‘This, of course, is the larger bedroom,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘It’s excellent,’ said Jim, who felt there was a missionary’s practical imprint on the room.
‘Excellent? You are sure? I do not mind people being frank. Frankness is the child of truth.’
‘And tact is the child of kindness?’ smiled Jim. The smile seemed slightly to affront Miss Pilgrim. ‘No, I’m not using tact now,’ he said, ‘the room is excellent. You did say the rooms couldn’t be bettered. I believe you.’
Miss Pilgrim felt she could not fault his manners. She led the way to the second bedroom. While smaller, its square size was adequate. The furniture was a little less plain, being of walnut, and the single bed was covered by a blue quilt. The dressing-table had a glass top and three connecting oval mirrors. The window overlooked a small garden, a brick wall separating it from its neighbours. There was actually a small rectangular lawn and a flower bed. Jim was impressed with such an outlook. He turned to scan a framed tapestry hanging above the bed. He read the biblical quotation.
‘The Lord is my Shepherd.’
This had been her bedroom, of course. It had a neat crispness to it. Yes, that was her. Crisp.
‘Well, Mr Cooper?’ she said.
‘I’m impressed,’ he said.
‘This room, of course, would do for the girl,’ she said, making it clear that whatever arrangements obtained in their present lodgings, this was what would obtain here.
‘Lovaduck,’ said Orrice, emerging from instinctive restraint, ‘I betcher you’ll like this, Effel.’
‘Won’t,’ breathed Effel, but Miss Pilgrim caught the word and looked down at her from what seemed to Effel an awesome height. She dodged behind Jim.
‘What was that you said, child?’
‘Nuffink,’ gasped Effel.
‘Mr Cooper, these children need speech improvement,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘They’ll get it at school,’ said Jim, ‘but they’re natural cockneys, of course.’
‘That is no excuse for allowing their speech to remain slipshod,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘In any environment, Mr Cooper, some respect should be paid to the King’s English.’
‘Well, certainly, we don’t want them to upset the King,’ said Jim.
‘Is that an attempt at levity, Mr Cooper?’
‘A little passing comment, Miss Pilgrim.’
The striking blue eyes gazed suspiciously at him. Jim tried a smile.
‘Now the living-room,’ she said abruptly, as if a man’s smile was untrustworthy. Rustling along the landing, she rapped her knuckles on a closed door. ‘That is the small room.’
Orrice, thinking that might mean a little room to play games in, impulsively opened the door. He saw a toilet, a handbasin and a water tap.
‘Oh, just a lav,’ he said.
‘I do not subscribe to the belief that boys should be seen and not heard, Mr Cooper, but I do not like forwardness in any of them,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘It’s best discouraged,’ agreed Jim.
Orrice said, ‘I only looked to see – well, I was ’oping that if I got a clockwork train set one day, there’d be room—’ He stopped. ‘I dunno what I was ’oping,’ he said.
‘Hoping,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice.
She led them into the living-room, the same size as the front bedroom. There was a sofa in brown leather upholstery, a matching armchair, a dwarf bookcase, and, in the bay window, a small table with three upright chairs. A polished wooden coal scuttle stood to one side in the hearth, and there was a brass companion set on the other side. The empty fireplace shone with blacklead. Above the fireplace hung a picture, a framed watercolour of a mission house in China. On an iron stand on the top of a four-feet-high cupboard was a framed trio of gas rings.
‘There is crockery in the cupboard,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘also a kettle, teapot and a small saucepan. The books in the case are part of a collection.’
‘They won’t be touched, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Jim with feeling, ‘I’ve too much respect for books, especially other people’s, to be careless with them.’
‘It has never occurred to me to leave books untouched and unread, Mr Cooper. Respect for books and how they have come about is an excellent thing, of course, but not to the extent of locking them up. That bookcase is not locked, and you may read any of the volumes you care to, while not allowing the children to introduce jam or marmalade to them. That is, if you decide the rooms will suit you at the rent mentioned. You need not decide now—’ For once, she hesitated. She wanted to remove that notice from the newsagent’s window as soon as she could, or more unsavoury persons would come knocking on her door. ‘But I should appreciate a quick decision.’
