THROUGH THE WARM SUMMER, UNCLE Hector slowly but steadily improved. He could now take a few steps, but his left hand was still useless. His speech had become more understandable, but his emotions were still uncontrolled. His pathetic reliance on Rebecca’s presence for reassurance was a heavy ball and chain that kept her captive.
Hessie cared for Uncle Hector’s physical needs and did her utmost to protect Rebecca from exhaustion, although she must have been exhausted herself. Rebecca purchased a wicker bath chair that she had seen advertised in a magazine. It opened up her and Uncle Hector’s world. Any day that Uncle Hector was feeling well enough, Jack and the footman would carry him down the stairs and into his new chair. Being only a shadow of the man he used to be, moving him around was not difficult now. On wet days, he would sit in the parlour listening to Rebecca playing the piano or reading to him. On sunny days, she would take him outside, even venturing as far as Kensington Gardens and the rose garden in particular. Protected in warm tartan blankets against the mild summer breeze, Uncle Hector was as passive as an infant. His sunken, watery eyes gazed in silence as Rebecca pointed out the beauty of the flower beds, the statues, and the water features. She always wanted to tarry longer, but her patient’s tiredness, chilliness, or incontinence always brought their trips to an abrupt end.
Rebecca wished that Jack would sometimes have an evening at home, for she longed for interesting company and to hear stories of life beyond the walls of 27 Milton Square. She knew he was doing important work and realised the soup-kitchen attendees’ needs were greater than her own, but she couldn’t help wishing. Even better would be the opportunity to accompany Jack!
“Please let me come with you tonight,” Rebecca asked again over dinner.
“You have enough cares at the moment, without my loading you with more.”
“I want to see it for myself.”
“You’ll be shattered with tiredness.”
“So what?” snapped Rebecca. “Being stuck in this prison is shattering too. I need to escape just for a little while and see who else is out there in the world beside Uncle Hector and Hessie.”
Much to her surprise, Rebecca had thumped the dining room table and set the crockery clattering. But she wasn’t done. “I am fed up with being cooped up here. I do need to get out!”
Rebecca felt guilty, embarrassed, but desperate. She was angry with Jack. Why are men so stupid and don’t see things until you spell it out in ugly words? She looked at Jack through her tears.
“I see,” said Jack.
“And what?” retorted Rebecca. “Are you going to let me come along, or am I going to stay here until I go mad and need admission to Mr. Gascoigne’s recommended asylum?”
“I didn’t realise things were so difficult for you.”
“Well, they are!”
“I thought they were getting easier now that you have the chariot chair.”
“Bath chair,” corrected Rebecca pedantically. “It only lengthens my chain.”
Jack put his hand sympathetically over Rebecca’s, but she pulled hers away. She didn’t want useless “there, there”-ing. She wanted him to do something.
“Come along tonight then,” said Jack.
“Thank you, darling.” Rebecca smiled through her tears and grabbed his retreating hand.
Walking out the front door with Jack to catch a horse-drawn omnibus felt like a guilty escape. Hessie was all for it, but Rebecca felt awful when she kissed her uncle goodnight. Her victory felt hollow. She wasn’t sure if Jack wanted her company and wondered if she had let everyone down.
Squeezing themselves into the overcrowded omnibus, Jack and Rebecca were parted. There was a strange medley of people in the carriage, and grand buildings outside were interesting, but despite all this, Rebecca kept finding herself watching Jack. He looked so distant, stern, and cold. A chilliness radiating from one’s husband can cast a gloomy cloud over any adventure, however diverting.
There was no direct omnibus route from opulent South Kensington to dingy Whitechapel, so Jack and Rebecca changed carriages several times. Each omnibus they entered seemed to contain a scruffier and smellier clientele. Rebecca was wearing her oldest summer frock, but she still felt ridiculously over-dressed. It was a relief to alight from the swaying carriage and trot next to Jack through the dirty side-streets and hidden back alleys.
