently, but don’t let that blind you. He’s a naughty boy and naughty boys don’t change. Furthermore, while he’s here, he’s taking up a space in the orphanage – a space that could be offered to an orphan in need.’

  ‘I consider Daniel Cropper to be in need.’ That poor lad, separated from his surviving parent. He must be beside himself.

  ‘In need of what, Miss Watson?’ Mrs Wardle stopped in the gateway and turned to her. ‘A parent and a home? Both await him in Cumberland. He could start his new life and another child could be brought to St Anthony’s. What possible objection can you raise to that?’

  Put like that – none.

  Chapter Eighteen

  FRIDAY LOOKED SET to become Molly’s favourite day. It saw her at her busiest, concentrating her hardest. Friday was pay day and she had to check everyone’s hours against the rosters and calculate their wages and deductions, filling in the relevant paperwork and inserting the money into small square brown envelopes, each one carefully labelled with the recipient’s name.

  It took all morning and part of the afternoon. Then came the task, as pleasant as it was responsible, of distributing the wage packets. For this, she had a leather bag on a long strap to carry everything around the building. Nannies and nursemaids, cook and kitchen maids, each had to sign for her wages and place her envelope, in Molly’s presence, into her locker; and Molly had to have her own wages checked by Mrs Rostron. Later, the staff not on duty today would pop in between five and six to collect theirs.

  When she finished handing out the wages to the women on duty, there was one person left on her list. The children were back from school now, those of them that came home at half past three. Some of the older ones were at their half-time jobs, which they wouldn’t leave until five or six. At this time of day, homework was under way in the dining room while the remainder of the children were kept outside out of the way, apart from a handful who had been chosen to take part in a new activity.

  As Molly opened the front door, Miss Patience and Miss Kirby came towards her across the playground, weaving their way around the edge of a game of cricket.

  Molly smiled in greeting. ‘Are you here to read to the children? It’s good of you to volunteer.’

  ‘I’m here to read to them,’ said Miss Patience, ‘but Miss Kirby is going to get them to read to her. She used to be a teacher, you know.’

  ‘Come in,’ said Molly. ‘Nurse Carmel and Nurse Philomena have taken the children to one of the common rooms.’ She hailed one of the boys, who was waiting his turn to bat. ‘Sullivan! Please take our visitors to the junior common room.’

  As they disappeared indoors, it was her turn to make her way around the edge of the cricket match. It was another hot afternoon. She pushed her hair behind her ears. In the girls’ playground, children were helping Mr Abrams clear the ivy.

  ‘You’re doing a grand job,’ she told them. She had been shy of addressing the children at first, but now it came naturally. ‘You’ve cleared the whole of the wall beyond the gates.’

  ‘They’re not bad little workers,’ said Mr Abrams, ‘apart from this one.’ He flicked off a lad’s cap and tousled his hair. ‘This one’s bone idle.’

  ‘Sir!’ the boy protested, but he was o
bviously delighted.

  Seeing the wages-bag, Mr Abrams nodded. To the kids, he said, ‘That’s it for today. Thanks, everyone. Boys, clean your penknives like I showed you. Cropper, will you gather the blades and secateurs into the box and bring it to my workshop?’

  Molly walked with him to the workshop, which was tucked away in a corner at the back of the grounds. Grounds! That sounded like the orphanage stood in rolling parkland instead of a tarmacked corner plot.

  ‘You have a way with you, talking to the children,’ Molly observed.

  ‘A bit of individual attention goes a long way.’

  ‘What about treating them all the same?’ A twist of annoyance clenched unexpectedly inside her. Why should Mr Abrams get away with being different?

  He shrugged. ‘It’s different for me.’ Had he read her mind? ‘I don’t work with them the way everyone else does. The way I see it, the more interaction they have with adults the better.’

  ‘And your interaction is matey and jokey while the rest of us obey the rules.’

  They had reached his workshop. A long, low building, it stood in front of the high walls at the rear of St Anthony’s, not far from where the dustbins and pig-bins were located at the back of the kitchen.

  Mr Abrams turned the key in the lock, but instead of opening the door, he looked at her. She hadn’t been this close to him before. His nut-brown eyes were flecked with gold and there were two vertical lines between his eyebrows. His frown now showed how deeply they were gouged – a legacy of the war?

  ‘You make it sound as if I dress up as a clown and throw custard pies. A spot of larking about does no harm.’ He pushed open the door, but didn’t stand back for her to enter. ‘If Mrs Rostron raises no objection to my conduct, I don’t see that it’s your place to do so.’

  Her ears burned. Automatically she lifted her hand to pull her hair forwards and hide them – or would that merely draw attention to her discomfort? What had made her take exception to Mr Abrams’s way with the children? To tell the truth, she admired it. She should be glad – she was glad that the orphans, surrounded by female staff, had a decent man on the edge of their lives. Masculine influence could make such a difference; not the strict, nose-to-the-grindstone influence of their schoolmasters, but a kinder attitude that bolstered their home lives.