Two for Three Farthings

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Ain’t goin’ to, neither,’ hissed Effel.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Alice forgivingly, ‘here’s another one.’

  Effel screamed in rageful frustration.

  Jim knocked on Miss Pilgrim’s kitchen door.

  ‘Come in,’ she called, and he entered.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Pilgrim.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Cooper,’ she said. She took her apron off and hung it up. In a white blouse crisp with starch, black skirt draping long legs in straight severity, she regarded her lodger a little accusingly.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Jim, wryly.

  ‘What do you know, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I doubt that, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘You’re not thinking Horace is a young hooligan?’

  ‘I am thinking, Mr Cooper, that as the boy’s guardian it was remiss of you not to ensure his good behaviour at his new school.’

  ‘Yes, black mark against me, Miss Pilgrim, but the fact is I’m treading a little gently at the moment. They still feel the loss of their parents, and I can’t yet bring myself to apply a heavy hand.’

  ‘Heavy hand?’ Miss Pilgrim’s blue eyes showed frosty disapproval. ‘I hope, Mr Cooper, you are not considering assault and battery in place of simple Christian discipline. A smart rap over the knuckles is as much as I’d permit in this house.’

  ‘Assault and battery?’ Jim laughed. The striking blue eyes turned even frostier. ‘Good grief, nothing of the kind, Miss Pilgrim. I don’t go in for that sort of thing. I suspect, in any case, that Horace was standing up for himself.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear you have a Christian attitude, Mr Cooper, although I have to say it was disgraceful of Horace to get into a fight during his first week at St John’s. I hope you’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘I rather fancy the headmistress will have turned his ears pink by now,’ said Jim. ‘I must thank you for attending to his wounds and for giving him and Ethel such a fine supper last night. They were rapturous about it. You really are a splendid person.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘I’m going shopping now, I must buy for the midday dinner. I will charge you for everything at the end of the week.’

  ‘Can’t thank you enough,’ said Jim, who had book-keeping to study. ‘Oh, if it’s any help, I’ve discovered Ethel and Horace are partial to hot faggots and pease pudding from the shop in the market.’

  ‘Faggots and pease pudding?’ Miss Pilgrim positively quivered. ‘You aren’t serious, I trust?’

  Jim rubbed his chin and said cautiously, ‘Hot faggots and pease pudding are considered a treat by Walworth people, aren’t they?’

  ‘They may be, Mr Cooper, but I should want to know what went into the faggots before I served them in this house, or before I carried them home in a basin. I shall bring back wholesome food that doesn’t have a question mark to it.’

  ‘Happy to leave it to you, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Jim cheerfully.

  ‘The boy needs a haircut,’ said Miss Pilgrim.

  ‘Right, he does,’ said Jim, ‘I’ll see he goes to the barber’s on Saturday morning.’

  Things, thought Jim, went quite well that first week. Over the midday meals, always perfectly cooked and served, Miss Pilgrim’s attitude towards the children was firm but not unkind. She did not ask him to correct their little faults, she took it upon herself to do so. Jim liked that. He could not see it as interference, he saw it as typical of her straightforwardness. The other way would have made her sound a complaining woman. She would not permit slouching or slipshod table manners, but she saw to it that they ate well, and she did not suggest at any time that they should be discouraged from making conversation. She dealt coolly with Effel’s little mutterings and little sulks, and as an intellectual woman took a keen interest in her progress at school. Effel was not very forthcoming about that, either to Jim or Miss Pilgrim, viewing them both with the mutinous look of a child who wasn’t going to believe anyone could think school was interesting. It was Effel’s private opinion that schools ought to be for grown-ups only, as grown-ups were the ones who went on about them. Orrice’s reactions were different. He found lessons easy, and accordingly school wasn’t a trial to him. He answered up brightly in his replies to Miss Pilgrim’s enquiries. He had only one complaint, and it was a complaint Effel shared with him. He couldn’t get rid of that Alice French, he said.

  ‘Boy,’ said Miss Pilgrim sternly, ‘must you speak of that sweet girl in such a deplorable way? Get rid of her indeed.’

  ‘But, Miss Pilgrim,’ protested Orrice through a lump of hot potato, ‘she’s ’aunting me.’

  Miss Pilgrim eyed him aloofly. Jim coughed.

  ‘You should not speak with your mouth full, Master Horace,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘What do you mean, haunting you?’

