‘Elsa’s upstairs. Henry and John are across the road. Jack’s next door. No one can manage him unless he’s on his own.’
Alice raised an eyebrow. ‘You have accommodating neighbours.’
Mrs Redbourne sniffed. ‘It’s not all one way. We do for them, they do for us.’
‘The children are not in school?’
‘They’re not hopping the wag, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’
There were occasions when the almoners stepped in to lighten the load from parents who were struggling to manage their large families. Alice had arranged placements in industrial school for several children in the last few months, to free up some living space and relieve some of the burden from the shoulders of overstretched parents. She had also authorised the purchase of clothes for parents who wanted to search for work but had nothing suitable to wear to attend interviews.
‘I am going to try and arrange a placement to dovetail with Charlotte’s release from hospital, either in one of our hostels or in industrial school. A final decision will be made on the level of contribution you need to make on completion of a financial assessment.’
Mrs Redbourne’s jaw slackened. ‘Oh, don’t start on about that again! You come here criticising, then ask me for money! We can barely afford to put a crust on the table as it is. You’ve got some gall, lady!’
Alice put it to the woman that she was concealing an income from taking in laundry, as well as from the sub-letting of the attic space. Mrs Redbourne refuted the claim, muttering aggressively under her breath as she slung another shirt over the board. ‘Are you asking me to believe that your husband gets through thirty-six starched shirts in a week, Mrs Redbourne? More than five shirts every day, working on the railways?’
Mrs Redbourne made no answer. Alice continued to stare at her, but she refused to meet the almoner’s gaze. ‘Do you wish to see your daughter in the workhouse, Mrs Redbourne?’
‘I don’t give a fig where she goes, so long as it’s not back here.’ Mrs Redbourne abandoned the iron she was holding and folded her arms. ‘And don’t you go thinking I want relieving of any of the other kids, thank you very much. I know what you lot are like once you start poking your nose where it ain’t wanted. We might not be what you lot think’s up to scratch, but we’re muddling along as best we can.’
Perhaps recognising that she had little to gain in continuing, Alice made arrangements to treat the family’s scabies outbreak and then Mrs Redbourne showed her to the door. The almoner paused on the front step and turned around, just as Mrs Redbourne was preparing to close the door. ‘There is just one more thing. Was Charlotte engaged in any activities outside of the home?’
The woman huffed out some air. ‘What you on about now?’
‘Was Charlotte in employment outside of the house?’
The woman smoothed her apron and folded her arms beneath her bosom, her eyes cast downwards. ‘Nope.’
‘Training then? I believe she was nursing an ambition to become an actress?’
Mrs Redbourne looked up at that and cackled a laugh. ‘Her, an actress?! Not likely! She’s a little liar, I’ll give you that, but not a professional one!’
Alice expressed surprise at the apparent contradiction of her husband’s words, but Mrs Redbourne looked unabashed. ‘Him? He can’t hold nothing in his head for longer than two minutes. It’s –’ she stopped, pressed her lips together and then slammed the door.
Alice sighed and crossed the road, but the sound of heavy footsteps drew her back to the house. ‘Excuse me,’ she called out, quickening her step until she was standing about a foot away from a long-coated, bearded gentleman who was about to turn into the Redbournes’ front yard. ‘May I speak with you for a moment?’
‘Why certainly, Madam,’ the man answered in a heavy Russian accent. ‘What is it may I help you with?’
‘Do you live here, Mr –?’
‘Sokolov.’ He dipped his head when Alice repeated his name. There was a pause and then he said: ‘And no, I do not live here.’
‘And yet I believe that when I saw you last, it was on the upstairs landing of this house.’ Her eyes dropped to his hand. ‘And you appear to have a key.’
Mr Sokolov inclined his head politely, but appeared somewhat bemused. ‘What is it would you like from me, Madam?’ he said softly. ‘I do not know why you ask me these questions.’
‘I beg your pardon, Sir, I should have introduced myself. I am an almoner from the Royal Free Hospital. I –’
‘Zloebuchii hui, mne vse ravno!’ he shouted, flapping his hand at her. ‘Uhodi ot menya!’
