Two for Three Farthings

by Mary Jane Staples

  Tea over, Alice said, ‘I heard Horace is going to be put down for West Square. I’m going to try for West Square Girls the year after. Then me and Horace will be able to walk home together, or ride on the tram.’

  The folding table lurched. Empty cups and saucers, jam-stained tea plates, the cake-stand and what was left of the cake, and the teapot and the slop basin slithered over the crumpling tablecloth. Fortunately, most of the things landed in Jim’s lap, although the teapot hit the lawn and its handle snapped off. Two cups also lost their handles as they clashed. Everyone looked at Effel, Miss Pilgrim exhibiting utter shock. Effel had given the table a violent shove.

  ‘Effel, wha’dyer do that for?’ asked Orrice in dismay.

  ‘Wasn’t me,’ said Effel. Miss Pilgrim looked at Jim, who was carefully unloading his lap, his trousers wet from tea remnants.

  ‘Ethel,’ said Jim, ‘go up to your room, and stay there until I come up myself.’

  ‘Ain’t goin’,’ said Effel.

  Jim placed the things back on the table, including the teapot and three snapped-off handles.

  ‘I’ll glue the handles back on, Miss Pilgrim, until we can get matching replacements,’ he said, and rose to his feet. He came round to Effel and lifted her from her chair. With his strong right arm around her waist, he carried her kicking and yelling into the house.

  ‘Oh, blimey,’ muttered Orrice.

  ‘She didn’t mean it, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Alice.

  ‘Master Horace,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘fetch the tray and we’ll collect everything up.’

  When Jim brought Effel down again fifteen minutes later, Miss Pilgrim was washing up the tea things, and Orrice and Alice were in the garden. Effel was tear-stained. Jim had talked to her at length, and with a great deal of seriousness.

  ‘Please, Miss Pilgrim, I—’ Effel gulped, her head hanging. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Miss Pilgrim dried her hands and did what was surprising to Jim. She went down on one knee in front of Effel. She placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders and regarded her in compassion.

  ‘Child,’ she said, ‘it’s easy to upset a folding table, but it’s not so easy to bear the consequences. That’s an unhappiness, isn’t it? We all make mistakes on impulse. Regrets are more lasting. And how silly to think you are going to lose your brother to Alice. I told you that before. You will learn, Effel, we all learn, we have all had our wrong moments as children. There, a few broken handles don’t amount to much. It’s far more important for you to know you have a very protective brother and a kind guardian. And you are a brave little girl, Ethel. There.’ She actually kissed Ethel, then straightened up. Ethel stared, her eyes misty.

  ‘I’m not goin’ to be given just bread and water for a week?’ she said with a gulp.

  ‘Bread and water?’ Miss Pilgrim looked shocked. She cast a glance at Jim. ‘Bread and water?’

  ‘Not this time,’ said Jim.

  ‘I should hope not,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Ethel, go and join Horace and Alice in the garden, go and make friends with Alice.’

  Effel escaped. Miss Pilgrim regarded Jim severely.

  ‘Really, Mr Cooper, bread and water indeed,’ she said.

  ‘The threat was the only thing I could think of,’ said Jim, ‘she’s a little terror.’

  ‘How very perceptive of you,’ said Miss Pilgrim scornfully. ‘They’re all little terrors in Walworth, but most of them grow up to be honest and hard-working. I’m afraid I must blame you as much as Ethel for what she did. You’ve been too indulgent and not firm enough. I don’t mean harshly firm, I mean sensibly firm. You’ve failed to give her clear lines as to her behaviour, and although I have your permission to be corrective, your lack of firmness has undermined me.’

  ‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Jim.

  ‘You will be, Mr Cooper, if you address me like that. You must let Ethel know precisely where she stands in regard to discipline. You should never allow her to be disrespectful to you, to start with. You are a very civilized man, and it’s to be hoped you will help to make Ethel and Horace just as civilized. Mr Cooper, why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve been dressed down by a young woman,’ said Jim.

  ‘Young woman?’ Miss Pilgrim seemed affronted.

  ‘Well, of course you’re a young woman still.’

  ‘Nonsense. I am a little past thirty. Now, while I dry these tea things, perhaps you would clear the table so that Horace and Alice can put the train set together and enjoy themselves for half an hour before Horace takes her home and I can spend a quiet evening at my embroidery. What is the matter with you now, Mr Cooper, what are you laughing at?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Jim. ‘Probably at myself.’

