The Orphans of Bell Lane

by Ruthie Lewis

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Because you are disturbing the social order of the entire kingdom!’ the vicar thundered. ‘By encouraging the poor to uplift themselves, you are threatening to set them against their masters! Give them learning, and who knows what pernicious beliefs may spread among them? Leave them to their ignorance, sir. Ignorance is their lot in life. God has so ordained it, and let no man put aside the work of God.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mr Raikes, and he clasped his long bony hand behind his back. ‘I congratulate you, Reverend, on your intimate knowledge of what God has ordained. It must be comforting to know God’s will so clearly, but I cannot help wondering why he singled out you, of all people, for enlightenment while choosing to leave the rest of us blind. As for the social order, sir, I can only say that any social order which condemns the mass of society to live in ignorance, poverty and wretched vice deserves to be overthrown, and sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Blasphemy!’ shouted the vicar. ‘You and the others like you, you are all socialist blasphemers! Well, you will receive your reckoning! God will take note of your impiety, and strike you down!’

  ‘Others like me?’ repeated Mr Raikes. ‘Do you then include the Earl of Shaftesbury in our number, Reverend? Are you accusing his lordship of blasphemy? If so, then you will need to tread very carefully.’

  Reverend Hobbes stood silent, his mouth open. Lord Shaftesbury, the president of the Ragged Schools Union, was well known as a pillar of the Church of England, and he was also one of the most powerful men in British politics. Antagonising him would be dangerous indeed, as the vicar knew only too well.

  ‘I have acquainted Lord Shaftesbury with the facts of this situation,’ Mr Raikes went on. ‘I can inform you, Reverend, that he regards the foundation of the Rotherhithe Ragged School as a great step forward for our movement. He sends his personal congratulations to Miss Perrow for her initiative and courage.’

  Now it was Grace’s turn to stand with her mouth open. ‘You will desist from your obstruction of Miss Perrow’s school,’ Mr Raikes said to the vicar. ‘You will offer her no further opposition. If you do so, then I promise you, his lordship will come to hear of it. Am I clear, sir?’

  ‘You are clear,’ said the vicar, through clenched teeth.

  ‘Then my business here is done. Miss Perrow, we shall take our leave now.’

  *

  Out in the street, walking back towards the railway station, Mr Raikes nodded with satisfaction. ‘That was easier than I expected,’ he said. ‘With men like Reverend Hobbes, an appeal to their sense of self-preservation is generally all that is needed. As for the South Eastern Railway, you need have no fear of them. I shall have a word with their directors. I fancy that, once again, the mention of Lord Shaftesbury’s name will bring them swiftly to heel.’

  Grace was still full of astonishment. ‘Did Lord Shaftesbury himself really say that about me?’

  ‘I spoke with him last evening,’ said Mr Raikes. ‘He was not yet aware of your school’s foundation, but he was most interested to hear of it. He said specifically that he admired your courage.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Grace. She felt a little overwhelmed. ‘But why should I need courage?’

  ‘Because Rotherhithe is a dangerous place,’ said Mr Raikes. ‘Oh, we have schools in worse places still; Field Lane in Camden, for instance, the school about which Mr Charles Dickens once wrote so memorably. But none of these schools are run by a woman, let alone a young one, working all alone.’

  Mr Raikes paused for a moment. ‘Reverend Hobbes is not the only opponent you will face,’ he said. ‘There will be others, more threatening and more dangerous by far. And we will not always be able to help you stand against them, Miss Perrow. I hope that God in his mercy watches over you. For I think you will need His love and protection, before all is done.’

  When they reached the railway station he turned and bowed to her again. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I hope I have not alarmed you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Grace.

  *

  The next week went well. Nathan and Lettice and some of the others continued to struggle, but Grace remembered Mr Raikes’s advice and was kind and patient with them. Jimmy continued to flourish. Every day his reading improved, and he began to memorise the multiplication table; by the end of the week he could recite from 1x1 to 12x12 by heart, without faltering. Grace’s pride in her pupil grew along with his confidence.

