‘Well, I’m glad you’ll be coming, Miss Pilgrim,’ he said. ‘Between us, we’ll see to it that Horace and Effel don’t get carried off.’
Miss Pilgrim gave him a pitying look.
‘Really, how absurd, Mr Cooper. I am merely thinking Horace might be robbed of his pocket money. He informs me he has a few shillings in his pocket. However, I—’ She was interrupted by a knock on her front door. ‘I’ll answer it.’
She made her way downstairs. In the little hall, she hesitated, as if suddenly reluctant to answer the knock, after all. Then her mouth set firmly, and she opened the door. Orrice and Effel, back from Sunday tea with Alice and her parents, looked up at their tall, commanding landlady. Orrice did not seem as if he had enjoyed himself, although Effel appeared very pleased with things. She wiped her feet quickly and darted in. She scurried up the stairs. Orrice went rushing revengefully after her, caught his foot on the first stair and fell. He got up, looking disgusted.
‘I just got to wallop ’er, Miss Pilgrim,’ he said.
‘What has your sister done now, young man?’ asked Miss Pilgrim.
‘It don’t bear tellin’ no-one,’ said Orrice, grinding his teeth. ‘Except, well, when we was leavin’ she told Mrs French not many sisters ’ad bruvvers prettier than I was.’
The ghost of a smile actually touched Miss Pilgrim’s firm lips.
‘I think, Master Horace, you had better address your complaints to your guardian,’ she said.
Orrice addressed several complaints to Jim, all concerning Effel’s behaviour over the Sunday tea. Effel, he said, kept going on about what he looked like in his Sunday suit, and Mr French kept falling about laughing. And that Alice, she kept agreeing with Effel.
‘It’s no good, Uncle Jim, you just got to let me wallop me sister.’
‘No walloping, Horace.’
‘But I promised meself I’d bash ’er silly when I got ’er home,’ said Orrice.
‘Hard luck, old chap, can’t be allowed. Still, what’ve you got to say for yourself, Ethel?’
‘Nuffink,’ said Effel.
‘Nothing, Ethel, nothing.’
‘A’ right,’ said Effel.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The day was fine. Miss Pilgrim wore a plain white blouse, flowing dark brown skirt and brown hat. Jim carried the bag containing the picnic she had prepared. They took a tram to the north side of the river, then an omnibus to Hampstead Heath. Miss Pilgrim sat with Ethel, and Jim with Horace. In that way she avoided informal contact with the children’s guardian. But she came up against the assumption of the cheerful bus conductor, who clipped four tickets with a flourish and said, ‘Well, yer got a couple of bright kids to keep yer ’appy, missus.’
‘You are making a mistake,’ she said.
‘Yer means they’re a couple o’ perishers? I got two like that meself.’
There was nothing Miss Pilgrim could offer to that piece of typical cockney brashness except a telling silence.
They found Hampstead Heath alive with people. Londoners were flocking to enjoy its funfair. It was a place for family outings on Bank Holidays, where for a few pennies children and grown-ups could sample the excitement of the Big Wheel, the pleasure of merry-go-rounds, the rhythm of the swings and the challenge of the coconut shy. One could guess one’s weight before stepping on scales, and receive the penny back if the guess was right, or attempt to ring a bell with a mighty blow of a hammer. That was mainly for dads, of course, although the prizes on offer were mostly for children. And for another penny, one could have three attempts to ring one of the many prizes set out on a round table. All these were only a few of the various excitements and challenges available.
Effel was breathless at a spectacle that was picturesque and full of magic. It was a much bigger funfair than the one on Peckham Rye. Ebullient and extrovert cockneys at play created revelry. Shrieks and squeals mingled with huge shouts of laughter, and the music that blared out from merry-go-rounds was indispensable to any Bank Holiday.
The painted horses of a roundabout, with their flaring nostrils, streaming tails and legs moulded to a gallop, made Effel dance in excitement.
‘A roundabout ride first?’ suggested Jim.
Effel was all for it. It was not the last word in excitement for Orrice, but he was willing to make it a start. Miss Pilgrim, viewing the scene like a woman wondering what she was doing here, was quite sure she would keep her distance from everything that moved, including merry-go-rounds.
‘I don’t mind,’ said Orrice graciously.
‘Right,’ said Jim. ‘Orrice, you take hold of the picnic bag.’
