The Orphans of Halfpenny Street

THREE

Sister Beatrice pushed the clutter of paper, pins, elastic bands and pens on her desk to one side with a sigh. She had never expected there to be quite so much accounting to do when she’d accepted the post as Warden of St Saviour’s. She felt it to be such a waste of time when the children and staff needed her. The home was understaffed as it was and she could not spare the time to write endless reports and keep the accounts, which, as a devout nun, she found distasteful. Having made her point clear at the last meeting of the Board, which she was forced to attend each month – another waste of time – she hoped that they would accept the admittedly skimpy report she’d written up in the early hours of that morning.

She’d set aside the evening to do it, but three new inmates had been admitted; suddenly orphaned by the loss of their mother to some kind of violent poisoning, probably from food contaminated by flies or worse, the children had nowhere else to go. Had Nan been on duty she might have stuck to her plan, but the woman she trusted most in the world had gone down with a bout of influenza the previous day and was at home in bed. Sister Beatrice did not consider any of her nursing staff competent to admit three terrified children late at night. Sally, a dedicated young carer but with no nursing training, had washed them and put them to bed, but they had first to be examined to make certain they did not have any symptoms. If the illness that had taken their mother was not food poisoning, as she’d been informed by Constable Barker, but an infectious disease, it could have wreaked havoc amongst the other inmates. However, since the woman was a known prostitute and drank too much, it seemed likely that a nasty bout of food poisoning would be enough to kill her.

Sister Beatrice had examined them all herself, and apart from some bruises to their arms and legs, a couple of untreated sores on the eldest boy’s leg, which needed bathing with antiseptic and the application of a soothing salve, and the fact that they all looked emaciated, she passed them as fit. No sign of disease, thank goodness; no lice either, which was quite often the case with children from the slums around Halfpenny Street. She’d asked if they were hungry, or if they’d eaten anything that made them feel sick, and the elder boy had piped up.

‘We ain’t had nuffin’ but a crust fer two days, miss. Ma said she had no money to buy food, but then she and her fancy man went out drinking and they ate jellied eels from the stall near the pub. Ma said it was that as made her bad … and she ate two dishes of it, greedy pig. Didn’t bring so much as a chip home fer us.’

Assuming that the jellied eels were quite possibly the cause of the food poisoning – she’d always thought them nasty things – Sister Beatrice mentally thanked Providence that the selfish mother had not brought any of her treats back for the children. The evidence of the children’s near starvation and the bruises told her that they were victims of neglect and brutality, which was rife in the lanes about St Saviour’s. It was more than likely that the mother had had a succession of men and probable that the children had suffered at their hands; she didn’t think from looking at them that they all had the same father, since their colouring was quite different. However, she thought a decent meal and some loving care would put right the most obvious symptoms of their distress, though in cases of abuse the mental trauma often didn’t come out immediately.

After two years of running the home, and years of experience in the Abbey of All Saints’ Infirmary, she ought to be used to cases like these, but the sight of obvious abuse never failed to rouse her to fury. Hers was a nursing order, and though Beatrice had given up all thought of having a family of her own when she entered the convent, she had a deep need to help those unfortunates she thought of as the forgotten ones: the lost children, abused by those who should love them and abandoned by society.

She must be careful not to be side-tracked by her indignation. Her order forbade her from speaking out in a public way, but inwardly she burned with resentment at the way unfortunate children had been treated in the past. It was not so long ago that they had been sent down the mines at a tender age and used shamefully. Even as recently as the beginning of the terrible war they had all endured, when children had been sent off to the country, to people they did not know and sometimes against their parents’ wishes.

Beatrice had been reading an article about the distress this had caused to some unfortunate children, who had been put to work rather than being cared for, and it was that which had aroused her anger, because it seemed that there were either no proper records or they had been lost in the war. And then there were the misplaced children in Europe, homeless and orphaned, what chance had they of finding a safe haven?

‘May God protect and keep you,’ Sister Beatrice murmured to herself, crossing her breast. Only the Good Lord knew what would happen to them. At least here at St Saviour’s the children would be safe from the horrors left behind from a cruel war.

She fingered the silver cross she always wore as a sign of her faith and pondered the injustices of what at times seemed an uncaring world. It was not for her to make judgements. Her duty was to serve and she did her duty to the best of her ability.

‘Help me not to fail, I beg you, Lord. Prevent me from the sin of pride and give me the grace to serve with humility.’