Alice backed away, her eyes widened in alarm. She crossed the road, the Russian shouting indecipherable expletives behind her.
‘Where have you been?!’ Winnie demanded, as soon as Alice arrived back at the basement. ‘Sister Smith has been asking for you on the chest ward.’ She dipped her head towards Frank, who was sitting at Bess Campbell’s unoccupied desk, examining a file. ‘There’s been more trouble up there. Frank had to go up and sort it out in the end, and it’s not what he’s here for.’
‘What exactly are you here for, Frank?’ Alice said, removing her gloves and dropping them onto her desk. There was a note of challenge in her tone, but a playful twinkle in her eyes as well. She picked up the small pile of post on her desk, ran a cursory eye over each envelope then fixed her gaze back on Frank. ‘It certainly isn’t to make our lives any easier, is it?’
The COS representative, usually effusive in nature, merely lifted a bushy brow then returned to his work. Alice stared at him for a moment then sat behind her desk and began working her way methodically through the post. The first two letters went into the waste paper basket beside her desk, but when Alice opened the third she froze, her eyes fixed on the small black script in front of her – ‘I KNOW WHAT YOU DID’.
The almoner stared at the note for another half a second, her breath held, then folded it hurriedly and stuffed it in her bag. She ran her eyes around the room. Winnie was absorbed in the task of replacing the ribbon on her typewriter. As the typist muttered, huffed and groaned, Alice glanced at Frank. He looked up briefly, met her gaze, then returned his attention to his work.
Chapter Thirteen
What more glaring picture of charitable impotence is there than that destitute persons should constantly apply to a free dispensary for drugs which cannot benefit them if they lack necessary food?
(C. S. Loch, The Confusion in Medical Charities, 1892)
At the request of Bess Campbell, Alice went to the Mary Ward Settlement in Holborn at 9 a.m. on Friday, 13 January. There, she met Winnie Bertram and several other members of the Westminster Book Club, the women in the throes of trying to secure an accurate count of twenty unruly children.
Alice was no stranger to the settlement, having completed part of her social work training there in 1921. It was a place where the poor gained a chance to enjoy pastimes that were previously out of their reach. As well as socialising together, visitors could listen to music or take part in debating or chess clubs. There were mother and toddler groups and an after-school club, as well as training sessions for the unemployed and a ‘poor man’s lawyer’ service.
‘Who would like a barley sugar when we get to the zoo?’ Winnie asked, a few of her book-loving companions beginning to look a little rough around the edges nearby. Twenty bright grubby faces spun around, their eyes wide. From her pocket she withdrew one of the covetous sweets and held it up in the air to rapturous shouts and cheers. ‘Against the wall then, all of you,’ Winnie commanded, her habitual careworn expression momentarily absent.
Alice clasped a hand to her hat as they left the main building, the gusty wind that had dominated London in the last few days threatening to whip it away. Despite temperatures being close to zero, most of the children were inadequately dressed. The knees of some of the younger ones were so red and chafed it appeared they might, at some point, burst out of their skin. Perhaps that was one of the reasons Alice removed her cape and dra
ped it across her arm.
‘It’s windy enough to blow the feathers off a goose,’ Winnie trilled as she led the crocodile of children along Kingsway towards High Holborn. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?!’
Alice, bringing up the rear, eyed her colleague with an amused, slightly puzzled frown. The dour typist was brightly animated in her interactions with the children, who varied in age from the youngest at four, up to around eleven. There was no trace of the stubborn, bloody-minded awkwardness she often displayed at work.
The last few days in the almoners’ office had been manic as preparations were made for the forthcoming social work conference at High Leigh. Besides booking their accommodation and making the travel arrangements, Alice had spent hours trawling through the files to identify cases that adequately represented the value of the almoners’ work, in accordance with Miss Campbell’s request. Her efforts to find a placement for Charlotte had been limited to a few handwritten letters and an enquiry with the matrons of the local mother and baby hostels, who confirmed that, for the foreseeable future, every bed was spoken for. She had tried to persuade Winnie to type up a standard letter so that she could send it out wholesale, but the typist had frustrated her efforts at every turn.
