‘We will say grace first,’ she said.
‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice.
‘We thank thee, Lord, for thy goodness and for bestowing on us that which is our sustenance this day.’
‘Amen,’ said Orrice.
‘Amen,’ gasped Effel, in awe at the savoury food and the stern, handsome lady who had cooked it.
‘Kindly use the napkins,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Beggin’ yer pardon’m?’ said Orrice faintly. He related napkins only to smelly babies.
‘Here, child,’ said Miss Pilgrim to Effel, and picked up the folded napkin beside the girl’s plate, shook it out and tucked it into the neck of Effel’s blouse. Oh, a bib, thought Orrice, they’re for babies, too, what a funny woman. All the same, he unfolded his own napkin and tucked it into the neck of his jersey. Then he and Effel set to, he hungrily, Effel with the nervous cautiousness of a little girl continuing to be dubious about what was happening to her life. She had woken up last night, thought unhappily of her mum and dad, and cried a little before going to sleep again.
Miss Pilgrim ate bread and butter, drank tea and kept an eye on the table manners of these cockney children. The boy had rough edges, but to her relief he did not eat noisily. And the girl was almost dainty. That was because of her nervousness, which Miss Pilgrim assumed was shyness. It had been no hardship to cook for them. She enjoyed many of the domestic arts, including cooking. If her first lodgers proved to be a little more troublesome than two respectable single ladies might have been, she must bear with that. They at least meant she did not have to go out and find a job, something which she viewed with distaste. She did not mind voluntary work for charity, she did not like the thought of working in a shop or office for a wage.
‘Apart from the regrettable fight,’ she said, ‘how did you both get on at your new school today?’
‘Ain’t telling,’ muttered Effel automatically.
‘What was that, child?’ asked Miss Pilgrim sternly, and Effel blushed crimson.
‘Please, nuffink,’ she said, and filled her mouth with sausage, which put her out of conversational action for the moment.
Orrice said, ‘School’s all right’m, but there’s that Alice French, yer know.’
‘Alice French?’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Yes, I do know her, and her family. Alice is a sweet child.’ Effel choked on the sausage. ‘What is wrong, Ethel?’ Effel swallowed, the sausage went down, and she cast a fierce little look at her brother. It was all his fault. Fancy hitting that boy just because of that Alice. ‘Have you lost your tongue, miss?’ asked Miss Pilgrim crisply.
‘Please’m,’ said Orrice, ‘Effel don’t go in for talkin’ sometimes.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Pilgrim. Effel filled her mouth with mashed potato and onion rings, putting her tongue out of action again. ‘I should not like to think that is an absurd way of defining sulks. Sulks are not becoming, Ethel. And lift your head, child, your nose is almost in your supper.’
Effel reluctantly lifted her head. She blushed as she caught the direct glance of the striking blue eyes.
‘Please’m,’ said Orrice, having made a young trencherman’s inroads into his supper, ‘Effel don’t ’ave sulks, it’s just sometimes she don’t talk.’
‘You have no problem, boy,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Well’m, I ain’t shy like Effel—’
‘Ethel,’ said Miss Pilgrim with corrective reproof.
‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice. ‘Still, you should’ve ’eard ’er dinnertime at the school gates, goin’ on at our Uncle Jim about me and that Alice. That Alice, Miss Pilgrim, I dunno what I done to deserve ’er and ’er skippin’-rope. I ain’t saying she ain’t a nice girl—’ An unsuppressible hiss escaped Effel. ‘But boys don’t do skippin’, Miss Pilgrim, it makes yer look like a poof.’
The blue eyes gathered familiar frost.
‘Boy,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘there are expressions I do not like to hear in my house, particularly from children.’
‘I was only saying, like, I was only saying,’ said Orrice. ‘I can’t get it into that Alice’s ’ead that I don’t do skippin’.’
‘You are very fortunate, young man, that a girl as sweet as Alice is willing to be friends with you.’
‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice, and thought. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I dunno it’s friendly follering me about with a skippin’-rope that’s got pink ’andles. Pink, Miss Pilgrim, would yer believe. It don’t ’ardly bear finking about.’
Miss Pilgrim gave him a critical look. She saw a boy who needed a haircut, whose face was marked from brawling, who had a fresh, healthy complexion unusual in a Walworth urchin, and whose brown eyes were asking the whole world to look at what was happening to his social life.