Sometimes, Sister Beatrice was weighed down by her fear of failure. When faced with ignorance, poverty and cruelty, she wondered if she could ever do enough to make a difference, or was she like the little Dutch boy who had stood with his finger in a hole trying to keep out the flood of the sea? Perhaps God had His purpose for her and to do His will she must be humbled.

This would do no good at all!

Smothering a sigh of annoyance, she reached for the dark grey coat that would cover her habit. Having reached the age of forty-nine, she no longer glanced at her reflection, other than to make sure her cap was straight and her uniform worn as precisely as she demanded from her staff. Once, she’d been considered attractive, more than that if the truth be told, but beauty was skin deep, and in Beatrice’s opinion only brought unhappiness.

‘Sister Beatrice, may I have a word with you please?’

She turned, frowning in annoyance as the pretty young woman came into her office. ‘Staff Nurse Michelle, what may I do for you? I am in a hurry …’

‘Oh, are you going out?’

‘It is the monthly meeting and I’m already running late so make it quick.’

‘One of the new inmates is running a fever. I thought you ought to know.’

‘You had better put them all in the isolation ward just in case.’ Sister Beatrice picked up her battered but once-good leather bag and her gloves. ‘I shall visit them there when I return. Surely you can cope, Nurse?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Staff Nurse Michelle looked as if she wanted to sink, but raised her chin. ‘I thought you should know. I shall keep an eye on them myself just in case they have contracted something infectious.’

‘Well, you did the right thing, but I am in a hurry. Get on with it!’

The girl scuttled, making Beatrice smile grimly. Staff Nurse Michelle was usually reliable, as she ought to be, having trained as a nurse at the outbreak of war and done service in both civilian and military hospitals. She shouldn’t be so nervous of being reprimanded, but she was still fairly new to St Saviour’s and would get used to their ways in time. Perhaps she was in awe of her superior, because she wore the clothes of a nun?

Did her nurses think she was too strict because she tried to follow her conscience and do the work of the Lord? Was she too set in her ways, too accustomed to the years of suffering to accept that things were changing? At times her uncertainty pricked at her, but she took refuge in her faith. God would provide.

Sister Beatrice had suffered enough reprimands during her years of training at the convent infirmary. Her sin had been one of pride and she feared that she had been a disappointment to Mother Abbess many times, before she learned to control her anger and her pride. She’d worked many years with the sick and dying in the infirmary before she’d been permitted to care for the children. And it was only by special dispensation that she had been allowed to take up her position here, and because the Church wished to have a representative in a position of authority. It was the Bishop’s intention that she should maintain the strict moral discipline he believed desirable. Too many children’s homes had been called into question in recent years and she’d been told in confidence that it was her strong sense of discipline that was needed here.

‘With you at the helm I am sure our standards will not slip, as they have at other institutions, Sister Beatrice. I am relying on you to remember the old values. Children need to learn what is right and proper, but they must also be protected and cared for.’

‘Spare the rod and spoil the child?’

‘Exactly.’ The Bishop smiled at her. ‘I know I can rely on you to see that St Saviour’s does not fail in its duty to these poor ignorant children, Sister.’

‘If God grants me strength I will do what I believe to be right, my lord.’

‘I know we can trust you, Sister Beatrice,’ Mark Adderbury had told her later. ‘I’ve watched you working with sick children and I know you to be stern but compassionate – exactly the qualities needed. You will be their guardian and also their champion.’

Sometimes, she wondered if she’d been a fool to be flattered by Mark Adderbury into taking on the position of Warden. He was such an eminent man, so well respected, and charming. His smile could make most women melt and even she – who ought to know better – had experienced a few heart flutters when he smiled at her.

They’d met at the children’s hospital, which was part of the Church-run infirmary, where she had been the Sister in charge of the traumatic cases: children who had been the victims of violent abuse, children who often had lost the power of speech and would only stare at the wall by their bed. Mark Adderbury had been the visiting specialist and she’d admired his professionalism, his manner with the young patients, and the success rate he’d had amongst what had been thought to be hopeless cases. Of course he had as many failures as successes, but even one child brought back from the hell of despair was cause for celebration in Beatrice’s eyes.

