Two for Three Farthings

by Mary Jane Staples

  Orrice decided they’d run as far as the East Street market, where he might be able to start earning money by running errands or carrying boxes for stallholders. Effel could mind the sacks. He had the sense to realize that although they were nearly rich at the moment, they wouldn’t be like that for too long. He ought to start earning coppers right away, then when the market packed up for the day, he and Effel could begin looking for somewhere to spend the night, perhaps in an empty house. They could take some food there, say a loaf of new bread for fourpence, and some marge and some slices of corned beef. Or some cheese. Effel liked cheese.

  It seemed a long way to Effel, from Deacon Street to the town hall and then to East Street. When they eventually reached the entrance to the market, she found it necessary to tell Orrice she wanted to go somewhere.

  ‘Oh, that’s good, that is,’ said Orrice, ‘why didn’t yer go before we came out, yer date?’

  ‘Didn’t want to.’

  ‘Couldn’t yer wait?’ asked Orrice hopefully.

  ‘Course I couldn’t,’ said Effel.

  ‘Oh, cripes,’ said Orrice, ‘now we got to look for a public lav.’

  ‘Costs a penny, that does,’ said Effel.

  ‘What?’ asked Orrice, horrified. A ladies’ public convenience was as much a mystery to him as darkest Africa. ‘An ‘ole penny just to wee. You can buy two cracked eggs for a penny. Effel, can’t yer wait till it’s dark?’

  ‘Ain’t goin’ to,’ said Effel.

  ‘You got to.’

  ‘Can’t,’ said Effel.

  ‘Oh, blimey,’ muttered Orrice. ‘All right, come on.’ With his sack over his shoulder, he took his sister’s hand and pulled her along the pavement behind the stalls, her clothes sack dragging. He took her to a woman standing at an open door at the side of a market shop. ‘Missus?’ he said. The woman looked down at him. Orrice turned up his earnest face. ‘Missus, could yer do me sister a favour?’

  ‘Not if I don’t like the sound of it,’ said the woman, a shawl around her shoulders on this breezy April day. Kids could get up to every trick.

  ‘Could she use yer lav, please?’ The earnest brown eyes beguiled the woman.

  ‘Eh?’ She peered suspiciously at the little girl swamped by a long coat. Effel’s teeth were gritted.

  ‘Could yer let ’er, please?’ begged Orrice from under his cap.

  The woman gave in to understanding and sympathy.

  ‘Come on, then, ducks,’ she said, ‘come up to me flat.’

  Effel disappeared with her, leaving Orrice with both sacks. He sat on the doorstep and waited, interesting himself in the market activities. He liked the hustle and bustle of markets. A man came up, a man in the waistcoat, tieless shirt, knotted scarf, corded trousers and flat cap of a costermonger.

  ‘What yer doing, kid?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m just sittin’,’ said Orrice.

  ‘I thought yer was. I said to meself, I said, that kid’s just sittin’. Well, I ’opes yer won’t take umbrage if I tell yer yer sittin’ in me way. Yer can oblige me by ’opping orf.’

  Orrice scrambled up.

  ‘I ain’t takin’ no umbrage, mister. D’yer want any errands run?’

  ‘Yus, it so ’appens I does,’ said the costermonger, ‘I wants me old woman to run all the bleedin’ way down to the old clothes stall by Brandon Street, but you ain’t ’er, are yer, sonny?’

  ‘I’ll go for yer, mister, I can run,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Oh, yer can, can yer?’ The costermonger looked impressed. ‘All right, orf yer go, then.’

  ‘What’s the errand, mister?’

  ‘Don’t know, do yer?’ A grin flickered.

  ‘No, mister,’ said Orrice.

  ‘So it ain’t no good yer running, then, is it?’

  ‘Mister, that ain’t fair,’ said Orrice stoutly.

  ‘It’s learnin’ yer, sonny, it’s learnin’ yer.’

  ‘It still ain’t fair,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Well, ’ow about a clip round the ear’ole?’

  ‘That ain’t fair, neither,’ said Orrice.

  The costermonger grinned again, hugely.

  ‘Well, I likes yer, sonny,’ he said. He entered the passage. He turned. His hand came out of his pocket. ‘This fair?’ he said, and flipped a penny at Orrice, who neatly caught it.

  ‘Mister, yer a sport,’ he said.

  Effel reappeared. She came down the stairs and eeled her way past the costermonger. He stared at her.

  ‘Where’d she come from?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s me sister,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Beats me, kids all over the place and in me own ’ome. Bessie?’ He went up the stairs.

