Cathy Sharp - The Orphans of Halfpenny Street

‘Terrible,’ she agreed. ‘I do understand that it is a poor area, but that is why I think I might be able to do some good.’ Angela gave him a hot, urgent look, her eyes full of passion. Mark wished she felt as passionate about him. ‘What would I be asked to do?’

‘Your job would be mainly in the office, but they cannot afford as many carers as they would like, and you would undoubtedly be asked to help out – perhaps with trips outside, pleasure outings, if you like. If Sister Beatrice likes and trust you, she may allow you to help with the children. Mrs Burrows – or Nan, as everyone calls her – is a surrogate mother to the children. She is the one who looks after those most damaged by trauma, and she often puts the young ones to bed, and cares for them if they are ill – at least, with small things that do not require they be placed in the nursing ward. Make a friend of her and she will put you right.’

‘Oh, if only they will take me. It sounds just exactly what I should like. If I had trained as a nurse I could have been of more help, but Mother hated the idea and when the military hospital discovered I was good at keeping order they made me one of the administrators; it was a bit of a shambles when I arrived. They were always inundated with casualties and often out of their depth. We had to provide temporary wards wherever we could find space and that took a lot of co-ordinating, so I think I can manage to bring in some changes at St Saviour’s. However, I also did an extensive first aid course and I know a little about helping out in a crisis.’

‘A lot of your time will be spent dealing with the setup of a new wing and the paperwork, also some fundraising. With the grant from the Government’s department to help with repairing war-damaged infrastructure, we’ve been able to purchase an old building just next door. We’ve had the architects in and the plans have been approved. The builders expect to move in shortly, perhaps next month if things go well. It has to be completely gutted and refurbished, which is a big job and will cost a great deal of money. We have also been given a small grant to help with running costs for the first year; it’s a part of the grand new welfare scheme that is coming in next year. Even with the grant we are going to need to raise a lot of money in the future … I’m hoping you will take that on, Angela? We need to get some wealthy people interested – and you know quite a few through John’s family.’

Mark saw the colour leave her face and wished he hadn’t spoken, because it was obvious that her grief lay hidden just beneath the surface, but he also knew from experience that grief had to be brought out and dealt with.

‘Do you think it sounds like something you want to tackle?’

‘Do you think they will give me an interview?’ she countered, and her stricken look had gone. ‘It’s just what I need, Mark.’

‘You’re sure you feel able to cope with an area like Halfpenny Street? Local legend has it that the street earned its name from the ragged orphans that would do any job, not matter how demeaning, just to earn a halfpence or two. It is part of the Spitalfields, Stepney and Bethnal Green area, at the heart of the East End, once a prosperous area when the rich silk merchants lived there. However, when the richer people moved out, the area went into a slow decline and was taken over by less well-off immigrants, Used as a fever hospital, the building was damaged inside but the shell survived and is the only one that has managed to do so in this particular area. We took it over in a neglected state and made it habitable again. However, it is a dingy area, teeming with all kinds of people, all nationalities these days. The Huguenots were there from the start, of course, but then it became very much a Jewish centre; you will see evidence of that in the old synagogues and shops. Many of the synagogues are now used as factories or storehouses. There are lots of little manufacturers and craftsmen working in the lanes and streets around the home, and most look grimy and neglected.’

‘What does any of that matter if I can be of use?’

‘You are prepared to do whatever they ask at St Saviour’s?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You are quite sure it’s what you want?’

‘I’m absolutely certain. I need to feel useful, Mark – to do something other than sit around and try not to be bored stiff by Mother’s friends.’

Mark wanted to please her, to see that quick smile he found so attractive. ‘I shall speak to the Board tomorrow; it’s our monthly meeting and if I recommend you … I can’t promise you, because Sister Beatrice is going to resist, but I think I know how to bring her round.’

‘Thank you so very much,’ Angela said, her face lighting up. ‘You are wonderful, Mark. So much to do but you always make time for me. I almost didn’t ask because you are so busy …’

‘As I’ve told you before, I am your friend and always here for you.’ He wanted to tell her that he cared about John’s cruel death too but she wouldn’t want to hear that just yet. Mark had served overseas with the Army Medical Corps for a while; he and John had both been at the horror of the nightmare that had been Dunkirk and survived it, but then Mark had been transferred to the Military Hospital in Aldershot. John had served out in Egypt for some months. He’d been home for a short visit, which was when he’d met and married Angela, returning to his unit for another tour of duty overseas, before his last leave. John’s unit had been one of those that stormed Normandy in the D-Day assault and it was there that he’d been so horrifically wounded that his CO had hardly recognised him.

Sent out to France in the vanguard of the advancing troops, Mark had worked with the other medics as part of a team, because this time round there was an understanding that it wasn’t just physical injuries the men suffered from, but deep psychological harm too. When John’s body was brought into the makeshift hospital, Mark was working with one of the surgeons on the burns cases, trying to prepare men for the ordeal they faced when they returned home, and he was there when John was carried into the ward, his injuries so severe that he was not expected to survive the night. Indeed, it had been a mercy that he’d never regained consciousness, but the memory was one that Mark could never share with his friend’s wife, because it was too shocking and painful.

‘Well, I must not take any more of your time.’ Angela rose to her feet. His gaze took in the grace of her movement as she uncrossed her legs, the smooth whisper-thin nylon stockings and sensible Cuban-heeled black shoes. Mark stood too and they shook hands.

‘Good luck. I imagine you will get a letter quite soon asking you to go up for an interview.’

‘I can’t wait,’ she said and went out.

Mark turned to stare out of the window at his very beautiful and extensive gardens. He was comfortably off, able to live much as he pleased these days. Indeed, he had no need to work all the time, and certainly the unpaid work he did at St Saviour’s was unnecessary to his career, but he too had known the urge to do something useful, to give back a little of what hard graft and Fortune had brought him. Perhaps it was merely a salve to his conscience, because he knew that many of the middle-class and rich women who patronised his clinics were not truly ill – at least their symptoms were real enough, but the mischief lay in the idleness of their comfortable lives. If more of them had Angela’s strength he would soon be out of a job, he thought with a wry smile.

Mark was thirty-eight, and had an unhappy marriage behind him. It had ended because his wife died in a diabetic coma, brought on by her total lack of discipline. She had disregarded her diet, eaten foods that were too sugary, and forgotten her insulin, often leading to an emergency dash to the hospital. He suspected that these frequent crises were cries for help, which had sometimes been ignored because he was working too hard to think about her unhappiness. In fact he suspected that she had deliberately taken her own life, because she’d known what her reckless behaviour would lead to, and it was her way of paying him back for neglecting her. He blamed himself for not recognising the signs of depression that ought to have been plain; his only excuse was that the pressure of work with men who were suffering terrible trauma had led him to imagine that Edine was happy enough in her comfortable home.