‘Bless you,’ said Jim, and made a mental note to inform Molly he no longer needed alternative lodgings.
At the morning break in the playground, Higgs had Alice cornered.
‘Yer an ’a’porth of barmy goosepimples, you are,’ he said, ‘yer been an’ picked a couple o’ dates, you ’ave. Wivvers wears ’is farver’s trousers, and ’is sister’s a nicker. Nicked yer skippin’-rope, didn’t she?’
‘No, she didn’t,’ said Alice.
Orrice, standing at an open door, was listening.
‘Course she did.’
‘She didn’t,’ said Alice. ‘Ethel’s nice.’
‘Yer want yer mince pies tested, then,’ said Higgs, ‘she’s ’orrible. So’s Wivvers.’
‘So are you,’ said Alice.
‘Like ’im, do yer? Well, yer won’t after I’ve pushed ’is cake’ole in.’
‘Yes, I will,’ said Alice.
‘What, wiv ’is clock all messed up?’
‘Horace could eat you for dinner,’ said Alice proudly.
‘’Ere, try this for afters,’ said Higgs, and with the supervising teacher’s back turned, he grabbed her. Pretty young Alice was always tempting to kiss.
A hand tapped his shoulder. He turned. Orrice was behind him.
‘Kindly put ’er down,’ said Orrice.
‘’Oppit, faceache,’ said Higgs, and wound a tight arm around Alice. Orrice kicked him in the back of his knees. He let go of Alice and fell down. The teacher turned. Alice surrendered herself gladly to Orrice and walked away hand in hand with him. The teacher arrived beside the fallen Higgs.
‘What are you doing, Higgs?’
‘Me, Miss Forster?’ said Higgs.
‘Yes, you.’
‘Nuffink,’ said Higgs.
‘Well, rise up and continue doing nothing on your feet.’
‘Horace, you’re ever so brave,’ said Alice on the other side of the playground.
‘Well, Alice, I got to tell you, so are you,’ said Orrice. She had stood up to Higgs a treat. ‘Good on yer, I like yer, but d’you mind not ’olding me ’and? There’s blokes looking.’
‘But, Horace, they all know we’re sweethearts,’ said Alice.
‘Oh, me gawd,’ said Orrice, ‘don’t talk like that, Alice, you’ll send me to me grave.’
Effel rushed up and glared at Alice.
‘What you ’olding me bruvver’s ’and for?’ she cried.
‘Oh, you can hold his other one, Ethel,’ said Alice, ‘you’re his sister and I’m his sweetheart.’
A whole gang of kids heard that and yelled with laughter. Orrice died.
Life became onerous to him. He couldn’t get rid of Alice or her sweetness, and then there was poetry reading every evening in Miss Pilgrim’s sitting-room, with Effel made to sit and listen. Their guardian had informed them that their landlady was going to help further their education. While Effel had no idea at all what that meant, Orrice had a ghastly suspicion it meant being turned into a posh cissy. Poetry. Reading it. With Miss Pilgrim’s eye fixed severely on him. He might as well die again and this time not get up.
But he accepted his lot in respect of poetry reading because Jim had a good old-fashioned chat with him, man to man, and touched a chord of ambition in the boy. But it took two successive evenings, an hour each time, to get through the first few verses of ‘The Pied Piper’. Miss Pilgrim had made him read, re-read and read again. On this, the third evening, he applied himself to an exciting bit, about the rats of Hamelin town.
‘Rats, they fought the dogs an’ killed the cats,
Made nests—’
‘And,’ corrected Miss Pilgrim.
‘Where?’ asked Orrice.
‘“And killed the cats,”’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘I said “and”, didn’t I?’ queried Orrice.
‘Not quite, young man. But at least you are beginning to read, and not gabble. Start again.’
Effel giggled at the look on her brother’s face. Miss Pilgrim laid stern eyes on her.
‘Well, it’s funny,’ gulped Effel.
‘It’s far from funny, miss, and if you listen it will be as much a help to you, as your brother. Your turn will come, Ethel. You are sadly in need, child.’
‘Yes, Miss Pilgrim.’ Effel frowned, but secretly found it fascinating to watch and listen, to take in the picture of their awesome landlady making Orrice read poetry. Orrice kept looking as if he was in awful pain.