‘Nevertheless, Master Horace,’ she said, ‘I am sure your guardian, Mr Cooper, would like it if you got into no more fights and responded to Alice’s gesture of friendship.’
‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice, and thought more as he polished off his supper. He looked up, eyeing their stiffly handsome landlady in alarm. ‘Beg pardon, Miss Pilgrim, but yer don’t mean do skippin’ with ’er, do yer?’
‘If that is her wish, why not, boy?’
‘I’ll fall down dead,’ gasped Orrice.
‘Nonsense.’
Effel uttered a strangled cry.
‘Effel’s feeling sick,’ said Orrice. ‘So am I,’ he added, but only in a growling, barely audible mutter.
‘Child, there is something wrong with you,’ said Miss Pilgrim to Effel. ‘What is it?’
Effel, in her fury, came out with it.
‘Orrice ain’t skippin’, not wiv ’er, ’e don’t even do it wiv me, and I’m ’is sister. She ain’t nobody.’
Shocked, Miss Pilgrim said, ‘Child, you are not to speak like that, not at this table. Do you hear?’
‘Want me mum,’ said Effel, and a tear rolled. Miss Pilgrim sighed.
‘There, finish up your food,’ she said, ‘and I will forget your little naughtiness. There is hot jam tart to follow. Do you like that?’
‘Crikey, jam tart’s scrumptious,’ said Orrice. ‘Miss Pilgrim’s a real sport, ain’t she, Effel?’
‘Don’t want none,’ said Effel.
‘Very well,’ said Miss Pilgrim. She got up, removed their plates, took the jam tart out of the oven, cut Orrice a large slice and served it to him. She cut a small slice for herself. Orrice tucked in. Effel eyed the tart forlornly, then cast a glance at Miss Pilgrim. She gulped.
‘Please, miss—’ She gulped again.
‘Well?’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘I likes jam tart,’ whispered Effel.
Silently, Miss Pilgrim served her.
‘Say fank you, Effel,’ said Orrice.
‘Fank yer, miss,’ said Effel, and bent her head and tucked in.
When they had finished, Miss Pilgrim gave them each a glass of water. Orrice asked if he and Effel should do the washing-up. Miss Pilgrim said it was pleasing to hear children offer, but preferred to do it herself. Her china was valuable to her.
‘We’re goin’ out now,’ said Orrice.
‘Out?’
‘We like goin’ out.’
Miss Pilgrim, who had needlework to do, said, ‘Very well. There is no need for me to tell you your guardian expects good behaviour from you. You are not, of course, to play ball games in the street—’
‘We ain’t got no ball’m,’ said Orrice.
‘I had not finished speaking, boy. You are not to play ball games in the street, or mark out the pavements for hopscotch or to kick tin cans about. My neighbours are used to relative quiet, and I should not want to be indirectly responsible for bringing rowdiness to the street. Be in at eight o’clock – you will hear the church clock chime. That is to be Ethel’s bedtime here according to your guardian. Very well, off you go now.’
‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice. ‘Miss Pilgrim, Effel and me want to fank you for the best supper ever.’
‘I am satisfied to have helped t
o put a hot meal into you,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
They escaped into the street, where Effel said, ‘She don’t like us.’
‘Well, she don’t ackcherly unlike us,’ said Orrice, ‘or she wouldn’t ’ave cooked us that supper, or that jam tart.’
‘Ain’t goin’ to no bed at eight o’clock,’ said Effel.
‘Yes, you are.’
‘Ain’t.’
‘Yes, you are, or I’ll wallop yer,’ said Orrice. ‘We got to do what Uncle Jim says.’
‘Oh, a’ right,’ said Effel grumpily.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jim, arriving at his work, stopped in the entrance hall of the club to say hello to Molly Keating, daughter of the manager. She was just coming out of her father’s office. A brunette of infectious vivacity, she looked flawless in a lace-necked cream blouse and a well-fitting brown skirt. She worked part-time for her father.
‘’Lo, Jim old thing,’ she said.
‘Hello to you too,’ said Jim.
