by Ruthie Lewis
Mela kissed her cheek. ‘If you change your mind, call me,’ she said. ‘And write often, and let me know how your school progresses. I shall expect to hear great things. And don’t forget to take Mr Ringrose up on his offer of help. I am certain he was serious.’’
Crossing London Bridge with the city lamps twinkling around her, Grace felt a draft and wrapped her coat more tightly around her. Something rustled in the pocket. She reached inside, and found a sealed envelope had been placed in the pocket. Breaking the seal she took out several pieces of paper, which she realised with a shock were Bank of England five-pound notes. With them was a letter, and there was still just enough light to read it.
My dear Grace,
You have accepted only some slates and books and a few bits of furniture, and I understand why. Your independence of spirit is one of your noblest qualities. Nonetheless, I hope you will take this gift of £30, and use it well in the service of the project on which you have embarked. I have taken care, I hope, to give you enough money to be of use to you, while not giving you so much that you will feel compelled to return it.
Angela and I wish you every success with your venture. You know that wherever you go and whatever you do, our love and prayers follow you.
Yours faithfully
Wyndham Clare
The following morning Grace wrote to Mr Solomon Raikes at the Ragged Schools Union, and in the afternoon she called on Mr Jackson the ironmonger in Jamaica Row. She used part of Mr Clare’s money to buy a cast-iron stove and several sacks of coal. The ironmonger promised to deliver them to the house on Saturday.
She was expecting a reply from Mr Raikes by post the following day, but what she got instead was Mr Raikes himself, driving a pony and trap into Bell Lane the next morning and stopping outside her door.
‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Perrow,’ said Mr Raikes. He was tall and thin with long bony arms and a top hat that made him look like a scarecrow. Daisy was a little frightened of him, and hid behind Grace’s skirts. Much to Grace’s surprise and great pleasure, Walter Ringrose was sitting beside him.
‘At the Ragged School Union, we were most pleased to hear of your new venture, ma’am,’ he said. ‘There are no Ragged Schools in this part of London, and very few south of the river at all. Mr Ringrose here contacted me to say that you would be in touch and asked to come along when I visited. Have you secured premises?’
Grace nodded. ‘We shall use an empty arch, under the South Eastern Railway viaduct. The line is not far from here.’
‘A railway arch?’ Mr Raikes’s eyebrows rose until they had nearly disappeared under the brim of his hat. Daisy clutched at Grace’s leg. ‘That is most unusual.’
‘Will there be any objection?’ Grace asked.
‘Hmm. No. No, so long as you can keep your charges warm and dry. It will be of little use to educate them if they then expire of the flux.’
‘We have the matter in hand, sir,’ Grace said.
‘Good, good. Now, we have brought you a few things to help you establish your school. To begin with, a bible.’ He held up a leather-bound bible.
‘I have little experience in the teaching of religion, sir,’ said Grace.
‘None is needed,’ said Mr Raikes. ‘Read to them from the Bible for twenty minutes every day and then give them a homily; we have a selection of tracts for you to choose from. Ensure they sing two hymns every day; our masters are very particular about this. In this way, so our masters believe, the spirit of the Lord will enter into them, and at least their souls will achieve salvation, no matter what distresses of body and mind the poor little creatures continue to encounter.’
‘I shall do so,’ Grace said, wondering again what the vicar would think.
‘I have provided you with copies of Mrs Alexander’s Hymns for Little Children,’ said Mr Raikes. ‘As to reading and writing and arithmetic, I have also brought you a selection of our standard lesson plans, and some exercises to give pupils who are just setting out on their journey towards numeracy and literacy. I trust you will find these useful.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Grace said. ‘I already have some experience as a teacher, but of course I value your expertise and wisdom.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Raikes. ‘Your prior experience is one of the reasons why we are keen to offer our support. So many earnest, kind-hearted volunteers come forward with no experience of teaching. Mr Ringrose here is just one such, but he is throwing himself into the job with enthusiasm. You, ma’am, are a refreshing change. Even so, you will find this a very different proposition from teaching at the Clare School.’
