About the Author

A dedicated reader and scribbler all her life, ROSIE JAMES completed her first novel (sadly unpublished) before reaching her teens.

Significant success came much later, and over the last twelve years newspaper and magazine articles, short stories and romantic novels followed under her other pen name Susanne James.

Rosie’s four family sagas were the next stage, the plots reflecting her fascination with the human condition – how different, yet how alike we all are. And in every story one thing is guaranteed – a happy ending.

Also by Rosie James

Letters to Alice

The Long Road Ahead

Lexi’s War

Front Line Nurse
ROSIE JAMES

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Rosie James 2019

Rosie James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008296254

Version: 2019-05-27

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Rosie James

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Dear Reader …

About the Publisher

For my ever-loving family … Including our precious dogs.

Chapter 1
November 1900

Randolph Garfield stood on the quayside and watched the last huge roll of tobacco being wheeled into his main warehouse. He nodded, satisfied at the superb quality of this consignment, but what had he expected? Virginian tobacco was the finest in the world.

As usual, his trusted foreman was checking each roll as it was stored away safely, and Randolph glanced at his watch. It was late and all the other workers had already gone home. But they would be back here again tomorrow morning, seven o’clock sharp.

Observing the proceedings closely, as he always did, Randolph tightened his hand on his walking cane. He liked the feel of its smooth, round marble head beneath his palm – palpable even through the fine kid gloves he was wearing – and considered the cane as something of a talisman, because it had belonged to his father who had never left the house without it.

Garfield Tobacco, its name marked out in huge steel lettering across the entrance of the three warehouses, was well known in the East End as it had been for two generations before Randolph. His father had died very young, which meant that Randolph had had to accept leadership of the family firm earlier than he might have expected. But he was not resentful in any way. He had been born into prosperity and enjoyed the life of the prosperous, and was giving 3-year-old Alexander, his only son and heir, the same privileges. So it was highly likely that Alexander, too, would follow in the family footsteps when Randolph no longer wished to head the business. He shrugged briefly. There was plenty of time to worry about that because, after all, he was only 40.

When the warehouse was fully secure, Randolph began to make his way from the docks envisaging how those gigantic rolls of tobacco would soon be transformed into thousands of cigarettes, cigars, plug and pipe tobacco and snuff, all supplying the never-ending needs of the public, rich or poor. The pleasure and solace of smoking was a gift of the gods. Certainly a gift for Garfield’s.

It was a miserable, late November evening, the gloom only slightly lessened by pale overhead lighting. Randolph took his usual route from the docks along the cobbled streets, past rows and rows of ramshackle, terraced houses and countless pubs. He had long since become accustomed to the poverty and deprivation all around, the overpowering scent of unwashed bodies and human excrement, of coal smoke hanging permanently in the air, the persistent smell of beer. There were always groups of children hanging about outside, few wearing any shoes, and who never seemed to go to bed, whatever time it was. Randolph doubted any of them had ever seen the inside of a classroom, despite the Education Act three decades earlier having decreed that education should be compulsory.

Throughout the area, various sorts of trading seemed to go on … there were countless private beer and cider houses, and women offering rags and old pots and pans for sale. A prolific number of people were engaged in the dangerous process of match-making, while little ‘match girls’ stood on every corner hoping to sell for a few pennies, and very young children persistently offered themselves to anyone willing to pay for it. Once, Randolph had been approached by a small girl, no more than seven or eight years old, earnestly offering him a ‘good time’. He had been appalled and had brushed her away, but the incident had haunted him for a long time afterwards.

But there was no doubt that the economy was booming, all the workshops and factories along the docks were doing well – including that of his great friend, Jacob Mason, whose business was in steel, and the manufacture of nuts, bolts and allied merchandise. Randolph walked on with a lighter step. It was a wonderful feeling to be successful at what you did. He and Jacob spent many happy hours discussing current topics and airing their opinions about the government. The two men had attended many meetings together but Randolph admitted that he did not always agree with his friend. Jacob had very strong views, and was always convinced he was right.

