by Ruthie Lewis
This embarrassed her. They praised her as a heroine, but she did not feel like one. Instead, she remembered all too clearly her terror and then relief when George and the others came into the warehouse. At night she often had nightmares, reliving that terrible afternoon, and when this happened she clung to George, begging him to hold her until she could sleep again.
George had told her that he had seen Jimmy outside the warehouse, and that had revived her hope that she might find the boy once more. Whenever she went out she scanned the street, hoping for some sign, but she never saw him. Once, summoning up her nerves, she went to the house in Hanover Court and knocked at the door, praying that Long Ben would not answer it. After she knocked she could hear someone inside the house, but no one came to the door.
*
Summer that year was one burst of heat and humidity lasting until late August, and then the clouds and rain closed in, bringing an early autumn. The marshes flooded again, but this time the docks were spared. Several men were killed when two barges collided in the Surrey Canal, and a man at the engine works, the father of one of the girls at the school, lost an arm in an accident. He survived, but was unable to work. The manager of the engine works turned him off without pay, and shortly thereafter the family were evicted from their home and sent to the workhouse. Grace never saw the girl again.
By this time, the sickness had begun. It came, regular as clockwork, every morning as she was getting the children ready for school. The spasms did not last long but they were violent and left her pale and shaking. She had little appetite, and began to lose weight, which she knew was a bad thing. Mela Clare, coming to visit one afternoon as she did every few weeks, noticed the change at once. ‘Grace, whatever is the matter?’
They were seated as usual at the kitchen table, drinking tea out of the same chipped cups. Grace looked down at her hands. ‘I don’t know how to tell you,’ she said.
‘Tell me what?’
After a moment, Grace raised her head and looked her friend in the eye. ‘I am carrying a child,’ she said quietly.
To say that Mela was stunned was an understatement. She sat staring at Grace for a long time, the expression on her face unreadable. ‘How long have you known?’ she asked finally.
‘About three weeks.’
‘And you did not think to tell me?’
‘I did not know if you would approve,’ Grace said quietly.
‘You said it would be a platonic marriage,’ Mela said.
‘And that is what I intended. That is what we both intended. Then, something happened.’
She told Mela about the kidnapping and her confrontation with the Captain. ‘I don’t think I have ever been more terrified. It was worse than anything that happened in the workhouse, far worse. I truly thought I was going to die.’
Mela herself had gone pale now. ‘Oh, heavens, Grace. Oh, my dear.’ She caught Grace’s hands in hers and squeezed hard. ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’
‘Because I didn’t want you to worry,’ Grace said. ‘You are my dearest friend, Mela, and I did not want to cause you distress. I’m all right, truly I am. I bounced back remarkably well, all things considered. But, one of the reasons I did recover so quickly is that I have a husband who cares for me.’
‘Ah,’ said Mela.
‘Ah, indeed. That night, after I was freed . . . We both needed something. We found it in each other.’
Mela continued to stare at her. ‘We are, after all, man and wife,’ Grace said. ‘I don’t love him, Mela, and he doesn’t love me. But that doesn’t have to stop us from giving each other warmth, and comfort.’ She forced a smile. ‘And Reverend Hobbes can no longer complain this is not a valid marriage. He insists the purpose of marriage is the procreation of children, and, well . . . We have procreated.’
‘You certainly have,’ said Mela.
Another silence fell. ‘I can see the look on your face,’ Grace said quietly. ‘I know this is hard, Mela. But it would mean a great deal to know I have your blessing.’
The silence lasted for a moment longer, and then Mela suddenly began to giggle. ‘The look on my face? Yes, I probably do look like someone has smacked me in the face with a wet fish. I am . . . astonished, and indeed I am worried for you. But, my blessing? Of course you have it, you sweet fool. How could you ever doubt it?’
Relief flooded through Grace, and she felt her eyes grow moist. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad. And may I call upon you to fill the role of godmother?’
‘I would have been most offended if you had not,’ said Mela, smiling again. ‘And you, my dear. Are you well?’
