Letters from Alice: Part 3 of 3: A tale of hardship and hope. A search for the truth.. Petrina Banfield
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She had been to visit Hetty at home after her recent mastectomy, and, though in considerable discomfort, she had appeared to be making good progress. The news that her daughter and grandchildren had been boarded out in a cottage home in Harrow through the Waifs and Strays Society had cheered her, especially when Alice told her that the Samaritan Fund had covered the cost of purchasing a wringing machine, so that Tilda could provide for herself by taking in laundry, when she finally came to moving into a place of her own. ‘But –’ the almoner began.
‘The cancer has spread,’ Peter Harland cut in sharply. ‘Nothing more can be done.’
‘I see,’ Alice said, nibbling on her lower lip. ‘I shall go and see the Woods this afternoon.’ The almoner glanced over her shoulder towards reception, where Nell had abandoned all pretence of tidying the files and was watching the pair with undisguised intrigue. When Alice turned back she dipped her head towards the closed door of the doctor’s office and said under her breath: ‘May I have a word with you? In private.’
The doctor closed his eyes briefly then looked up at the ceiling, nostrils flaring. ‘My colleague is a highly skilled physician, Miss Hudson. If he says there’s nothing more to be done, it means that he’s tried everything he can.’
‘It’s not about Mrs Woods,’ Alice said through gritted teeth, her eyes flicking to Nell and quickly back again. She gave him a meaningful look. ‘It’s another matter.’
The doctor’s expression clouded over. ‘I don’t have time to –’
‘If we could just step inside your office,’ Alice interrupted. The doctor shook his head. ‘I really need to speak to you privately,’ the almoner hissed, and then added: ‘about Charlotte.’ She tried to sidestep him but he shifted his weight and folded his arms.
‘I’m not having you in there.’
Alice glared at him. ‘Why ever not?!’
‘Because it’s the only space in the entire hospital that’s free from your woman-ism and I intend to keep it that way.’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘As you wish,’ she said scornfully, with another quick glance towards Nell. The nurse had turned away and was in the process of delivering a severe dressing down to a young, tearful nurse whose apron had come adrift. ‘I have just received written confirmation of a placement for Charlotte, one where her baby will also be welcome, and so it is imperative for us to register the birth as a matter of urgency. Daisy is six weeks old today.’ She paused and withdrew the letter she’d just received from the pocket of her skirt. With no sign of any change in the doctor’s expression, Alice continued: ‘It is excellent news, is it not?’
Dr Harland looked at her. ‘I don’t believe the young woman is in any fit state to live freely in the community, Miss Hudson. Now, if that’s all?’ He made a move to retreat back into his office, but Alice went after him.
‘No, that is not all at all.’ When he turned back she asked: ‘How would you have any idea of the state Charlotte is in?’
The doctor sighed. ‘I’m basing my assumption on her condition when we last saw her. The girl can’t be allowed to wander at large, for heaven’s sake. She needs specialist help.’
‘I believe with some support she is perfectly capable of living in the community. If you would come with me to Banstead and see her for yourself, unless of course … you have already done so.’
The doctor glared at her. ‘Why is it you’re so determined to pull me into other areas of expertise?! First, gynaecology, now psychiatry! I’m in no position to override the opinions of the doctors at Banstead Asylum –’
‘It is not an asylum!’ Alice cut in again. ‘It is a hospital! And come on, you must hold some sway?’
He shook his head. ‘None whatsoever. And anyway,’ he mumbled, glancing away, ‘the infant is progressing satisfactorily where she is. It’s best for everyone if we stick to the status quo.’
Alice’s jaw dropped in disbelief. ‘You can’t possibly mean that?! You want to leave Charlotte’s child with your sister? Permanently?!’
‘She’s better off where she is. Being dragged around the slums of London by an unstable youth isn’t going to improve her life chances, is it?’
‘You cannot do that! Elizabeth is nearing middle age already; I cannot imagine her dealing with the rigours of a toddler, let alone a teenager.’
‘My sister is in perfectly good health as it happens.’
‘But what about when Daisy is of an age to play? She won’t be allowed to move in that museum of a house, just in case she breaks something, or gets a mark on the precious furniture. And I can hardly imagine Elizabeth kneeling on the floor to play – the woman dresses in full-length gowns and pearls to take tea alone. It is a most unsuitable placement for a child long term; most unsuitable.’
The doctor gave her a sardonic smile. ‘I’ll be sure to pass onto my sister your good thoughts and best wishes.’
The almoner stared at him. ‘I press on you most ardently to reconsider. How can it be fair for the poor girl to mourn a part of herself that still lives?’
‘This is not any of your concern. The girl has warmth, shelter and food, and so does her child. Leave things as they are, for pity’s sake!’
Alice continued to stare at him, and then her eyes narrowed. ‘Why would a man with convictions such as yours be so keen for a low-born child to reside within his own family?’
The doctor’s shoulders tensed. Alice continued to stare at him, and then she began to nod slowly. ‘So it was you, wasn’t it?’
‘What madness are you talking about now?’
‘The note. I suspected as much, but now I know. You sent it. You were trying to frighten me off.’
‘You have finally taken leave of your senses, woman,’ he said, turning away.
‘It won’t work, doctor!’ Alice called after him. ‘The harder you push, the deeper I will delve.’
It can be truly said that [an almoner] is as necessary to the real efficiency of the hospital as the supply of good drugs.
(The Almoners’ Council Report, 1910–11)
Almoners like Alice spent much of their time among people who lived in the most difficult of circumstances. ‘My world is naturally centred in small streets; the huge tenements and the sordid houses,’ the St Thomas’s Hospital almoner, Cherry Morris, was to report in 1936. ‘I wish I could take you to one of our centres … an old public house at the corner of two streets, one inhabited mainly by very low class people (near Waterloo station) and the other a street of small cottages that ought not to exist in civilised society. There is a large London County Council school near, and the noise of the children, barrel organs [and] street brawls lasting into the night is appalling … a district odour of fried fish pervades.’
In 1895, C. S. Loch suggested to almoners that applications for relief could be categorised into three distinct classes: ‘thrifty and careful men’ to whom relief should always be given; ‘men of different grades of respectability, with a decent home’ whom, Loch suggested, should be judged on a case-by-case basis; and, finally, ‘the idle, loafing class, or those brought low by drink or vice’, for whom relief would only ‘maintain them in their evil habits’.
Attitudes had begun to soften with the arrival of the new century, but the almoners still clung to the fundamental principle that every man was ultimately responsible for his own welfare, and that charity should only be given to those willing to stand on their own feet at the earliest opportunity.
Ted and Hetty Woods’ lodgings lay