heart.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Finnegan,” Jennie said, when the children were gone. “I didn’t mean to put you on show. I didn’t know you’d come to bring a donation. I thought you’d come to speak with the children.”
“Please don’t apologize. I enjoyed it. Really.”
“Then thank you. It was very kind of you.”
“It was nothing, Miss Wilcott. I hope I gave them a bit of entertainment.”
“You gave them more than entertainment,” Jennie said, with a sudden intensity. “You gave them hope. Their lives are very hard, Mr. Finnegan. Very hard. Everything and everyone conspires against them. Every voice they hear—a weary mother’s, a drunken father’s, a grasping employer’s—tells them that the bright and shining things of this world are for others, not for them. Today, you silenced those voices. If only for a few hours.”
Jennie turned away then, as if embarrassed by her emotion, and busied herself with banking the coals in the stove. “I don’t know why I bother,” she said. “It’s a useless stove. It heats nothing. But at least it’s a stove. We don’t have any heat at all in our actual classroom.”
“It’s Saturday, Miss Wilcott.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, raking the embers into a pile with a poker.
“You hold school on Saturdays?”
“Yes, of course. It’s a day when I can actually persuade the children’s parents to send them to me. Most of the factories and warehouses close at half day on Saturdays, you see. There’s no work to be had in the afternoons, so they can come here.”
“Don’t they go to regular schools?”
“In theory, yes,” Jennie said, closing the stove’s door.
“In theory?”
“Families must eat, Mr. Finnegan. They must pay their rent. Pay for coal. Children can do piecework at factories. They can stuff tickings with straw. They can scrub floors.” She gave him a wry smile. “When you weigh a pound of sausages bought with a child’s wages against maths equations or writing out Tennyson, the sausages always win.”
Seamie laughed. Jennie took her coat off a hook, shrugged into it, and put her hat on. She pulled a pair of leather gloves from her coat pocket, and as she did, Seamie saw that a long, faded scar ran across the back of one hand. He wondered what had caused it, but thought it rude to ask.
“I’m off to the market,” she said, picking up a willow basket off the floor. “There’s one on Cable Street on Saturday evenings.”
Seamie said he was going that way, too. Which he wasn’t, of course. Until now. They left the church, leaving the doors unlocked.
“Aren’t you worried about robberies?” he asked.
“I am. But my father’s more worried about people’s souls. So we leave the doors open,” she said.
They set off north.
“Your life sounds so exciting, Mr. Finnegan,” Jennie said, as they walked together.
“It’s Seamie. Please.”
“All right, then. And you must call me Jennie. As I was saying, your life sounds amazing. What incredible adventures you’ve had.”
“Do you think so? You should go exploring,” Seamie said.
“Oh, no. Not me. I can’t bear the cold. I wouldn’t last two seconds at the South Pole.”
“What about India then? Or Africa? The dark continent,” Seamie said, echoing an expression used by mapmakers about Africa, because so much of it was unknown and hence left dark on the maps.
Jennie laughed. “ England is the dark continent. Take a walk in Whitechapel, down Flower and Dean Street, or Hanbury, or Brick Lane, if you need convincing. I’ve always felt that British politicians and missionaries should make certain their own house is in order before marching off to set the Africans to rights.” She paused, then looked up at him from under her hat brim. “I sound terribly righteous, don’t I?”
“Not at all.”
“Liar.”
It was Seamie’s turn to laugh.
“It’s just that I feel there are such important discoveries to be made right here, Mr.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Finnegan,” Jennie said, when the children were gone. “I didn’t mean to put you on show. I didn’t know you’d come to bring a donation. I thought you’d come to speak with the children.”
“Please don’t apologize. I enjoyed it. Really.”
“Then thank you. It was very kind of you.”
“It was nothing, Miss Wilcott. I hope I gave them a bit of entertainment.”
“You gave them more than entertainment,” Jennie said, with a sudden intensity. “You gave them hope. Their lives are very hard, Mr. Finnegan. Very hard. Everything and everyone conspires against them. Every voice they hear—a weary mother’s, a drunken father’s, a grasping employer’s—tells them that the bright and shining things of this world are for others, not for them. Today, you silenced those voices. If only for a few hours.”
Jennie turned away then, as if embarrassed by her emotion, and busied herself with banking the coals in the stove. “I don’t know why I bother,” she said. “It’s a useless stove. It heats nothing. But at least it’s a stove. We don’t have any heat at all in our actual classroom.”
“It’s Saturday, Miss Wilcott.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, raking the embers into a pile with a poker.
“You hold school on Saturdays?”
“Yes, of course. It’s a day when I can actually persuade the children’s parents to send them to me. Most of the factories and warehouses close at half day on Saturdays, you see. There’s no work to be had in the afternoons, so they can come here.”
“Don’t they go to regular schools?”
“In theory, yes,” Jennie said, closing the stove’s door.
“In theory?”
“Families must eat, Mr. Finnegan. They must pay their rent. Pay for coal. Children can do piecework at factories. They can stuff tickings with straw. They can scrub floors.” She gave him a wry smile. “When you weigh a pound of sausages bought with a child’s wages against maths equations or writing out Tennyson, the sausages always win.”
Seamie laughed. Jennie took her coat off a hook, shrugged into it, and put her hat on. She pulled a pair of leather gloves from her coat pocket, and as she did, Seamie saw that a long, faded scar ran across the back of one hand. He wondered what had caused it, but thought it rude to ask.
“I’m off to the market,” she said, picking up a willow basket off the floor. “There’s one on Cable Street on Saturday evenings.”
Seamie said he was going that way, too. Which he wasn’t, of course. Until now. They left the church, leaving the doors unlocked.
“Aren’t you worried about robberies?” he asked.
“I am. But my father’s more worried about people’s souls. So we leave the doors open,” she said.
They set off north.
“Your life sounds so exciting, Mr. Finnegan,” Jennie said, as they walked together.
“It’s Seamie. Please.”
“All right, then. And you must call me Jennie. As I was saying, your life sounds amazing. What incredible adventures you’ve had.”
“Do you think so? You should go exploring,” Seamie said.
“Oh, no. Not me. I can’t bear the cold. I wouldn’t last two seconds at the South Pole.”
“What about India then? Or Africa? The dark continent,” Seamie said, echoing an expression used by mapmakers about Africa, because so much of it was unknown and hence left dark on the maps.
Jennie laughed. “ England is the dark continent. Take a walk in Whitechapel, down Flower and Dean Street, or Hanbury, or Brick Lane, if you need convincing. I’ve always felt that British politicians and missionaries should make certain their own house is in order before marching off to set the Africans to rights.” She paused, then looked up at him from under her hat brim. “I sound terribly righteous, don’t I?”
“Not at all.”
“Liar.”
It was Seamie’s turn to laugh.
“It’s just that I feel there are such important discoveries to be made right here, Mr.
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