The Surplus Girls' Orphans

by Polly Heron

  ‘Took it upon herself to take him, you mean,’ Nurse Eva had retorted, ‘against all the rules. Maybe she did more harm than good. Maybe that visit is the reason Cropper’s taken it so badly. Maybe it stirred up all his old memories and feelings about his dad.’

  ‘Memories and feelings that would otherwise have stayed buried, you mean? I think it’s obvious they weren’t buried. He muddled through with his mum for all that time; then he suffered the huge shock of losing her, which meant his dad was all he had left. Why else do you think he made all those attempts at running away when he first came here? He loved and missed his father and his mum’s death made those feelings all the stronger. For what it’s worth, I think Miss Watson did the right thing.’

  ‘Do you indeed?’ Nurse Eva raised her eyebrows at him. Had he spoken too warmly in defence of Molly? It was too late to take it back – and he wouldn’t if he could.

  What was her secret from the war? He swung his legs round and sat up, easing his shoulders as he placed his feet on the floor. His muscles quivered – and not just from being in a easier position. Anger stirred within him at the memory of the ex-fiancé being ready to blurt it out. No wonder Molly had skedaddled. He had wanted to run after her but it had been more important to make sure the ex-fiancé – Norris – hadn’t done so. Had Norris expected him to lap up the juicy details? What an oaf. What a – it was an old-fashioned word, but what a cad. Fancy threatening a lady in that way, after she had entrusted her secret to you. Throwing that punch had been deeply satisfying. Norris would have a shiner as a souvenir for several days to come.

  Aaron stood up and stretched, releasing the last few twinges from lying in such an awkward position. If only he could have gone to see Molly today after work. He had wanted to, had spent most of the day anxiously looking forward to reassuring her that he hadn’t listened to her secret and had no intention of pressing her on the subject, but that had proved impossible in the end, because of bringing young Danny home with him.

  It turned out that, since being brought back on Saturday, the poor lad had been roaming St Anthony’s at night, unable to settle or sleep and, while there had been a certain sympathy for him, that hadn’t stopped him getting into hot water. That was the trouble with having started his St Anthony’s career as a persistent runaway. He had got himself a reputation. However compassionate the nannies and nursemaids in general might feel about his bereavement – and Nurse Eva’s crisp opinion wasn’t typical – there was an underlying feeling of Oh no, not Cropper again when he took to trailing round the building in the middle of the night, having to be followed and returned to bed time after time and then not staying where he was put.

  Aaron had gone to see Mrs Rostron.

  ‘Why not let him come home with me to Soapsuds Cottage at the end of each day? No offence to the ladies working here, but it might help him to have the company of a man. He and I rub along quite well.’

  ‘I have observed you with the children when they help with the ivy,’ Mrs Rostron had replied in a dry voice. ‘It seems to me that you rub along with most of them, as you call it. That in itself isn’t a reason to single out Cropper.’

  ‘Aye, well, there’s more to it than that.’ And he had been obliged to explain about bringing Danny back from Victoria Station on May Day.

  ‘So he wasn’t playing truant from school? It was another of his attempts to run away. I am most displeased to think that you misled me – downright lied to me, in fact.’

  ‘I apologise for that, but I reckoned the boy had landed in the soup enough times already and I wanted to prevent it from happening again.’

  ‘By lying to me, his guardian. You are a member of my staff, Mr Abrams. If I cannot trust you and rely on you, I will dismiss you. Is that clear? Are there any other deceptions you wish to tell me about?’

  ‘It was just that one time.’

  ‘Hm. One time is too many. That, however, is beside the point just now. Your idea of taking Daniel Cropper home with you at night, as a way of helping him through this difficult time, is worth considering, not merely for his sake, but for that of the other children and the staff, who are on edge in case of more nocturnal activities. Besides, if he has a few nights in an ordinary dwelling, it will make his transition into his uncle’s home less of an event.’

  ‘Have you sent for the uncle?’

  She gave him a look that warned him not to push his luck by asking questions.

