Two for Three Farthings

by Mary Jane Staples

  Miss Pilgrim turned to face him.

  ‘I’m not sure what Horace will think, but yes, it’s fair. Mr Cooper, if the day is fine and warm enough, would you all care to have the tea in the garden with me? My little patch of grass isn’t so little that I can’t put a folding table on it.’

  ‘There you go again,’ said Jim.

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked, regarding him with suspicion.

  ‘Being an angel again.’

  ‘You are becoming quite impossible, and I cannot respond to such absurdities.’

  ‘Nothing absurd about Sunday tea in a garden in Walworth,’ said Jim, ‘it’s close to being a blessing from God.’

  ‘You are ridiculous,’ said Miss Pilgrim.

  ‘I accept with great pleasure on behalf of all of us, including Alice,’ said Jim.

  Left to herself, Miss Pilgrim bustled about her kitchen in a vexed fashion. Now what had she done? She had invited them into her own little oasis, her own little summer retreat.

  Surely she had not needed to do that?

  Alice, always early to school, was waiting at the gates. She had taken to doing that, to waiting for Horace and going into classes with him. He arrived with his sister and with his tall guardian, a kind-looking man with one arm.

  ‘Oh, good morning, Mr Cooper,’ she said. ‘Horace, you’re here.’

  ‘I happen to ’ave come,’ said Orrice, warily watching out for other boys. A bloke just couldn’t trust what Alice might say.

  ‘’E’s wiv me,’ said Effel grimly, but Effel was fighting a losing battle. Every arrow bounced off Alice.

  Jim looked down at Alice in her school boater, her curling hair falling to her shoulders, her smile welcoming Orrice, and he thought of his mother at the age of nine.

  ‘Alice,’ he said, ‘would you like to come to tea on Sunday?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Orrice, mouth dropping open in disbelief that his Uncle Jim could play the traitor.

  ‘Oh, could I?’ asked Alice in bliss.

  ‘If it’s fine, we’ll be having it in our landlady’s garden,’ said Jim.

  ‘I ain’t comin’,’ said Effel.

  ‘But tea in a garden, Ethel, won’t that be lovely?’ said Alice.

  ‘I’m ’earing things, I am,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Come at four, Alice,’ said Jim.

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘Orrice ain’t comin’,’ said Effel. ‘Nor me.’

  ‘Horace will walk you home afterwards,’ said Jim to Alice.

  ‘Watcher, Orrice,’ said an arriving boy, ‘’ow yer doing?’

  ‘I’m ill,’ said Orrice.

  Alice looked up at Jim. Jim winked. Alice laughed. Orrice went into assembly feeling faint.

  He spoke to Jim that evening. In his forthright way, he said, ‘Uncle Jim, before I go down for me poetry readin’, I got to have a talk with you.’

  ‘Man to man?’ said Jim.

  ‘Yes, if yer like.’

  ‘About Alice?’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Effel, cuddling one of her Ragamuffin Jack books for comfort and consolation.

  ‘Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice sorrowfully, ‘you done me in proper. Invitin’ Alice to Sunday tea ’ere, that done me in a bit to start with, but me walkin’ her home, I didn’t fink—’

  ‘Think,’ said Jim.

  ‘Yes, I didn’t think you’d do that to me, get me to walk her all the way ’ome to Crampton Street,’ said Orrice, ‘and I dunno I can do it except with a sack over me ’ead, so’s they won’t see me.’

  ‘They?’ said Jim gravely.

  ‘Me schoolfriends,’ said Orrice. ‘It’s all over the school already that Alice is me—’ Orrice couldn’t bring himself to say it. As it was, he had a dozen fights lined up with kids who’d said things.

  ‘Carry on,’ said Jim.

  ‘Orrice ain’t saying,’ muttered Effel, ‘’cos she ain’t ’is sweet’eart. I am.’

  ‘Oh, yer date,’ said Orrice, ‘you’re me sister, you can’t be me sweetheart.’

  ‘Never mind, Horace,’ said Jim, who agreed with Miss Pilgrim that the boy should acquire some social grace, ‘you can talk to Alice about it when you walk her home. Point out to her you can’t commit yourself now, not at your age, but you’ll think about it when you’re older.’

  ‘I’m goin’ to work on the railways when I’m older,’ said Orrice. ‘I thought you was my friend, Uncle Jim, I didn’t think you’d ’elp to send me barmy.’

  ‘I am your friend, Horace.’