Now, Randolph began to reach quieter streets where the air was slightly cleaner, and he would soon get to the point at which he would normally hail a carriage to take him home to the house in which he’d been born – an elegant, three-storey dwelling in leafy Belsize Park. It was perfectly situated, and sometimes Randolph would take the long walk from Primrose Hill to Parliament Hill where he could be alone with his thoughts. And Hampstead Heath and Regent’s Park were close by, lovely open spaces for children to run and play. Randolph himself had done so and Alexander, too, sometimes went there with his nanny.

Randolph’s eyes clouded briefly. He could give his son everything that money could buy but he could not give him back his mother who had died giving birth to their only baby. They had planned to have many more children but it was not to be. Sybil had been 30 years old when she’d eventually conceived, and the love of Randolph’s life. And although he was considered an attractive man, being tall and broad-shouldered with scarcely any grey hair, he knew he would never marry again. Alexander’s mother could never be replaced.

Trying to shake off the occasional bout of depression he suffered from, Randolph walked on more quickly. If he hurried, he might be in time to wish Alexander goodnight before the little boy fell asleep.

Suddenly, as he rounded one of the many corners of this lightly populated area Randolph’s progress was instantly halted, and he frowned. What had he almost tripped over just then? Something or other had been tucked to one side, but was certainly an obstruction to anyone walking by. He narrowed his eyes and crouched down, his expression changing to one of genuine horror as he realised what he was looking at.

He found himself gazing down into the small face of a very young baby whose large brown eyes were pooled in the purest white.

Still crouching, Randolph took a deep breath. This tiny infant had clearly been abandoned, in a cardboard box like rubbish. How could anyone do such a thing? Yet he could see that the baby was warmly wrapped in a huge, pale grey knitted shawl and soft white bonnet, and under the chin had been tucked a small pink teddy bear. Someone had loved this child …

Very carefully, Randolph picked up the box, and was surprised by its light weight. He held it to him protectively as he stood up and looked around. The street was quiet and deserted, with no sign of whoever may have left the child there, but luckily Randolph knew that no more than two hundred yards away there was the orphanage. It had been there for years, and he breathed a sigh of relief. They would take the child.

He walked very slowly towards the huge grey building, not wanting to disturb the baby, who had not made a single sound but was just lying there looking up at him. Randolph gritted his teeth. How could anyone leave this beautiful baby?

Randolph could not have been aware of the fragile young girl watching him from her hiding place, nor have heard the rustle of her thin skirt as she crept back into the shadows.

Reaching the orphanage, he rang the bell and waited, and after a few moments he heard approaching footsteps marching across a stone floor. Then, heavy bolts were moved aside and the door opened. A tall, angular woman stood there, unsmiling.

‘Yes? What is it? Then, on seeing a distinguished looking man there and not another vagrant begging for food, the woman moved to one side. ‘Oh … would you like to come in?’

Randolph accepted the invitation and carefully handed over the baby.

‘I found this a few moments ago,’ he said quietly, ‘down there at the far end of the road.’ He paused. ‘I am sure you will know what to do about it.’

The woman looked down at the box and tutted. ‘Oh not another little throw-out,’ she said abruptly. ‘It’s a pity these sluts of girls don’t think before they—’

‘Quite,’ Randolph said quickly.

Together they moved inside and the woman placed the box on a large oak table. And there in the pale lighting they could make out the neat printing on the side.

Angelina. Born 1st November 1900. Weight 6 lb. 3 ozs.

‘This little bastard’s only three weeks old, and tiny,’ the woman said. ‘It could have caught its death out there like that. Good job you came by when you did, sir.’

Just then, another woman approached and took in the familiar situation at a glance. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, her voice soft. She looked up at Randolph. ‘I am Emma Kingston, the superintendent here.’

She was a short, stout lady, her thick grey hair piled up into a knot, her face dominated by thoughtful blue eyes. Randolph smiled briefly.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Kingston,’ he said. ‘My name is Randolph Garfield and I found this child less than an hour ago. The box had been placed to one side of the pavement.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am sure you will know how to deal with this … unfortunate matter.’