  ‘Effel, you all right now?’ asked Orrice.

  ‘Ain’t saying.’

  ‘I only asked, that’s all, I only asked.’

  ‘Ain’t nice, askin’,’ said Effel.

  ‘Why ain’t it?’

  ‘Ain’t telling,’ said Effel.

  Orrice grinned. Funny little thing, his skin and blister was.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, and they picked up their sacks and began to wander through the market, its lively atmosphere easing their heartache a little. ‘Effel, I told yer we’d meet some nice people. I just been given a penny from that bloke. He give it to me just for talkin’ with him.’

  ‘’E didn’t give me one,’ said Effel, her sack again clasped to her chest.

  ‘Well, yer didn’t talk to ’im,’ said Orrice, looking at what the stalls had on offer.

  ‘Ain’t talkin’ to no-one,’ said Effel. The laden fruit stalls began to make her mouth water. ‘Orrice, can we buy an orange each?’

  ‘No, we got to spend our money on fings more—’ Orrice thought about a suitable word. He picked one from his dad’s repertoire. ‘More nourishing, like.’

  ‘I’m ’ungry,’ said Effel.

  ‘Oh, that’s good, that is,’ said Orrice, as he and his sister edged their way through roaming, stopping, starting and dawdling people. ‘Should’ve ate up yer breakfast and them sardines an’ bread.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Effel. ‘Orrice, I’m ’ungry.’

  Orrice stopped to look at a stall selling oranges and dates, the dates freshly arrived from the Middle East. An open crate, three sides down, revealed a luscious square mound of the sticky fruit, the top broken into, the large knife stuck in. They were tuppence a pound. Orrice had a feeling dates were a lot more nourishing than oranges.

  ‘Would yer like some dates, sis?’ he asked.

  Effel regarded the mound. Her mouth watered again.

  ‘I got to eat somefink,’ she said. Her empty stomach gave voice and sent a begging message. It gurgled and rumbled. Orrice heard it.

  ‘Effel, is that you?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t know what yer mean,’ said Effel, faintly rosy. ‘Orrice, let’s ’ave some dates, can’t we?’

  ‘Course we can, they’ll fill yer up better than oranges,’ said Orrice. He approached the stallholder, Effel behind him as usual. She was always inclined to use him as a shield in the presence of strangers or when she wasn’t sure of things. Orrice asked for a pound of dates. The stallholder cut out a large lump of the compressed fruit. He weighed up a pound in a brown paper bag. He received tuppence from Orrice, also, ‘Fank yer, mister. Mister?’

  ‘Well, me young cock sparrer?’ said the stallholder.

  ‘Mister, ’ave yer got any bad oranges yer don’t want? Only we ain’t got the money for good ones, and me sister’s ’ad ’ooping cough, and the doctor said oranges was best for girls ’er age.’

  ‘’Ere, yer comin’ it a bit with ’ooping cough and doctors and oranges, ain’t yer, me saucebox?’ said the stallholder.

  ‘Mister, you can look at ’er,’ said Orrice earnestly. ‘That’s ’er. Effel, stand still.’ Effel ducked her head. ‘Can yer see ’er, mister, can yer see she ain’t stopped being poorly yet?’ Effel dragged up a racking cough.

  The stallholder looked solemn.
/>   ‘And the doctor said she needs bad oranges?’

  ‘No, ’e didn’t say bad ones, mister, but it won’t matter about ones that’s gone off a bit. I could cut out them bits, I don’t mind doin’ that for ’er. Only being ’ard-up, we can only afford the dates.’ Orrice thought. ‘I fink the doctor said dates was nourishing.’

  ‘Gawd blimey,’ said the stallholder, ‘I’ve ’eard some kids in me time, but I ain’t ’eard many like you, young feller. All right, ’elp yerself from under me stall, and next time yer come round don’t make me laugh meself to death. Me lovin’ trouble and strife ain’t keen on being widdered just yet.’

  ‘Ta, mister, yer a sport,’ said Orrice. ‘’Ere, Effel, mind me sack a minute. Now what yer standin’ on one leg for? She’s always doing that, standin’ on one leg,’ he confided to the stallholder.

  ‘No, I ain’t,’ said Effel, and stood on both legs, minding the sacks and holding the bag of dates while Orrice dived under the stall. A woman customer arrived. Orrice saw a dozen or so discarded oranges in a crate. He also saw an empty cardboard box. ‘Mister, can I use this cardboard box to put ’em in?’ His voice came in garbled fashion from under the stall.

  ‘’Elp,’ said the woman customer, ‘you got a talkin’ parrot under there, Charlie ’Awkins?’