  ‘Orrice ain’t goin’ to walk ’er ’ome wivout me,’ declared Effel.

  ‘Now see what yer done, Uncle,’ said Orrice, ‘me life’s not me own any more.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The vicar appeared at the entrance to the church after the Sunday morning service, to say a few words to each departing parishioner. Mrs Lockheart, who had again been present, was detained for a few moments longer than other people, the vicar regarding her with curiosity while exchanging pleasantries with her. She was smiling when she detached herself to join a group of women who seemed in no hurry to get home. Jim, waiting with Orrice and Effel, saw Miss Pilgrim appear. The vicar spoke to her. Miss Pilgrim eyed him enquiringly, then she nodded and went back into the church with him.

  ‘Horace,’ said Jim, ‘you walk on home with Ethel.’

  Orrice, spotting Alice heading towards him, took Effel away at a fast pace. Jim walked across to the group of women. Mrs Lockheart smiled at him.

  ‘Can you spare a few moments?’ he asked.

  ‘With pleasure, Mr Cooper,’ she said. She excused herself to the ladies and joined him.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ said Jim, and took her at a stroll along Larcom Street. ‘Mrs Lockheart, it’s time you went back to where you came from.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘I mean you’ve done enough damage. If that’s what you came for, you’ve succeeded. You’ve got the vicar worried now. So give it a rest. Your brother was bitten by a viper, and the inquest confirmed this. I’ve checked. I suggest that before you leave you write a letter to the vicar clearing Miss Pilgrim of any connection with your brother’s unfortunate death.’

  ‘Why, Mr Cooper, I do believe you’ve been talking to Rebecca. I hope you’re not a gullible man. Rebecca has a forked tongue, you know.’

  ‘A forked tongue has been wagging in every street around here,’ said Jim, ‘but it doesn’t belong to Miss Pilgrim.’

  ‘Oh, dear me,’ said Mrs Lockheart prettily, ‘she has a champion? But how does a viper get from a conservatory into a sleeping man’s bed?’

  ‘Snakes its way there. You told me your brother was found dead in his bed. At the mission, I presume.’

  ‘A guest, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘Yet I heard you ask Miss Pilgrim if he said anything during his last moments. That doesn’t add up. Nor do you.’

  ‘How clever of that viper to find its way to my brother’s bed,’ murmured Mrs Lockheart as they approached the Walworth Road.

  ‘Mrs Lockheart, I accept none of your insinuations about Miss Pilgrim.’

  ‘Dear me,’ she said, ‘I see how true it is that love is blind.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Jim, disliking her thoroughly.

  ‘Clarence, poor man, was also in love with Rebecca.’

  ‘So she put a viper in his bed? You’re out of your mind, Mrs Lockheart.’

  Mrs Lockheart stopped and turned on him, her charming smile vanishing. Her eyes glittered and her expression became waspish. No, thought Jim, not waspish. There was a more appropriate adjective. Viperish.

  ‘You dare say that to me?’ She almost hissed the words. ‘You will regret that.’ And she walked away, back towards the church. Jim walked home. Orrice and Effel were waiting on the doorstep. He used his key to let them in.

  ‘You all right, Uncle?’ asked Orrice. ‘You don’t look very ’appy, does he, Effel?’

  ‘Not my fault,’ protested
Effel.

  ‘I’m all right now I’m in clean air,’ said Jim.

  He heard Miss Pilgrim come in ten minutes later. He went down to see her. In her kitchen, she was aproned and busying herself with the dinner preparations. She did not seem as if her interlude with the vicar had disturbed her. She looked her usual composed self.

  ‘Yes, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘The vicar spoke to you,’ said Jim.

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘About Mrs Lockheart and what she’s been saying to people?’

  ‘The conversation I had with the vicar was a private one, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘I had a conversation myself. With Mrs Lockheart.’

  ‘It’s a free country, I’m told,’ said Miss Pilgrim, placing prepared potatoes in the pan containing a joint of mutton. ‘And I naturally assume your conversation was not about me.’

  ‘It was all about you,’ said Jim.

  ‘You had no right,’ she said sharply.

  ‘As you pointed out, it’s a free country.’

  ‘That doesn’t give you the right to discuss my affairs.’

  ‘I’m a friend,’ said Jim.