But Miss Pilgrim resolutely refused to allow him to transfer the bag to anyone but herself. She spoke firmly about that, going on to say she was not willing to permit her carefully prepared picnic to be taken for a ride on any of these fairground whirligigs. And as she did not intend taking any ride herself, she said, she would look after the bag.
Jim marvelled that a woman so strikingly handsome could, without any effort at all, make herself sound like an old maid. He knew she wasn’t that old, for she’d said she returned from China with her parents when she was twenty. China. Each time the name of that country entered his mind he thought about the odd and disturbing things Mrs Lockheart had said. He put it out of his mind now.
‘It’s harmless fun, a ride on a roundabout, Miss Pilgrim.’
‘Take the children, then, and leave me here.’
She stood and watched them join a throng of people on the merry-go-round. Effel rode with Jim, and was exuberant. Orrice rode in condescending fashion. Other children and grown-ups went round and round with them, the painted horses moving up and down in stately fashion, and in time to the music, which was loudly rousing, with cymbals clashing. Children ran in and out of the watching crowds. Miss Pilgrim wondered why she had come.
Effel and Orrice, appetites whetted, wanted other rides. Jim took them around the fair, Miss Pilgrim following in stiff, upright style. Orrice prevailed on Jim to take him and Effel on the Big Wheel. Jim invited Miss Pilgrim to change her mind and join them. Miss Pilgrim easily resisted the Big Wheel. Effel, when their carriage reached the top, shrieked at being so far above the ground. Orrice turned not a hair. Jim treated them to rides on other fun machines, including the switchback, which Orrice found truly exciting. Effel, held securely by Jim, grew breathless at the speed and the rush of air. Miss Pilgrim watched this death-defying ride with a frown. Really, that was simply not what Mr Cooper should be doing, nor any one-armed man. Especially not when he had a small girl in his charge.
‘That was much too dangerous,’ she said when they rejoined her.
‘But it wasn’t ’alf a cracker,’ said Orrice, ‘I betcher you’d ’ave liked it, Miss Pilgrim.’
Miss Pilgrim, recalling flying skirts and shrieking girls, said, ‘The exhibition was deplorable, young man, the speed reckless, and such infernal machines are not for me. I am relieved you are all alive. Really, Mr Cooper, such recklessness on your part.’
‘Well, how about trying the safety of the coconut shy?’ suggested Jim. ‘We’ll make sure Ethel doesn’t stand at the wrong end. How about trying to win a coconut for Miss Pilgrim, Horace? How do you feel about coconuts, Miss Pilgrim?’
‘I think I could put one to good use in my kitchen,’ she said graciously, and they made their way to the coconut shy.
‘Roll up, roll up!’ bawled the man in charge. ‘Three shies a penny, ’alfway for lydies an’ little ’uns. Roll up!’
‘She’s small as well as little,’ said Jim, putting his hand on Effel’s shoulder. ‘Quarter-way for her, what d’you think?’
‘Yes, all right, matey,’ said the man. Jim paid for all four of them. Miss Pilgrim said very well, she would participate this once. Orrice collected three balls each from the crate and handed them out.
‘Let’s shy at that big one, Uncle Jim,’ he said, ‘there’s more of it showing.’
‘Right,’ said Jim, ‘and if any of
us hit it keep going until we knock it out and before Curly can straighten it.’
‘’Oo’s Curly?’ asked Effel.
‘The bloke in charge.’
‘’E’s bald,’ said Horace.
‘In the Army,’ said Jim, ‘all bald blokes are called Curly.’
Orrice laughed, Effel giggled. Miss Pilgrim looked unimpressed. Effel wanted first go, and the man in charge let her stand only a few feet from the elevated coconut. Effel threw enthusiastically but hopelessly.
‘Oh, the bleedin’ thing,’ she said.
Miss Pilgrim gazed in disapproval. Jim coughed.
‘Never mind, sis,’ said Orrice, ‘yer didn’t do bad. She’s only a girl,’ he said to Miss Pilgrim.
‘Who needs speaking to,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘and I am waiting for your guardian to do so.’
‘Black mark, Ethel,’ said Jim. Wooden balls flew at other elevated coconuts. ‘Mind your language, my girl. You next, Horace. Halfway.’