Emma Kingston glanced at the other woman. ‘Thank you, Mrs Marshall,’ she said, and with that, Mrs Marshall departed without a backward glance.

After she had gone, Miss Kingston studied the printing on the box, then picked up the baby and tenderly held it to her. She sighed. ‘I am afraid we do get children handed in here from time to time,’ she said, ‘but not usually this young, and not usually in a box.’

For the first time, the baby made a small pathetic gurgle – which made Randolph catch his breath. Why had this happened to him? And after such a long day!

After a moment, Miss Kingston said, somewhat apologetically, ‘Would you mind following me into my office for a few seconds, Mr Garfield? It is always useful to have something definitive to add to my records. Purely a formality,’ she added, ‘but you never know, someone may eventually come forward and claim Angelina … this little angel.’

Randolph followed the superintendent along the hallway and into the living quarters. There seemed to be a lot of doors, all closed, and despite this being an orphanage there was little sound. But of course, it was now getting very late.

In Miss Kingston’s office, Randolph took the chair he was offered and sat down. After putting the box with the baby in it down on a chair beside her, Miss Kingston took out a ledger and opened a fresh page. She looked across at Randolph.

‘I take it you are Mr Garfield of Garfield Tobacco?’ she enquired politely, and Randolph nodded.

‘Indeed I am,’ he said quietly.

‘So, Mr Garfield, would you tell me exactly when and where you found this baby’’ Miss Kingston said, and for the next two minutes Randolph told her the little there was to say.

Presently, Miss Kingston sat back, looking pensive. ‘It’s fortunate that we are still here,’ she said, ‘because the orphanage will be closing at the beginning of next year.’

Randolph was surprised. The place had always been here. He frowned. ‘So – what will happen to all the children?’ he asked. ‘Where will they go?’

The superintendent turned to take the baby in her arms again, rocking it to and fro comfortingly, and Randolph realised that the lady clearly loved children and must have looked after so many in her time. Unlike the other woman who had seemed cold and unfeeling.

‘Fortunately, we only have eight orphans with us at the moment,’ Miss Kingston said. ‘I have tried to cut back because of the impending closure, but normally there are fifteen children here. The ones remaining will be dispersed to other orphanages when we can find places for them. It can be anywhere in the country, of course,’ she added. ‘Not necessarily local.’

Randolph was feeling more unhappy with every moment that passed. Little children, little babies like Angelina, being passed around like parcels. He cleared his throat.

‘But why is the orphanage to close?’

‘Lack of funding, I’m afraid,’ the superintendent said. ‘Of course, we get a little parish relief but our principal benefactor died earlier this year, and sadly he left no provision for the orphanage in his will.’ She paused, smiling briefly. ‘He had been more than generous in his lifetime and I don’t think there was very much left in the end.’

Randolph looked away for a second. ‘And what will you do, Miss Kingston? Will you accompany any of the children who have been in your care?’

Miss Kingston shook her head sadly. ‘I think it is time for me to finish what has been my life’s work,’ she said, ‘though I had had every intention of remaining here for perhaps another ten years when I retire. But fate has taken a hand, so when the orphanage closes, that will be my own farewell, too.’

*

Randolph left the orphanage and walked on slowly. It was strange, but he had never given that place much thought at all – or rather, had never given those children much thought. They were safe and provided for, and much like the youngsters down by the docks, orphans were merely a fact of life. There had always been orphans and there would always be orphans. So why was he, Randolph Garfield, feeling uneasy?

Well, he knew the reason. That little child, that tiny baby, Angelina, had caused him to stop and do something to help her. Those beautiful eyes looking at him like that had secured a place in his conscience.

And in his heart …

The following evening, Jacob Mason came to Number 1 Richmond Villas to enjoy a bottle of good red wine with his friend. This was a ritual which had taken place every other week for years, and the wine was always accompanied by a light supper of cold meats and pickles and a loaf of bread baked and served by Randolph’s housekeeper.

But the main purpose of these occasions was to talk shop, to discuss current events and the state of the world in general. And then they’d exchange news of more personal matters. Tonight, Randolph did have something to recount.