‘Start again, young man,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and Orrice started again.
‘Rats, they fought the dogs an’ killed the cats—’
‘You are not trying or concentrating,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Now what ain’t I done, Miss Pilgrim?’
Miss Pilgrim sighed.
‘You have just massacred the King’s English,’ she said. ‘What haven’t I done now is much more acceptable than now what ain’t I done. I’m despairing.’
‘I’m flabbergasted myself,’ said Orrice, and Miss Pilgrim sat up and actually smiled.
‘Why, Horace, you said that beautifully. Say it again.’
‘I’m flabbergasted myself.’
‘Lovely,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Now, once more with the rats.’
‘Rats, they fought the dogs and killed the cats—’
‘Excelsior,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Made nests inside men’s Sunday ’ats—’
‘Oh, dear.’ Miss Pilgrim was letting Orrice get away with nothing.
‘What haven’t I done now?’ asked Orrice, at which she gave him a look of rare approval.
‘You are doing very well,’ she said, ‘but I thought last night we had overcome the problem of dropped aitches.’
‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice, ‘but can’t we get on and see what ’appens—’ He checked at Miss Pilgrim’s pained look. ‘What happens about these rats?’
‘You’re interested in the tale the poem is telling?’
‘I fink—’
‘Really, young man, really.’
‘Oh, blow,’ said Orrice. ‘I mean I think I am.’
‘Good. Read on.’
‘Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats
And even spoiled the women’s chats
By drownding—’
‘Drowning,’ corrected Miss Pilgrim.
‘By drowning their speakin’ with squealin’ and squeakin’
In fifty different sharps and flats.’
‘Apart from losing a few g’s, very good. Continue, Horace.’
Orrice continued. Effel stopped all fidgeting and listened fascinated to the tale of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Miss Pilgrim persisted and Orrice persevered, and by his perseverance alone she recognized a boy who might do much better for himself than driving a coal cart or being a railway porter.
The bell for Sunday morning service was still ringing when Miss Pilgrim entered the church. Most people were already in their pews. Mrs Lockheart was again present, seated midway, next to one of Miss Pilgrim’s neighbours. Miss Pilgrim proceeded down the aisle in her cool, resolute way. Mrs Lockheart turned her head to look at her. She was ignored. A whispering broke out, and scores of eyes watched Miss Pilgrim all the way to her usual seat in a front pew.
‘You can’t ’ardly believe it, a missionary’s daughter and all.’
‘It don’t seem ’ardly creditable.’
‘Poisoning’s wicked, yer know, it’s fire an’ torture.’
‘Imagine ’er doing it an’ still comin’ to church.’
‘I expect a body can get away with it in China, it’s full of them foreign Chinese.’
Miss Pilgrim, fully aware of the whispers, discounted them by sitting straight-backed and fearlessly upright.
She was avoided when she came out of the church at the end of the service, except by Jim, Orrice and Effel. Orrice and Effel had resigned themselves to the fact that their guardian meant to take them to church regularly. Jim had not been unaware of the whispers himself, nor of the covert looks dir
ected at Miss Pilgrim. They gave him new food for uneasy thought. However, with Orrice and Effel, he accompanied Miss Pilgrim home without mentioning what was on his mind. In any case, in a crisis he knew he would prefer to stand with Miss Pilgrim. He did not trust the smiling, agreeable, talkative Mrs Lockheart, who seemed to have set up home in Walworth, hardly the most salubrious neighbourhood for a woman of her kind.
Entering the accounts office at the club at half past eight on Monday morning to begin his new job and his new hours, Jim found Molly there. It was a cosy-looking office, with a radiator, and there were two desks, facing each other. One desk was piled with book-keeping ledgers. A wooden tray contained a host of invoices.
Molly’s smile was warm and welcoming.
‘Hello, old soldier, lovely morning.’
‘It’s raining,’ said Jim, ‘but nice to see you, Molly.’
‘Yes, that’s what I meant. Lovely. Look, I only work in the afternoons normally, as you know. I can’t stand all day in an office when there’s life to be lived, but I’m coming in every morning for your first week here. Dad asked what for. I said you were rusty and that I was going to polish you up. Dad asked were you specially rusty, and I said no, just special.’
