Monday's Child

by Linda Finlay

  Linda Finlay

  *

  Monday’s Child

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  For my lovely Monday’s Child, Maxine Jane, my daughter, my friend.

  ‘Monday’s Child is Fair of Face’

  1

  Torquay, Devon, 1900

  Sarah stared at the substantial house with its reddish-grey stucco walls and elaborate quoins, then frowned. This couldn’t be the place, surely? Moving closer, she squinted through the gaps in the iron gates and saw extensive gardens spreading down towards the sweep of the bay. A cool breeze, wafting up from the sea, sent tendrils of hair dancing from under her bonnet. Although the fresh air was welcome after her stuffy train journey from Plymouth, she didn’t wish to arrive looking like some frowsy frump and hastily pushed the wayward locks back into place.

  ‘What you staring at?’

  The gruff voice took her by surprise. Peering down, she saw a freckle-faced urchin with hazel eyes scowling at her through the railings. He was dressed in an assortment of mismatched garments, and from his size, she guessed him to be about twelve, yet his candid gaze lent him the air of someone much older.

  ‘I was looking for the Red Cliffs Ragged School,’ she replied.

  ‘Why you here? ’Cos if it’s a home you want, you’re too old. They don’t take them as big as you and …’

  ‘That’s enough of your cheek, pipsqueak,’ her godfather’s voice called out from an open window. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed she had come to the right place after all. ‘Let Miss Sullivan in, please, Pip.’

  ‘Righto, guv,’ the urchin replied, pulling open the gate for Sarah to enter. ‘Can’t be too careful round here. You gets all sort of riff-raff hanging about,’ he added, grinning cheekily up at her. She couldn’t help smiling at his irrepressible nature, and it was only as she followed him up the driveway that she noticed his hunched back and limping gait.

  From close up, she could see the once-grand building was in sore need of attention, but there was no time for speculation, for her godfather was waiting at the front door.

  ‘Sarah, my dear, welcome to Red Cliffs,’ he said, holding out his hand in greeting. Although his smile was warm, Sarah was taken aback at his appearance. His once-dark hair was now completely white and his bright blue eyes were faded, the skin around them etched with deep lines. ‘Please ask Mrs Daws to bring a tray of tea through to my office, Pip,’ he said, addressing the young boy.

  ‘Thank you, Master Squeak,’ Sarah added.

  ‘That’s a good ’un, miss,’ he chortled, disappearing down the hallway.

  ‘Did I say something funny?’ she asked her godfather. He shook his head and ushered her into a large, airy room, but not before she’d seen his lips twitching.

  ‘Take a seat, and let me look at you,’ he invited, gesturing to an upright chair with its horsehair spilling from a tear in the cover. ‘Why, it must be eight years or more since last we met,’ he exclaimed, squeezing between the clutter of boxes and folders to reach the other side of the desk. She stared at the plaque on the wall behind displaying the words Love Never Faileth.

  ‘What a lovely sentiment,’ Sarah said.

  ‘The Red Cliffs’ motto,’ he said proudly. As he pointed towards it, she noticed his threadbare jacket with its fraying cuffs and suddenly felt overdressed in her best bonnet and sprigged cotton dress. Yet this morning it had seemed important she look her best to meet her father’s dearest friend.

  ‘My condolences on your sad loss, my dear. Your father was a fine man. We kept vowing to meet up, but time …’ He shrugged.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle Samuel. He had been ill for some time, and his death was not unexpected, yet it still came as a shock. Silly, isn’t it?’ She shook her head to blink away the tears that threatened whenever she thought of her father.

  ‘Not at all. I was greatly upset myself when I heard the news. We’d known each other a long time, since medical college, in fact, when we were both young and had idealistic notions of curing the world of all its ailments.’ He smiled gently, and she realized he was giving her time to compose herself. ‘Then, of course, he married your lovely mother and had you. Proud as punch, I was, when they asked me to be your godfather. Only wish I could have visited more often, but you removed to Plymouth, and I was busy with the school. Still, that’s water under the bridge of life, as they say.’ Sarah nodded, for her father had always been busy working with his practice, as well.

  ‘You’ve grown into a fine-looking woman, if I may be so bold,’ Samuel said, his eyes twinkling in the way she recalled. ‘Why, I remember when …’ He stopped as a tiny, bird-like woman hurried into the room, carrying a laden tray.

  ‘Thought the young lady might be hungry after her travels,’ she chirped. ‘Although you’ll have to move some of these papers, Doctor. I don’t know how you can find anything in this mess.’

  ‘I know, Mrs Daws, but there’s always something more important than tidying up to attend to,’ he replied, duly sweeping papers to the centre of the desk. ‘There.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to pour?’

  ‘If you would, please. That was most thoughtful of you,’ he replied, eying the plates of sandwiches and cake, before turning to Sarah. ‘Mrs Daws here bakes the finest sponge this side of the English Channel.’