  ‘Then you should do as I ask, and not interfere. It will do no good. That woman appeared out of thin air. When she gets tired of what she’s doing, when it begins to bore her, she will disappear as suddenly as she came. I forgive you for discussing my affairs with her, and I wish to hear no more about it. Come down to dinner at two as usual, please – oh, and I have baked a fruit cake for tea. The weather is fine enough for us to have it in the garden, with your guest Alice, and I trust your wards will be on their best behaviour. Perhaps over dinner we can have some interesting talk on Horace’s next poem, “How We Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix”.’ Miss Pilgrim placed the meat dish back in the oven. ‘You know that one, Mr Cooper? I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three?’

  ‘Oh, my sainted aunt,’ said Jim, and laughed.

  Miss Pilgrim drew herself up and regarded him stonily.

  ‘What is amusing you, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘You, Miss Pilgrim. You’re irrepressible.’

  ‘Kindly go away, Mr Cooper, I’m far too serious-minded to appreciate that kind of remark. I’m also busy.’

  ‘Just one question, Miss Pilgrim. Do you know how to handle a snake? That is, how to take hold of it without harm to yourself?’

  Her blue eyes took on their familiar frostiness.

  ‘Yes, you have been discussing me with that woman,’ she said.

  ‘Can you handle snakes?’

  ‘I refuse to answer. Please go away.’

  Jim went. He felt an easing of his worries, however, despite her icy response to his question. She was standing up to everything that Mrs Lockheart was maliciously throwing at her. He had no doubt that the vicar himself had expressed worries to her. She had probably told him in her fearless way not to concern himself. One would have to be lacking in character to doubt the integrity of a woman as admirable as Miss Pilgrim.

  The sun of late June made its warm, bright conquest of the haze of Walworth to flood Miss Pilgrim’s little garden with golden light. The narrow flower beds bordering the small lawn were a marvel of colour. In the tiny timber shed stood the old hand-mower used by Miss Pilgrim to cut the grass. On the lawn the folding table, covered with an embroidered white cloth, was set for tea, with five placings. Effel and Orrice, inspecting the flowers with Jim, were wide-eyed that there were flowers at all, alive and real.

  ‘Golly,’ breathed Effel, itching to pick some.

  ‘Ain’t they pretty, Effel?’ said Orrice.

  ‘Is it a real garding?’ whispered Effel.

  ‘Course it is.’

  ‘It’s an oasis, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Jim. That was how she saw it herself, but as her own alone. Not even the ladies of the church who sometimes took afternoon tea with her had ever been invited into her retreat. What she was doing by bringing Mr Cooper and his wards into it, she really did not know, except that she did not intend to make a precedent of the invitation.

  ‘Even a small piece of ground can be made to look like a gift from God,’ she said. The sound of a knock on the front door penetrated to the garden. ‘That will be Alice,’ she said, and went to answer the knock. A few moments later she brought Alice through to the garden. Alice stopped and stared.

  ‘Oh, Miss Pilgrim, oh, crumbs, isn’t it lovely?’ she said. She was carrying a large cardboard box, its top covered by a picturesque illustration. ‘Hello, Mr Cooper. Oh, don’t you look nice, Ethel?’

  ‘No,’ said Effel grumpily.

  ‘Oh, Horace dear, I’m here,’ said Alice. Orrice had his back turned to her in the hope that what he couldn’t see might not be there.

  ‘’E ain’t Orrice dear, ’e’s me bruvver,’ said Effel, still fighting her battle to keep Orrice exclusive to herself.

  ‘I’ve brought you something, Horace,’ said Alice.

  Orrice turned.

  ‘Oh, ’ello,’ he said.

  ‘Look,’ said Alice, and placed the box on one of the kitchen chairs that Jim had helped bring out. He and Miss Pilgrim watched as Orrice advanced cautiously. The boy looked at the colourful illustration. It was of a shining black railway engine thundering along a track. His eyes opened wide. ‘My cousin Edward’s grown up now,’ said Alice, ‘he didn’t want this any more, so I asked if I could give it to you, Horace. You said you’ve always wanted a clockwork engine set. Look.’ She lifted the lid of the box and disclosed clockwork engine, carriages, a tender, a heap of lines curved and straight, and a signal. ‘It’s for you, Horace.’

  Effel, coming to look, ground her teeth in rage.

