Two for Three Farthings

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘You’re entitled to know,’ said Jim. ‘My parents are dead, unfortunately, but I’ve grandparents still alive down in Hampshire.’ That was pure wishful thinking, of course, born of the thought of a hopeful journey to his mother’s birthplace one day. ‘My job at the United Kingdom Club is steady—’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ said Aunt Glad.

  ‘It makes for steady living,’ said Jim. ‘And I’m lodging with Mr and Mrs Palmer at sixteen Morecambe Street in Walworth. Until I move, that is. I’ll let you know my new address. I’d make sure, of course, that the children get their schooling and behave themselves.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ said Aunt Glad again. She liked him, and she liked the possibility that Orrice and Effel would have someone who’d care for them and be kind to them. ‘Effel’s a bit funny at times, when she won’t talk to no-one except ’er brother. She follers ’im about like ’is own shadow.’

  ‘Engaging,’ smiled Jim.

  ‘Mind, as well as ’aving to speak to me ’usband, I’d best ’ave a talk with Orrice and Effel too. Are they at your lodgings, Mr Cooper?’ Impressed though she was by his looks and manner, Aunt Glad knew the matter could go no further unless Orrice and Effel were both in favour. And Effel was quite likely to want a mother, not a father.

  ‘They’re only down the road, Mrs Williams,’ said Jim. ‘They’re waiting. I thought it best for you and me to have this little chat before bringing them to your door.’ He did not need to put on an act. He was a friendly man of naturally friendly conversation. He spoke easily to the children’s aunt, and naturally. ‘I’ll call them.’ He got up and went to the front door, opened it and stepped outside. There they were, waiting a little way down the street. He signalled to them. Orrice began to run. Effel yelled in a tantrum and stayed where she was. Orrice stopped, turned and went back to her. She aimed a kick at him. Orrice, quite used to that, dodged it, took her by the hand and brought her.

  ‘Effel’s playing up,’ he said.

  ‘You run orf wivout me,’ said Effel.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jim, ‘your aunt’s waiting to find out if you want to live with me.’

  Aunt Glad very much wanted to find that out. Orrice made no bones about being affirmative, and accepted his aunt’s reproach for running away and giving her and Uncle Perce more worry. Effel stood on one leg, plucked at her frock, stood on two legs, darted uncertain glances and finally said, ‘Ain’t saying.’

  ‘Effel?’ said Aunt Glad.

  ‘Effel, you got to say,’ complained Orrice.

  ‘No, I ain’t,’ said Effel, looking at her feet.

  ‘Well, this don’t look very ’appy, Mr Cooper,’ sighed Aunt Glad. She knew she simply couldn’t let Orrice and Effel live with a man who was really a stranger unless they were both happy about it.

  ‘Oh, come on, Effel, yer daft date,’ said Orrice fretfully.

  ‘Effel, you only need to say yes or no, love,’ said Aunt Glad kindly, ‘yer Uncle Perce an’ me will understand.’

  ‘Want to go wiv Orrice,’ muttered Effel.

  ‘I’m goin’ wiv Mr Cooper,’ said Orrice determinedly.

  ‘A’ right,’ said Effel, still looking at her feet.

  ‘Effel, d’you mean you’d like to ’ave Mr Cooper look after you?’ asked Aunt Glad.

  ‘A’ right,’ said Effel.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Jim gently.

  ‘Yes, a’ right,’ said Effel, and in shyness stood on one leg again.

  ‘Well, Mr Cooper, I best speak to me ’usband, and I expect he’ll come round an’ see you this evening,’ said Aunt Glad.

  ‘D’you think he’d call at the United Kingdom Club?’ asked Jim. ‘I’ll be at work there this evening. My landlady will be keeping an eye on the children.’

  ‘Me ’usband won’t mind seein’ you there,’ said Aunt Glad. A smile flickered. She looked at Orrice and Effel. ‘There, lovies, p’raps it’s goin’ to turn out all right for you. We’ll see what yer Uncle Perce says.’

  ‘Fanks ever so much, Aunt Glad,’ said Orrice. He thought. ‘We likes Mr Cooper. Don’t we, sis?’

  ‘Ain’t saying,’ said Effel.

  ‘Aunt Glad, I’m goin’ to ’ave to belt Effel if she don’t stop playing up,’ said Orrice.

  ‘No belting, Orrice,’ said Jim.

  Aunt Glad smiled.