‘We’ll take the rooms, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Jim.
Miss Pilgrim gave him her first look of approval. She favoured people who did not scratch their heads and procrastinate.
‘Very well, Mr Cooper. I shan’t object to any natural high spirits in the children, but shall expect you to see their behaviour is never unreasonable. Shall we go down to the parlour and settle the final details?’
They followed her down. She rustled with every step, and Jim was sure she actually did wear a starched petticoat. He also felt the pretty look of the parlour possibly reflected her mother’s tastes, and that she had refrained, out of respect, from placing a practical look on it.
‘You’ve a very attractive parlour,’ he said, noting a glass-fronted bookcase whose every shelf was full.
‘It is how my mother liked it,’ she said. Bull’s-eye, thought Jim. ‘If you and the children would care to sit down for a moment, I will get you to sign the tenancy agreement.’ Jim and Effel seated themselves on a small chesterfield, and Orrice sat in an armchair, cap over one knee. ‘I have drawn up the agreement myself, being adequately versed in the writing of documents for my father.’ Miss Pilgrim opened the drawer of a small sideboard and extracted a sheet of paper. ‘You will please read it.’ She handed it to him. He scanned it. It was well-worded and he could not fault it, although in Walworth a written agreement was a rare thing. A landlady simply provided a rent book and made an entry each week on payment. If a lodger defaulted or proved too troublesome, out he went.
‘I’ll sign,’ said Jim.
‘Very well. When do you wish to move in?’
‘Tuesday?’ he suggested, knowing he had to move by Wednesday, when Mrs Palmer’s brother was moving in.
‘I am agreeable to that,’ she said. She could now walk round to the newsagents and get that card removed from the window. ‘Your week, then, is from Tuesday to Tuesday, your tenancy beginning next Tuesday.’ She was crisply businesslike. Orrice did a little leg stretch and his cap fell from his knee to the floor. ‘Master Horace,’ she said, ‘my floor is not the place for hats or caps.’
‘No’m,’ said Orrice, and picked his cap up. ‘It just fell off me knee, like. I s’pose it ain’t used to being on me knee, it’s mostly on me head nearly always. Me dad give it to me, Miss Pilgrim, and it was nearly always on ’is ’ead too. Before ’e give it me, I mean. You can ask Effel.’
‘I don’t think I need to do that,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and inserted the date of the tenancy commencement. Jim signed it. She produced a copy that she had also made. She signed it.
‘I see we need witnesses,’ said Jim.
‘I am seeing the vicar later today. He and his wife will witness the copy I’ve signed.’
‘I’ll get my landlady and her husband to witness the other,’ said Jim.
‘You saw that a week’s notice can be given by either party?’
‘Yes, I saw that.’
‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I’ll expect you and the children on Tuesday. At precisely what time?’
‘I’ll move in at ten in the morning. The children will come after they’ve finished school in the afternoon. They’re at St John’s.’
‘The church school?’ Miss Pilgrim again showed appr
oval. ‘That is an excellent educational establishment, with a good grounding in the Scriptures and reading aloud for speech improvement. Did you say ten o’clock? But what of your work?’
‘For the next couple of weeks or so, I’m working from four in the afternoons until midnight. Then I take over a permanent day duty from eight-thirty to half-past five.’
‘I am relieved to hear it,’ said Miss Pilgrim firmly. ‘It would not do for a guardian’s wards to be left alone every evening.’
Jim, refusing to be ruffled, smiled and said, ‘I’ve sorted that out with my new hours.’ He had also borrowed a book-keeping manual from the library. ‘Well, thank you for everything, Miss Pilgrim, you’ve been very kind and helpful. We’ll all do our best to be model tenants.’ He and the children came to their feet. ‘Say goodbye to Miss Pilgrim, Ethel.’
‘G’bye,’ gasped Effel.