Walking along the busy London street, her eyes moved over dingy paint and dirty windows. The narrow lanes about Halfpenny Street were, she supposed, marginally better than those many of the children came from in that the gutters were not choked with filth. When the charity – formed by several well-meaning persons of influence and wealth, including a Catholic Bishop and an Earl, though the latter did no more than contribute to the funds and allow his name to be printed on their headings – had bought St Saviour’s for a song, it had cost a small fortune to make it habitable again. However, its situation made it ideal for taking in the orphaned or mistreated children from the surrounding slums and giving them a safe home where they would be fed, cared for and given a new start in life. Although various council-run homes existed, and of course Dr. Barnardos had places all over London and the rest of the country, there were none quite like St Saviour’s, in her opinion. Everyone seemed intent on getting the children out of the city, sending them to scattered locations in the country, where they would lose touch with any friends they might have and would eventually lose their London identity. Here they gave their children individual attention, with each child loved and cared for, which wasn’t always the case in other homes. Beatrice liked to think that it was a place of hope for those poor forgotten children who might otherwise have lived on the streets.

St Saviour’s was the first place a harassed council and busy police force thought of when needing somewhere to place these children. Some would move back when their families were able to cope; some would go to new homes with kind people who took them in and cared for them. The worst cases sometimes went into specialist homes because their minds or bodies were beyond repair but St Saviour’s took as many children as they could squeeze into their premises. Because she knew only too well how desperately the home had been needed, Sister Beatrice could not truly regret having given up her life at the Catholic convent, which was situated in a quiet suburb on the outskirts of London, though she sometimes missed the peace of the evenings spent in prayer or quiet contemplation. She’d been convinced of her vocation and content to do the work God had given her; it was only since coming to St Saviour’s that she had sometimes wondered if she was strong enough for the task. However, Mark Adderbury was right when he said that not all children in need were ill. Many were simply undernourished and ill-treated, and it was these that St Saviour’s had mainly been set up to help because the established homes were overflowing and some had closed during the Blitz and taken their children out of London. This particular area had been chosen because it was at the heart of one of the poorest in the city, and would provide an instant refuge and in some cases a home for life.

The disastrous war the country had just come through had left many additional orphans in London, which was why the scheme had found favour amongst so many of Mark Adderbury’s friends and acquaintances. Sister Beatrice had no doubt at all that his was the driving force that had got everything up and running in the first place. She’d found herself responding to his charm and promising to think about it, and after inspecting the home, which she instantly saw was in need of better management, had allowed herself to be persuaded. On the whole, she found her work satisfying and often rewarding, but she had not reckoned with that wretched paperwork.

Entering the rather dark and austere church rooms, where the meetings were held each month, she saw that the committee were already assembled and waiting for her. The Bishop looked annoyed, glancing at the gold watch he carried in the pocket of his dark waistcoat, and one or two of the others seemed frustrated because she’d kept them waiting. Mark Adderbury rose to his feet instantly and drew out a chair for her, his easy smile making her forget that she found these meetings a waste of time.

‘I’m afraid my report is sketchy,’ she announced. ‘We had an emergency last night and I had to write it earlier this morning …’ Taking a deep breath, she went on, ‘I am aware that the committee has been petitioning the Government for extra funds. If the new building is to be converted to more dormitories, I may not have time to complete a monthly report or keep the accounts accurately. I should need a secretary …’

‘This really cannot continue,’ the Bishop said fussily. ‘I do understand that the position carries many responsibilities but we must have our reports and the accounts were late last quarter. There are limited funds and I really do not see how we can find the money for a secretary …’

‘I disagree,’ one of the committee members said. ‘With the new grant we ought to afford more staff.’

‘The grant is to provide and maintain additional accommodation for the children,’ the Bishop said. ‘Really, if it is too much for you to administer the …’

‘Perhaps I may have the answer,’ Mark Adderbury said smoothly. His air of authority held them silent, every eye trained on his distinguished figure as he rose to his feet. ‘We should not expect such a caring and dedicated nurse to be bothered with reports and accounts and I propose that we should appoint a new administrator for St Saviour’s. She would be there to assist in any way necessary, typing reports and keeping the accounts would be a part of her duties, but she would also oversee the building work and the setting up of the new wards, and be in charge of raising funds, leaving Sister Beatrice free to do what she does so well – caring for the children and her staff with all the dedication we have seen.’

‘But the cost …’ began the Bishop, who was cut short by Mark Adderbury once more.

‘There are to be two grants, sir. The first and largest is a single one-off grant from the Government for the setting up of the new building; the other is a provisional yearly grant. Our good work has been recognised and we shall be given a generous grant for the coming year, which would pay for the new administrator. After that, we must apply for future grants – but I have every hope that Mrs Morton will raise additional funds to carry us through so that we do not have to wait in line for council funds, which are always stretched to the limit.’

‘Sounds good to me, Adderbury. Who is this lady – and what experience has she had?’