On reaching the warehouse soup kitchen, Jack and Rebecca received a warm, hearty welcome. Jack acted as if they were the most harmonious of couples, and Rebecca tried to follow suit. Many of Rebecca’s misgivings melted away as she donned her apron and helped chop up sack loads of vegetables. The friendly kitchen team welcomed any help, especially if offered by Jack’s wife. Time and time again Rebecca heard how much they appreciated his input and ministry. Rebecca felt proud of him, but she wanted to prove her own worth too. She felt a bit nervous when the big doors opened and the heaving mass of hungry humanity flooded into the warehouse. Safely behind the trestle table, Rebecca concentrated on serving the hot soup, ladle by ladle, into the proffered receptacles—jam jars, bowls, chipped cups, and jugs—the bigger, the better. After the staid existence of life at 27 Milton Square, the chaos and commotion of the warehouse was almost overwhelming, so Rebecca focused on her given task and tried to ignore the bigger scene until later.
Once the soup had been served and the noise levels were somewhat reduced, Rebecca saw Jack and Mr. Smith climbing onto a large table to start the worship. Seeing them, jackets discarded, in their rolled-up shirtsleeves and braces, Rebecca thought they looked more like boxers entering the ring than preachers. Indeed, Mr. Smith’s general bearing and crooked nose made him look like a rugged champion boxer. Jack would not have stood a chance! Mr. Smith read a portion from the Bible and prayed, then Jack took over. Rebecca could not catch every word, but she was struck by his commanding presence and engaging manner. Within a few minutes, he had covered the essentials of the gospel and urged each hearer to flee to Christ. Without sounding condescending, he had spoken simply and clearly. Without sounding condemning, he had described how deeply fallen mankind is and set forth God’s remedy for sin and guilt in Christ Jesus.
Rebecca would have been pleased to hide at the sinks with the washing up, but a bunch of toothless old ladies approached her, wanting to meet the “parson’s missus.” Soon she was in among the crowd, chatting to this one and that, holding a baby or helping a toddler with their soup cup. With a beaming face, Jack called her over to meet several of his acquaintances.
The sun was sinking, and there was a chill in the air when the Hayworths finally extracted themselves from the now-stuffy warehouse and headed for home. Too late to catch an omnibus, they walked through the slums toward a more respectable district where hansom cabs ventured. Jack held Rebecca’s hand tightly as they weaved their way through a maze of dark alleys.
After the scenes she had witnessed, it seemed an extravagant luxury to sink into the padded seat of a hansom cab. Rebecca wondered how many poor, aching bodies would lie on the hard ground or thin straw mattresses that night. She imagined the discomfort, smells, noises, and vermin in a typical bunkhouse—and shuddered.
Her musings were interrupted by Jack putting his arm around her shoulder. “So, what do you think of my equivalent to a gentlemen’s club?” he said with a smile.
“I found it very interesting.”
“You looked as if you enjoyed yourself.”
“I did!” said Rebecca. “It was so interesting seeing all the goings-on, and the people you have talked about. And it all seems so . . . ” She paused to find the right word. “So very useful.”
“It certainly is.”
“I hope it wasn’t too bad having me there.”
Jack squeezed her shoulder. “It was lovely.”
“You didn’t look enthusiastic about my presence on the journey there.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No, you looked positively sullen and sulky.”
“That wasn’t a sullen and sulky face,” Jack confessed with a laugh. “That was me suddenly realising I was doing the address today and not Smith!”
“So you prepared it on the journey?”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that. With a volley of arrow prayers.”
“Well, I believe they were fully answered.”
“Thank you—and thank God!”
“Yes.”
“And when will her ladyship next see fit to accompany me again?” asked Jack as he helped his wife alight from the carriage.
“As soon as his lordship sees fit to invite her.”
Hessie was very interested to hear about the soup kitchen and encouraged Rebecca’s involvement, but not everyone was quite so enthusiastic. Mrs. Hill disapproved of the project. Giving out food encouraged idleness. She had to work for every meal and penny she received, and so should others.
Rebecca understood her disappointment. For years Mrs. Hill had longed for a lady of the house to bring an air of gentility to the establishment; but instead of Rebecca organising at-home afternoons with cucumber sandwiches and bone china tea cups, she was now organising bags of pearl barley to be delivered to the Whitechapel slums. Instead of welcoming elegant ladies and gentlemen to 27 Milton Square and watching them admire the furniture and flowers, Mrs. Hill now lived in fear of smelly beggars knocking on the door and being invited inside—no doubt, they wouldn’t even have the decency to go to the servants’ entrance! How could one run a house like a well-oiled machine if those in charge were cranky Christian enthusiasts? She wondered how poor Mr. Stubbs really felt about the couple’s choices.