‘Goodbye, child.’
‘Goodbye, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice.
‘Goodbye,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and saw them out. She noted that the children’s energy released itself, the boy taking a flying leap from the top steps, and the girl executing hops and skips over the pavement. She noted the long-limbed stride of Mr Cooper, who was minus his left arm. If she could find no fault with his speech, that of the boy and girl was cockney at its most grating. She closed the door and stood in the little hall for a moment, wondering if her Christian gesture meant she was taking upon herself a cross of burdensome weight and complexities.
Her mouth compressed to a firm line. What the Lord had brought to her she would endure. She had, after all, endured far worse when she was a naive and carefree young woman of twenty. For all her strong will, she shuddered at the memory of what had happened at the mission station in China. Then her mouth compressed even more firmly, and she shut the memory out.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Well, kids?’ said Jim, pouring tea.
‘I dunno she ain’t too posh for us,’ said Orrice.
‘She?’
‘’Er,’ said Orrice.
‘Her?’
‘Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice, stirring his tea.
‘That’s better,’ said Jim.
Effel, sipping tea in bliss, spoke up.
‘I likes ’er,’ she said.
‘Eh?’ asked Orrice.
‘Well, I finks I likes ’er,’ said Effel cautiously. She darted one of her quick glances at Jim. ‘She crackles. I likes crackles.’
‘Told yer, didn’t I?’ said Orrice gleefully. ‘I betcher she’s starched all over.’
‘Well, we’re lucky,’ said Jim. ‘We’ve – Effel, sit up.’ Effel glowered and muttered and sat up. ‘Listen, we’ve probably clicked for the best lodgings in Walworth, and for a landlady of Christian goodness. Never mind her starch. You heard, didn’t you, that she’s going to wash our bed linen for us?’
‘It’s goin’ to be a bit bovversome, though,’ said Orrice, ‘Effel an’ me ain’t never ’ad to put up with Christian goodness, and me dad always said it don’t ’alf cramp yer style, yer can’t do nuffink without first askin’ permission in case what yer goin’ to do upsets them Ten Commandments.’
‘You’ll learn, Orrice,’ said Jim.
‘Oh, lor’,’ said Orrice, ‘you ain’t goin’ to ’eap Christian goodness on our ’eads as well, are yer, Uncle Jim?’
‘I’m going to peel and boil some potatoes for you,’ said Jim, ‘and leave you to warm them up for your supper with some slices of new corned beef and some tomatoes. And some military pickle. And there’s a cake from the baker’s. I can trust you to bring the potatoes back to the boil without scalding yourself, Orrice?’
‘Course yer can, Uncle, I boiled a ton of spuds in me time, ain’t I, sis?’
‘Don’t remember,’ said Effel, ‘but I likes corned beef an’ pickle.’
‘After supper,’ said Jim, ‘you can read the Bible to Effel, Orrice.’
‘Eh?’ gasped Orrice.
‘There’s a Bible in the cupboard. Something from the New Testament.’
‘Cripes,’ breathed Orrice, ‘yer ganging up with Miss Pilgrim, Uncle Jim.’
‘Doing my best to co-operate,’ said Jim. ‘And I think it’ll do for you two to still call me Uncle Jim.’ So far, Effel hadn’t called him anything, except mister once or twice. ‘That was for the benefit of Mrs Palmer, but you understand I’m simply your guardian as far as our new life is concerned. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, course we do,’ said Orrice, ‘don’t we, sis?’
‘A’ right,’ said Effel.
‘Good,’ said Jim. ‘Don’t forget the Bible reading, Orrice.’ He was thinking of their relationship with Miss Pilgrim. ‘Read Effel the first chapter of St Luke.’
‘Ain’t goin’ to listen to that,’ glowered Effel.
‘Yes, you are,’ said Orrice, ‘if I’m blooming well goin’ to read it you can blooming well listen, or I’ll drown yer.’
‘No drowning,’ said Jim, ‘just a little Bible reading.’
