‘I’m sorry, Miss Pilgrim, to see you distressed.’
‘I’m not in the least distressed, I am merely vexed.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Help? With what?’ From the hall she stared frostily up at him.
‘With whatever’s vexing you.’
‘What nonsense. Allow me to begin preparing the midday meal, or it will be late.’ With her familiar starchy rustle, Miss Pilgrim disappeared.
It occurred to Jim that for all the imperturbability of Mrs Lockheart, the woman had a screw loose.
At half-past eleven the same morning, Mrs French called at the school and spoke to the headmistress. The headmistress communicated at once with Mr Hill, and Mr Hill addressed his class, informing the boys and girls that Alice French had mislaid her skipping-rope yesterday. Would the pupil who had found it please say so.
No-one said so. Everyone simply looked blankly at everyone else. Alice blushed slightly. She knew her mum had come to see the headmistress about it, although she had asked her not to.
‘Well, let’s wait until the dinnertime break,’ said Mr Hill tactfully, ‘then the rope might come to light. Or someone in the other classes might be handing it in now. We’ll see.’
During the break, an eleven-year-old girl approached Mr Hill and told him she’d seen a new girl pick the skipping-rope up from the playground bench and go off with it.
‘What new girl?’ asked Mr Hill.
‘I don’t know ’er much, sir, I think she’s Ethel Somebody.’
Mr Hill sighed. Ethel Somebody, of course, was the sister of Horace Withers, a bright boy with potential. Mr Hill waited until brother and sister returned to the school after dinner at their lodgings. He took the little girl aside, and he called Alice over.
‘Alice, your missing skipping-rope,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes, blessed thing,’ said Alice. ‘Well, you see, sir, Mum was cross I didn’t come home with it yesterday. I told her I hadn’t actually lost it, not actually, I just couldn’t remember about it, and she said well, someone’s got to remember, that skipping-rope’s new and it cost money.’
‘Can you remember, Ethel?’ asked Mr Hill. Effel, head bent, fidgeted and mumbled. ‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Mr Hill.
‘Oh, Ethel wouldn’t know anything about it, sir,’ said Alice, ‘she’s Horace’s sister.’ Which meant that as far as Alice was concerned no sister of Horace could be accused of pinching.
‘Well, do you know, Ethel?’ asked Mr Hill.
‘Don’t know nuffink,’ said Ethel, feet itching to bear her away.
‘Does that mean you didn’t pick the rope up from the bench yesterday and go off with it?’
‘Oh, Ethel wouldn’t have done that, sir,’ said Alice.
Effel muttered.
‘Did you take it home just to play a joke?’ asked Mr Hill. If that was a lifeline, Effel didn’t recognize it.
‘Ain’t got no ’ome,’ she said, ‘nor no mum and dad, not like she’s got.’ The bell rang for afternoon classes, and she scampered off. Alice followed. Mr Hill looked for Orrice. Seeing him, he beckoned. Orrice arrived, and Mr Hill explained the position to him tactfully and kindly.
‘Well, Effel might’ve ‘idden it for a joke, sir,’ said Orrice, ‘but she wouldn’t ’ave nicked it. Effel don’t go in for nickin’. Nor me. Our dad would’ve walloped us. Effel’s a bit funny sometimes, but she ain’t a tea leaf.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Mr Hill. They were a ragtag and bobtail, many of the Walworth kids, and some did nick little things from each other. But the moment their dads got wind of it, such things quickly reappeared. ‘However, she was seen with the rope. Look here, tell you what, you talk to her. If anyone can find out what she did with it, you can. Can’t you? Talk to her. I’d like to have the rope returned by the time classes start tomorrow morning.’
‘It ain’t like Effel to take someone else’s fings,’ said Orrice.
‘No, but you’ve lost your parents. I’m sorry to mention that, it’s been hard on both of you, but it might have something to do with Ethel’s actions. It might be affecting her in a different way from you, Horace. So talk to her during this afternoon’s break.’
Orrice did so, taking his sister aside in the playground. Alice looked on from afar.
‘Effel, did you mess about wiv Alice’s skippin’-rope yesterday?’
‘Don’t know nuffink about it,’ said Effel.
‘You sure?’
‘Serve ’er right,’ said Effel, ‘now yer can’t skip wiv ’er no more.’