It was as if the typist’s basement persona had been chased away by the children’s shouts of excitement and the high winds.
The party arrived at the north end of Regent’s Park shortly before 10 a.m., the pungent scent of the wild, of animals and straw all around them. The oldest scientific zoo in the world, London Zoo opened its doors to the public in 1847. It was a popular choice for charities organising day trips for disadvantaged children, whose only other brush with nature might have been the beetles scuttling around the scullery floor of their home or the bugs that had almost inevitably infested their beds.
The almoners regularly organised day trips for the pregnant women and girls and new mothers being treated for venereal disease at the Royal Free Hostel, once they were safely through the infectious stage. Besides art galleries and cinemas, the zoo was a popular destination. The girls would spend time in the aquarium, sometimes with their babies, once they were a few months old, and they almost certainly visited one of the main attractions of the time: Winniepeg the bear, whose playful antics would become immortalised by Christopher Robin’s father, A. A. Milne, when his Winnie the Pooh stories were published four years later.
Just after midday, the children were guided to the outdoor picnic area located near the monkey house. ‘So, you work with Winnie?’ one of the book club members said as she sat beside Alice at the end of a long wooden bench. A plump woman in late middle age wearing a purple coat with an elaborate brooch at the collar, she introduced herself as Cecelia and handed Alice a brown paper bag.
‘Thank you,’ Alice said, taking the bag and then helping a young girl sporting uneven pigtails and an extremely snotty nose to climb onto the bench. She turned back to Cecelia. ‘And yes, I do.’
‘You’re quite the revolutionary I hear.’
Alice expressed surprise. ‘How so?’
The woman took a bite from her sandwich then covered her mouth with her hand and spoke mid-chew. ‘You take no nonsense from the powers that be. Basically, that means the men.’
The almoner frowned. ‘Winnie told you that?’
Cecelia nodded. ‘We love to hear about women living their lives on their own terms. It’s too late for us, you see, but if you girls keep plugging away, maybe for you, things will be different.’
Alice raised her eyebrows and looked over at Winnie, who was holding court with some older children several feet away, on the opposite side of the table. They leaned towards her as they ate, interjecting eagerly and, every now and then, howling with laughter.
‘Ah, look who it is,’ Cecelia said a few minutes later, admiration in her tone. Several heads turned as the impressive figure of Alexander Hargreaves approached the table. Cecelia got to her feet. ‘Children, this is Alexander Hargreaves,’ she announced, when he drew near. ‘He’s the man we have to thank for today’s trip.’
A loud cheer went up. Alexander smiled and dipped his head in a modest bow. When he looked up he made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘My thanks to you, ladies, for your exceptional organisational skills.’ Several of the women blushed. One or two rose and offered him their hand to kiss.
When eventually he took a seat opposite Alice she said: ‘It must be wonderful to see the benefits of your fundraising efforts for yourself, Alexander. You must feel very proud.’
He gave a self-deprecating scoff. ‘Oh goodness, no, not proud. Not when there’s so much more to be done, but it’s gratifying to see for oneself what can be achieved when we all work together. I do try to make an effort to come whenever –’ The fundraiser was interrupted by a loud shout. A few feet away, a scuffle had broken out between a boy who had barely stopped scratching his head since leaving the settlement and a slightly older boy with an infected eye. Winnie got wheezily to her feet and separated the boys by pulling on their ears. ‘Credit where it’s due though,’ Alexander said, as the typist made loud threats about banging their heads together. ‘I think raising the funds is the easy part.’
Alice grinned. ‘I should say so.’
There followed a lengthy conversation with Cecelia about the book club members’ ambitious plans to raise enough money to take a group of children on a holiday to Eastbourne, and then, after Cecelia excused herself, Alexander asked Alice if she was prepared for the social work conference that was to take place next week.