  ‘I can’t get rid of ’er, honest, m’m. It don’t matter where I sit in class, she’s always gettin’ next to me. And I got two of ’em follering me about in the playground, ’er and Effel. I’m sorely tried, I am, Miss Pilgrim, I ain’t got no life of me own. And that Alice, she’s goin’ to get me to go to Sunday tea even if it kills ’er.’

  ‘Your sister’s name is Ethel, boy. Ethel.’

  ‘Yes’m, Effel.’

  ‘You must help these children with their pronunciation, Mr Cooper,’ said Miss Pilgrim severely.

  ‘Give you my word,’ said Jim who, with one arm missing, ate in the American fashion.

  ‘Master Horace,’ she said, ‘if Alice has invited you to Sunday tea, you must accept.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Orrice, stricken.

  ‘Of course you must.’

  ‘’E ain’t goin’ wivout me,’ breathed Effel.

  ‘Sit up, child, and lift your head when you speak,’ admonished Miss Pilgrim. ‘What was it you just said?’

  ‘Nuffink,’ grumbled Effel.

  That was one of many similar pieces of dialogue.

  Each afternoon before he left for his work, Jim prepared tea for the kids. When they came home from school, all they had to do was take it out of the little cupboard used as a larder. It was to be eaten at six o’clock, but they could help themselves to a slice of bread-and-butter beforehand if they wanted to. And at six o’clock, Miss Pilgrim took them up a pot of tea to have with their meal. This was because she did not like unsupervised children dealing with a kettle of boiling water. She always asked them if their hands were clean. If they weren’t, she reminded them that cleanliness was next to godliness, and insisted they washed them immediately. Orrice didn’t mind. Effel minded a lot. Her mum had never made her do things like that, nor had her dad. Miss Pilgrim wasn’t her mum, and the man who was looking after her and Orrice wasn’t her dad. He was in league with Miss Pilgrim, because he made her wash herself everywhere she showed. Her face, her ears, her neck and her knees.

  Jim took them both to Manor Place Baths on Saturday morning. He placed Effel in charge of a beefy woman attendant in the women’s section, and Effel nearly died when she saw the size of the bath and the huge amount of hot water in it. She yelled.

  ‘I ain’t, I won’t, I’ll get drownded!’

  ‘Come on, me little ducks, let’s get yer in,’ said the woman, and whipped the small girl’s clothes off. Effel screamed as she was lifted and dumped. Hot water swallowed her, swamped her, surged around her and brought sensations of bodily bliss.

  ‘Oh, crikey,’ she breathed, ‘ain’t it good?’

  ‘Like it, do yer?’ said the beefy attendant. ‘Thought yer would, once you was in. ’Ere y’ar, little lady, ’ere’s yer soap.’ She handed Effel a large yellow cake of Sunlight. ‘An’ there’s yer back scrubber. Give yer ten minutes. We’re busy Saturdays. Soap yerself all over now, make the most of yer sixpenn’orth.’

  When Effle emerged from the Victorian building in company with Orrice and Jim, she was pink and shining.

  ‘Nearly drownded, I did,’ she complained.

  ‘Course
yer didn’t,’ said Orrice, fresh-faced and newly clean.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Effel, casting an accusing glance at Jim. ‘Well, I nearly did.’

  ‘We all did,’ said Jim. ‘Well, nearly. What d’you think of Effel’s after-bath look, Orrice?’

  ‘Can’t ’ardly believe it,’ said Orrice. ‘Lummy, don’t a bath make yer feel good all over, Uncle Jim?’

  Effel let go an arrow. ‘’Oo’s a pretty boy all over, then?’ she said. With street kids about, Orrice turned pale. Imagine any kids hearing a thing like that.

  ‘Uncle Jim, can I chuck Effel off a bridge?’ he asked.

  ‘No chucking off bridges, Orrice,’ said Jim, and sent the boy off to the barber’s. When the lad arrived back in their lodgings, Effel took a sly look at him and mimicked Alice.

  ‘Oh, you’re awf’lly lovely, Orrice.’

  Orrice went for her. Effel ran, out of the living-room and down the stairs, shrieking. Orrice caught her at the foot of the stairs, and they both fell to the floor of the little hall. Miss Pilgrim appeared.