Orrice launched each ball as if his life depended on it. He struck with his third shy. The coconut rattled and trembled. Jim went into action at once, using his strong and sinewy right arm. He struck with his first throw, missed with his second, and struck again with his third. The coconut took a list. The man in charge, busy collecting pennies from new customers, took a look too late, for Miss Pilgrim, handbag and picnic bag in Jim’s care, delivered her first wooden ball like a cricketer aiming at a wicket from cover point. The ball smashed into the listing coconut and it fell to the ground. Bystanders gave her a yell of lusty appreciation.
‘Good on yer, missus, good on yer!’
‘Well, sod me,’ said the man in charge. Miss Pilgrim’s frosty stare devoured him. Orrice ran to retrieve the coconut. The man in charge tossed him a replacement. ‘Top it up, sonny,’ he called, and Orrice put the new coconut in the wooden cup. Miss Pilgrim still had two balls left. Jim eyed her in amazement. She threw as strongly and as effectively as a man. Her first throw sent the wooden ball careering a few inches wide of the target.
‘Yer bleedin’ scorched it, missus,’ yelled another appreciative cockney, ‘yer got it smokin’. Nah give it the works.’
Miss Pilgrim’s round-arm throw of the last ball delivered it at a cracking pace. It struck the coconut full on, and the coconut, vibrating with shock, jumped from the cup and fell.
‘Well, stone the flamin’ crows,’ said the man in charge.
‘You beauty, missus!’ yelled yet another ecstatic onlooker.
Orrice ran and grabbed the fallen prize.
‘Pardon me, guv,’ said the man in charge to Jim, ‘but yer trouble-an’-strife’s costin’ me ’ard-earned money. Them coconuts is a bob a time.’
‘Well, tell you what,’ said Jim, ‘pay me fourpence to give to the kids, and I’ll take her away.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Miss Pilgrim, a flush of excitement actually showing on her face. She produced a penny. ‘Three more balls, if you please. Also, I am nobody’s trouble-and-strife. Come, three more balls.’
Orrice, having deposited the second coconut in the arms of his sister, who clutched both to her chest, picked three more balls from the crate and handed them to Miss Pilgrim amid the uproarious cheers of the onlookers. The man in charge, accepting her penny, said, ‘Have a heart, missus, I got a wife and six kids, and I don’t grow me own coconuts, yer know.’
‘Stand back,’ said Miss Pilgrim. She delivered the wooden balls, one after the other, Effel watching with her mouth open, Orrice in admiration, Jim with a smile and the crowd bawling encouragement. All three balls were on target. There were three successive cracks as the coconut was struck. But it stayed in the cup. ‘Three more balls,’ demanded Miss Pilgrim.
‘Eh?’ said the man in charge.
‘You ’eard, baldy,’ roared a large man, ‘take ’er copper coin.’
It was taken, and again Orrice supplied her with the balls.
‘Your hat’s crooked, Miss Pilgrim,’ murmured Jim.
‘First things first, Mr Cooper,’ said Miss Pilgrim. She looked distinctly flushed. She flexed her right arm, fixed her eye on the target and threw. The ball whistled by the new coconut and thudded against the canvas shield. The second smashed it free of the cup and it dropped to the ground. The crowd fell about in joyful hysteria. She did not wait for a replacement, she took aim at the adjacent target. She missed by a whisker. She dusted her gloved hands. ‘Enough,’ she said. Orrice picked up the third fallen coconut. ‘Come along, Mr Cooper. Horace, you and Ethel take charge of the nuts.’
‘Cor, you ain’t ’alf a caution, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice.
‘Boy, kindly do not address me in that way,’ she said, and led them out of the crowd.
‘But, Miss Pilgrim, I betcher there ain’t no-one can beat yer at knockin’ down coconuts,’ protested Orrice, ‘I betcher.’
‘Yes, where did you learn to throw like that?’ asked Jim.
‘In China,’ replied Miss Pilgrim. ‘My father and I found it rewarding to teach outdoor sports to Chinese orphans at the mission station. The Chinese are very adept and will willingly learn anything one cares to teach them. Including cricket. My father was always very good at cricket.’
‘I think you are too,’ said Jim.
Miss Pilgrim stopped. She adjusted her hat, taking out the two pins, resettling it on her abundant hair and pushing the pins back in. Then she looked around. Effel gazed at her in new awe. Miss Pilgrim’s clear blue eyes alighted on three children in ragged clothes, two boys and a girl. They were sharing an apple, taking a bite each in turn.