  After they had gone, she put on her hat and coat, and went to call on Mrs Palmer of sixteen Morecambe Street, Walworth. What she was told by Mrs Palmer about Mr Cooper put her mind completely at rest, and she fully understood why he had referred to the children as his niece and nephew. She felt she could be recommendable when speaking to her husband.

  Uncle Perce received the news with interest and optimism. Still, he’d better go and see the bloke. Aunt Glad said Mr Cooper wasn’t a bloke, he was a gent and a soldier of the war who’d lost his left arm. Don’t you go throwing your weight about when you see him, all you got to do is talk to him sensible, and man to man, and see if you think we’d be right to let him have Orrice and Effel. Have you got that, Percy Williams? Uncle Perce said he’d got it all right, in his earhole. Aunt Glad said I’ll give you earhole. Her eldest boy Johnny cut in to say his dad was a barmy comic. Aunt Glad, rounding on her son, said don’t you talk about your father like that or I’ll box your ears.

  Acceptable family ructions prevailed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jim had some hopeful prospects for lodgings, at the addresses given to him by Mrs Palmer. He was committed to guardianship now. Not by law, by promise. When he reached Walworth Road, he did not offer to take Effel’s hand. Effel, he knew, was going to make up her own mind about what kind of relationship she wanted with him. But as he crossed the busy road with her and Orrice, he placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.

  Reaching Browning Street, he said, ‘Anyone tired?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Orrice, thinking his mum and dad would be pleased for him and Effel because they’d found a new uncle. ‘You tired, sis?’

  ‘Course not,’ said Effel, who had followed her brother on foot all the way to Ruskin Park more than once.

  ‘Right,’ said Jim, ‘on we go then, footsloggers, to Rodney Road.’

  Orrice went happily, Effel with her old boater bobbing. Today was a different day for them. Yesterday had been mournful, offset only by desperate little hopes. Today they had someone who was going to keep them out of an orphanage, someone who had a funny way of talking to them and a smile in his eyes. Orrice was responsive, Effel still shy and cautious. The images of their mum and dad were still with them, trapped in their grieving minds, but hopes for a life acceptable without their parents were no longer desperate. They did not have to be nervous of people looking nor of policemen stopping them and asking them questions. They could leave everything to the man who had only one arm and called himself their Uncle Jim.

  ‘Does it ’urt, please?’ It was a sudden impulsive question from Effel as they walked towards Brandon Street, where Samuel Peabody, American philanthropist, had erected a block of flats for poor people.

  ‘Does what hurt?’ asked Jim. ‘Looking for lodgings?’

  ‘I fink she means yer arm, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Oh, that.’ Jim smiled. ‘It hurt at the time, it doesn’t hurt now.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Effel.

  ‘Well, because it’s better than it was,’ said Jim.

  ‘Is it nice being better?’ asked Effel.

  ‘Course it is, yer daft lump,’ said Orrice. ‘I dunno, the questions she asks. We’re best off, Uncle, when she ain’t talkin’.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Effel.

  ‘Why d’yer keep askin’ why?’ asked Orrice.

  ‘’Cos I do, that’s why,’ said Effel.

  They crossed Brandon Street into Stead Street. This was the poorer quarter of Walworth, where people were hard put to rise above the breadline. Parish relief was an indispensable part of existence for many families here. Lucky was any family that had a steady and stalwart bre
adwinner. And such families moved as soon as they could to the neater, better-looking streets, such as those near the town hall like Wansey Street, Ethel Street and Larcom Street. Jim knew, however, that the cockneys never wholly lost their earthy humour or their spirit of defiance. There were exceptions, of course, there were those who descended to drinking cheap methylated spirits. That took them fast to delirium and the grave.

  Reaching Rodney Road, with its mixture of dwellings, some good in stolid Victorian fashion and some indifferent, Jim continued on with his foundlings. He thought of them as his foundlings, having discovered them when they were newly orphaned.

  ‘Head up, Effel. Step smartly there, Orrice. Eyes open for number twenty-one, in which resides Mrs Tompkins, according to Mrs Palmer.’

  ‘Yer comical, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Hope not,’ said Jim. ‘Won’t do for your guardian to be comical.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Effel.

  ‘Oh, lor’, she’s off,’ said Orrice.

  ‘I likes comical,’ said Effel.

  ‘All right, I’ll do comical faces for you at Christmas,’ said Jim. ‘Here we are, number twenty-one. Face still clean, Effel? Good. Cap on straight, Orrice? Good. But where’s your face?’

