Fordhook, Ealing
October 1832

Ever since we first visited Dr Fellenberg at the institute at Hofwyl, the idea of setting up a school of her own has remained fixed in my mother’s mind.

‘I am more resolute than ever, Ada,’ she says, as the carriage sets out to the Church of St Mary, about fifteen or twenty minutes away from Fordhook. It’s a chill-winded, drizzly autumn morning and Mamma’s eyes are marble-bright with purpose. ‘As you know, my first attempt at a school was unsuccessful,’ she is saying. ‘I had not at the time the requisite deep understanding of Dr Fellenberg’s methods. The children fought like wild beasts and did not seem to thrive under my programme of baking, arithmetic and music. Now I know better.’

I nod, listening. I was so unwell during the time to which she is referring that I had no knowledge of it until recently. I missed so many episodes – domestic incidents, and chapters in Mamma’s life, such as this first attempt at a school – that I feel sometimes as though I am a student of history, poring over a primer of the years I lost to my illness. King George died two years ago, and his brother William is now on the throne. The electoral system has been transformed by the Reform Bill; Mamma told me of the rioting that broke out all over England when the bill was rejected by the House of Lords. Before I fell ill, I wasn’t much interested in politics; now, though, I am starting to see how politics is the loom on which the fabric of the lives of ordinary people is woven. It is machinery, and it must be challenged to work well, and altered if it does not work well.

‘Why Ealing, Mamma?’ I say. I’ve always wondered at her insistence on this particular location. I like it – it’s romantic and verdant and overlooks the metropolis of London from its westerly viewpoint just as Hampstead does, from the north – but I’ve never known why Mamma so much wanted to come here.

‘Because this place is a natural garden – almost a Garden of Eden, if you like. I know it may not seem so, on a cold day, but here – long ago – the hungry people of London were fed by its gardeners. Its natural position overlooking the city and its expanse of fertile land made it an ideal site. But after the Napoleonic blockade was lifted – just around the time of your birth – the place became rife with unemployment. Ealing was suddenly full of wild young men – wayward vagrants with no meaningful occupation. They need training, Ada, and a clear sense of purpose.’

The carriage deposits us at the church hall. Mamma is nervous; she is pretending not to be, but I recognise the way that she licks her bottom lip from time to time, and the short, shallow breaths that she takes as she trots up the steps. Still, she is grace and assurance personified as we enter the hall, to find a sizeable council of parishioners seated at a round table. In their inky top hats, the men are dignified and distant, the women, in their gloves and bonnets, the epitome of formality likewise. I don’t know any of them, though it is likely that these people are the richest and most influential dignitaries of Ealing. Then there are the clergymen, just as severely dressed, and not a smile to be seen on a single countenance.

‘Lady Byron,’ says a pewter-haired man with a corpulent frame.

‘This is my daughter, Ada,’ Mamma says, to no one in particular.

I think I can guess at the outcome of this meeting already. But if Mamma too is made uneasy by the atmosphere, which rivals the weather outside in frostiness, then she hides it well. ‘I can hardly conceal my excitement,’ she says, ‘in putting forth this proposal. At last, we will be able to address the prevalent problems among the young people of Ealing – vagrancy, unemployment, delinquency and disenchantment. With a school that prizes purpose and practicality above all else, we will offer training in agricultural methods, ways in which they can earn their living... skills that they can put to use, for the rest of their lives – drawn closely from the methods of Pestalozzi and Dr Fellenberg. If we can simply—’

Somebody – an elderly man with a face as lined as sheet-music – interrupts her. ‘But these are foreigners. Pestalozzi, Fellenstein...’

‘Fellenberg,’ Mamma says.

‘Why should their principles be of any interest to young Englishmen? It seems an absurd idea.’

‘That is not our only reservation,’ says another man. ‘You make no mention of corporal punishment in your outline of the school’s methods.’

‘I have visited the institute at Hofwyl twice,’ says Mamma. ‘The children manage their own behaviour; there is no need for corporal punishment.’

‘I don’t see how you could possibly keep order without corporal punishment,’ says a dry-voiced woman in an opulent cloak.