  ‘Disgraceful! Get up, both of you.’ Effel and Orrice scrambled to their feet. Jim showed himself at the top of the stairs. Miss Pilgrim looked up at him. ‘Mr Cooper, my house is not a boxing ring or a fairground. Kindly inform your wards of that.’ She rustled stiffly back to her kitchen.

  ‘Come up here,’ said Jim. They went up. He read them a minor riot act and sent them out to the market. When they returned, he despatched them downstairs to make their peace with Miss Pilgrim. Orrice knocked on the kitchen door.

  ‘Come in.’

  They went in, Orrice bearing a wrapped sheaf of bright-headed daffodils, bought in the market. Effel hid herself behind him. An aroma of cooking food assailed their noses.

  ‘If yer please’m,’ said Orrice, ‘we’re sorry and would yer kindly accept these daffs, if yer please’m.’

  Miss Pilgrim regarded the flowers in surprise. Orrice gazed in hope at her. Her clear searching eyes sought Effel. Effel gulped and hid herself deeper at her brother’s back.

  ‘Thank you, Master Horace,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and took the sheaf. ‘What is the matter with your sister?’

  ‘She don’t like showing ’erself when she’s got worries, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice. ‘She finks yer goin’ to throw ’er out.’

  ‘Thinks,’ said Miss Pilgrim.

  ‘Yes’m.’ Orrice untied his tongue. ‘Thinks,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Ethel, show yourself.’

  Effel emerged, head hanging.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I’m sure it won’t happen again,’ said Miss Pilgrim graciously. ‘I am quite used to children through my mission work, but not to thumping, bumping and rolling ones. Also, I don’t wish either of you to break your legs. I will see you all at midday dinner. Thank you for the flowers, both of you. But such extravagance. However, off you go.’

  ‘Thumping, bumping and rolling,’ said Jim, over a stomach-filling meal of steak-and-kidney pie.

  ‘Pardon, Mr Cooper?’ said Miss Pilgrim.

  ‘Can’t have that,’ said Jim. ‘Told ’em so. Can’t have racketing about, or thumps and bumps.’

  The severe blue eyes regarded him suspiciously.

  ‘We agreed, Mr Cooper, on good behaviour.’

  ‘Do you hear that, kids?’ said Jim.

  ‘I won’t fump Effel indoors again, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice, ‘only in the street.’

  ‘Incorrigible boy, I hope your guardian will see to it you don’t thump your little sister in this house or out of it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jim, ‘and it’s thump, young man, not fump.’

  ‘I ain’t—’

  ‘Aren’t,’ said Jim.

  Puzzled, Orrice said, ‘I aren’t sure—’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Jim.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Orrice, ‘now I dunno where I am.’

  Miss Pilgrim coughed. Jim hid a smile.

  ‘I’ll serve the rice pudding,’ said Miss Pilgrim.

  ‘Rice puddin’?’ said Orrice, eyes glowing. ‘Cor, yer a swell, Miss Pilgrim.’

  ‘That is an absurdity, boy. However, the daffodils were not. I think, Mr Cooper, you will be able to turn these children into children of the Lord.’

  ‘Don’t want no Lord,’ mumbled Effel, ‘just me mum an’ dad.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Miss Pilgrim.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On Sunday morning Miss Pilgrim departed early for church, but not before she had made it clear she expected her lodger to take his wards to the service. Church and God’s Commandments, she said, shaped the minds of children and taught them the difference between self-indulgence and self-discipline.

  Effel, discovering she was about to be taken to church, said, ‘Ain’t goin’.’

  ‘Untrue,’ said Jim.

  ‘Ain’t,’ said Effel.

  ‘Is,’ said Jim. ‘We’re all going. That’s why you’re wearing your Sunday frock. Now put your boater on.’

  ‘Don’t like you,’ muttered Effel.

  ‘Well, you’re stuck with me at the moment,’ said Jim.

  ‘Ain’t goin’ to no church,’ said Effel.

  ‘You’re askin’ for it, you are, sis,’ said Orrice, who wore a new Sunday cap. It was against his will, but Jim had advised him his old cap wasn’t a church-going one.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ said Jim, ‘you and I will go, Orrice. Come on.’ He and Orrice left the house. Effel stamped around, ran down the stairs and opened the front door. She saw them walking up the street. By the time they reached St John’s Church she was close behind Orrice. Orrice turned and saw her. People were crowding in.

  Effel aimed another arrow. Loudly, she said, ‘Oh, ain’t you pretty in yer Sunday suit, Orrice?’