‘The sickness in the mornings is hard. But my neighbours who have children tell me this will pass, and that I will regain my appetite. I have not noticed many other changes yet, though I daresay they will come soon enough.’
‘When will the baby come?’
‘April.’ Grace smiled. ‘A spring baby.’
‘What does George think?’ Mela asked.
‘George is a mixture of many emotions. He is by turns worried for me, concerned as to how we will stretch his wages to feed another mouth, feeling guilty for getting me in this condition in the first place and, I think, secretly a little bit pleased. He loves children. I have told him it is all right to be happy, and he is to stop worrying and above all to stop apologising. I am just as responsible as he.’
She patted her belly lightly. ‘I know childbirth is risky, and I know that feeding another child will be a stretch. But Mela, I would not have it any other way.’
‘You are content,’ said Mela.
‘I have many concerns and cares. But, on the whole, yes. I am content.’
Mela smiled. ‘Then I am glad for you. And the school? It is flourishing?’
‘It is. Agnes has been wonderful. Thank you for sending her.’
‘I am glad she is proving useful,’ said Mela.
‘Oh, she is. Because we teach at different times of day I don’t see much of her, but she calls in once a week after teaching. The older children are very fond of her. Rebecca, the girl next door, says she tells the most marvellous stories about life in Poland and her travels in Austria and Russia.’
‘So you have turned a corner,’ Mela said. ‘Your school is on its way to being a great success.’
Grace sighed. ‘I hope so,’ she said. She remembered, every day, the Captain’s threat, and heard his voice in her mind. You will allow me my tithe of the boys. What if they came and took Billy Doyle, or Nathan, or Gabriel? What if, God forbid, one day they came to take Albert? How would she stop them?
‘I don’t think things are finished with the gang,’ she said finally. ‘I fear we will have trouble with them again one day.’
‘Then get the community on your side,’ Mela said. ‘If everyone supports you, the gang will have to back down.’
‘Yes. Someone else said that to me not long ago. Mela, do you remember Lady Ringrose’s nephew, Walter? The one you admired at the summer party? He is running a Ragged School too, in Bermondsey.’
‘So I heard,’ said Mela. ‘Have you met him?’
‘Yes, I called on him when I heard he also was having trouble with the gangs. He is trying to rally Bermondsey people against them. I wish him luck.’
‘So do I.’ Mela smiled. ‘Is he still as handsome as when we first met?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Grace said with mock primness. ‘I pay no attention to such things. I am a respectable married woman.’
*
She had told Mela the truth. It wasn’t the future she had imagined for herself, but being pregnant had made her strangely content. The works doctor from Mr Clare’s business paid her an unannounced call one afternoon and insisted on examining her, refusing any offer of a fee. Grace presumed the Clares had sent him, but did not ask.
‘You are profoundly healthy, Mrs Turneur,’ the doctor said, beginning to pack his bag. ‘As a result, there is every chance that your baby will be healthy too. May
I offer my congratulations?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Grace. ‘Is there any reason why I should not continue to teach?’
The doctor considered the matter. ‘Work is not generally considered advisable. Ladies in your condition need their rest.’
‘And yet, many of the women around here work almost until the hour of childbirth,’ said Grace. ‘I can hardly do less.’
‘You must do what you feel right,’ the doctor said. ‘All the same, Mrs Turneur, have a care. Your health is good, but the slightest upset could change that.’
To the fascination of the children, her belly began to swell. The twins in particular plied her with endless questions over the baby inside her, how it had got there, what it was doing, and how it was going to come out. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what to say to them,’ Grace said to George one evening as they made ready for bed. ‘Daisy asked me this morning if she could have a baby too, to keep me company. When I said she was too little, she said that was all right, she only wanted a very little baby. And then Harry wanted to know if Radcliffe could have a baby too, and didn’t seem to understand when I pointed out the obvious problem.’