As the two sat either side of a bright log fire in his study, Randolph spoke up. ‘On my way home yesterday evening, Jacob, I had a most uncomfortable experience.’

Jacob sat forward, immediately interested. ‘Go on.’

‘I found … I happened upon … well, I discovered a newborn baby which had been abandoned in a cardboard box. And it was a complete shock, I can assure you’’

Jacob nodded, but seemed unsurprised at the news. ‘What did you do about it?’

‘I took the box to the orphanage just up the road from where I found it – and on the side of the box were the words – “Angelina, born 1st November 1900 weight 6 lbs. 3oz”.’

‘Oh well, that’s all right then,’ Jacob said casually ‘It’ll be fed and clothed and looked after until it can get out into the world and fend for itself.’ He sat back, satisfied with his own summing up of the sad facts.

Not for the first time in his life, Randolph felt angry at his friend’s attitude. To hear Jacob refer to that innocent child as an ‘it’ was upsetting. He let a moment pass, then said, ‘I was very surprised to learn that the orphanage is to close in the New Year. Due to a lack of funding, apparently.’

‘Well, money is what makes the world go around, as we all know,’ Jacob said cheerfully. ‘Other orphanages will take those kids I suppose.’ He took a drink from his glass. ‘Trouble is, Randolph, they can never be anything, amount to anything, give anything back,’ Jacob went on. ‘Just imagine the parentage! The genetic influence! I believe that orphans are usually illegitimate – bastards, in other words. So, genetically speaking, their prospects are hopeless. Hopeless!’

‘I think that is a rather pessimistic view, Jacob,’ Randolph said coolly. ‘It’s obvious that not everyone has the same start in life, but those children are schooled in arithmetic, they are given books to read, and they are taught the bible—’

Jacob interrupted, smiling. ‘I can see that your recent experience has played on your mind and given you cause for thought, Randolph.’

Randolph nodded. ‘I learned that nuns from the priory teach the children and help to look after them,’ he said, ‘together with a small, subsidiary domestic staff.’

Jacob shrugged. ‘I’m telling you, none of them will ever amount to anything. They are the driftwood of life! My father was emphatic about never employing such people. because they’d always be a waste of time. And my father was never wrong about anything! All successful countries, all successful economies, depend on people of good stock, of good background, of intellect, and you and I are part of that, Randolph. We are doing our bit to keep the system going.’ He leaned forward and tapped Randolph on the knee. ‘And, in years to come, when our two youngsters tie the knot – oh, I know it won’t be for a very long time yet – but when they do, they will be continuing the process. And they will produce children of distinction! Useful citizens, Randolph!’

Randolph smiled briefly. Who knew what Alexander might want to do with his life, or who he’d share that life with? Jacob’s daughter, Honora, was still only an infant, but he and his wife Elizabeth, were determined that their little girl would one day be the next Mrs Garfield.

Randolph stared into his glass for a moment. He knew that Jacob was a great admirer of Frances Galton, the distinguished statistician and mathematician. Galton was of the opinion – among other things – that it was simple to place the populace in groups, from the lowest to the highest in terms of what they would be worth to the success of a country, and that the value of an ‘average’ person over a lifetime would be no more than five pounds. He also empathically believed that the lower classes should be discouraged from procreating.

‘I returned to the orphanage today and spoke at length to the superintendent,’ Randolph said, ‘and I learned that there are two trustees, one of whom is a priest – Laurence Dunn—’

‘Oh, I’ve met Father Laurence,’ Jacob interjected. ‘He’s been to my club once or twice.’

‘Anyway, I wanted to know if anyone had returned to claim little Angelina,’ Randolph said, and Jacob snorted derisively.

‘That’ll never happen!’ he said. ‘Orphans are the unwanted in life. Certainly unwanted by the loose, ignorant women who spawn them!’

Chapter 2

The following Saturday afternoon, Randolph left the factory earlier than usual and made his way to the orphanage. He had been thinking long and hard about many things, and had come to a decision. He was not going to see the place close, its young inmates dispersed to heaven knew where. If it was at all possible, he would buy it – he’d already re-named it in his head. It would become the Garfield Home for Children.