‘I have several cases I can summarise that might be of interest to the delegates,’ Alice said with a grimace, ‘but Miss Campbell has asked me to present them myself and it’s not exactly my area of expertise.’
‘I would be glad to help. I happen to have a bit of experience in that area.’
‘Oh yes, of course, I forgot. Your after-dinner speeches.’
‘Exactly. Several dinner guests nodded off during my last speech.’ He smiled wryly. ‘But I like to think that had more to do with the average age in the room being seventy-three than any lack of charisma on my part.’
Alexander invited Alice to join him for dinner that evening, when he promised to impart some of the benefit of his public-speaking experience. After a moment’s hesitation, the almoner agreed.
Ciro’s Restaurant and Jazz Club in Orange Street was an exclusive, white- and gold-fronted venue huddled at the rear of the National Gallery. Dressed in a tailored grey suit and a white shirt, with a silk cravat around his neck, Alexander was waiting outside when Alice arrived. ‘I hardly recognised you with your hair down,’ the philanthropist told her, smiling appreciatively. With a hand to the small of her back, he guided her into the impressive building that had once housed the Westminster public baths, and across the carpeted foyer.
A waiter led the way across floors of sparkling white marble and into a large dining area. Green and gold decor in the style of Louis XVI, white-linen-covered tables and mirrors spaced evenly between globed gas lamps on the walls, Ciro’s was a place that exuded glamour and taste. There was a dance floor at the far end of the room, a few couples on their feet and dancing to the syncopated rhythms of the nearby band. It was a stage that had once been graced by Dan Kildare, the Jamaican-born pianist who, six months earlier, had strode into his estranged wife’s pub and shot her and his sister-in-law dead.
Alexander and Alice were shown to a round table about fifteen feet or so from the dance floor. They were served with some drinks – Buck’s Fizz was the new, popular choice in bars and jazz clubs across London – the thundering beat of the trap drums an energetic accompaniment to their conversation. Despite high unemployment and a large national debt, victory in the war and the end of daily trauma and worry had lifted the national mood. The enthusiastic embracing of jazz dance music reflected what turned out to be unfulfilled nationwide hopes for a bright new world. Around the country, restaurants were rearranging chairs and tables to accommodate the new craze for vigoro
us dance.
After ordering their meals, Alexander asked whether the book club members had managed to get the children back to the settlement in one piece.
Alice took a sip of her drink and gave him a wry smile. ‘The children were fine. As for the ladies … Well, let’s just say that I think they shall sleep well tonight.’
Alexander smiled back. ‘Bless them, the old dears. They’re magnificent with the youngsters, especially Winnie. It gives her so much pleasure to see the children enjoying themselves.’
Alice nodded. ‘I have never seen her looking so relaxed.’
There was a small pause. Alexander lowered his glass and settled his gaze on the almoner. ‘You haven’t quite hit it off with our Winnie yet, have you?’
Alice grimaced. ‘That’s the understatement of the year.’ She tapped the stem of her glass thoughtfully. ‘I don’t dislike her. It’s just – I don’t know – she is so obstructive. Did you know that when it’s just the two us working together, she turns off the lights when she leaves the basement, even though she knows I’m still down there? She does it every time without fail, then feigns ignorance as I stumble around crashing into things.’
Alexander grinned. ‘Winnie takes time to warm to new people. She was like that with me for about two years after we first met. She doesn’t find it easy to move with the times, bless her. I mean, she remains heavily suspicious of electricity, for heaven’s sake.’
Alice pulled a face. ‘I don’t think it’s electric she has a problem with.’
The tilt of Alexander’s head suggested that he conceded the point. ‘She does have her foibles. And perhaps she takes longer than most to warm to, but I’ve known her a long time. She has a good heart, Alice.’ Alexander sipped his drink, lowered his glass to the table and then smoothed down his thin moustache. ‘You do know, don’t you, that Winnie’s role is entirely voluntary?’
Alice stared at him in surprise.
‘Have you never questioned why ours is the only almoners’ department in London that enjoys administrative help? You know how tight the purse strings are.’
Letters from Alice Page 13