  So here Danny was now. Maybe getting him out of the orphanage had been the right thing to do, or maybe he was just plain worn out, but – for now at least – he was dead to the world. Either that or he was lying awake fretting. Aaron clicked his tongue. Should he check?

  He had left a lamp burning low in case Danny should take it into his head to go for a wander. Not that there was anywhere much to wander to in a two-up two-down. Aaron had opted to sleep downstairs just in case Danny had tried to leave the cottage. Better safe than sorry. Otherwise he would have slept on the floor in the other upstairs room, which he used for storing books, tools and the small pieces he was working on. He had a dream about Soapsuds Cottage – that one day it would become Soapsuds House. His elderly neighbour, Mrs Mulvey, was possibly going to move in with her daughter Hetty’s family. If she did, would it be possible for Aaron to take over her house and have the pair of two-up two-downs converted into a four-up four-down, just right for a family?

  He stood at the foot of the tight little spiral staircase. Danny had been enchanted when he saw it. When Aaron told him, ‘I’m pleased you like it. I built it,’ the lad’s face had shone with surprise before a new respect had settled on him.

  Aaron put his foot quietly on the bottom tread and made his way up to stand in the bedroom doorway, keeping to one side, so that if Danny woke, there wouldn’t be a huge shadow looming over him; but there was no danger of that. The boy was out for the count, limbs flung in all directions, like a starfish. Aaron couldn’t help smiling.

  It was raining hard and the room had cooled considerably. Aaron stepped across and pulled the window shut, fastening it softly. The curtain was damp against his arm. He had left the curtains open on purpose so Danny wouldn’t be in pitch darkness.

  Danny stirred, muttered something. Aaron stilled and waited. Danny flipped over onto his side, knees bending, legs curling up. When he was certain Danny wasn’t going to wake, Aaron returned to the doorway, unable to resist looking back. There was something special and deeply moving about watching a child sleeping; something that normally only a father would be privileged to do.

  He went back downstairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  PRUDENCE THREW OPEN her bedroom curtains. Her room was on the side of the house, her view, across two side-passages, that of the side of next door’s house, its light-grey pebble-dash now darkened to charcoal after a night of heavy rain, which hadn’t let up with the morning. The sky was dark, swollen with heavy purple clouds. It was going to be one of those days when it didn’t get properly light, the sort of day one associated more with winter than summer.

  She went downstairs. Until a few weeks ago, she and Patience used to carry their bedside electric lamps downstairs every morning and stow them away tidily in the cupboard under the stairs, an echo of the way they had carried their night-time oil-lamps downstairs every morning. It had been when their first pupil-lodgers had questioned this practice that Prudence, feeling prickly with foolishness, had called a halt to it. It was so easy to carry on doing things just because one had always done them. She was in her fifties now – her early fifties, her very early fifties, Patience would have said. Poor Patience was dreading entering her own fifth decade. Why waste time dreading what couldn’t be avoided?

  Why indeed? Not that that stopped the feeling of heaviness inside her as she contemplated what she had to do today.

  Being challenged by Mrs Atwood didn’t help.

  ‘Could I have a private word?’ asked Mrs Atwood.

  ‘Come into the sitting room.’


  Prudence led the way in. It occurred to her to remain standing to show she had no intention of allowing this conversation to last long – well, it couldn’t anyway, since they both had to go to work – but she dismissed the impulse as unworthy. It was the kind of thing Lawrence might do.

  She sat in her usual place, knees and ankles together, back straight. Mrs Atwood was wearing her olive-green dress. She always dressed smartly, though not in a way Prudence quite approved of for work. A white blouse and dark skirt had always been good enough for her – indeed, for generations of office women. But these new younger women…

  ‘What did you want to say?’ she asked. Having the first word could be as important as having the last.

  ‘Do you still wish me to find a place for girls who are in trouble?’

  ‘A respectable place, yes; a place where the girls are of a certain class. I believe such places exist.’

  ‘I’m sure they do, though I’ve never been asked to find one before. The people I normally deal with…’ She let the words trail away.