‘How is that, sir?’
‘The needs of your pupils will vary greatly depending on their age and whatever . . . circumstances they have encountered in their lives thus far. These are not the well-fed, well-nourished minds you encountered at your previous school. Many are children for whom everything in their lives, even existence itself, is a struggle. Thanks to the hardship they face in their everyday lives, many find learning even basic concepts like the alphabet and sums a slow and painful process.’
Mr Ringrose added, ‘Even those keen to learn can find the regime of school very confining. They are unused to long periods of concentration. I have found this the most challenging element in my short time teaching. Although, of course, I have not your breadth of experience, Miss Perrow.’
Grace acknowledged the younger man’s compliments with a smile and said, ‘I believe I understand the problem, gentlemen.’
Mr Raikes looked at her very seriously. ‘I hope so, Miss Perrow. Because teaching at a Ragged School is not like anything you will ever have encountered. The children are those whom decent society has rejected. They are too ragged, wretched, filthy and forlorn for any respectable school, such as those run by the church. Many have been torn from the arms of their parents, who have succumbed to gin, opium or disease. Even when still living, the parents often no longer care for their children, but let them roam the street like wild creatures. Some of these children have turned to crime, robbing and stealing in order to survive. Many do not wash because they have no clean water, with consequent grave injury to their health. In short, ma’am, you will be dealing with the very lowest forms of humanity.’
‘I do not see it so,’ Grace said steadily. ‘All human beings, no matter how low their station, have dignity. I will read the Bible to them so their souls may be saved, Mr Raikes. But I intend to help them preserve their minds and bodies, too.’
Suddenly, surprisingly, Mr Raikes smiled. ‘Mr Ringrose here said you were a strong-minded person and you seem to me to be a good young woman,’ he said. ‘I shall pray for your success. You have my address; if a situation arises where you think you might benefit from our help and advice, please write to me immediately. I cannot guarantee we can help you in every eventuality, but we will do our utmost.’
He looked at Albert, who stood watching and listening very seriously. ‘Now, perhaps this young gentleman would care to assist us in unloading the cart?’
*
Suddenly, things were moving quickly. On Saturday Nicholas, the Clares’ coachman, arrived at the house with a cargo of blackboards, slates, chalk, lamps, furniture and the cabinet full of books, all of which were crammed into the parlour of the little house, forcing the family to take refuge in the kitchen. Later that day the ironmonger arrived with his cart and delivered the stove, which was wedged into the narrow hall.
‘Where are you taking all this lot?’ asked Mr Jackson, the ironmonger.
‘The railway arches,’ said Grace.
‘Auntie Grace is going to start a school,’ said Albert proudly. ‘And I shall be a pupil.’
‘Will you now?’ Mr Jackson took off his cloth cap and scratched his ear. Winter sunlight gleamed briefly off his bald head. ‘And how are you planning to transport all this lot to the railway arches?’
‘My brother-in-law thinks he can borrow a handcart,’ said Grace.
Mr Jackson sniff
ed. ‘He’ll be all day, going back and forth. When do you want it shifted? Sunday? I’ll call around after church with the horse and cart. No, miss, I don’t want no payment.’
‘You are very kind,’ said Grace, a little overwhelmed by the offer. She had expected the charity of friends; the kindness of strangers was something out of the blue.
The ironmonger scratched his ear again. ‘We’re non-conformists, the wife and me,’ he said. ‘We’re members of the Congregational chapel. The church school won’t let our little lad into school, because they say we’re heretics or some such. If we sent him along to you, would you give him lessons?’
‘With pleasure,’ said Grace, and she smiled.
Mr Jackson was as good as his word. He arrived with the cart at midday on Sunday, and he, George and Mickey Doyle loaded it and drove away to the railway arch, taking with them a big roll of sailcloth and some baulks of timber. Later in the afternoon Grace walked across to the railway line to look at the work, and found them just finishing.