‘Here, ’ave you hid it?’ asked Orrice. ‘It’s daft. Yer know I don’t skip wiv ’er, anyway, I ain’t turnin’ meself into no cissy. I wouldn’t be able to look no-one in the face if I turned cissy, nor if me sister went in for nickin’. Alice won’t mind if you took ’er rope for a joke. Did yer hide it or didn’t yer?’
‘Dunno,’ said Effel.
‘Course you know, you ain’t as daft as that. Look, what’s Uncle Jim goin’ to say when ’e knows?’
‘’E ain’t nobody,’ said Effel.
‘Yes, ’e is,’ said Orrice, ‘’e’s lookin’ after us, ’e can’t be nobody. Effel, d’you want me to bash yer?’
‘Dunno, don’t care,’ said Effel, and Orrice could get no more out of her. Reluctantly, he reported failure to Mr Hill. Mr Hill sighed and reported to the headmistress. When classes were over for the day, Orrice and Effel were told to go and see the headmistress. She addressed them kindly, telling them she wanted the matter cleared up by tomorrow morning. If it was, then she would not have to ask their guardian to come and see her.
It worried Mrs Wainwright that she might be doing the little girl an injustice, that she might be innocent. And there was also the unhappy fact that sister and brother had both been recently orphaned. Some allowances must be made for the disturbing effect such a traumatic happening might have had on the girl.
What worried Orrice was the thought that the whole school might soon be calling Effel nasty names.
‘Look,’ he said on the way home, ‘yer don’t want everyone saying you nicked Alice’s rope. Our mum and dad wouldn’t like that, and our Uncle Jim ain’t goin’ to be too bloomin’ joyful.’
‘’E ain’t our dad,’ said Effel.
‘I know that, don’t I? Why’d yer keep telling me what I already know? But ’e saved us from being sent to an orphanage, didn’t ’e?’
‘’E grumbles at me,’ said Effel.
‘Cor, you fibber, ’e ain’t ever grumbled at no-one, it’s not grumbling when ’e tells yer to pick up fings you’ve dropped. Effel, yer can tell me, can’t yer, if yer took that skippin’-rope or not?’
‘Ain’t saying.’
‘I bet yer know where it is, I just betcher.’
‘Ain’t talkin’.’
‘Right,’ said Orrice, ‘I’m goin’ to wallop yer silly when I get yer ’ome.’
When they arrived at nineteen Wansey Street, Miss Pilgrim, set of face, let them in. They wiped their feet carefully on both mats, and Orrice, under their landlady’s strict eye, took his cap off. Miss Pilgrim at once noted there was gloom all over his fresh young countenance. She also noted Effel was scowling. Closing the door, she asked, ‘What is wrong with you two?’
‘Me bruvver’s goin’ to ‘it me,’ said Effel
‘Well, I got a good mind to, Miss Pilgrim,’ admitted Orrice.
‘You will do no such thing,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘In the absence of your guardian, I must take it upon myself to forbid you to even think about it. Brutality will be your lot all the days of your life if you exercise it now, at your age. And, Master Horace, as Shakespeare says, the evil that men do lives after them.’
‘Oh, crikey, Miss Pilgrim,’ protested Orrice, ‘it ain’t evil just thinkin’ about wallopin’ Effel, is it? Not just thinkin’ about it.’
‘Deeds are the children of thoughts, young man.’ Miss Pilgrim studied the boy and girl again. Effel, of course, was hanging her head. Orrice met her gaze i
n his fearless way. ‘What has been happening?’ she asked.
‘Yes, what’s goin’ to ’appen, that’s what I’d like to know,’ said Orrice, deeply gloomy. ‘I’m goin’ to ’ave to fight all of ’em, I am.’
‘You are going to fight no-one, do you hear?’
‘Miss Pilgrim, I got to, I got to fight everyone what calls Effel a tea leaf. Effel ain’t a tea leaf, she’s just playing up, which is why I ’ad a good mind to wallop ’er.’
Miss Pilgrim, who knew tea leaf was cockney rhyming slang for thief, said, ‘Go into the kitchen, both of you.’ They went in, Effel muttering. She followed them. ‘Master Horace, I think you had better explain.’
Orrice explained in somewhat garbled fashion, such was his disgust with events. It did not prevent Miss Pilgrim drawing a correct picture. She gave Effel’s boater a stern look.