Gently, George touched her belly through the cloth of her nightgown. ‘It’s good they’re curious. That means they won’t be jealous of the baby when it comes. They’ll want to help you look after it.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ said Grace. ‘I’m trying not to think about what happens when it comes . . . George, I just want to keep teaching as long as I can.’
He kissed her softly on the cheek. ‘Of course you do, lass.’ He repeated the doctor’s words. ‘Do what you think is right. I’ll be right behind you, whatever you do.’
Her world shrank a little. The school, the house and her family, the baby inside her, these were everything to her now. Mela still came to visit at least once a month, and Grace always welcomed her with pleasure, but her life with the Clares was becoming a distant memory. She still thought of her time in Hackney with fondness, but she remembered those days less and less often.
Despite the winter cold and the damp, despite the poverty and the strain of eking out every last penny, she found herself surprisingly happy. George was as kind and gentle as ever and the need for skilled bricklayers had raised his pay by a small amount. As she told Mela, they did not have love and never would, but there had developed between them a kind of fond friendship that, she thought, would be good enough for a lifetime. Albert and the twins loved her, and she them. Radcliffe was her adoring shadow.
Every morning she walked to the railway arch to work with her pupils, the young and those who struggled to learn, and she taught them patiently, walking among the desks with a hand resting on her belly, coaxing and encouraging them in a soft voice, praising them when they got their sums right, soothing them when they struggled with spelling and urging them to try again. They rewarded her by working as hard as they could, and repaid her with a devotion that staggered her. They knew how much she wanted them to succeed, and they wanted her to be proud of them.
And still the Captain’s men did not come near the school, nor did they touch any of her pupils. She began to wonder if the threat was not as great as she had feared. Perhaps the Captain had changed his mind and decided to let them alone.
There were other clouds on the horizon, of course. Mrs Hobbes, apprised of Grace’s pregnancy and her determination to go on working despite this, poked her head out of her shell again and began another whispering campaign. It was, she declared, quite disgusting that a woman in Grace’s condition would continue to work. Women who were enceinte should remain indoors, away from the gaze of the public. To go out in such a condition, and especially to work, was an offence against common decency. Indeed, she declared, Grace might as well expose herself naked.
This last was related by Mrs Lane, dropping her children off to school one windy morning when the coal smoke from the railway hung particularly thick around the arches. Everyone was coughing. ‘I really do think she has gone too far this time,’ said Mrs Lane. ‘She is making herself ridiculous, and no one is listening to her. Well, no one except a handful of old biddies who spend their lives inventing spiteful gossip about people. The rest of us know you are a good person. You carry on, Mrs Turneur.’
Underneath her severe exterior, Mrs Lane had a good heart, and she and Grace were becoming friends. ‘Half the congregation at All Saints has left,’ she reported. ‘People are going up to St Mary’s, or over to Bermondsey or Deptford. It’s further to go, but folk reckon it’s worth it to avoid Reverend Hobbes’s sermons.’
The weeks sped by. October was bleak and windy. In November the cold came early, blanketing the marshes with frost and turning the mud in the streets into a glutinous mixture crackling with ice crystals. Grace was grateful when Mr Jackson the ironmonger gave her a walking stick. ‘It used to be my grandfather’s,’ he said. ‘You use it, Mrs Turneur, and have care when you go out. Them roads is treacherous.’
Winter fastened its grip on Rotherhithe. George came home from work most evenings racked with coughing, and Grace made him sit as close to the fire as possible while she plied him with hot drinks. ‘You should look for another job,’ she said. ‘Something indoors, out of the wind.’
George shook his head. ‘Bricklaying is all I know, lass. I couldn’t learn another trade, not now. I’m too old.’
‘You’re thirty-one,’ Grace said. ‘That’s hardly over the hill. You could find something else if you wanted to.’
He grinned at her. ‘Is this the nagging wife again?’
‘Get used to it,’ Grace said laughing.