  Horace was walking Alice home. Jim and Effel were sitting at the table in the garden, Miss Pilgrim having said they might stay there as the evening was so fine. She had joined them herself, bringing her embroidery out to work on it there. Effel was looking at Jim forgivingly, because he was about to read to her from one of her Ragamuffin Jack books.

  ‘Ragamuffin Jack was a very happy chap

  Who laughed the whole day through,

  He had a fat jolly mother

  And a very skinny brother

  Whose nose had turned dark blue.’

  ‘I know why, I know,’ said Effel excitedly, ‘Ragamuffin Jack did it, ’e tells ’is mum ’e couldn’t find no pink paint, so ’e used blue.’

  ‘I’d like to find that out for myself,’ said Jim, and continued reading, much to Effel’s pleasure. It took her mind off Orrice walking Alice home.

  Orrice and Alice were midway to Crampton Street. Behind them were Higgs, Cattermole and Stubbs, close cronies.

  ‘Oh, dearie me, ain’t they sweet?’ said Higgs loudly.

  ‘I dunno who’s the sweetest,’ said Stubbs.

  ‘I don’t even know ’oo’s Alice and ’oo’s Wivvers,’ said Cattermole.

  ‘Yes, yer do,’ said Higgs, ‘’e’s the one wearin’ ’is farver’s trousers.’

  ‘Yer sure ’e ain’t the one in a frock?’ asked Cattermole.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell yer,’ said Higgs, ‘no, I ain’t sure.’ He raised his voice in the Sunday evening quiet of Amelia Street. ‘Oi, Wivvers, is that you wearin’ a frock?’

  ‘Horace, they’re horrid,’ said Alice, ‘don’t let’s take any notice.’

  ‘I ain’t goin’ to, not till I get you home,’ said Orrice, ‘then I’m goin’ to bash ’em.’ Higgs, Cattermole and Stubbs had been following them since they turned the corner of Wansey Street.

  ‘You’re not to,’ said Alice.

  ‘Eh?’ said Orrice.

  ‘You’re not to fight with them,’ said Alice.

  Orrice in his wisdom recognized the proprietary note and the necessity of retaining his independence.

  ‘Now don’t worry, Alice,’ he said, ‘you just go indoors when we reach yer house. You been a real sport, givin’ me that train set, but me dad wouldn’t ’ave wanted me not to put me dukes up. I ain’t goin’ to fight ’em, I’m just goin’ bash ’em one at a time.’

  ‘No, you’re not to,’ said Alice.

  ‘We can’t ’ear yer,’ called Higgs, ‘can’t yer talk louder, we don’t want to miss yer lovey-dovey stuff.’

  ‘Ain’t it time they started kissin’?’ asked Stubbs.

  ‘Wake ’em up, Catters,’ whispered Higgs, ‘get your catapult workin’.’

  Cattermole took a catapult from his pocket, together with a brown paper bag containing lumps of hard raw potato. He slipped a lump into the sling while Stubbs held the bag, drew back the sling and elastic, took aim for Orrice’s head and fired. The potato lump struck the back of Alice’s head. Alice gasped. The lump had hurt. She stopped. Orrice stopped. They had reached her street.

  ‘’Old me cap, Alice,’ he said, and gave it to her.

  ‘No, don’t,’ said Alice, but Orrice was already in action, picking out Cattermole as he saw him slip the c
atapult back into his pocket. Orrice went straight for him, and at speed. Cattermole squared up. Orrice didn’t stop coming. A straight right arm, taught him by his dad, vanguarded by a tightly balled fist, passed through Cattermole’s guard. The first landed smack in his right eye, and knocked him down.

  Stubbs and Higgs jumped Orrice. Alice stood in shock for a moment. Then she launched herself into the fray, feet delivering furious kicks. Kids appeared by magic in the street.

  ‘Cor, a fight!’ A street fight was an event not to be missed. Within seconds, it seemed, there was a crowd of boys and girls ringing the struggle. Orrice was sitting astride Higgs, and Stubbs, behind Orrice, had his arms locked around Orrice’s neck. Alice was aiming kicks at Stubbs and Higgs alernately. The three boys rolled over, Orrice in the middle, his Sunday suit collecting the dirt and dust of the pavement. Alice stopped and seized Stubbs by his hair. She yanked. Cattermole, up on his feet, waded in.

  ‘’Oo’s winnin’?’ asked a boy.

  ‘Dunno,’ said another, ‘except she ain’t losin’ – lummy, she might be now, though.’