His ring on the bell was answered almost at once by Mrs Marshall. She stood aside for Randolph to enter.

‘Is it possible for me to speak to Miss Kingston?’ he said briefly. ‘I will not keep her long.’

Mrs Marshall nodded. ‘I’ll tell her,

Presently, sitting opposite Emma Kingston in her office, Randolph said – Firstly, I would like to find out how the baby … how Angelina is getting on. Is she thriving?’

The superintendent smiled. ‘That little one is a born survivor, Mr Garfield,’ she said. ‘We engage a wet nurse for babies this young and Angelina took what was offered straightaway. She sleeps well, is no trouble at all and is so alert! In fact, I would say she is already looking around and sizing up the world she’s been born into!’

Randolph nodded. Would he ever forget those large brown eyes gazing up at him?

‘You say there are eight children here. Both girls and boys, I take it?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Emma Kingston said, ‘At the moment we have four boys and, with Angelina now, there are five little girls..

nd how long do they remain at the orphanage? Generally speaking?’

‘Normally until they are fourteen,’ the superintendent said, ‘Then we try and find work for them, and somewhere to live.’ She shrugged briefly. ‘It isn’t easy, but sometimes a job comes up in one of the big houses or hotels, where they have bed and board in exchange for cleaning work, scullery work, or in the kitchen. And luckily, they do have some experience because from quite a young age they must help here with everyday tasks. It’s never too early to learn such things, is it?’ She smiled. ‘The boys are not so keen, but they are kept busy in our small garden, weeding, clearing up and planting. We try to grow our own vegetables to keep our costs down.’ she added.

Randolph cleared his throat. Why had he never given a thought to the small lives being lived out in this huge building, and other buildings like it?

‘And what about staff, Miss Kingston?’ he asked. ‘How many people do you have working for you?’

‘Oh well … I have Mrs Marshall, who you’ve met,’ the superintendent replied. ‘She is a general assistant and she comes in each day. One or two extra helpers are engaged occasionally when needed, and of course there are always the two domestics who clean and do regular hours in the laundry.’

‘You have quite a task force here, Miss Kingston,’ Randolph said, and she smiled.

‘Ah, but I haven’t mentioned our wonderful cook, Mrs Vera Haines! She is resident, naturally, as is our young nurse, Nancy’ the superintendent said. ‘Nancy is a cheerful young lady who sometimes helps the nuns in the schoolroom, or accompanies the children when they go to the park. But she goes home at weekends, so it’s fortunate that, after all these years, I am well able to cope with any minor medical problems which may crop up. And of course, I can always call the parish doctor if necessary,’ she added.

Randolph glanced at the clock on the wall. He didn’t want to take up too much of the woman’s time, but if he was going to put his plan into action, he had to know what he was taking on – and what it was going to cost. ‘Would you mind showing me around, Miss Kingston?’ he asked politely. ‘Because I would very much like to help in some way if possible, and …’

Emma Kingston stood up. ‘Of course you may look around, Mr Garfield,’ she said, ‘but I am afraid we are beyond help now. We just cannot afford to stay here with the small financial help we receive. The whole place is in need of a thorough overhaul, such lighting as we have needs replacing and the plumbing is in a poor state.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘So one has to face facts – this building is not fit for purpose, and that is why it is to be sold. Apart from the fact that, as I explained, our benefactor has died,’ she added.

Randolph did not reply, but followed her along the corridor and up to the stairs to be shown the five small bedrooms for the orphans – all very neat and tidy, he noted to himself.

‘These rooms at the end are the ones for Nancy, Mrs Haines and myself,’ Miss Kingston said, ‘and our nursery for the babies is there as well. The two small bathrooms we have are downstairs – which can be slightly inconvenient.’

Is Angelina in the nursery?’ Randolph asked casually, and Emma Kingston stopped.

‘Yes – would you like to take a peep, Mr Garfield?’