  On Thursday morning a bitter east wind blew a reeking sea fog up the Thames, shrouding Rotherhithe. The masts and cranes were like skeletons in the gloom, and the trains on the railway viaduct continued to belch steam and smoke, thickening the air still further. When Grace and the children arrived at the school she noticed the gang of girls huddling in one of the nearby arches, clinging to each other to keep warm. She noticed again the girl she had seen in the market, holding the little boy wrapped close to her, trying to impart warmth to him. On impulse, she turned and walked over to the girls.

  ‘I am about to light a fire,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come in, and be warm?’

  The girl who was holding the little boy looked back at her. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. Her voice trembled with cold, but she spoke in strong, firm tones.

  ‘My name is Grace. I am a teacher, and this is a school. Don’t worry, you don’t need to take lessons. Just come in and be warm.’

  They looked back at her without speaking. Grace smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way then went into the school. The knives at their belts no longer worried her. These were children, desperate and homeless. They were no threat to her.

  They did not follow her at once. Living wild as they did, every new thing was a source of danger. But the cold was stronger than their instinct for survival, and an hour after lessons began, the canvas flap opened and the first skinny, grimy child stepped cautiously into the arch, looking around in fear and wonder. Others followed, the girl leading the little boy last of all.

  ‘Welcome,’ Grace said kindly. ‘You must be frozen. Come here, close to the stove. I’m afraid we have no more benches, you will have to sit on the ground, but at least you will be warm.’

  Wordlessly they obeyed her, slinking among the other children like wild animals, then reaching the stove and sinking down onto the ground. ‘We shall resume our lessons,’ said Grace to her pupils, who were staring at the feral girls in wonder. Daisy in particular had eyes like saucers. But they resumed their spelling lesson, and within a few minutes the cold, exhausted girls were asleep on the ground.

  All but one. She sat holding the little boy asleep on her lap, watching Grace steadily. Her eyes flickered back and forth between Grace and the blackboard covered in chalked letters. There was no expression in her face, not fear, not curiosity, nothing at all. Grace wondered what she was thinking; or indeed whether, numbed with cold, she was thinking anything at all.

  Once, when the others were working on the slates, she turned to the girl. ‘What is your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Mary.’ She indicated the boy. ‘This here’s Joe.’

  Joe’s nose was running as he slept. Grace reached out with a handkerchief and wiped it gently. The little boy snuffled but did not wake. ‘Your brother?’ Grace asked.

  Mary nodded. ‘Stay here,’ Grace said. ‘Stay as long as you like. We will look after you.’ Then she smiled and stepped back to the blackboard, and resumed the lesson.

  *

  I couldn’t tell what she was doing at first. Them marks she was making on the blackboard, they were like the marks birds make when they scratch in the dirt. But then as I watched, I saw there was more to it than that. She was making patterns. And then I began to listen, and I realised each pattern had a sound that went with it.

  It was like magic. She wove those patterns together, like she was plaiting straw to make a basket, or weaving hemp into rope. And each time she did it she made a word. I didn’t know all the words, but even the ones I didn’t understand I could still hear, i
nvisible in the air. It was amazing what she did. I didn’t know what it was for or why she was doing it, but it was amazing.

  Later she read to them out of some book. I didn’t like that so much. It was all nonsense, about rabbits and lobsters and queens, but it made the kiddies happy, so I suppose something good came of it. Afterwards they sang. Missy woke up when the singing started and lay there listening. Her face was in shadow and I couldn’t see at first, but after a while I realised she was crying.

  I didn’t cry. I just held little Joe close while he slept, and I felt the music making a big dark hole inside me, a hole that got bigger and bigger as the song went on, and I realised how little my life was, and how much I was missing.

  Chapter 7

  Grace knew she should wake the sleeping girls at the end of the lesson and ask them to leave, but she could not bear to do so. It was warm next to the stove, and turning them out into the cold would have been an act of wanton cruelty.

  Back home, when she told George what she had done, he was horrified. ‘I know them girls! They’re a pack of little savages! And you let them in with our kids?’