‘Molly, I shan’t be able to thank you enough—’
‘Don’t fuss, old thing, let’s get on with the books.’
She introduced him to the ledgers, journals, petty cash book, system of entry and everything else relating to the club’s accounts. Jim had a morning of concentrated study and work, with Molly sitting beside him. She left him to it just before noon to do some shopping in the West End.
‘I’ll be back at two,’ she said, putting her hat on, ‘when I’ll have my own work to do.’
‘You’re a sweet girl, Molly,’ he said, looking up at her. Impulsively, she bent, lightly ruffled his hair and kissed him.
‘They don’t make too many like you, either,’ she said.
Jim had a satisfactory day and a free lunch.
At Scripture lesson on Tuesday morning, Mr Hill had members of his class reading aloud. He believed in that, as did most of the teaching fraternity.
‘Fair, young madam, fair,’ he said to a girl as she finished her stint. ‘You next, Withers,’ he said to Orrice.
Orrice came to his feet. Beside him, Alice looked dewy-eyed. Orrice thought of Miss Pilgrim’s stern blue eyes and firm, scolding voice. For over a week now she had had him going through Robert Browning’s famous poem. He began his reading aloud, from St Luke. He did not gabble.
‘“When Jesus heard these things, he marvelled at him and turned him about, and said unto the people that follered him, I say unto you I have not found so great faith, not in Israel.”’
Mr Hill looked up.
‘“And they that were sent, returnin’ to the house, found the servant whole that had been sick. And it came to pass the day after that he went into a city called Nain, and many of ’is – his – disciples went with him, and much people.”’
‘Dear me,’ said Mr Hill, tongue in cheek.
‘That all right, sir?’ queried Orrice.
‘Very good, my lad, very good.’
‘Bleedin’ cissy,’ whispered Higgs to Cattermole.
‘You next, Higgs,’ said Mr Hill.
‘Oh, bleedin’ ’ell,’ muttered Higgs, and proceeded to make a hash of his reading.
‘Headmistress?’ said Mr Hill, encountering Mrs Wainwright in the corridor later that morning.
‘Trouble?’ enquired the headmistress.
‘It’s wise to fear the worst,’ said Mr Hill, ‘then ordinary bad news sounds like good news. No news, however, on this occasion, merely a request for Horace Withers to be placed on the list of prospects for West Square next year.’ West Square Secondary was the only school in Southwark that offered the equivalent of a grammar-school education. ‘He’s bright, he pays attention, and he’s deserving.’
‘Recommendation noted with pleasure, John,’ said Mrs Wainwright, ‘I’ve remarked his brightness myself. And I like him.’
‘So does young Alice French,’ said Mr Hill.
‘How very nice for Horace.’
Mr Hill laughed.
‘It’s purgatory to him. Boys of ten don’t inhabit the same world as girls.’
‘When I was a girl I was grateful for that,’ said Mrs Wainwright.
Miss Pilgrim was continuing to provide a midday dinner for Orrice and Effel. Jim prepared tea for them at six o’clock, and they had it around the little table in their living-room. Their midday dinner they ate in Miss Pilgrim’s kitchen. Effel regularly played up in her dislike of green vegetables. Miss Pilgrim did not say greens were good for her, nor did she force the girl to eat them up. She merely said that if Ethel did not take a sufficiency of such vegetables she would get spots and pimples.
‘Don’t care,’ said Effel.
‘Don’t you go gettin’ no spots, sis,’ said Orrice, ‘I’ll only ’ave to fight everyone that calls you Spotty.’
‘Master Horace, you’ll do no such thing,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘But, Miss Pilgrim, if you don’t fight anyone that calls your sister names, you ain’t never goin’ to hold yer head up, yer might as well lie down dead.’
‘Say that all again,’ commanded Miss Pilgrim. Orrice began to say it all again. ‘No, not with your mouth full, boy. And more slowly.’ Orrice cleared his mouth of food and said it all again in slower time. ‘Much better,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Ethel, sit up.’
‘Yes, a’ right,’ said Effel.
‘Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice, ‘you got to understand, a bloke can’t let no-one call his sister Spotty.’
‘I ain’t Spotty,’ said Effel.
‘No, but Miss Pilgrim says you might be.’
‘She’s spotty,’ said Effel.
‘Who’s she?’ asked Orrice.