  ‘No good askin’ me,’ said the stallholder. ‘Dunno what ’e is, ’cept ’e’s been tyin’ me up in sailors’ knots.’ He called down to Orrice. ‘Listen, sunshine, why don’t yer just take me ’ole perishing stall an’ me livelihood?’

  ‘I only want the cardboard box, mister, honest,’ said Orrice.

  ‘I’m grateful,’ said the stallholder, handing his customer a bag of required dates.

  ‘That’s a talkin’ parrot all right, or me old man’s a cart’orse,’ said the woman, and took a look. She met the earnest brown eyes of Orrice, who was on his knees sorting oranges.

  ‘D’yer want one, missus?’ he asked.

  The woman smiled.

  ‘I’d like one like you, love,’ she said, and straightened up. ‘Some kids,’ she said, paying for her dates.

  Effel, who had been waxing indignant, made herself heard.

  ‘’E ain’t a talkin’ parrot, ’e’s me bruvver,’ she said.

  ‘Well, ’ang on to ’im, ducks,’ said the woman, and departed smiling.

  The stallholder regarded Effel and her battered boater.

  ‘Oh, yer ’ooping cough’s better, is it?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve ’ad measles too,’ said Effel.

  ‘Gawd ’elp us, you ain’t come to give it to me dates, ’ave yer?’

  ‘Ain’t saying,’ said Effel.

  Orrice emerged, the best of the discarded oranges in the box. He put the bag of dates in too.

  ‘Yer a good sport, mister,’ he said, ‘fanks a lot. ’Ere, why don’t yer sing a song for the man, Effel? Effel can sing a bit, yer know,’ he said to the stallholder.

  ‘Ain’t goin’ to,’ said Effel.

  ‘Oh, come on, sis,’ urged Orrice, ‘’e’s let us ’ave all these decent bad oranges, so why don’t yer sing “Oranges an’ Lemons” for ’im?’

  ‘I ain’t desp’rate,’ said the stallholder, ‘but go on then, girlie, give it a go.’

  ‘A’ right,’ said Effel, and sang, ‘“Oranges an’ lemons, the bells of St Clements,”’, then came to a full stop.

  ‘That don’t seem much of a singsong,’ said the stallholder.

  ‘Don’t know any more,’ said Effel.

  ‘Course yer do,’ said Orrice.

  ‘A’ right,’ said Effel grudgingly, and sang, ‘“I owe you five farvings, said the bells of St Martins”. Don’t know any more.’

  ‘Tell yer what,’ said the stallholder. ‘How would yer like to sit on me stall next to me dates and I’ll see if I can sell the pair of yer for three farthings? Nearly a bargain, you’d be, for three farthings.’

  ‘’Ere, we ain’t goin’ to be sold off no stall,’ said Orrice indignantly.

  ‘All right, off yer go, then,’ grinned the stall-holder, ‘before someone comes up an’ makes me an offer for both of yer.’

  ‘I’ll do errands any time yer want, mister,’ said Orrice, shouldering his sack, and taking up the box in his free hand.

  ‘I bet yer would.’ The stallholder’s smile broke through. ‘I bet you’re yer mum’s one an’ only perisher.’ At which Effel burst into tears. ‘’Ere, what’s brought that on, girlie?’

  Another customer for dates came up, and Orrice took Effel away.

  ‘Don’t cry, sis, ’e didn’t know about our mum.’

  Effel, clothes sack in her arms, stifled her sobs.

  ‘It ain’t right,’ she gulped, ‘it ain’t right we don’t ’ave Mum an’ Dad no more.’

  ‘Well, no, it ain’t too right, Effel,’ said Orrice, ‘we just got to make do with each other. We’ll be all right, you’ll see. We’ll find somewhere near the market to live, we can always get fings from under the stalls. There’s kind people ’ere, we won’t starve.’

  Effel sighed. Orrice stiffened slightly.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Effel wanly.

  ‘Effel, there’s a bobby,’ whispered Orrice, ‘’e’ll ask us why we ain’t at school. We best duck, sis.’

  They ducked to their knees, a stall a barrier between them and the strolling market bobby, who passed by without seeing them. They rose up and went on.

  ‘I’m ’ungry,’ said Effel.

  ‘All right,’ said Orrice. They found a doorstep. They put their sacks down and sat on the step, Orrice with the cardboard box on his knees. He took out the bag of dates and they began to consume them. No one took a great deal of notice. Two kids eating dates on a doorstep were not an unusual sight. Dates or toffee apples, liquorice bootlaces or fig toffee, kids did eat these things sitting on doorsteps. Effel ate with relish. If her heart was still aching, dates were far easier to get down than bread and marge and sardines. She and Orrice littered the ground around their feet with the stones.