‘Lift your head, child,’ she said, and the boater came up and Effel’s face appeared, her mouth closed mutinously. ‘I believe, miss, you’ve no liking for Alice French.’
‘Ugh,’ said Effel.
‘Or her skipping-rope.’
‘Ain’t saying.’
‘Absurd child, you have made yourself unhappy. Go into the scullery.’
In the scullery, she poured warm water from the kettle into a bowl in the sink. She washed Effel’s hands with a soapy flannel. She washed them thoroughly, and then scrubbed them. The palms of Effel’s hands turned pink. Miss Pilgrim examined them.
‘Miss Pilgrim, what yer doing?’ asked Orrice.
‘You have said, Master Horace, that Alice’s skipping-rope had pink handles. Your unhappy sister carries the mark. God has his own way of pointing a finger. Ethel, why did you take the rope?’
Effel, staring at her pink palms, gulped.
‘I – I—’
‘Yes?’ said Miss Pilgrim crisply.
‘She wants to take Orrice away from me,’ said Effel painfully.
‘Child, no-one can do that. Horace is your brother, no-one can—’ Miss Pilgrim came to a halt. Her dark lashes flickered and her mouth compressed. Then she went on. ‘No-one can take him away from you. What did you do with the skipping-rope?’
‘Effel, you ain’t nicked it and lost it, ’ave yer?’ said Orrice bitterly.
‘No, I just put it in the cloakroom, under a lav,’ burst Effel. ‘I didn’t nick it, I didn’t. I just put it where she couldn’t find it.’
‘Oh, yer sorely trying me,’ said Orrice.
‘Come, come, young man, we’ve all been guilty of childish naughtiness,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘But we’ll have no more of it from either of you. No more pranks from you, Ethel, and no more fighting by your brother at the school gates. Go back to the school, both of you. It will still be open. Retrieve the skipping-rope and take it to Alice at her home in Crampton Street, number fourteen. Ethel, you are to apologize to Alice and to let her know you wish to be friends with her.’
‘Me?’ said Effel in horror.
‘Yes, you, miss. Then there’ll be no more foolishness. Off you go now, both of you.’
They went back to the school. The playground was empty and quiet, one or two teachers still in the building. Effel darted into the girls’ cloakroom, while Orrice kept watch. From under the S bend of a lavatory system, Effel pulled out the folded skipping-rope. She rejoined Orrice, who sighed with relief at the sight of the rope and its shiny pink handles. They walked to Crampton Street, on the other side of the Walworth Road. Crampton Street was a mixture of dwelling places, a block of flats sitting between houses that varied between the good and the indifferent. Number fourteen was a pleasant-looking terraced house.
Orrice knocked. Alice answered the door. Her surprise quickly turned into a happy smile.
‘Horace, it’s you,’ she said, much as if his arrival was the event of the year.
‘Yes, me and Effel’s both come,’ he said. ‘Effel found yer skippin’-rope. She’s sorry it got lost, ain’t yer, sis?’
Effel looked as if she was going to deny that, but she thought of Miss Pilgrim and God.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘It was in the girls’ cloakroom,’ said Orrice, ‘me and Effel went back to the school to look for it.’
‘What’s going on?’ Mrs French put in a plump and enquiring appearance.
‘It’s Horace and Ethel, Mum,’ said Alice happily, ‘they found my skipping-rope and brought it back. It was in our cloakroom, I must have left it there. Wasn’t it nice of Ethel to find it and bring it? You’re awful sweet, Ethel.’
‘Yes, a’ right,’ said Effel.
‘Well, I’m glad it’s been found,’ said Mrs French. Whatever she thought of the way it had reappeared, she was unable, as a mother, not to feel for the orphaned girl and boy. ‘We won’t fuss about it any more. Nice of you to bring it, Ethel, and you, Horace.’
‘Shall I give Horace a kiss, Mum?’ asked Alice.
Orrice went faint. There were boys in the street.
‘We got to get back to Miss Pilgrim,’ he said hoarsely, ‘come on, sis.’
‘A’ right,’ said Effel. She thought of Miss Pilgrim again. ‘You can kiss me bruvver, if you like,’ she said to Alice.
Alice planted an adoring kiss on Orrice’s cheek. Mrs French laughed. The boy was blushing. Orrice, thinking his life might as well come to an end here and now, went blindly off with Effel. He managed to find his voice when they reached Walworth Road.