Again to her surprise, she discovered Walter Ringrose was there. He had, it appeared, been there all afternoon helping George and Mickey. The open faces of the arch had been covered with sailcloth anchored firmly to a wooden frame, with a flap to serve as a door. Inside, the stove had been set up and the flue ran up and out the top of the arch, venting smoke from the room, and there was a basket of coal beside it. The cabinet sat at the front of the room, where it could also serve as a desk, and a couple of oil lamps hung suspended from the ceiling of the arch with another sitting on a sturdy oak table.
‘Where did you get that table?’ Grace asked.
George and Mr Doyle looked at each other. ‘Mr Ringrose arrived with it,’ said George.
‘That is so very kind of you, Mr Ringrose,’ said Grace smiling warmly at the young man.
‘I-it is only a small gift,’ said Walter. ‘It was not needed at home and I wanted to mark the opening of your v-venture in some way. I do so admire your decision to start this school.’ His ears had become a little pink.
‘Well it is a delightful addition to our school, and very generous’. Grace blushed a little under Mr Ringrose’s regard and looked around the room. ‘It looks quite homely,’ she said.
It did, too, she thought, if you ignored the bare earth floor and the sound of the trains rumbling overhead. She felt a sudden burst of pride and excitement. She turned and kissed George on the cheek then shook Walter and Mickey’s hands and thanked them for all their work. Mickey Doyle grinned again.
‘You’ve got your school, Miss Grace,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘Now all I need is some pupils.’
*
‘What are they doin’?’ one of the girls asked.
‘Don’t know,’ I said.
‘That’s our arch,’ said another. ‘That’s where we been sleepin’. They’ve taken it.’
‘There’s other arches,’ I said. Joe looked up with those big eyes of his. I knew he was hungry. We all were.
‘It’s that mort,’ said the first girl. ‘That one from the churchyard. She’s doin’ this. We should stick her.’
‘Leave her be,’ I said. ‘She don’t mean no harm.’
‘Well, what’s she doin’ out here then? Why ain’t she at home with her kiddies? What’s she want to go messin’ about over here? I’m tellin’ you, this is our turf.’
‘Oh, leave it out,’ I said. ‘Come on. We’ve got to find some scran. It’s been two days. If we don’t eat soon, they’ll be shovelling us into the pauper’s hole.’
I pretended I didn’t care what she was doing, but I was curious all right. She puzzled me, that one. I still remembered the look in her eye when we raided the market. Cool and calm; looked me straight in the eye.
It was strange. She wasn’t from around here, but at the same time, it was like she was familiar. I couldn’t get used to the fact that I kept seeing her, and I couldn’t get used to the fact that she kept seeing me. Cuz she saw us when she came out of the arch that day. She didn’t say anything to the two men. She just looked up and saw me, and our eyes met again.
I didn’t know what was going on. And I don’t like it when that happens.
*
Sitting at the kitchen table, Grace made a list of the pupils she had recruited so far. Albert, Daisy and Harry, of course. Rebecca Berton from next door, older than the others, but who needed an education if she was to fulfil her mother’s dream and make a life for herself outside of Rotherhithe. Billy Doyle, Mickey’s son. The two homeless boys from Cherry Gardens. Lettice, the match girl. Mr Jackson’s son. And Jimmy, who was so hungry to learn. Ten in all, boys and girls. She had no qualms about teaching them together. In her view, boys and girls learned equally quickly, and she had no room to segregate them.
After lunch, once George had returned to work, she went out to knock on doors. Not everyone wanted to talk to her, or was happy at being interrupted. Several times, doors were slammed in her face before she had a chance to introduce herself or explain what she wanted. But as she worked her way through the streets of Rotherhithe, she found a few women, a few men too, ready to listen, and when she had finished explaining the purpose of the school, they nodded.
‘Can’t hurt,’ said one man. He was on crutches, the lower part of one leg missing; the result, he explained, of an accident at the docks a year ago. Now he was at home, unable to work, his wife taking in laundry as a means of getting by, with two small children to feed. ‘While they’re at school, they’re not in the streets getting into trouble. I’d be pleased if you’d look after ’em, missus.’