  ‘Under me cap,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Thought you’d lost it,’ said Jim. Effel actually giggled. ‘Knock, Orrice,’ said Jim.

  Orrice reached for the knocker and thumped it. The door opened almost at once. A long-limbed, gawky-looking woman, calico apron over her black skirt and grey blouse, regarded Orrice severely.

  ‘Young man, you after bashin’ me door down?’ she asked, and Effel hid herself behind Jim.

  ‘I only knocked, missus, honest,’ said Orrice, ‘but yer get some knockers that’s a bit ’ard on a door. Course, yer don’t always know, if it’s yer first time of knockin’.’

  ‘Don’t give me no lip,’ said the woman. ‘Like a roll of thunder, it was, and near shook the roof orf me ’ouse.’ She eyed Jim in curiosity.

  ‘Mrs Tompkins?’ he said.

  ‘I’m her.’

  ‘I understand you’ve got rooms to let.’

  ‘So I have. Who might you be enquiring on account of, may I ask?’

  ‘Self and the children,’ said Jim.

  ‘No children,’ said Mrs Tompkins, ‘got enough of me own. There’s two rooms for a single gent. No children, specially not the kind that go bashin’ doors in.’

  ‘Well, sorry you’ve been troubled,’ said Jim.

  ‘It’s no trouble, mister, it’s just how it is.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Jim.

  ‘Pity you’re not a single gent,’ said the woman. ‘You got nice looks.’

  ‘You’re not bad yourself,’ said Jim. ‘Come on, kids.’ He led them away.

  Effel said, ‘Is Orrice a basher?’

  ‘Well, he was to Mrs Tompkins.’

  ‘’E better not bash me,’ said Effel, ‘I’ll kick ’im if ’e does.’

  ‘No bashing or kicking,’ said Jim, and consulted Mrs Palmer’s little list. ‘Right, Chatham Street next. That’s where a few Billingsgate porters hang out. Orrice, if you’ve got some cotton wool on you, fill Effel’s ears with it.’

  ‘What’s cotton wool?’ asked Effel.

  ‘Wadding, yer date,’ said Orrice.

  ‘I ain’t got earache,’ said Effel.

  ‘You might have, if any of the porters are home from their work,’ said Jim. ‘We’ll chance it.’

  They walked the short distance to Chatham Street, the day crisply bright. Some women were gossiping at open doors. A man was sitting on a doorstep smoking a clay pipe. He watched Jim’s approach.

  ‘I got one like that, mate,’ he said, pointing his pipe at Jim’s empty sleeve.

  ‘If you want a pair, you can have mine,’ said Jim, ‘I never use it.’

  The sitting man, one-armed, bellowed with laughter and roared a few boisterous words after Jim and the kids. Orrice whistled in amazement.

  ‘Cor, I ain’t ’eard many like that,’ he said.

  Two gossiping women eyed the trio. Jim was in search of number fifteen.

  ‘’Ello, ducks,’ said one, ‘yer got kids, I see, so what yer lookin’ for down ’ere, yer fairy godmother? Yer can ’ave me, if yer like, I got ’alf an hour to spare.’ Her companion shrieked raucously.

  ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment,’ said Jim, passing them by, ‘I’ll drop in later.’

  Effel gasped. ‘Oh, you ain’t goin’ to leave us, are yer, mister?’

  ‘It was just a joke, Effel,’ said Jim.

  ‘Don’t like it ’ere,’ said Effel.

  ‘Good point, Effel. We’ll give it a miss. Let’s see.’ He stopped to look at the list again, at the last address. The two women called, loudly encouraging him to make up his mind. ‘Right, off we go again, Effel. Dawes Street, Orrice. Other side of East Street. Wait.’ He checked the time by his pocket watch. ‘Gone twelve, d’you know that? Shall we feed our faces first. What d’you say?’

  ‘I’m ’ungry, please,’ said Effel.

  ‘Uncle Jim, I got to tell yer, I’m near faint,’ said Orrice.

  ‘We’d better cure that,’ said Jim, and walked on with them.

  ‘Effel ’ad stomach rumbles yesterday,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Didn’t,’ protested Effel.

  ‘Yes, yer did, and in the market too. Sounded like a train was comin’.’

  ‘Didn’t,’ said Effel.

  ‘Yes, it did,’ said Orrice, ‘and through a tunnel too. Still, she ain’t bad for a girl, Uncle.’