‘Blooming daisies, what a life,’ said Orrice, ‘I ain’t never read from the Bible before.’
‘This evening will be a good time to start,’ said Jim.
On Friday morning, following Orrice’s report that Effel hadn’t played up, that she’d listened like he was reading from a Ragamuffin Jack book, Jim took stock of his finances. He had thirty-nine pounds and twelve shillings in the Savings Bank, nineteen shillings and sevenpence in his pocket, his weekly wage of twenty-five shillings due tonight and his monthly pension due on Monday.
‘Kids,’ he said, ‘we’re well off at the moment.’ From Tuesday, when he was to pay Miss Pilgrim twelve shillings rent in advance each week, he would be relying on a pound or so to keep the kids and himself in clothes and to pay for all those extra things that always cropped up in life. That would be augmented next month by the additional five shillings he would earn for helping to keep the books. He thought he could manage. ‘Yes, at the moment, we’re prosperous.’
‘I ain’t ’alf glad for yer, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice. ‘Real prosp’rous?’
‘Up to a point,’ said Jim, who was as fairly casual about money as he was about ups and downs. Life at the orphanage had taught him to be grateful for the little things, and life outside the orphanage had taught him that most people’s lives were about little things. Big things and miracles happened to only a few. One was up sometimes, one was down sometimes. You could aim for the moon if the notion took you, but if you fell it was from a great height. Most people in Walworth managed to survive, managed to smile. They too made the most of little pleasures, little strokes of luck. A little stroke of luck could offset a year’s setbacks.
As long as one kept a certain amount of money for a rainy day, if one could keep it, the rest of it was for spending. The maxim in Walworth was, ‘Yer ’ere today, mate, yer could be gorn tomorrer.’ Which meant if your old woman hadn’t got a shilling to take twenty-eight pounds of washing to the Bagwash Laundry, you left it until next week. A week’s more dirt wasn’t considered anti-social in Walworth.
Jim felt nineteen Wansey Street represented a stroke of great luck. There couldn’t be better lodgings for him and the kids. What a remarkable woman Miss Pilgrim was. Victorian, puritanical, stiff, unbending, starched, precise and willing to give them excellent lodgings and more for twelve shillings a week. He supposed she had worked it out to her satisfaction. Yes, she would have done that. What had she got under the bodice of that ancient black dress of hers? A handsome bosom, certainly. A warm heart in addition, despite her strict religious ethics and her severity? Well, nothing must be done to offend her. Although their bed linen would go into her own wash each week, it was still a very human gesture, and generous. Nowhere were he and the kids likely to get better terms. Her strict Christian beliefs and her eccentricities must be heeded and accepted.
‘Effel, Uncle Jim’s gorn all quiet,’ whispered Orrice.
Effel, worried, whispered, ‘’E ain’t goin’ to leave us, is ’
e?’
‘I was thinking we’d better go out and get both of you properly fitted up. You’ve got your second-hand clobber for knocking about in.’ Jim suddenly wondered if Miss Pilgrim had decided to make her offer because she felt a man with one arm could not properly manage to do all the things he needed to do for two children. She had made no direct comment at all about his infirmity. ‘Yes, I think we’d better buy you both something for school and for Sundays. We don’t want our good fairy, Miss Pilgrim, giving us looks.’
‘Uncle, I got to say it,’ said Orrice, ‘she doesn’t seem like no good fairy to me.’
‘She looked at me,’ said Effel. Looking wasn’t as likeable as crackles.
‘Well, we’ll put you in a nice Sunday frock, Effel,’ said Jim, ‘then she’ll enjoy looking at you. Right, hats on. Effel, where’s your hair ribbon?’
‘Dunno,’ said Effel.
‘Can’t have that.’
‘It’s ’ere,’ said Orrice
‘Oh, a’ right,’ said Effel. ‘You do it,’ she said to Jim.
‘Pardon?’ said Jim.
‘Please would yer?’ asked Effel, and Jim, one hand deft and manipulative, tied the ribbon around her hair and finished with a bow.
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