That’s not exactly my purpose, Grace thought, but she didn’t much care why children came to school, so long as they came. She added two more names to her list. In Paradise Row she found a boy begging in a doorway, and gave him a penny and told him where and when to find the school; it would be warm, she said. The lad nodded, shivering.
Grace walked on, thinking about the poor children on the streets and thinking too about the girls she had seen flitting across the flooded fields on the way back from the railway. It was the same group, she was sure; she recognised the girl with the little boy in tow. Those are the ones I really want to get to, she thought. But they are so wild, so skittish. How do I get near them?
Having covered the streets close to home, Grace approached the rougher area, nearer to the docks. Hanover Court was a mean, dirty alley running up from the river. The cranes of the Wapping docks on the far side of the Thames were like a forest in the distance; at the other end of the street lay Albion Dock, the first of the Surrey Docks, surrounded by hulking timber sheds. The smells of sawn wood and smoke filled the air.
The first two doors Grace knocked at yielded no answer. The third was opened by a thickset woman, with a blotched, unhealthy complexion; she smelled heavily of gin. Her apron was greasy and did not look like it had seen a laundry in weeks. She looked hard at Grace. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded.
‘I am sorry to intrude,’ said Grace. ‘My name is Grace Perrow. I am starting a school in Rotherhithe, a free school with no fees. Lessons start tomorrow, and any child may join, anyone at all. I wondered if your children would like to attend, Mrs . . . ?’
The woman did not answer at first. She leaned nonchalantly on the doorframe and smiled. It was not a nice smile.
‘Grace Perrow,’ she said. ‘Well, well, well. Little Grace Perrow. Look at you now, all grown up. Still the same lazy little cow, though. Won’t do a job of proper work, not like the rest of us. Oh, no, she’s too busy with her nose buried in her books. Thinks she’s a teacher, now.’
Grace stared at her. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘Don’t you remember me?’ taunted the woman. ‘Maybe I should give you a clip around the ear. Perhaps that’d remind you, lazy-bones.’
And then, suddenly, Grace knew. This bloated, gin-soaked woman was Sara, her tormentor from the workhouse. Sara, the one who had caused her to be sent to the laundry, where Rosa had bee
n injured and she herself had nearly died a horrible death in boiling water.
And then she saw something else. A face had appeared in the shadows behind Sara, a boy’s face, small and frightened, but staring at Grace like she held out the promise of salvation. There was hunger as well as fear in his eyes, a longing for something he desperately wanted and was afraid he would never have.
It was Jimmy.
Chapter 6
Just for a moment she was back in the workhouse again, being pinched and punched and taunted by Sara, and she felt a wash of remembered fear. But the moment quickly passed. She was a grown woman now, and she was no longer afraid of bullies. She saw too the desperation in Jimmy’s eyes. What is he doing here? she thought. He looks like a prisoner.
‘Yes, I remember you now,’ she said calmly. ‘How good it is to see you again, Sara. And you too, Jimmy,’ she said to the boy. ‘Do you live here?’
‘He’s my son,’ Sara snapped, before Jimmy could answer. ‘And what’s it to you? How do you know his name?’
Grace was silent for a moment. How could Jimmy, so quiet and delicate and shy, be the son of this woman?
‘Well?’ Sara demanded. ‘What’s he to you, lazy-bones?’
‘Jimmy has been coming to see me,’ said Grace. ‘I have been giving him lessons.’
Sara’s eyes, reddened by alcohol, glowed out of a face hard as stone. ‘You!’ she snarled at the boy. ‘Stay inside! I’ll attend to you later. Now, Miss Hoity-Toity Perrow, I want a word with you.’
She marched out into the street, slamming the door behind her. Grace stepped back as a waft of gin fumes washed over her.
‘You stay away from my boy,’ Sara said. ‘We don’t want none of your education, and we don’t want none of your fancy ways, neither. You leave our children alone, do you hear? Jimmy is going to grow up a proper man like his father, not some milksop bookworm like you.’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Grace. ‘All I am doing is teaching him to read and write. What is wrong with that?’