  ‘No, you’re not at all bad, are you, Effel?’ said Jim.

  Effel, thinking about that, said, ‘I’m ’ungry.’

  ‘How about eggs and bacon?’ asked Jim.

  ‘Oh, crikey, not ’alf,’ said Orrice. ‘Effel likes eggs an’ bacon, don’t yer, sis?’

  ‘Want a piggy-back,’ said Effel.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Orrice. They stopped. ‘Come on up, then.’

  Effel, suddenly springy, leapt on to her brother’s back. Orrice hoisted her, wound his arms around her legs, and carried her.

  ‘On to eggs and bacon, then,’ said Jim.

  ‘Uncle Jim, we got money of our own, like I told yer,’ said Orrice.

  ‘We’ll save that,’ said Jim, ‘for birthdays and Christmas.’

  ‘An’ rainy days, like me dad used to say,’ said Effel, jigging on her brother’s back.

  ‘Crikey, she’s talkin’,’ said Orrice.

  Toni’s Refreshments beckoned the hungry. It was half-full at the moment. It would be quite full by one, customers dining on eggs and bacon and a variety of sandwiches, the latter all made with new, crusty bread. Maria was busy slicing a loaf, Toni busy cooking on gas rings. He dished up bacon with two fried eggs, plus bread and butter, to a stallholder. Following which, his expressive eyes popped as they beheld a young boy and a small girl entering in company with Jim Cooper. Jim took them to a table, then came to the counter.

  ‘Kids,’ said Toni, ‘I don’t-a believe it, not again. What-a you doing with them, Jim?’

  ‘They’re mine,’ said Jim.

  ‘No, no,’ said Toni, ‘not them kids. Look at that, would you believe?’

  Orrice was waving to Maria. Maria smiled and waved back.

  ‘Orphans,’ said Jim. ‘My niece and nephew.’

  ‘Mama mia,’ said Toni, ‘them kids?’

  ‘They’re all right,’ said Jim. ‘Eggs and bacon three times, Toni, with bread and butter.’

  ‘Crazy country,’ said Toni, putting rashers into the pan. ‘Just-a like Italy. Always kids. Good luck, eh?’

  ‘We all need a bit,’ said Jim.

  When the plates were set in front of Orrice and Effel, they stared at the food in delight. There was also a glass of fizzy lemonade each.

  ‘Fank yer,’ said Orrice from his heart. Effel mumbled her gratitude. Jim returned to the counter.

  ‘Orrice,’ whispered Effel, picking up her
knife and fork, ‘d’you fink ’e might get grumpy wiv us sometimes?’

  ‘Well, he ain’t got grumpy yet,’ said Orrice, ‘and I like ’im.’

  Jim came back with his own meal.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘for what we are about to receive—?’

  ‘May the Lord make us truly fankful,’ said Orrice.

  ‘You already started,’ whispered Effel.

  ‘Everyone start,’ said Jim.

  Effel ate a mouthful of bread and butter and bacon, then took a rapturous swallow of the fizzy lemonade. Her stomach gurgled and a little burp arrived. She went fiery red.

  ‘Train’s comin’ through the tunnel again,’ said Orrice. Effel’s stomach gave another gurgle. ‘It’s got stuck in the tunnel. That’s what,’ said Orrice.

  ‘It ain’t, it ain’t,’ said Effel, and cast an embarrassed glance at Jim. He winked.

  Effel ducked her head.

  The homely-looking woman at the door of her house in Dawes Street said apologetically, ‘I’m that sorry, but it’s only one room. It’s got a gas ring and a fireplace, but it’s just the one room, and we had a single gentleman in mind.’

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ said Jim, Orrice beside him, and Effel behind Orrice. Out of curiosity, he asked, ‘Don’t you sometimes have single ladies in mind?’ There were thousands of single ladies, robbed by the huge casualties of the war.

  ‘Oh, single gents don’t get as fussy as single ladies.’

  ‘I see,’ said Jim. ‘Well, thank you. Come on, kids.’

  ‘Oh, just a minute, mister,’ said the homely woman. ‘I just remembered, I heard tell from a friend of mine that an acquaintance of hers has got rooms goin’ in Wansey Street. That’s up by the town hall. You could try there. It’s number nineteen, name of Pilgrim.’

  ‘Pilgrim?’

  ‘That’s right. Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim, and because the matter of suitable lodgings was important and pressing, he set off with Effel and Orrice for one more call. ‘Anyone tired yet?’