  Alice had been pulled down. Orrice gave a ferocious yell of rage, burst free and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Run ’ome,’ he said. Higgs and Stubbs jumped him again. Orrice planted some stiff levellers. Stubbs staggered back, recovered and ran in again. Alice tripped him up, he clutched at her and they went down together. Orrice and Higgs fell on top of them. Cattermole fell on Orrice.

  A man came running, from a house across the way in Crampton Street. He broke through the ring of yelling, excited kids. He stooped and hauled the contestants to their feet, one by one, Alice last. She was at the bottom.

  She was flushed and grimy, clothes and hair dishevelled, her right knee grazed. Mr French, her father, looked at her in disbelief. Her hair was over her face.

  ‘Is that you behind all that hair, my girl?’ he asked.

  Alice pushed her hair aside. More exhilarated than found out, she said breathlessly, ‘You should’ve seen, Daddy. Horace bashed them and I kicked them.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Cor, your Alice don’t ’alf pack a wallop wiv ’er plates of meat, Mr French,’ said a boy. ‘Betcher she could make Jack Dempsey ’op.’

  ‘I gotter go,’ said Higgs.

  ‘Me too,’ said Cattermole, hand to his black eye.

  ‘’Old on,’ said Mr French, ‘no-one’s goin’ yet. You young scruffs, what’s the ’orrible idea, turnin’ my daughter into a hooligan? And I’m surprised at you, Orrice.’

  ‘But it wasn’t his fault,’ protested Alice, ‘they all jumped on him.’

  ‘Bleedin’ ‘it me when I wasn’t lookin’,’ growled Cattermole.

  Mr French gave them all a good look. They were all marked with cuts and bruises. And Orrice also sported a puffy cheek, Higgs a split lip, Stubbs a bleeding nose and Cattermole his black eye.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to put me boot to your backsides,’ said Mr French. ‘You perishers, what d’you mean by fightin’ with girls? Who’s changed the rules?’

  ‘We ain’t, Mr French,’ said Stubbs, mopping his nose, ‘we didn’t ask for Alice to join in. Cor, yer got a bloomin’ terror there, she nearly pulled all me ’air out.’

  ‘Orrice,’ said Mr French, ‘what’ve you got to say for yourself?’

  ‘We was all mindin’ our own business, Mr French,’ said Orrice, ‘only Cattermole tripped over me arm, and I dunno where Alice come from after Higgs an’ Stubbs started kissin’ each other.’

  ‘’Ere, d’you ’ear that?’ asked Higgs of Stubbs. ‘D’you ’ear ’im say kissin’?’

  ‘You perishers,’ said Mr French again, ‘you jumped Orrice and yanked Alice into the middle of it.’

  ‘No, we bashed ’em then, Daddy, me and Horace,’ said Alice, her flush that of triumph. Then she added, ‘But not on purpose, though.’

  ‘Hoppit,’ said Mr French to Higgs, Cattermole and Stubbs, and the three boys gladly departed. Angry grown-ups could start lashing out. ‘Orrice, you’d better get yourself home and cleaned up. And you’d better look out for ructions.’

  ‘Oh, me Uncle Jim knows a bloke ’as got to stand up for girls,’ said Orrice. ‘You all right, Alice?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Horace.’

  ‘You can scrap real good, you can,’ said Orrice, ‘I don’t mind yer sittin’ next to me in school now.’

  ‘Oh, thanks ever so much,’ said Alice, not yet of an age to understand it was better to be more condescending than grateful to boys.

  ‘So long, Mr French,’ said Orrice. ‘Oh, Alice give me a real superior clockwork train set. She’s swell.’

  They watched him go on his way, banging his cap against his trousers to knock the dust off. Then Mr French took Alice by the hand and led her home.

  ‘You monkey,’ he said, ‘your mum’ll have a fit about you fightin’ with boys.’

  ‘But I couldn’t let them bash Horace to death,’ protested Alice, ‘he’s my sweetheart.’

  ‘You’re in a hurry, aren’t you, at nine years old? Come on, I’ll try and get you cleaned up before your mum lays her eyes on you.’

  Miss Pilgrim opened the door to Orrice, who hid as much of himself as he could under his cap. But his Sunday cap wasn’t quite the friend his weekday one was. Miss Pilgrim did not miss cuts, scratches and bruises, nor the state of his suit.

  ‘Young man?’

  ‘Yes, hello, Miss Pilgrim, I’ll just go upstairs for now,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Disgraceful,’ said Miss Pilgrim.

  ‘Me?’ said Orrice, fidgeting on the doorstep.

  ‘Yes, you, sir. You’ve been fighting again.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Don’t prevaricate.’