‘I’m tickled pink you’re coming out of the kitchens into the book-keeping,’ said Molly. ‘Kitchen work, blow that for a lark, it’s not what you should be doing. Port in a storm, that’s all. I’ve just told Dad, as it happens, that you’ll change my image of book-keepers. I’ve always thought them owlish. Good on you, Jim.’
Jim had a suspicion then that he owed his promotion to the manager’s daughter. It did not deflate him or injure his pride. He simply thought, if it were true, that it was a typical gesture of help from a girl with a cheerful and generous nature.
‘I’m keeping my fingers crossed that my ignorance won’t show,’ he said, ‘and I’m doing what I can about that by studying this book-keeping manual.’
‘That’s what you’re carrying, is it?’
‘To get my nose into at break times. It doesn’t seem too mysterious.’
‘You’ve never done any book-keeping at all?’ asked Molly.
‘Keep it dark, Molly, or I’ll be out on my ears before I’ve started.’
‘No problem, lovey,’ said Molly, ‘I’ll give you a hand as soon as you start.’
‘You’re a good friend,’ said Jim.
‘Hope so,’ said Molly, ‘it might mean being asked out one time.’
‘And that,’ said Jim, ‘might mean I’ll get thumped by your steady.’ He had always kept his distance with Molly. He had had too many setbacks not to be wary in his relationships with women. These days he avoided getting himself into a situation where disclosure of his illegitimacy was inevitable.
‘I don’t have a steady,’ said Molly.
‘Well, you should,’ smiled Jim, ‘not all the young men around here can be that blind.’
‘What young men?’ asked Molly. She had a point. It was 1921 and the war had only been over two and a half years. The conflict had taken the lives of a million young men. Young women like Molly had to put up with a dearth of suitors.
‘There’ll always be one for a girl like you,’ said Jim.
‘Good-oh,’ said Molly, ‘send him along when you spot him, will you?’
‘Pleasure,’ said Jim, and went to the kitchen.
The following morning, having served up hot breakfast porridge, Jim sat down at the table in the bay window of the living-room. The kids spooned sugar over their porridge and stirred it in.
‘So, young Horace, you got into a fight, did you?’ said Jim.
‘Yes, but like I just told you, Uncle, I didn’t ’ardly know nuffink about it,’ said Orrice.
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ said Jim.
‘Well, yer can’t split,’ said Orrice.
‘I suppose a black eye’s honourable, and splitting isn’t. But they’re not going to like it at St John’s.’
‘No, well, we got to report to the ’eadmistress first thing,’ said Orrice.
‘Who’s we exactly?’
‘Oh, them and us,’ said Orrice casually.
‘Who’s us?’
‘Orrice ain’t telling,’ mumbled Effel through porridge.
‘He can tell me,’ said Jim.
‘Well,’ said Orrice cautiously, ‘it’s me first, then—’
‘Stop telling,’ breathed Effel.
‘We got to tell our uncle, sis.’
‘No, we ain’t.’ Effel grumbled over her porridge. ‘’E ain’t our uncle.’
‘I’ll wallop you,’ said Orrice.
‘No walloping,’ said Jim. ‘You were saying?’
‘Yes, Uncle, it’s me and Effel and that Alice. And some boys.’
‘Ethel,’ said Jim, ‘you and Alice were in the fight?’
‘Wasn’t,’ said Effel, head bent.
‘Is that a fib, Ethel?’
‘Ain’t telling,’ said Effel.
‘Well, you’ll all have to take your medicine,’ said Jim, ‘and I’ll have to talk to Miss Pilgrim after you’ve left for school. And remember you’re coming here for your midday meal.’
Effel whispered, ‘Is ’e grumpy wiv us, Orrice?’
‘Are yer, Uncle Jim?’ asked Orrice.
Jim regarded the boy’s black eye and slightly swollen cheek.
‘I don’t think it meets with our kind landlady’s approval,’ he said, ‘nor your headmistress’s, but what’s the enemy look like?’
Effel giggled then.
They stood before the headmistress, six of them. Orrice, Effel, Alice, Higgs, Stubbs and Cattermole. Orrice had his scars, Effel and Alice were unmarked, Higgs had a lumpy jaw and a black eye, Stubbs a bruised forehead and Cattermole a bruised cheek. Orrice had given a very good account of himself.