‘Together, they went into the nursery and as Randolph gazed down at the child he had the greatest difficulty in not scooping her up into his arms. Cocooned in snow-white covers, she was fast asleep. On the soft white pillow was the pink teddy bear, the one tiny possession she had brought with her.

‘She is the most delightful baby,’ Miss Kingston murmured softly. ‘We are all in love with her. It’s as if she’s determined to be no trouble to anyone.’

Just then, Angelina stirred and opened her eyes, and Randolph felt tears welling up in his own. What possible future was in store for this little one, abandoned at birth? Why couldn’t she be his, his and Sybil’s? One of the children they’d planned to have?

The superintendent interrupted his thoughts as she said quietly, ‘Her next feed is almost due, but see? Angelina is looking at us, Mr Garfield, giving us the onceover! This is quite unusual in so young a child,’ she added.

Randolph found his voice. ‘She is … perfect,’ he said. ‘Surely a gift from God.’

Miss Kingston glanced at him covertly. For a hard-nosed businessman, Mr Garfield was rather a surprise.

‘It is very quiet everywhere,’ Randolph said as he followed her back down, and she half-turned to glance at him.

‘Ah well, at this time on a Saturday afternoon the children are usually taken to the park – if the weather is reasonable – but they’ll be back soon and looking forward to teatime. Cook usually makes cakes on Saturdays.’

Emma Kingston opened a door and gestured for Randolph to look inside. ‘This is where food is eaten,’ she said, ‘and the children have three meals a day, breakfast, dinner and tea, and a warm drink last thing.’

Randolph looked down at the two long trestle tables, the wooden benches pushed beneath. ‘I must say that I was aware of a very appetising smell as I came in earlier,’ he said. ‘So what was on the menu for dinner today?’

‘It was tripe and onions today, with mashed potatoes, and an apple for pudding,’ Miss Kingston said, ‘and while tripe may not be everyone’s first choice we are on a very tight budget, so the children must eat what they are given.’ She smiled briefly. ‘Orphans are not allowed to be fussy, Mr Garfield, but our cook always manages to make everything so tasty that it is unusual for even a scrap of food to be left on the plates. And the staff eat exactly the same.’

Finally, Randolph was shown the playroom and the schoolroom next to it, with the single desks in rows and a large blackboard and easel at the front of the class.

‘Do the children enjoy their lessons with the nuns?’ Randolph enquired. ‘I mean, do you have behavioural problems?’

‘Sometimes,’ Miss Kingston admitted, ‘but orphans are just children, all with difficult backgrounds – well, those we know about. But some of them are just picked up from the street, little strays that no one knows a thing about. So of course they can be naughty, but that’s only to be expected– and I try and talk them out of their bad humour with a hug, and maybe a sweet or two,’ she added.

Following her back into her office, Randolph decided that it was time to come clean.

‘Miss Kingston,’ he said, ‘I have something to say which may come as a surprise, but all things being equal, I am going to buy this building, and will expect it to be run exactly as it is at the moment.’

The woman’s reaction was immediate. ‘Mr Garfield … Mr Garfield, I am not sure what to say, but—’

‘The only thing I would ask you to say, Miss Kingston,’ Randolph interrupted, ‘is that, if it all goes through as I hope it will, would you stay on in your present position here and help me … advise me? My business life is obviously totally different from owning an orphanage, as you will appreciate, and I am going to need expert guidance. Can I dare to hope that you will provide that guidance?’

For a full ten seconds Emma Kingston didn’t utter a word. Then she said simply, ‘It would be my privilege, Mr Garfield. And my utter joy.’

He stood up to leave, then hesitated. ‘It is very sad that no one has come forward to claim Angelina,’ he said, and the superintendent nodded.

‘Indeed it is,’ she said quietly. ‘And … I do have news which it grieves me to tell you, Mr Garfield. But the body of a young woman was found late on Thursday night, about half a mile from here and … it seems that she had quite recently given birth.’

Randolph felt his stomach lurch in horror at this information, yet he was well aware that almost every week in the year it was commonplace for nameless bodies to be swept up on the streets of London. Jacob Mason’s classless, rootless, useless human beings …

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