‘I’ve known her some time and a few days ago I asked her if she would be interested in perhaps taking on the post. Mrs Morton is a war widow, like so many others – but she has worked as an administrator for a military hospital; she was in the Wrens during the war and took an extensive course in first aid. Although she has no actual nursing experience on the wards, she does have good office skills and I know she was very well thought of in Portsmouth. Indeed, during one air raid, in which the hospital was damaged, she worked side by side with the nurses and was of great assistance in saving the life of one of the doctors. In fact they wanted her to stay on after the duration, but for personal reasons she left …’

Administrator! Over her dead body. Beatrice looked at him in annoyance. Was he implying that she couldn’t do her job?

‘I might be glad of help in the office but I do not need help in running the home itself.’

Her flat announcement brought all eyes to her. Some of the committee looked impatient, for Mark Adderbury’s suggestion had met with favour, but he was smiling at her, his manner as calm and reassuring as ever.

‘Mrs Morton would not dream of usurping your position. We all know that we have a treasure in you, Sister Beatrice. For my part, I have been afraid that we might lose you because too much pressure was being put on your shoulders … No, no, Mrs Morton will naturally co-ordinate her ideas with yours but I believe you will find her helpful. We do need to move with the times, because now that the war is over things are going to change. In fact some of the changes are mandatory. Mrs Morton will help you guide St Saviour’s into the new and better future we all long for, and oversee the setup of the new wing. She is a friendly person and has independent means, and if she were to become attached to the project she might be inclined to contribute.’

He paused to draw breath. ‘As we all know, we need every penny we can get – and Mrs Morton has experience in fundraising. Her family is well connected, and I am sure she would be happy to write to people she knows to ask for funds. Her late husband’s family are wealthy people, and she would have a wide-reaching net …’

Sister Beatrice glared at him. Begging for money was the one thing she had flatly refused to do, for she did not know anyone who might contribute to their charity and she could not have begged to save her own life. Pleading for money was against her religious beliefs and her principles and she didn’t think she would be much good at it.

‘Well, I think that settles it,’ Bishop Trevor said. ‘Will you write to Mrs Morton and ask if she would take the position of Administrator, Adderbury? Since you know her personally, I believe we may dispense with the formality of an interview. I think we all have complete confidence in your judgement. After all, someone like that does not come along very often.’

There was a murmur of approval and the motion was passed, leaving Beatrice with nothing to say. Of course she could have threatened to resign. That would have thrown them, but she was at heart a sensible woman and there was no point in cutting off her nose to spite her face. The Board – particularly Mark Adderbury – was pushing for big changes to come into line with new thinking, and she had to let it happen … even though it touched a raw nerve inside. She knew that her methods and perhaps her standards might be considered old-fashioned by this young woman, who sounded very efficient and clever. Once she became established at St Saviour’s, Beatrice might find her own position threatened.

Well, it was in God’s hands, she thought. She’d been called to this position of trust and if she was found wanting then it must be because God had another purpose for her – and yet she did not feel resigned to giving up even a part of her authority. She truly loved her work at St Saviour’s and the thought of all the changes ahead made her nervous. Would she be able to cope in this brave new world?

FOUR

‘She was in a right old mood this morning,’ Michelle said as she flopped down in one of the comfortable but shabby armchairs provided for the carers and nurses in their staff room. Accepting a cup of hot milky coffee from Sally’s hand, she smiled at her. ‘I only told her because if she discovered I’d put the children in the isolation ward without her permission she would have cut up rough.’

Sally was as attractive as she was pleasant, with reddish brown hair cut short so that it framed her face and brushed her smooth forehead with a pretty fringe. Her eyes were a greenish blue and honest, instantly making her everyone’s friend. In contrast, Michelle had hair that was almost inky midnight blue-black, cut in a shoulder-length pageboy which she wore clipped back under her cap for work; her eyes were a deep blue that could cloud over when she was distressed. Dressed in their different uniforms neither of them appeared at their best, but anyone seeing the girls for the first time would be bound to take a second glance, for they were both outstanding in their separate ways. The different uniforms were necessary, because the nurses were in charge of the sick bay and the isolation ward, and the carers were expected to check with the nurse on duty before attending to sick children. They each had their own table in the dining room, although Michelle often sat with Sally or another carer rather than by herself if she was the only one on duty. Some of the nurses were inclined to look down their noses at the carers, especially when they came from a different class. Michelle, however, was an East End girl, and in the few months she’d been there, she’d made friends with everyone.