Honourable Doctor, Improper Arrangement. Mary Nichols
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of you. I ‘eard tell you take children and give them a good ’ome, clothes and food and learnin’.’
‘Yes, but only under certain circumstances and if their parents agree.’
‘Oh, is that why you brought ’im back, so’s you could take him?’
‘No, I thought you might be worried about him.’
‘So I was, but I can’t keep an eye on ’im and do me work at the same time. I have to mind the stall. And there’s the babby to look after too.’
‘Do you want me to take him?’
‘Be better than runnin’ wild about ’ere.’
‘Will your husband agree to that?’ Kate asked, horrified that she could even think of parting with her child.
‘You c’n ask ’im if you can find ’im,’ she said flatly. ‘I ain’t seen ’ide nor ’air of ’im these last six months. I’m at my wits’ end.’
It was just the sort of family the Society had been set up to help and Simon, having discovered her name was Janet Barber, asked to be shown where they lived.
Mrs Barber led them from the market into the area known as Seven Dials, a notorious slum where seven of the meanest roads in the city converged. Here she took them down Monmouth Street, lined with second-hand clothing shops, pawnbrokers and cheap food shops, and into an alley, where she stopped outside a tenement whose front steps were black with grime and whose door hung drunkenly on one hinge. ‘There,’ she said, pointing.
Kate, who fully expected the doctor to turn away in disgust, was surprised when he indicated the woman should lead on. They had attracted quite a gathering, but none seemed hostile and she supposed it was because the doctor was well known and respected. They simply stood and stared.
Kate, worrying about the little boy, was even more concerned when she saw the filthy room, which was hardly fit for animals, let alone human beings. There was a bed of sorts, heaped with rags, a table and a couple of chairs, a few pots and pans on a shelf and that was all. Everywhere was covered in a thick layer of grime and the smell was nauseating.
‘You goin’ to take ’im, then?’ Mrs Barber asked, as Kate stood on the threshold, reluctant to venture inside.
‘If you are sure, I will take him until you can get on your feet again. If your circumstances improve, then Joe can come home again.’
She laughed. ‘Pigs might fly.’
He gave her half a crown, which she gleefully accepted, then told the boy to say goodbye to his mother and hoisted him once more on his shoulders. It was not a satisfactory state of affairs and he wished he could do more. He wished with all his heart that such poverty did not exist and that all children were as plump and happy as those Mrs Meredith had been playing with earlier in the day.
‘I hate separating families,’ he told her as they set off for the Hartingdon Home. ‘And would not do so, if any other way could be found.’
‘Could they not be helped with a little money, so they could stay together?’
‘That might be possible, but a decision like that is not mine alone. The Committee have to consider all aspects. If the father is a wastrel or a drunkard, then it would be throwing good money after bad. If there is some hope, then we will do what we can and the boy can return to his parents. That is where we differ from the Foundling Hospital. Once children are taken in there, their names are changed and they rarely see their mothers again. We do our best to restore them to their families.’
The Hartingdon Home was situated in a converted building in Maiden Lane. It was a busy area, being so close to Covent Garden market, but it was certainly a step above Seven Dials. Joe was handed over to the housekeeper who gave him a slice of bread and jam and a glass of milk, which he downed with relish.
Simon waited until he was settled, then took Kate to the office where he invited her to be seated while he completed the necessary paperwork for Joe’s admission. ‘Keeping accurate records is an important part of the work,’ he explained. ‘If it is not done immediately, it might be forgotten. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all.’ She took a chair on the opposite side of the desk. ‘I am very interested in your work.’
‘We have to record their names and addresses, the names of their parents and occupations and exactly what action we took and why,’ he said, wondering how genuine her interest was. She did not look like the usual wealthy matron who visited and inspected everything before donating. She was young for a start, and though she looked delightful in her simple gown, she was not dressed to impress. ‘And when they leave, we write down the circumstances and where we have sent them. In another book we have the details of all the foster mothers we use and how much they are paid. And, of course, there are accounts to be kept up to date.’
‘Are you here every day?’ she asked him.
‘I come most days, but I also visit the foster homes and report on those.’
Kate had lost most of her nervousness and all of her distrust and sat down to watch him at work. His hair, as he bent over the desk, was fair and very thick. One strand fell over his face as he wrote. He had a straight nose and a firm mouth. She noticed his hands, one spread across the ledger, the other holding a pen, strong, capable hands with long fingers and nails neatly manicured. She could easily imagine him comforting the sick and all his female patients falling head over heels in love with him.
He put down his pen and carefully dusted the wet ink before looking up at her and catching her watching him with a slight tilt to the corners of her mouth as if she had found something amusing in what he was doing. He wanted to ask what it was, but decided he did not know her well enough. ‘Now that is done, would you like me to show you round?’
‘Oh, yes, please, and then I must go home. Everyone will be wondering what has become of me.’
He took her all over the house, showing her the dining room, the dormitories, the schoolroom, the infirmary where he treated the sick and the nursery where the tiny infants were looked after by nursemaids. Some were sleeping, some bawling lustily, others, almost too weak to cry, were whimpering. It touched Kate’s soft heart to see them. ‘Are they all abandoned?’ she asked.
‘Most of them. Some are brought in anonymously, others are simply left on the doorstep. Sometimes there is a note attached, telling us the child’s name and why they have been left, sometimes a small memento that has some meaning for the parent. Those little items, most often quite valueless, are often the only means we have of identifying the child and they are carefully preserved in case the mother wants to reclaim her offspring. It is the most heartbreaking side to our work.’
‘How sad.’ She felt the tears pricking her eyes. ‘It must be a terrible decision for any mother to be forced to make.’
‘Yes.’ He led the way back down the stairs to the kitchen and introduced her to some of the other helpers, and even showed her the patch of grass they called a garden and where the smaller children played. ‘The older children are all given their allotted tasks about the place,’ he told her. ‘So we do not have a large staff.’
The children themselves were a mixed bunch. Some were noisy and laughing, others subdued and withdrawn, but all were neatly dressed and well fed. ‘It is the quiet ones I worry about,’ he said. ‘They are the ones who will benefit most from going into a foster home and having a little extra attention.’ He indicated a little girl sitting on the floor in the corner of the classroom intent on playing with a rag doll. ‘This is Annie Smith,’ he said. ‘She is nine years old. I was called to her mother when she fell ill. She could not be nursed at home, so I recommended hospital. Annie’s father cannot look after her because he has to go to work as a docker and there are no other relatives, so she has come here, but as soon as her mother is well again, she will go home. The family is poor, but she was never neglected. She is bewildered by the other children and has found it difficult to settle.’
Kate