‘But at Hofwyl—’

Now a clergyman, lip quivering, and scarcely able to speak due to his palpable indignation, pipes up. ‘Lady Byron,’ he says. ‘In addition to the objections raised by others, what seems to me, on reading your plans, quite shocking, is that you do not intend the school to follow any kind of religious teaching.’

Mamma says: ‘I wish the school to be open to children of all belief, or to children of no belief at all.’

There is, at this, an audible gasp of horror. It is news to me; Mamma is a religious woman – the school of Christianity that she follows is called Socinianism – but I can see, I think, why she has said what she has said. She does not wish to close the door to anyone of any belief. This is admirable; I wonder why these people cannot see it, even though they are church people.

‘Lady Byron,’ says the first of the elderly men. ‘Although we commend the good intentions that clearly underlie your propositions, we are not able to countenance any funding for such an undertaking as you propose.’

Mamma gets to her feet. I do the same. We are being dismissed. Then Mamma turns, taking in the whole of the room, and I hear in her voice a passion and emotion that I seldom hear, that lend a richness to her tone, like a fire lit in a cold grate.

‘People are starving,’ she says. ‘The degree of separation between the richest of the upper classes and those who exist in a state of poverty is one that cannot be borne. Industries are changing; agriculture is changing; education must change too, or else it will not be able to support the people who need it most.’

Mamma is quiet on the journey home, and I summon the courage, after a little while, to ask her whether she had any real expectation of a favourable response to her scheme. She sighs. ‘You are right, Ada,’ she says. ‘Given my commitment to allowing children of any belief to attend the institution, I could not have expected the clergy to welcome my proposals. Perhaps, too, the principles on which my scheme is based are simply too different in nature to what those people understand by the concept of “education”. And yet... I am seeking a solution to the problem of delinquency in Ealing, and as such I hoped that they would offer some form of support – it is a shared problem, after all. But it does not matter. My resolve is not lessened in the slightest. I shall use my own money – I have plenty of it.’

Unsurprisingly, Mamma proves as good as her word, and immediately sets about directing – with all her customary zeal – some of her considerable fortune into the school that she eventually names Ealing Grove. The first headmaster she chooses is not suitable – he does not enjoy taking orders from a woman. As is her wont, she treats this as only a minor setback, and before long has secured another man, a Mr Atlee, far better-suited to the post. There are not many pupils at first, but those that do attend seem happy and purposeful and intent on their learning. This much is clear to me on my first visit. Ealing Grove reminds me, in so many ways, of Hofwyl. Mamma has even arranged for the development of some allotments – long, narrow strips of land which can be cultivated – where the children are instructed in various agricultural skills.

‘Why can’t I be a pupil here?’ I say to her, half-jokingly, as we wander through the allotments together, watching the children at work.

‘You aren’t what I would define as in need,’ says Mamma, stepping delicately over a rake.

‘A teacher, then. I’m sure I know enough about some things, like French, for example, and—’

‘Ada,’ says Mamma. ‘You will never be a teacher.’

‘Why not?’

‘You haven’t the temperament, for a start.’

‘I have been educated to such an extent,’ I point out, ‘that it seems a shame for me not to use it in some way. Do you not think so?’

‘My parents gave me the best education possible too,’ replies Mamma. ‘But not so that I should have to enter a profession. No: the point is that you should be acquainted deeply with a range of subjects, from languages to mathematics, without, of course, neglecting art and music and current affairs. It is important to know as much as possible about the world in which you live. And for you, moreover, the intellectual discipline is highly beneficial. You do not need to use it, as you say; it will be useful regardless. And one day, Ada, the benefits of your academic instruction will be quite clear. You will have the clarity of mind to know what you are doing is right; to try to make a difference to the community around you, as I myself endeavour to do.’

‘But what am I meant to be?’ I persist, although I know what she is going to say.

‘You’ll be a wife and mother, Ada. And a very good job you’ll do of it too.’

This she says so simply, so matter-of-factly, that at first, I accept it as some kind of universally acknowledged truth. But it sparks something in me – a little wisp of silvery flame – and as we continue our walk, I begin to think: Why must I be a wife and a mother? Why must I do only this, and nothing more?

We don’t discuss it further, but once I have started upon this thought, I find that I can’t let it go, and return to it in the way that Puff might worry at a ball of wool. There must be something else, I think, that I can do with my life.

Surely, surely, there must be.