  ‘Orrice don’t want it,’ she said.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Orrice, and was breathless. Alice beamed at him. In a Sunday white dress with a pink sash, she was a picture of nine-year-old prettiness. Jim saw more than prettiness, he saw a warm and generous little girl, who spoke well but had no side, and whose fondness for Orrice was founded, perhaps, on some instinctive feeling that he was a fresh, healthy and honest boy who liked fun. So did Alice. Whenever his little grin arrived, Alice waited quivering for fun to break out. ‘Alice, you can’t give me somefink like this,’ he said, ‘it’s not me birfday or anyfing.’ In his excitement he mangled his English and made Miss Pilgrim sigh.

  ‘But my cousin said I could give it to you,’ declared Alice, ‘I told him we were sweethearts.’

  Effel emitted a strangled yell. Orrice coughed.

  ‘Have you two got chest colds?’ asked Jim.

  ‘Feel sick,’ growled Effel.

  ‘Then go to the kitchen sink, child,’ said Miss Pilgrim.

  ‘Ain’t that kind of sick,’ muttered Effel.

  ‘Oh, you want to suck something, Ethel,’ said Alice, ‘something like an acid drop or a bit of barley sugar. Horace, d’you want to fix the railway lines together? I can help.’

  ‘Well, I dunno as—’ Orrice stopped as he caught Miss Pilgrim’s pained look. ‘Well, I don’t know I ought to take your present, Alice. I don’t have nothing to give you, and I betcher this is more than one of them half-a-crown clockwork train sets.’

  ‘Horace, you’ve got to have it,’ protested Alice, ‘you don’t have to give me anything, honest.’

  ‘I think I’d best let Uncle Jim decide,’ said Orrice, who was overwhelmingly tempted, but had a feeling acceptance would put him in chains.

  ‘Well, my lad,’ said Jim cheerfully, ‘Alice’s cousin doesn’t want it, and he’s let Alice have it to give to you. And you can always ask her the date of her birthday.’ Jim was doing what he could, with Miss Pilgrim’s co-operation, to help Orrice improve his social graces.

  ‘It’s September the eleventh,’ said Alice, on to that in a flash, ‘and you can come to my birthday party.’

  ‘’E don’t want no train set, and ’e don’t go to no-one’s birfday parties ‘cept mine,’ said Effel, utterly green-eyed.

  ‘Well, Uncle Jim says I best have it, sis,’ sai
d Orrice, ‘and Alice did bring it all the way. I got to say thank you, Alice, yer a real sport.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, Horace dear,’ said Alice, and lifted her face for a kiss. Orrice took a deep breath, closed his eyes, aimed with his mouth and landed a quick kiss on her cheek. The faintest smile touched Miss Pilgrim’s lips. Effel trembled with fury. ‘Oh, you are nice, Horace,’ said Alice.

  Effel let go an old but still telling chestnut.

  ‘’Oo’s a pretty boy, then?’ she said.

  ‘My mum says he’s lovely,’ declared Alice proudly.

  Orrice lifted suffering eyes to Jim. Jim winked.

  ‘I shall put the kettle on for tea now,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘And perhaps—’ She paused, then made a further sacrifice. ‘Yes, perhaps after tea you and Alice would like to put the train set out on my kitchen table, Horace.’

  ‘Cor, yer rippin’, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice, ‘yer the best sport ever.’

  ‘I doubt it, young man,’ she said, and went into the kitchen. The cardboard box containing the train set fell off the chair on which Alice had placed it. Effel had given it a push. Jim took her aside, while Alice and Orrice set the box and its contents to rights.

  ‘What’s it all about, miss?’ murmured Jim.

  ‘Nuffink,’ said Effel.

  ‘Well, listen, lovey,’ said Jim, ‘you’ve got Orrice and you’ve got me, and you’ll always have us. But you must let Orrice have his friends.’

  ‘Not ’er,’ said Effel, mulish.

  Miss Pilgrim provided a perfect Sunday tea in the heart of Walworth, in her own little oasis. Alice and Orrice both thought it as grand as it could be. The sparrows came to look, and hopped about on the grass searching for crumbs. Sparrows thrived in Walworth.

  There were cucumber sandwiches, thinly-sliced bread and butter, Kennedy’s salmon and shrimp paste, pink and creamy, home-made jam, a marmalade tart and the freshly-baked fruit cake. Alice ate happily and healthily, Orrice ate with the typical relish of a Walworth boy, and Effel with snapping teeth. Miss Pilgrim encouraged conversation as usual. Orrice participated only at intervals, for his mind could concentrate on little else except his exciting ownership of a superior clockwork train set. The one problem about that was his feeling of obligation towards Alice. It could mean he’d never get rid of her.