  ‘Oh get away with you, Doctor,’ the woman chided, pouring tea into their cups and pushing the sugar bowl towards Sarah. ‘If that’s all, sir, I’d better get back to the kitchen before young Maisie puts the carrots in the swill bucket and boils the tops.’

  ‘Oh dear, that bad, eh?’ he grinned.

  ‘You don’t know the half of it, I’m telling you.’ She shook her head, then smiled indulgently. ‘Still, she means well, bless her.’

  ‘The girls take turns helping Mrs Daws prepare the meals, although I use the word “help” advisedly,’ he explained as the door closed behind the woman. ‘Don’t know how the place would function without her, and that’s a fact. Salt of the earth, she is, bless her.’ He proffered the plate of sandwiches but Sarah shook her head. Despite her long journey, she had little appetite. Besides, she was anxious to know why he’d summoned her here.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Uncle, but …’ she paused, not wishing to seem rude.

  ‘You would like to know why I sent for you?’

  She nodded. Although a suspicion of his motive was already forming in her mind, she had her own problems to attend to.

  He took a sip of his tea then carefully placed the cup on its saucer. ‘The truth is I need your help, my dear. I have been told by my own doctor that I must take things eas
y.’ He patted his chest. ‘The old ticker is slowing.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Uncle.’

  He shrugged. ‘Anno Domini, I’m afraid. However, my concern is not for myself but for the school and, more importantly, the children. I have spent the past twenty years or more building up this place. It is one of the finest schools for ragged children in the country, even if I do say so myself, and I’m not prepared to see it go to rack and ruin.’

  ‘Forgive my asking, Uncle, but what is a ragged school exactly?’

  ‘Sorry, my dear, I’ve been here so long I naturally assume everyone knows. A ragged school is somewhere orphans or children of poor families can come to receive a basic education as well as food. Of course, acquiring the necessary funds to run the school can be a problem, but that’s another story. The children rely on me, as do the staff, and …’ He broke into a fit of coughing.

  As his face grew redder, Sarah jumped to her feet and poured water from the carafe on the desk. Holding the glass to her uncle’s lips, she gently urged him to take a sip. Gradually the spasm passed, and he sank back in his chair with a wheezy sigh.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you, Uncle?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine now, thank you,’ he rasped. ‘Look, I’ll come straight to the point. Sarah, I need the assistance of someone competent, and I’d very much like you to take over the administration here.’

  ‘Me?’ she gasped. ‘But I don’t know the first thing about …’

  He held up his hand. ‘Please hear me out. I know you are eminently capable, my dear. You have been running your father’s home since your mother was taken, dealt with his patients and nursed him through his final illness.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but I don’t know the first thing about teaching children.’

  ‘You don’t need to. We have a resident schoolmaster and travelling mistress who see to their lessons. Tell me, Sarah. With your father gone, do you have any ties in Plymouth?’

  As he fixed his direct gaze upon her, she slowly shook her head. Until recently, she’d been betrothed, but Rodney, tired of the constant calls upon her time, had moved on to someone able to give him the undivided attention he demanded. Now she found herself as free as the proverbial lark, albeit she didn’t feel much like singing.

  ‘I realize I have sprung this upon you, but time is of the essence, and I won’t be able to rest until I know everything’s sorted. Before you make up your mind, why don’t you let me show you around the place? You can meet some of the staff and pupils and see what miracles we endeavour to achieve,’ he said, laughingly. But as her godfather struggled to his feet, Sarah saw just how much he had aged, how gaunt and frail he was.

  ‘I would like to see what you do here, Uncle,’ she replied. Having enough problems of her own to sort out after the recent death of her father, she had no intention of becoming involved, however she was curious to see the school she had heard so much about. ‘Father always spoke highly of your work.’

  She followed him along the hallway, noticing the polished parquet flooring that gleamed beneath threadbare rugs. Although the house was spotless, the decor was shabby with furnishings that sorely needed recovering, and there seemed to be piles of boxes everywhere.

  As he opened the door into a kitchen, warmth from the range welcomed them. A young girl was standing on a pail, washing dishes at the sink, but as soon as she saw Sarah, her eyes widened in fright, and she promptly wet herself. As the drips rained down on to the tin, she cowered in fright. Mrs Daws, who’d been making pastry at the scrubbed table, sighed.

  ‘There, there, don’t take on so. It’s only a bit of water after all. Maisie’s still settling in, Doctor,’ she added, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Come on now, ’tis not the end of the world,’ she soothed as the girl stared at the door, ready to take flight.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mrs Daws. I’m just showing Sarah around but we’ll come back later.’

  Poor little mite, Sarah thought, darting a sympathetic glance in the girl’s direction before following her godfather into the adjoining room. It was light and airy with two long tables down the centre and bare wooden benches at each side.