‘Her,’ said Effel. She cast a quick glance at Miss Pilgrim. ‘She’s ’is sweet’eart.’
Orrice growled.
‘Your brother has a sweetheart?’ said Miss Pilgrim, watching them clear their plates of savoury toad-in-the-hole. ‘Do you mean Alice French?’
‘She kisses ’im,’ said Effel. ‘Orrice blushes.’
‘Oh, yer bleedin’ monkey,’ said Orrice.
‘Young man, leave the table,’ said Miss Pilgrim freezingly.
‘Crikey, Miss Pilgrim, don’t I get no afters?’ asked Orrice in protest.
‘None. Leave the table and return to school.’
‘Yes, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice gloomily. Their landlady always served scrumptious afters, like fruit roly-polies, gooseberry pies and creamy rice puddings. ‘Well, I just ‘ope Jesus forgives you yer ’ard-heartedness, Miss Pilgrim.’
‘You must learn, young man, that my house is not Billingsgate fish market.’
‘Yes’m,’ muttered Orrice and got up and went out. His head came back as he put it round the door. ‘I want you to know, Miss Pilgrim, I forgives you meself.’ He disappeared. Effel got down.
‘Where are you going, miss?’ asked Miss Pilgrim.
‘Wiv Orrice,’ said Effel.
‘You have not received permission to leave the table.’
‘Don’t care, I’m goin’ wiv Orrice, you ain’t our mum,’ said Effel, and darted out.
Miss Pilgrim sat in frowning contemplation of the table. She was at the Bermondsey Mission during the afternoon, doing her regular stint there. She was still frowning. The children at the mission were quite unlike Horace and Ethel. None spoke out of turn, they were all polite, all in good grace, all giving thanks for what was being done for them, and all showing humility before God.
It was a shock suddenly to realize they were all regimented.
She searched around. In a cupboard full of odds and ends she found a large rubber ball, the size of a football. She carried it down to the hall, to the congregated boys and girls. She explained the rules of simple handball. She divided them into two teams, each team a mixture of boys and girls.
And Miss Pilgrim? Miss Pilgrim was running about, whistle in her hand, following the flight of the ball and blowing her whistle whenever a foul too atrocious to be overlooked was committed. The clergyman, an austere vicar, looked on openmouthed as the whistle blew and Miss Pilgrim raised her voice.
‘Elsie! Elsie! Leave go of Mary’s hair!’
‘But she went an’ kicked me, Miss Pilgrim.’
‘No touching, no bruising, no handling, kicking or pulling of hair,’ commanded Miss Pilgrim. ‘The ball alone is to be handled. Play on.’ She blew the whistle and the lively, rousing game restarted.
‘Miss Pilgrim, what on earth is going on?’ Reverend Pearson entered the fray to get to Miss Pilgrim’s ear. ‘What has happened to the Bible reading?’
‘Oh, we’ve had that, vicar. I’ve established they all have faith in the Lord. Vicar, do mind out – oh, dear.’ The thrown ball struck the vicar on the back of his head.
‘Upon my soul, this won’t do at all, Miss Pilgrim.’
‘I’ll speak to you later,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and she ran towards a shrieking scrum of boys and girls. She blew her whistle, the scrum unfolded, and there on the floor was a rosy-red, breathless girl with the ball clutched to her tummy, eyes full of delight. ‘Foul,’ declared Miss Pilgrim. ‘Two points to team A. Play on.’
The game went on and on, the repressed energy of the boys and girls in full, exhilarated flow.
Jim went down to answer a knock at the door. He had just returned from his day’s work. Mrs Lockheart stood on the doorstep, smiling.
‘Hello, Mr Cooper, how nice to see you. Is Rebecca in? Yes, she will be at this time of the day. I’ll come in, shall I?’
‘Sorry,’ said Jim, ‘Miss Pilgrim isn’t here.’
‘Isn’t she? My word, she really isn’t? And she’s such a creature of habit. Well, I’ll come in and wait, and perhaps you and I can have another lovely talk. I so enjoyed meeting you.’
‘So sorry,’ said Jim with cutting politeness, ‘but I’m busy seeing to tea for my wards, and I’ve no idea when Miss Pilgrim will be back. Call again another time. Good evening.’
Two for Three Farthings Page 23