  ‘What’s pre – what’s that, Miss Pilgrim?’

  ‘Do not attempt to mislead me.’

  ‘Can’t I come in?’ asked Orrice.

  ‘I do not admit brawling and bruising boys into my house.’

  ‘Oh, crikey,’ muttered Orrice.

  ‘Unless they can explain themselves satisfactorily.’

  ‘Well, Miss Pilgrim, me and Alice—’

  ‘Alice and I.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Pilgrim. Well, me and ’er wasn’t doing no harm to no-one, just walking, we was.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what, Miss Pilgrim?’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Orrice, who wasn’t going to split. ‘Oh, yes, well, we fell over, Miss Pilgrim.’

  Miss Pilgrim looked down from her tall height into his upturned face, scratched and bruised, and into earnest brown eyes.

  ‘Boy, do you take me for a simpleton?’ she said.

  ‘Crikey, no, Miss Pilgrim. Course, I know girls is mostly daft, and you don’t meet many women that ain’t a bit barmy. I mean—’

  ‘Young man, don’t be impertinent, and don’t gabble. Slower speech, please.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Pilgrim.’ Orrice was acquiring a wholesome respect for her. ‘I was only meanin’, Miss Pilgrim, that women fuss an’ carry on. Effel an’ me, and Uncle Jim, we’re lucky you’re not like that. Uncle Jim says you’re an angel with commonsense, he says most angels do a lot of fluttering about, like. I never seen you fluttering about, Miss Pilgrim, like you didn’t know what you was doing of.’

  Miss Pilgrim’s faint smile showed.

  ‘I know what I’m doing now,’ she said, ‘I’m standing here listening to nonsense. This house is suffering an epidemic of nonsense.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Pilgrim. Can I come in now?’

  Miss Pilgrim stood aside.

  ‘Go upstairs,’ she said. ‘Brush your suit and clean yourself up. Your guardian and sister are about to come in from the garden, and they’ll join you. Tell your guardian you’re to write out fifty times, “I must not fight or brawl.”’

  ‘Eh?’ gasped Orrice.

  ‘I think you heard me, young man.’

  ‘What, me, Miss Pilgrim? What for?’

  ‘Fighti
ng and brawling.’

  ‘Miss Pilgrim, that’s bloomin’ hard on a bloke, that is,’ said Orrice gloomily. And he was gloomier still when Uncle Jim backed up Miss Pilgrim’s command.

  ‘Well, yer shouldn’t go walkin’ wiv Alice,’ said Effel. Then she thought of what her guardian and Miss Pilgrim had said. ‘Well, not all the time you shouldn’t, Orrice, not every day. Just sometimes, that’s all.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  There was a knock on the door at eight o’clock. Miss Pilgrim put her embroidery aside and answered it. An attractive, well-dressed young lady smiled at her.

  ‘Is Mr Cooper in?’ she asked.

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘You must be Miss Pilgrim, his landlady,’ said Molly Keating, thinking her handsome but severe at first glance. That blouse. So high-necked, so Victorian. ‘I’m Miss Keating. I work with Mr Cooper.’

  Miss Pilgrim’s cool blue eyes surveyed the caller. This was the young woman Mr Cooper had a soft spot for. She could not fault his taste. There was a perceptible warmth to Miss Keating.

  ‘A moment, please, Miss Keating.’ She turned and called in her clear voice. ‘Mr Cooper?’

  Jim appeared on the landing.

  ‘Miss Pilgrim?’

  ‘You have a visitor. A Miss Keating.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Jim, and came down the stairs to the front door. He smiled at Molly. ‘Come up, Molly.’

  Miss Pilgrim returned to the quiet of her sitting-room. Molly went up with Jim.

  ‘I was passing,’ she said.

  ‘I’m pleased you stopped to look in. You can meet the kids. I’ve just put Ethel to bed. Horace is writing out lines.’

  Molly met Horace first and found him instantly likeable. She looked in on the girl. And the girl was fast asleep, tired out from her long Sunday.

  ‘She looks a pet,’ said Molly.

  ‘For pet read pickle,’ said Jim, showing her the bedroom he shared with Orrice.

  ‘Troublesome pickle?’ said Molly, thinking how well he kept his lodgings, thinking of his handicap and the responsibilities he had taken on.

  ‘Not really,’ said Jim. ‘Lovable, really, but needs watching. She suffered more than Horace over the loss of her parents. She’s still not used to having them missing from her life. It’ll take time. Until she’s over it, I don’t think she’ll like me.’