  ‘They’re not savages,’ said Grace. ‘They’re desperate, that’s all.’

  ‘Desperate! They held up the baker’s van at knife point last week, didn’t you hear? Threatened to stab him, and then stole bread out of the van and ran off. The driver was scared witless, poor soul.’

  ‘I expect they were hungry,’ Grace said. ‘Honestly, George, there was no threat in them. They were too tired and cold to be a danger to anyone.’

  ‘I wasn’t scared of them at all, Daddy,’ Albert said.

  ‘I wasn’t scared either,’ said Daisy, and Harry nodded with his mouth full of food. ‘They liked it when we sang,’ he said.

  Grace had seen one of the girls in tears during the music, and had felt a prickle behind her own eyes in response. ‘Every one of those children is a walking tragedy,’ she said. ‘I can’t do much to help them, George, but at least I can let them stay warm. I promise you, if ever I think they are becoming a danger, I will call the constables.’

  ‘Fat lot of use the constables will be. I tell you what’ll happen, Grace. You’ll go back to the school in the morning and they’ll have cleaned the whole place out, lock, stock and barrel.’

  ‘Perhaps they will, perhaps they won’t. I hope that kindness will be repaid with kindness.’

  ‘Hope,’ George snorted.

  ‘Yes, hope,’ said Grace. ‘Without it, where would we be?’

  As it turned out, she was right. She returned to the school the next morning with the children to find everything exactly as she had left it. There was no sign of the girls. Oddly, Grace felt vaguely disappointed that they were gone. But later that morning, as the pupils were doing sums and she was kneeling beside Nathan’s bench teaching him his numbers, the canvas flap opened and the girl called Mary came in, leading Joe by the hand. One by one the other girls followed her.

  ‘Can we come in?’ asked Mary simply.

  ‘You will always be welcome here,’ said Grace. ‘Come, gather around the stove and get warm.’

  And so, life at the Rotherhithe Ragged School settled into a gentle routine. Every morning the pupils gathered in the railway arch to study, sometimes reading and writing, sometimes doing arithmetic, and afterwards Grace would read to them and then they would sing. The gang of girls were never there when they arrived – Grace guessed they were out hunting for food – but later each morning they returned, slipping like little ghosts into the schoolroom. Most paid no attention to the pupils or herself and simply fell asleep by the fire.

  The exception was Mary. She never slept, at least not when Grace was there. Instead she sat holding her sleeping brother in her lap, soothing him a little if he woke, watching Grace with eyes that never seemed to blink. She never lets her guard down, Grace thought. She is always alert, waiting for danger.

  November turned into December. The winter weather turned colder still. Often there was a skin of ice on the puddles as they walked to school. Their house, like all the houses on Bell Lane, had been built quickly and in a shoddy fashion; no matter how much coal they put in the stove, the house never seemed really warm, and the smell of damp was always with them. The children often had coughs, as did George, who suffered more working outside at the docks in the wind and weather. The spectre of the consumption that had killed Rosa returned to haunt Grace’s mind. She covered the children in old blankets, and made hot poultices for their chests to keep the coughs at bay.

  Very often Jimmy accompanied them back to the house and shared their midday meal. Feeding an extra person on a tight budget was not easy, especially when he ate as much as Jimmy did. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Grace said once to George.

  Generous as ever, George did not mind. ‘He’s a nice lad. I hope he’s not making trouble for himself at home, though.’

  Grace nodded. ‘I know his mother. We were in the workhouse together. She was a nasty piece of work then, and still is.’

  ‘She’s a saint, compared to that fellow of hers.’

  Grace was surprised. ‘You know him?’

  ‘No, but Jimmy told me his dad was a deal porter, so I asked Mickey Doyle about him. His name is Ben Wilson. Long Ben, they call him. He’s a docker, all right, but he’s also in thick with the Bull Head Gang. He’s one of their insiders on the docks, says where the best cargoes are and which warehouses to rob and how to get around the night watchmen. There’s a brother called Jake, too, older than Jimmy. He’s a cutpurse, wanted by the law. Rumours say he’s up at Jacob’s Island.’