  ‘I like dates,’ she said.

  ‘Nourishing,’ said Orrice, proud to have found the word.

  ‘Don’t like nourishing,’ said Effel.

  ‘You got to, nourishing’s good for yer.’

  ‘Like dates better.’

  ‘We’ll buy that nice new loaf and some marge and cheese for our supper,’ said Orrice, ‘and ’ave some oranges for afters. I got ten of ’em. Listen, sis, we can go and eat it in Browning Park, it ain’t far, it stays open till dark. Then we can go an’ look for an empty ’ouse.’

  ‘Ain’t lookin’, not in the dark,’ said Effel.

  ‘No, I s’pose not,’ said Orrice. ‘You come up with sense there, Effel. Girls don’t ’ave much sense, it’s nice you got a bit. We best look before we go to the park. We’ll do that now. Crikey, all them dates you’ve ate, there’s ’ardly none left. Still, they done us good, I betcher. Come on.’

  They shouldered their sacks, and Orrice cradled the box under his arm. They made their way towards King and Queen Street.

  ‘I’m firsty,’ said Effel.

  ‘I ain’t listening,’ said Orrice.

  ‘I’ll scream,’ said Effel.

  ‘All right,’ said Orrice. The dates had made him thirsty himself.

  ‘I’ll die, I will,’ said Effel.

  ‘Effel, I said all right, didn’t I? And yer shouldn’t talk like that, not after – well, yer shouldn’t.’ Orrice stopped. ‘Let’s see, where’s the nearest ’orse trough?’

  ‘Ain’t drinkin’ out of no ’orse’s trough,’ said Effel.

  ‘Course not. I mean one that’s got a drinkin’ fountain and a cup on a chain,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Don’t want water,’ said Effel.

  ‘’Ere, would yer like a cup of tea, sis, would yer?’ asked Orrice. Effel had inherited her mother’s love of what came hot, steaming and golden out of a teapot. She liked it better than fizzy lemonade.

  ‘Oh, could we ’ave tea, Orrice?’ she begged. �
�I won’t die then, honest.’

  ‘There’s a refreshment place just round the corner in the Walworth Road,’ said Orrice, ‘only we got to go back the way we come. Is yer legs all right?’

  ‘Course they are,’ said Effel, a little girl of boundless energy normally. Since the age of four she had spent countless days walking, trotting or running at the heels of her brother, a boy who was always out and about. She actually adored Orrice, although she never gave the slightest sign of it.

  They retraced their steps, going back along the pavement on the left-hand side of the market. With their sacks they looked like a couple of street kids fairly bundled up with goods. They dodged round a fat woman, Orrice leading the way. A figure in blue loomed up. Orrice stopped in dismay, shock and guilt.

  A copper, a copper who was plodding unhurriedly towards them, eyes on their sacks.

  Oh, crikey, thought Orrice, we’ve been and done it in, it’s the orphanage for sure.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Orrice felt sick.

  Effel quivered.

  A woman stallholder yelled.

  ‘Oh, yer thievin’ bleeder! Come back ’ere with that! Stop ’im, mister!’

  The looming figure of the awesome bobby vanished from the eyes of Effel and Orrice as he darted at speed between stalls to take up chase of the thief. Few sinners operated in the market. The many stallholders were a close-knit fraternity and much more of a collective threat to a sly lifter of goods than he was to them. But occasionally a bolder one surfaced.

  Orrice sighed with relief amid shouts, cries and minor pandemonium. The thief, caught by a burly stallholder, was dealt a crafty wallop before being handed over to the bobby. The people and the stallholders of Walworth had no sympathy to spare for men who robbed their own kind.

  ‘Come on, Effel, let’s scarper,’ said Orrice.

  They scarpered up to Walworth Road and turned left at the corner. Toni’s Refreshments, as the place was called, was only a little way along. They peered in through the glass-panelled door. Orrice hefted his sack, clutched the box of oranges, squared his shoulders and bravely entered, Effel as close behind him as she could get, her sack dragging again.

  The refreshment room was fairly full, mostly of market characters. Two housewives in need of a sit-down and a nice hot mug of Toni’s tea were also present. Toni, an immigrant Italian, ran the place with his wife Maria. Toni was excitable, Maria plump and philosophical. From the marble-topped counter, with its glass food containers, Toni looked down at a large soft cap. It lifted. A boyish face showed itself.