Kitabı oku: «Letters from Alice: Part 3 of 3: A tale of hardship and hope. A search for the truth.»

Chapter Seventeen

Statistics show that every year the birth rate from the worst end of our community is increasing in proportion to the birth rate at the better end, and it was in order to try to right that grave social danger that I embarked upon this work to counteract the steady evil which has been growing for a good many years of the reduction of the birth rate on the part of the thrifty, wise, well-contented, and the generally sound members of our community, and the reckless breeding from the semi-feeble minded, the careless, who are proportionately increasing in our community because of the slowing of the birth rate at the other end of the scale.

(Marie Stopes, quoted in The Trial of Marie Stopes, edited by M. Box, 1967)

The weekend conference organised by the almoners took place at High Leigh on Friday, 10 February 1922.

The sprawling Victorian manor house was once owned by Robert Barclay, a member of the famous banking dynasty, and had been transformed into a conference centre after his death in 1921. Surrounded by forty acres of Hertfordshire countryside, it was an idyllic setting, one regularly hired out to missionaries and those involved in charitable relief. Its close proximity to the metropolis made it a convenient choice for the almoners from the London hospitals.

Alice had embarked on the twenty-mile journey up to Hoddesdon by rail earlier that morning, accompanied by colleagues Frank, Alexander and Bess Campbell. After depositing their trunks in their respective rooms, the small party filed into one of the large oak-panelled function rooms, arriving in their seats at just before a quarter to nine.

After an introduction from a representative from the Charity Organisation Society, Bess Campbell glided onto the stage in a crimson gown and a lace stole. She spoke about the importance of sharing good practices with colleagues and, unlike the St Thomas’s almoner, Miss Cummins, whose shyness caused her to mumble and falter when making public speeches, Bess used her hands animatedly as she spoke, capturing everyone’s attention with no hint of nerves.

Among the audience were delegates from a number of charitable organisations as well as representatives from the clergy and government departments concerned with housing and education. The futility of working in isolation was becoming clear to all involved in social work, and Bess added her voice to those stressing that improved communication was the way forward if reformers were to stand any hope of improving outcomes for the destitute.

As her speech came to an end, Alice rolled her shoulders and took several long, slow breaths. Her eyes locked with Alexander’s when she took her place at the podium, and the fundraiser gave her a small nod of encouragement. Perhaps to put herself at ease, she opened by joking with the audience that when trying to decide on a career at the end of the Great War, she had drawn up an alphabetical list of the possibilities open to her and settled on the first one she came to after ‘actress’.

Miss Campbell smiled and nodded as Alice spoke about some of the cases she had dealt with during her first year in post: the young child she had taken under her wing whose parents had delivered her to the hospital for treatment and then failed to return; the patient who had fallen into a deep depression after a leg amputation, who was now working cheerfully in the hospital kitchens.

The almoner told delegates about her efforts to encourage prostitutes into more respectable lines of work and the lengths she and her colleagues went to in helping those addicted to drugs and alcohol. ‘The joy of my own work comes, not from meeting people when they are at their lowest ebb,’ she said, beginning to get into her stride, ‘but from offering a sanctuary away from what, for so many of our patients, is a hostile, frightening world. Witnessing their transformation as they begin the long climb towards self-respect and independence is such a privilege,’ she added, lifting her gaze from the podium for the first time, ‘and it chills me to think of what would become of them if the safety net of our department were to be removed.’

She went on to describe how she had grown wise in recent months to the games people play, citing Jimmy’s case as an example in point. There was widespread mirth among the audience as she recounted her final visit to Jimmy on the ward, and when the almoner descended the stairs to the right of the stage, at just after half past ten, she looked like a woman who’d just received a pardon at the foot of the gallows.

Sporadic, whispered conversations broke out across the floor as Alice took her seat, falling into a revering silence as Alexander Hargreaves, smartly dressed in a white shirt, colourful cravat and dark, waist-coated suit complete with a flower in the buttonhole, took to the stage. The philanthropist cleared his throat and surveyed his audience, then linked his hands behind his back. ‘I wonder how many of us,’ he enquired with melodious confidence, rolling back and forth on his heels, ‘can claim to be true social reformers, rather than mere thoughtful observers.’

His eyes roved over those gathered in the manner of a priest delivering a sermon, and then he paused to allow his enquiry to sink in. After a few moments he began a slow walk across the stage, his hands still linked behind his back. He spoke about the stark inequalities on view in London day after day, the traders who blindly rode the trains into work while homeless children froze to death in the railway arches beneath them. ‘The time has come,’ he said stirringly, ‘for each and every one of us to transform ourselves into people of action, and to stop wasting our time espousing useless, empty words.’ He stopped pacing and turned to face his audience, whose zeal was beginning to mirror his own in intensity. ‘Let us reject those who dismiss the poverty of the masses as inevitable,’ he intoned, his arm outstretched towards them, his palm turned upwards to the ceiling. He made a claw with his hand and then clamped his long fingers into a fist. ‘Let us work together to bring an end to the misery of destitution. The success of our joint efforts, my friends, need know no bounds.’

He dipped his head modestly as the audience erupted into spontaneous applause.

The fundraiser was stopped by a number of delegates as the audience spilled from the foyer into the grounds later that afternoon, each of them keen to make the acquaintance of the most impressive speaker of the day. Skilled in steering any interaction towards furthering his cause, he managed to convert three vague enquiries into his work into hard donations before he and Alice had finished their stroll through the formal gardens.

‘Impressive,’ Alice said as they sat side by side on a stone bench. She tilted her head towards the sun and closed her eyes momentarily. The skies over England on the tenth day of the month were bright and clear, with seven to eight hours of sunshine being reported in the south.

Alexander cradled his hands in his lap and looked at her. ‘What is?’

She opened her eyes and turned to him. ‘The way you get people to bend to your will. It is quite something.’

Alexander pursed his lips and smiled. ‘I suppose I can be rather inspired, when I’m passionate about something. And I do usually end up getting what I want.’ His eyes lingered on her and then he said: ‘But I’m nowhere near where I need to be yet.’ As they explored the woodlands, he told Alice about his drive to raise enough funds to build a new convalescence home in Eastbourne as well as increasing provision for inpatient care at the Royal Free.

By dusk the temperatures had cooled significantly, the wind gaining in strength and driving all but the heartiest delegates back into the house. After a formal dinner, Alice retired to the drawing room, where a log fire was raging. Alexander joined her half an hour later, at almost 9 p.m., after extracting himself from a heated conversation about the recently established Free State in Ireland. ‘You appear to have carved yourself a rather decent hideout over here, Miss Hudson.’

The almoner lowered the novel she was reading to her lap and grinned up at him. ‘Haven’t I just? But please, feel free to join me.’

Alexander sat himself in one of the high-backed armchairs opposite her. ‘I shan’t mind if you object to my inflicting my company on you again. I’m afraid I have rather dominated you this weekend.’

The almoner shook her head. ‘Not at all. Some men are not equipped to share a conversation with a woman unless it involves either a threat or an innuendo. It’s nice to be taken seriously for a change.’