  Jacob’s Island on the Thames was one of the worst dens of crime and vice in all of London. Grace shuddered. ‘Poor little boy,’ she said. ‘Oh, George. We are so lucky to have these three little ones healthy, happy, and safe.’

  ‘Mostly thanks to you, Grace,’ said George, and he kissed her gently on the cheek.

  *

  After that Grace tried a couple of times to ask Jimmy about his home life, with the vague idea of helping him in some way, but the boy refused to answer. He continued to attend school, never missing a lesson; unlike poor Lettice the match girl, who had to work in the market to make ends meet and was falling still further behind the other pupils. Jimmy, on the other hand, was a shining light. His reading, writing and sums were now well ahead of the others in the class, and Grace realised that soon she would have little to teach him. He needed a good school.

  The question was, where to find one? She sat down one afternoon, after the children had gone to rest, and wrote a letter to Mrs Clare.

  My dear Mrs Clare,

  I hope this letter finds you very well, and Mr Clare too. Mela writes often, giving me news of the school and my former pupils, whom I very much miss.

  I am writing in the hope that I might beg your assistance. I have a pupil, a talented young boy who comes from a very poor background. I believe he might flourish at a grammar school, not only intellectually but also spiritually. His parents are violent and unpleasant people. Removing him from his home can be a good thing. I am confident that if he receives a proper education he could get a good job, as a clerk or secretary, or even with the right encouragement and support, attend university. It would take him away from the hard world he inhabits now. I wonder, therefore, if you could recommend any schools to whom I might apply on this boy’s behalf?

  Thank you, dear Mrs Clare, for your kindness. I think of you often, and you are always in my heart and prayers.

  Your ever affectionate,

  Grace

  Mrs Clare’s letter came back the following day.

  My dearest Grace,

  What a pleasure it is to hear from you, my dear. We all miss you at the Clare School, and the boys and girls all send you their fond best wishes. It seems clear that your own school is thriving. I cannot tell you how proud we all are of you.

  As for grammar schools, I can recommend no finer institution than Colfe’s School in Lewisham. It is not far from you
, and the headmaster, Mr Graham, is a fine and generous man. I heard him speak some months back at a meeting of the National Education League. I am certain he will give you a hearing.

  Take care, my dear, and stay safe,

  Your loving friend,

  Angela Clare

  Much encouraged, Grace wrote a letter to the Mr Graham, asking for an appointment. Receiving a positive reply, she went out on Saturday afternoon and took the train to Lewisham, just a few stops down the South Eastern line.

  Lewisham was only four miles from Rotherhithe, but it belonged to a different world. Streets of fine houses and gardens gave onto meadows still green, even in the dead of winter, and leafless woodlands where rooks cawed amid the branches. When Grace rang the bell at the gate of Colfe’s School, she could hear sheep baa-ing in the fields beyond.

  Mr Graham was interested in her work and, despite her youth, treated her with respect. ‘I have the utmost admiration for anyone who teaches in a Ragged School, ma’am. Your burden, I daresay, is far heavier than mine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Grace smiling. ‘I confess I do not find it unduly heavy. Not yet, at any rate.’

  ‘This boy you described in your letter, Jimmy Wilson. How old is he?’

  ‘It is difficult to say, sir. I am not certain if he knows himself. I would guess he is about ten years of age.’

  ‘Hmm. A little young, but . . . you say he has talent?’

  ‘He has more than that, sir. He is a prodigy. In just a few months, he has learned to write fluently, and he is reading at a level much beyond that of a boy of his years. His ability to learn is quite astonishing. He has read nearly every tract I can supply, and is determined to start reading a book very soon.’

  ‘Very soon? What is holding him back from starting straight away?’

  ‘Indecision.’ Grace smiled. ‘He cannot make up his mind whether to begin with the Bible, or Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.’

  ‘Both in their own way excellent examples of the art of storytelling,’ said the headmaster, his eyes twinkling. ‘And numeracy?’