  The fates were against Orrice that morning.

  The service opened with a hymn. In a front pew, with some ladies of her acquaintance, Miss Pilgrim stood to sing in a clear, fearless soprano. Effel mouthed inaudibly over the hymn book Jim had placed in her hands. Across the aisle, she saw Alice French with her mother and father. Effel scowled. Alice smiled.

  The service got under way. Effel didn’t mind the hymns too much, but everything else reminded her of Scripture lessons at school, which were boring. Orrice took it all in his stride. Orrice was adaptable. Effel was cast in a more rigid mould.

  Alice sought to catch Orrice’s eye.

  ‘’Aunting me, that’s what she is,’ growled Orrice during a hymn, but he put a penny in the collecting plate as a sign that he recognized his mum and dad had gone to a Christian heaven.

  The sermon was all about Fight The Good Fight. The vicar, mellow of voice, spoke mostly of the fight against hardship. He was not too concerned about the antics of the devil, implying that his parishioners could recognize that dark gentleman when he knocked on their doors, and could, with a few exceptions, send him packing. Hardship was the greater menace to the people of Walworth.

  Effel fidgeted. Jim thought about his dead mother, and the fact that he didn’t even have a photograph of her. She must have had some possessions when she died. Where had they got to?

  Orrice kept his eyes off Alice and on the pulpit. But there was no escape. She was waiting for him when he came out of the church, her mum and dad with her. Alice whispered to her mum, a plump lady with a stalwart-looking husband.

  ‘So you’re Horace Withers,’ said Mrs French.

  ‘Who, me?’ said Orrice in alarm. Effel, close by, began to grind her teeth.

  ‘I’m Alice’s dad,’ said Mr French, ‘and Alice ’ud like you to come to tea one Sunday.’ Mr French eyed the boy with an amused smile. This was the one Alice had gone potty about. He could see why. There wasn’t a healthier-looking boy in Walworth, nor a better-looking one. Kids were fun, especially nine-year-old daughters potty on a boy. ‘Any Sunday you like, ’Orace.’

  ‘Me?’ gasped Orrice, wondering why life was dealing him blow after blow. Only his new uncle represented a decent bit o
f luck. ‘Me?’ he gasped again.

  ‘Do say when, Horace,’ begged Alice, stunningly pretty in a yellow frock and little bonnet.

  ‘Take your time, young ’un,’ said Mr French with a little grin. He could sympathize with the boy. He caught the eye of a tall one-armed man, who winked at him. Jim and Mr French both understood Orrice’s problem.

  ‘I dunno when I can say when,’ said Orrice desperately.

  ‘Next Sunday?’ suggested Alice.

  ‘Next Sunday?’ queried Orrice, and received a kick in the back of his right leg from Effel. People, pouring out of the church, stopped to speak to friends or neighbours, and the churchyard, bright with April sunshine, became a hubbub of voices. In the distance could be heard the strains of a marching Salvation Army band. Orrice searched for escape words. ‘I’m busy next Sunday.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not,’ protested Alice.

  ‘I’m busy most Sundays. Well, I will be, like. It’s Miss Pilgrim’s garden, yer see. She’s our landlady. I got to ’elp wiv ’er garden on Sundays.’

  ‘Yes, we heard she’d took in lodgers,’ said Mrs French.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Orrice, and stopped. Cool blue eyes were looking straight into his. ‘Oh, cripes,’ he muttered, ‘now I done it.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs French, good morning, Mr French.’ Miss Pilgrim’s crisp voice cut in. ‘Alice? Good morning. The sermon was encouraging, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Something like with our backs to the wall let’s advance,’ said Mr French, a man of thirty-four who had seen service with the Army in France and who considered himself lucky in stepping straight into a job as a railway ganger after being demobbed.

  ‘We are all in service to God, we are all fighting His battles in our own way,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Some more so, some less so. Alice, how pretty you look.’

  Young Alice blushed a little.

  ‘We’re just asking Horace to Sunday tea, Miss Pilgrim,’ she said.

  ‘That is a kind Christian hand to a newcomer,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and caught Jim’s eye. Because Orrice was being trapped, Jim gave his handsome landlady a smile and a little wink. Miss Pilgrim stiffened in the way of a woman to whom a wink was more heathen than Christian. She said, ‘I don’t think Horace will be too busy in my garden, Alice.’