The Orphans of Halfpenny Street. Cathy Sharp

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