Christmas, her second in Rotherhithe, passed happily. The ghost of Rosa was still in the room, but there was something light and bright about her presence now, as though her spirit was watching over them, happy to see them well and content. The new year 1869 dawned in a peal of bells. The newspaper vendors in the market cried headlines of skirmishes on the North West Frontier in India, and another battle in faraway New Zealand against people known as the Maori. Grace wondered how many British soldiers had died on these battlefields.
Early in February, Grace received a letter, hand-delivered by a ragged urchin who said he would wait for a reply.
Dear Mrs Turneur,
Please forgive the presumption of writing to you out of the blue. I write, I assure you, on a purely professional matter. Something worrying is happening at my school, and I would like to ask your advice. I would be very grateful if you could spare me a few moments of your time?
Might we meet tomorrow afternoon? I suggest Spiers and Pond at London Bridge station. If that is inconvenient, I beg you to name a time and place that are more suitable. You may send your response with Felix. He looks like a ruffian, but he is a good lad.
Your faithful friend,
Walter Ringrose
Walking into the Spiers and Pond café in London Bridge station the following day, Grace was reminded with a jolt of the world she had left behind. Stained glass windows, walls of polished oak, marble floor tiles, snow-white tablecloths and glittering silver and china all reflected back the light of elegant chandeliers. She stood for a moment, a little dazzled, and then spotted Walter on the far side of the room.
‘It is all right,’ she told the tail-coated maître d’hôtel who appeared at her elbow. ‘I am joining the gentleman over there.’
The maître d’hôtel looked at her suspiciously. She had brushed and cleaned her coat and worn her best clothes and polished her boots and the brass ferrule of her walking stick, but she still looked down at heel compared to the other patrons. But if Walter thought she looked scruffy, he certainly did not let it show. His eyes lit up at the sight of her and he rose quickly to his feet and bowed. Then he noticed the stick, and the roundness of her figure. Unaccountably, he blushed bright red.
‘I-I did not know,’ he stammered. ‘My dear Mrs Turneur, forgive me. Truly, I would not have dragged you all this way had I realised. Oh, I am such a fool.’
‘There
is nothing to forgive,’ Grace said. ‘It is a short train journey from Rotherhithe to London Bridge, and I am continuing to work and live my life as normal. I am pregnant, Mr Ringrose, not ill.’
‘I say, that’s the spirit.’ He was recovering a little, though his cheeks were still pink. ‘Er . . . may I offer my congratulations? When is the happy event?’
‘April,’ said Grace smiling. ‘Do you think we might sit down now?’
‘Of course, of course.’ Flustered all over again, he seated her and leaned her stick carefully against the wall, and then sat down himself, nearly upsetting his cup in the process. ‘I’m having coffee,’ he said, straightening the tablecloth. ‘Will you join me, or . . . ?’
‘Coffee would be wonderful, thank you.’ Mr Ringrose signalled to the waiter to bring another cup. Grace watched him, wondering why he was so flustered. He did not seem to be the sort of man who would be discomfited by the sight of a pregnant woman; there was something else, she thought.
The coffee arrived. She had not had coffee for well over a year, and it tasted delicious. ‘Why did you want my advice, Mr Ringrose?’ she asked.
The awkwardness vanished and he grew at once serious and sombre. ‘Something bad is happening at my school,’ he said. ‘The boys are disappearing.’
At once Grace felt herself begin to grow cold. Of course, since the defeat of the Black Crows the Bull Head Gang now ruled Bermondsey as well as Rotherhithe. She had been wrong; the threat had not gone away. The Captain had decided to pick on the Bermondsey school for the moment, but her day would come.
‘Do you know what is happening to them?’ she asked, though she knew full well.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘The fellows at the King’s Arms know all about it. The gangs take the boys from the poorest families. Boys as young as ten or eleven are basically kidnapped and taken up to Jacob’s Island, where they turn ’em into hardened criminals. It’s absolutely vile, Mrs Turneur. It’s no better than slavery.’
‘I know,’ said Grace quietly. ‘Have they threatened you?’