  ‘Do you doubt your ability to find one?’ Prudence employed a sharp tone.

  ‘Of course not. I simply wished to find out if you are sure about this course of action.’

  She bristled. ‘You clearly have something to say on the subject, Mrs Atwood.’ She directed a hard stare at the young woman, expecting her to look away – people normally did.

  But Mrs Atwood didn’t. ‘I should like to know more of what you intend.’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Pardon me, but you have made it my business, at least up to a point, by seeking my assistance in finding an appropriate home for fallen girls.’ Mrs Atwood spoke with her habitual quiet confidence, the manner which Prudence usually thought well of, but which in the present circumstances was annoying.

  ‘Is your assistance dependent upon my explaining myself to your satisfaction?’

  Mrs Atwood’s eyes flickered and a hint of colour tinted her cheeks. ‘Certainly not, Miss Hesketh. I’ve agreed to help you and I will.’

  Prudence considered her. There was a lot more to Mrs Vivienne Atwood than quiet confidence. She was a caring person as well. She had a warm heart; not a soft, soppy heart like Patience’s, unable to resist any lame dog that crossed her path, but a heart both sensitive and sensible – a cross between Prudence’s own and Patience’s.

  ‘Were I to keep Lucy here, it would undoubtedly cause damage between myself and my brother. Our relationship is governed by various considerations and those, Mrs Atwood, really are none of your business.’ Or had Lucy blabbed to the p.g.s? The little minx. Surely she had greater family loyalty than that. ‘Were Lucy to remain under this roof, I should be obliged to send for her parents and there would be uproar, which would benefit no one; whereas by removing her, I can provide her with breathing space.’

  ‘Thinking time.’

  ‘Just for a day or two.’

  ‘Shall you remain with her in the home?’

  ‘Good lord, no. I have obligations here.’

  ‘So you’ll leave her all alone. You’d do that to her?’

  ‘I hope this isn’t the way in which you speak to those people to whom it is your job to give guidance and assistance. I rather expected the new Board of Health to be above making people feel guilty or inadequate.’

  The barb hit home. Mrs Atwood pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘Believe me, Miss Hesketh, no one could describe you as inadequate.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I should feel guilty?’

  Instead of glancing away, Mrs Atwood looked directly at her. ‘Do you?’

  ‘What a bizarre suggestion; almost offensive, if I may say so. Why might I feel guilty? I’m doing my utmost to contain the situation. As to Lucy’s being left alone, she’ll be in the company of other girls in a similar predicament and staff who presumably have heard it all before.’

  ‘And that will give her something to think about, will it?’ Mrs Atwood made no effort to dampen the challenge in her voice.

  ‘At present, all she seems to think about is concealing the father’s identity, so yes, I hope it will.’

  ‘How can you be so…’

  ‘Be careful how you finish that question, Mrs Atwood.’

  ‘So clinical.’

  ‘Would you prefer hysteria?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Her brow clouded and she shifted uncomfortably.

  Prudence had had enough. It was time to put an end to this and go to work.

  ‘Allow me to sum up, Mrs Atwood, after which this discussion will be at an end. I will send Lucy away for what you are pleased to call thinking time. This weekend I’ll have the difficult task of informing her parents of her condition. I’ll also explain that I’ve taken the liberty of booking her into a suitable home, where I hope she’ll appreciate the wisdom of naming the father. Moreover, Lucy’s absence from here will protect her from her parents’ initial rage and distress. It’s the most I can do for her.’

  Mrs Atwood almost spoke – almost, but not quite. But she didn’t need to speak. It was obvious what she meant.

  Is it?

  ‘What my brother and sister-in-law decide to do after that will be up to them. I should be obliged if you could make your enquiries this morning and meet me as soon after midday as possible beside the statue of Prince Albert to hand over the information. That will enable me to place the necessary telephone calls before returning to my desk by one o’clock.’ She came to her feet. ‘And now, Mrs Atwood, I see there should just be time for me to have breakfast before leaving for the office. Shall you partake also or would you prefer to stay in here, dwelling on my shortcomings? I beg your pardon. That was uncalled for.’