  ‘How many pupils do you look after here?’ she asked.

  ‘Usually about thirty or so,’ he sighed. ‘Of course, it varies because we never say no to a child in need.’ Sarah nodded as she glanced around, taking in folded trestles resting against the walls.

  ‘Those are for our drop-in visitors, for this serves both as dining room and soup kitchen,’ he said by way of explanation.

  ‘Goodness, I had no idea you catered for so many,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘All are welcome here, Sarah. One never knows when one might be in need of help oneself.’ He frowned, as if he’d expected her to be more understanding.

  ‘Of course, Uncle,’ she said quickly. ‘Father was always saying the same.’

  He nodded, as if reassured. ‘Now, back to the school itself. The children and staff all eat together so that we can instil at least basic table manners. It’s an ongoing battle though. Some of them are literally starving when they arrive, and it can take time for them to realize each meal that’s put before them won’t be their last. Most are used to scavenging and have never even sat down to eat before.’ He walked over to the wide sash windows that overlooked the back garden and pointed. Sarah caught a glimpse of the sea shimmering in the distance and the red cliffs that ran around the bay, then realized it was the vegetables neatly arranged in plots that he was gesturing towards.

  ‘The children grow all the produce for the school and Sunday soup kitchen, with a little guidance from us, of course. It’s important for them to feel they are earning their keep. You will find our regime includes plenty of fresh air and therapeutic outdoor activity.’

  Sarah nodded as she stared out over the garden. Seemingly, the vast grounds she’d caught sight of earlier were used to cultivate produce.

  ‘So this is really more than a school?’ she asked.

  ‘Indeed. We endeavour to make the children feel it’s their home too. The squalor we find some of them in beggars belief, if you’ll excuse the terrible pun. Our aim is to remove them from bad influences before they can commit any serious crime. We provide bed and board, together with elementary lessons and, for those that stay the course, some form of trade so they can try to make their way in this harsh world.’

  ‘Where do they sleep? Sarah asked, staring at him in surprise.

  ‘There are two dormitories upstairs, a bit basic but clean and certainly better than the wretched conditions they’ve been used to. Come on, I’ll show you those and then the schoolroom and workshops. I started the Ragged School in an old ramshackle shed but it was soon filled to bursting. When my parents passed, I was fortunate to inherit this large house, and everything developed from there.’

  ‘They must have been very proud of what you were doing,’ Sarah commented.

  His harsh laugh made him cough. ‘Not really. They expected me to set up my own practice for gentlefolk in order to make a comfortable living, but I wanted to help the people who really needed it.’

  ‘Like Father,’ Sarah replied, thinking of all the patients who’d been unable to settle their bills. Often her family had lived hand to mouth, but her father claimed people mattered more than money. Rodney had voiced his disapproval of her father’s largess, as he’d called it, saying he should insist his fee be paid up front. Although he’d never had the courage to voice his opinion directly to her father, he’d spent many an evening pontificating to her about them being taken advantage of.

  Yet it had been those very patients who’d rallied around when her father was poorly, turning up on their doorstep each day with pots of broth or stew, while of Rodney there’d been no sign. He’d sent a short, impersonal note of condolence when her father died and that had been it. Biting down the bitter memories, she forced her attention back to the present and followed her uncle up the long flight of wooden stairs.
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  The two dormitories were lined with rickety beds and a motley selection of covers. Like the rest of the house, the room was spotless despite its shabby furnishings. As Sarah ran her fingers over the nearest coverlet, which at one time had clearly been a dress, Samuel pulled a face.

  ‘We rely upon the generosity of the good ladies of the parish for much of the clothing and bedding. Now come and see our schoolroom,’ he said, leading the way slowly back down the stairs. By the time he reached the ground floor he looked worn out and was struggling for breath.

  ‘Why don’t we sit a while?’ Sarah suggested gently. He nodded and let her lead him back towards his study, where he slumped into his chair. With shaking hands, he fumbled in his inside pocket and drew out a little bottle of pills. Sarah pushed his glass of water within reach then tactfully walked over to the window, which overlooked the front garden. Was it really only an hour since she’d walked through those gates? It seemed like a different world here.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ her godfather wheezed a few moments later. As he struggled to his feet, Sarah hurried across the room and perched on the chair in front of him. Although she was pleased to see his colour had returned, it was evident the coughing fit had exhausted him.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me more about the school?’ she encouraged. ‘How many children do you have here at the moment?’

  ‘Ah, got your interest at last, have I?’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Well, as I said earlier, it varies from month to month. Currently, I guess we have around eighteen who bed here, then there are other poor children who come in daily for lessons and luncheon. We have to insist those children spend at least the morning in the schoolroom before they can receive any food, for despite the Education Act we know jolly well if they weren’t fed we wouldn’t see some of them at all. It’s down to their parents, of course, for they’d much prefer them to be out earning than learning.’