‘Now yer been an’ really done it, you ’ave,’ he said, ‘yer went an’ told Alice to kiss me wiv all them boys lookin’.’
‘You blushed, you did,’ said Effel.
‘Me? Me?’
‘Fancy blushing,’ said Effel.
‘That’s it, make it so me life ain’t worf livin’ no more,’ said Orrice.
Effel giggled.
Answering the door to them when they got back, Miss Pilgrim took them into her kitchen.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘We done it, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice, ‘we gave Alice ’er skippin’-rope back and Effel said she was sorry.’
‘Good. And Ethel made it clear she was willing to be friends?’
‘I told ’er she could kiss me bruvver,’ said Effel in fiendish glee.
‘H’m,’ said Miss Pilgrim, noting Orrice’s scowl.
‘Orrice blushed,’ said Effel.
Orrice grabbed his sister.
‘Master Horace!’ Miss Pilgrim was sharp and commanding.
‘Well, I’m done for, I am,’ growled Orrice.
‘She finks me bruvver’s ever such a pretty boy,’ said Effel.
Orrice rolled his eyes in despair.
‘That’s enough, Ethel,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘And kindly remember to confess your naughtiness about the skipping-rope to your guardian when you see him tomorrow morning.’
Effel, however, refused to confess, and Orrice, not given to telling tales about his sister, kept his peace.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Sunday morning train from Waterloo steamed through the Surrey countryside on its way into Hampshire. Jim, Effel and Orrice had a compartment to themselves. The boy and girl, faces close to the windows, stared in excitement at every passing scene. The sun shone over the gentle hills, and gold dappled the fields. Effel could hardly believe the moments when real live cows came into being before her astonished eyes. Standing cows, walking cows, and cows solemnly chewing the cud. Orrice took in the wonder of open spaces where there weren’t any houses to be seen, just trees and meadows. He and Effel chattered animatedly to each other. Effel was in her best Sunday frock and boater. She also wore a clean face. Orrice was in his suit and Sunday cap.
Jim sat in deep thought. He really did not know what the day would bring. If any of his mother’s relatives were alive, he had no idea what their reactions would be to a visitor claiming to be her illegitimate son. Did they know she had had a son? Had she told them? If so, none of them had ever come to the orphanage to see him. Such thoughts had crossed his mind before, and he had co
ncluded that either his mother had told none of her relatives or, if she had, none were interested in him. But he had always known he would make this train journey one day. It was something he had had to do. One day.
The village, Elderfield, was not far from Petersfield. The train stopped at Petersfield, and they took the local line to Lower Bordean. From there they walked half a mile to Elderfield by way of a country lane, where primroses were flowering along the edges of the ditches and Effel, rapturous, begged to be allowed to pick some. Jim managed to shift her off that idea by pointing out the golden allure of pristine dandelions. Effel swooped on them. Orrice decided it wouldn’t actually be cissy to give her a hand, so he picked some too and loaded them on to her, much to her delight. After five minutes in her clutching hands, the golden heads drooped on limp stalks, but Effel still remained rapturous.
Jim, the children beside him, approached the first houses of the village in a tentative mood. The whole village consisted of only a few dwellings, no more than half a dozen houses and a couple of old cottages. To the side of one house was a tiny shop that sold tobacco, confectionery and a small range of groceries. It was open for the morning.
Everything was utterly quiet. Only the murmurous sounds of early summer came to the ear. Effel stared as a huge bumble bee alighted on wisteria growing against a cottage wall.
‘Oh, crikey,’ she gasped. The bumble bee took wing and flew away. ‘Orrice, did yer see that, did yer see it?’
‘Bumble bee,’ said Orrice, ‘I seen some in Ruskin Park.’
Jim surveyed the village street, all part of the country lane. He was here now, with the kids. There was no point in avoiding the issue. He turned and went back to the tiny shop, Orrice and Effel on his heels. He descended a step and pushed open the door. A bell jangled. Effel gazed at a dummy packet of Cadbury’s milk chocolate in the shop window. Her mouth watered. She entered the shop behind Jim, Orrice following. A little counter was bare except for a tin of Osborne biscuits. Grocery items stood on shelves. A petite old lady appeared.
‘Good morning,’ said Jim.
‘Eh?’ she said, and peered at him. She seemed to find him suspect. She looked at the children. ‘Who’s they?’ she asked.
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