‘Master Horace,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘present the three coconuts to those children.’
‘Eh?’ said Orrice.
‘Don’t say eh, Horace,’ said Jim, ‘say yes, Miss Pilgrim.’
‘But, Miss Pilgrim, yer won’t ’ave none left,’ said Orrice.
‘Their need is greater than ours, young man.’
‘I want one,’ grumbled Effel, ‘I ain’t never ’ad no coconut.’
‘What was that?’ asked Miss Pilgrim.
‘Nuffink,’ growled Effel.
Orrice carried the coconuts to the three ragged children with the air of a martyr. The kids, presented with the coconuts, gaped in disbelief.
‘Whatcher givin’ us these for?’ asked one boy.
‘I ain’t givin’ ’em to yer,’ said Orrice, ‘that lady is. Me, I ’urt all over.’ The kids, clutching a coconut each, stared at him, then at the figure of Miss Pilgrim. A moment later they were up and away, running and scampering and whooping, and making themselves scarce before there was a change of mind. ‘Cor,’ said Orrice to himself, ‘she’s nice really, but she’s barmy as well. Fancy wallopin’ three coconuts like that, then givin’ ’em all away.’ But he managed to give her a smile on his return, and Miss Pilgrim looked down into his healthy face and admiring brown eyes.
‘Thank you for that little errand, Master Horace,’ she said, ‘now I will pay for you and Ethel to go on a swing.’
‘Ain’t goin’,’ said Effel, rageful at not having a coconut.
‘Mind your manners, child.’
‘Ain’t got no manners,’ muttered Effel, ‘don’t want none, eiver.’
Jim took her by the hand. She pulled away, but he held on and he took her aside. He waited until a family passed by before speaking. Then he said, ‘I think enough is enough, young lady. Don’t you?’
‘Ain’t saying.’
‘Well, I’m saying.’
‘Want me mum an’ dad,’ said Effel.
Jim stooped to look at her. She stared at the ground.
‘Ethel?’ he said. She kept her head down. ‘Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think Miss Pilgrim knows it too? Come on, little lady, come and say sorry to her, and then take a ride on a swing with Horace.’
‘A’ right,’ said Effel. She lifted her head. ‘Could yer win a coconut for me, mister?’
‘Well, after you’ve had your swing, we’ll go back to the coconut shy, a
nd I’ll see what I can do.’
‘A’ right,’ said Effel, and went to make her peace with Miss Pilgrim. ‘Please, I’m sorry,’ she said, and Orrice looked relieved. Miss Pilgrim, finely tall and upright, regarded the small girl gravely.
‘Do you wish to go on the swings with your brother?’ she asked.
The noise of the funfair, the sound of its music and the atmosphere born of extrovert cockneys making the most of their Bank Holiday, still had their hold on Effel, and she nodded eagerly.
‘All right, I’ll take yer, sis,’ said Orrice.
‘Very well,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘and afterwards we’ll find an open space and have the picnic.’
They made their way to the swings, which were in popular demand. Orrice and Effel had to wait before one was available. Cockney girls were laughing and shrieking as they rode high with boys, and Effel jigged about in her eagerness to participate. She and Orrice took their turn. Orrice pulled in muscular and boyish fashion. Effel held on, yelling at him. Orrice pulled harder, and the swing described its graceful arcs, much to Effel’s shrieking delight.
‘Kids, of course, know how to enjoy themselves,’ said Jim, watching.
‘Age makes us wiser, perhaps, but we pay for that by acquiring inhibitions,’ said Miss Pilgrim, eyes on the uninhibited, on the laughing, roaring boys and the shrieking girls as swings soared.
‘You’re not speaking as an old lady, are you?’ said Jim.
‘That is an impertinence, Mr Cooper.’
‘Beg to point out you’re not an old lady, you’re the champion conker of coconuts. Your performance, Miss Pilgrim, rocked Hampstead Heath.’
‘Really, Mr Cooper,’ she said stiffly, ‘I do wish you would not attempt to drag me into absurd conversations. I have no sympathy for the absurd.’
‘Shall I take you up on a swing, then?’ smiled Jim.
‘Thank you, no,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘I thought I should ask you.’
‘Very well,’ she said.
‘Pardon?’
‘We must wait until the children come off so that Horace can take care of the picnic bag.’
‘You mean you’ll take a ride with me?’ asked Jim.
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