Mrs Wainwright, the headmistress, looked sorrowful. Mr Hill, also present, looked resigned. Boys were always boys. That was an unchangeable fact.
‘Explain yourselves,’ said the headmistress, looking at Higgs.
‘Me?’ said Higgs plaintively.
‘You to begin with, yes.’
‘I just fell over, mum—’
‘Ma’am, if you don’t mind.’
‘I just fell over, ma’am,’ said Higgs.
‘I fell on top of ’im,’ said Orrice.
‘I went an’ tripped,’ said Cattermole.
‘I dunno for sure what I did, ma’am,’ said Stubbs, ‘I think I must’ve gone an’ tripped too.’
‘Dear me,’ said Mrs Wainwright, ‘what have we here, Mr Hill? Four boys all clumsy enough to fall over at the same time?’
‘It’s food for thought,’ said Mr Hill.
‘And two girls, what did they do? Alice? Ethel? Kicking? Actually kicking? Is this true?’
‘Well, you see, ma’am,’ burst Alice, ‘Horace was only—’ She stopped as Orrice nudged her. The headmistress saw the nudge.
‘Continue, Alice,’ she said.
But Alice knew what the nudge had meant. She wasn’t to tell tales. So she said, ‘Please, ma’am, I don’t know, I only remember Ethel being awf’lly upset when they all fell over.’
‘Wasn’t,’ breathed Effel, scowling at her feet.
‘What was that, Ethel?’ asked Mrs Wainwright. Effel went deaf. ‘Alice, is that all you remember?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Alice, crossing her fingers behind her back.
‘Dear me. Well, you two girls will never disgrace yourselves again. Never, do you understand?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Alice.
‘Do you understand, Ethel?’
Effel went deafer.
‘She understands,’ said Mr Hill, who thought Orrice’s sister owned a lethal right foot.
‘You may go, you girls,’ said Mrs Wainwright.
The two girls left. In the corridor, Alice whispered, ‘Oh, poor Horace, he’ll get the cane.’
‘I’ll pull yer ’air out if ’e does,’ breathed Effel.
Mrs Wainwright addressed the four boys.
‘I will not have fighting or brawling at the school gates or anywhere else in the school. You will each receive a stroke of the cane.’ She produced the cane from the cupboard. Mr Hill
hid a smile. That was always as much as the headmistress could bring herself to apply, a single stroke. ‘Do you understand your punishment and the reason for it? Do you also accept it?’
‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice.
‘Yes, a’ right, ma’am,’ said Higgs, and Stubbs and Cattermole nodded.
‘Horace Withers, put out your right hand,’ commanded the headmistress, and Orrice complied, turning his palm flatly upwards. The cane swished. It smote his hand, stinging it. Orrice grimaced. She liked his stoicism. She dealt similarly with the other boys, then she said to Orrice, ‘You haven’t made a very good start at this school, Master Withers.’
‘No, ma’am, sorry.’
Mr Hill said, ‘You’ve all had the minimum, you young terrors. Justice has been tempered with mercy. Thank your lucky stars.’
‘Yes, ta very much, sir,’ said Cattermole. They had all taken their medicine without fuss.
‘Go to your classes,’ said the headmistress, and they left. She gave Mr Hill a rueful look. ‘I do dislike this kind of thing.’
‘Sometimes you’re left with no option,’ said Mr Hill. ‘What a collection of muscle. Long time since I’ve seen a scrap like that. It looked to me as if Withers was taking them all on, with a little help from his sister and Alice. And what an excuse, they all fell over together. Let’s hope you’ve made them think twice about a return bout, mmm? Brave performance, headmistress.’
Just before entering the classroom, Higgs said to Orrice, ‘I’ll get yer somewhere else some time, Wivvers.’
‘I’ll enjoy that,’ said Orrice, ‘but I don’t fink you will.’
Later, in class, Alice whispered, ‘Is it hurting?’
‘Is what hurting?’ asked Orrice.
‘The cane.’
‘Not much,’ said Orrice, ‘but I won’t be able to hold any skippin’-rope.’
‘Never mind,’ whispered Alice, ‘I brought apples for us playtime.’ When playtime came, she gave Effel one too. Effel took it, jumped on it and ground it to pulp. ‘Oh, Ethel, look what you’ve done,’ said Alice, ‘you can’t eat it now.’
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