  Mrs Atwood rose. ‘You are a formidable woman, Miss Hesketh.’

  ‘I’ve had to be,’ said Prudence.

  Molly trudged round to see Mum and Dad, collar up, rain streaming all around her off the umbrella, splashing onto her galoshes. Vivienne had suggested leaving her visit until the rain let up, maybe tomorrow or the next day, but her conscience couldn’t have borne that. Imagine if it came out – and it would – that Norris had ceased to keep her secret on Tuesday evening and she had left it until Thursday or Friday or even the weekend before pulling herself together sufficiently to face her parents.

  ‘You’ve finally come to see me, have you?’ said Dad. ‘Two days is a long time to wait when my daughter has been dismissed from her post.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t come yesterday – and actually, it isn’t that which brings me here today. It’s something else.’

  ‘Something else?’ He wasn’t impressed. ‘Are you telling me that something worse has happened? Worse than getting the sack?’ His voice deepened the way it used to when they were children being told off.

  ‘Please, Dad, come and sit down. Mum needs to hear this as well.’

  How she managed to get the words out, she didn’t know. She had thought that, having already told Vivienne, it would be easier second time around, but it was far worse. Mum and Dad stared at her, dazed and incredulous. When Dad lumbered to his feet and went to stand at the window, staring out, his back to the room, darkness swirled inside her. What a disappointment she must be, and an incomprehensible one at that. Look at Tilda and Christabel, who had both followed the rules without a murmur, marrying young and starting their families, enjoying married life – the way girls were supposed to, the way you grew up expecting your life to turn out.

  And what had she done? Gone off to London in the war; then come back and entered into a long engagement, which she had backed out of halfway through, in spite of everything that was said to convince her otherwise, in favour of embracing a life of spinsterhood and office work, only to be dismissed from her post. And to top it all, now she had admitted the full truth of what had happened to her in London.

  What was Dad seeing as he gazed from the window? A little lad running about on their small lawn? The grandson he had never had. The grandson he had bee
n deprived of even before the child was born; in that moment when Toby was shot and killed and fell over backwards into a crater full of water. At least, she hoped he was killed outright. That was what his friend had told her, had sworn was the truth. All she could do was hang onto the hope. The thought that he might have fallen into that crater and drowned…

  At last Mum said, ‘Well, now we know. I always knew there was something. You and Tom both came back…different. It’s easy to understand why a man would be changed, but not a girl, especially one who never left these shores.’ Then she uttered the words that left Molly flabbergasted. ‘You know what you should do, Molly. Tell your brother. Help him understand he isn’t the only one carrying something inside him. He’s only nipped out to fetch your dad some baccy. He won’t hang about in this weather.’

  And that was what she did. Upstairs, sitting together on Tom’s bed in the big bedroom that, as a child, she had shared with her two sisters, Molly, exhausted by now, shared her tale with her brother. If Mum had expected Tom to reciprocate with a heart-rending tale of his own, it didn’t happen. Tom, wonderful Tom, devoted all his attention to her story and hugged her at the end.

  ‘I love you, little sister, and I don’t blame you one bit. These things happen in wartime. All kinds of things happen and afterwards we pick up our lives and carry on.’

  ‘Oh, Tom.’

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll have a quiet word with Norris.’

  ‘No, don’t.’

  ‘He needs to be reminded that this has to remain a secret. Dad will probably want to come too.’

  ‘Tom, no.’

  ‘He’s your father. He’ll want to protect you, same as I do. Leave it to us. We won’t hang, draw and quarter him…unless we have to.’

  She tried not to smile. ‘I’m sure he won’t cause any trouble. He just reacted on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘Well, he needs to be told that on any future spurs of the moment, he must bite his tongue, even if it means biting it off.’ Sitting beside her, with one arm snugly around her, Tom spoke close to her ear. ‘Would you like to tell me what caused this particular spur of the moment?’