The Pearly Queen

by Mary Jane Staples

  Mum thought about joining the Salvation Army or an organization called Sanctuary for the Fallen. It didn’t take her long to decide the Salvation Army was actually a bit heathen: all that shaking and rattling of tambourines by women in queer bonnets with red ribbons didn’t seem very reverent to her. And all their smiling, too, as if they didn’t take the Lord seriously. As for the Sanctuary for the Fallen, she discovered it was near to disgraceful. What it did was to take in drunks and sinful women, and not do anything about making them repent. When they came out of the Sanctuary, the drunks made straight for the nearest pub and the sinful women went and did more sinning. Mum declared to her husband and son that she didn’t think the Lord would approve of any sanctuary that didn’t make people see the error of their ways.

  Dad said, ‘Well, Maudie, you’ve taken on ways I don’t approve of myself.’ Jimmy asked if the Lord had ever actually had a word with her about it.

  ‘You’re both impertinent,’ said Mum, ‘go an’ repent.’

  As this order was given after dinner one Sunday, Dad took his son and daughters to Ruskin Park, and they all repented together by walking the paths in silent and solemn fashion, although Betsy had to struggle to keep her giggles at bay. She gave up eventually, and her giggles burst forth.

  ‘That sounds like someone’s sinning,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Yes, who is it?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Me,’ confessed Betsy.

  ‘Well, we’d better do some more repentin’, then,’ said Dad, ‘we needn’t get back till teatime.’ It was his way of cheering his kids up, particularly Betsy who was unhappy about her mum. He made a game of the outing, and it hid the fact that he was swearing to himself most of the time.

  It was the following week that Jimmy lost his job. His sisters were upset for him, and Dad knew it was a real blow to his son. Mum said it might not have happened if Jimmy had been more religious. But it didn’t greatly concern her, not at this moment, for a new organization called the League of Repenters had come to her attention. She homed in on it like an eager bee catching a whiff of the first rich blooms of summer. She was immediately impressed by its leader, a man of majestic appearance and dignity, one Montgomery Wilberforce, known to his followers as Father Peter. In his wide-shouldered tallness, he looked to Mum as if he had been cast in the same mould as Joshua himself. To Mum, Joshua was a most awesome servant of the Lord.

  She noted that Father Peter’s followers, mostly women, were serious and devout, dressing with quiet soberness. They were dedicated to the task of bringing redemption and salvation to sinners before the Day of Judgement arrived. Some were like herself, some were from the suburbs and some sounded quite posh. She felt she could do very good work with the League. It might mean her family having to do a lot more for themselves, but no-one could say she hadn’t already given them the best years of her life, and the Lord ought to have His turn at commanding her services. So she applied to join the Repenters and went daily to their headquarters in Bloomsbury for instruction from Father Peter on the principles of dedication. She believed, as he did, that the hope of the world was repentance, and she promised to commit herself to the task of helping to redeem sinners. Father Peter received her into the League and was most kind to her.

  She told her son and daughters of her new life on the morning of the Friday before the August Bank Holiday, after their dad had departed for his work. Jimmy had no job at the moment, and his sisters were on school holiday, so they were left to tell Dad when he came home.

  ‘Where’s your mum now?’ he asked.

  ‘Whitechapel,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Eh?’ said Dad.

  ‘Yes, rotten ’ard luck, Dad,’ said Jimmy, ‘but she dressed herself up in black—’

  ‘The black she wore to Grandpa’s funeral last year,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Wiv a new black ’at,’ said Betsy, looking unhappy again.

  ‘And off she went to Whitechapel after givin’ us bread and cheese at midday,’ said Jimmy.

  Dad, for the sake of his kids, hid his more extreme reactions. An old soldier, he had a few choice words at his command. He used none of them. Jimmy popped into the scullery then to turn the mutton chops in the pan in the gas oven. He also took a look at the cabbage and potatoes in their saucepans. He came back into the kitchen and broke the suffering silence.

  ‘She took a banner with her.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’ll do me much good to ask,’ said Dad, ‘but go on, let’s ’ave it, what was on the banner?’

  ‘REPENT YE SINNERS,’ quoted Jimmy.

  ‘I might’ve known,’ said Dad. ‘Is she comin’ back?’

  ‘She said she was,’ replied Patsy, not bothering to hide exactly how she felt, cross and disgusted. ‘She’s been given a new Bible by this League, and she’s goin’ to read it to us this evenin’.’

  ‘All of it?’ said Dad. ‘All of it at once?’

  ‘She’d better not,’ said Patsy.

  ‘I don’t fink Mum likes us any more,’ said Betsy worriedly.

  Dad, hating the thought of young Betsy being unhappy, made an effort and said brightly, ‘Cheer up, Betsy me pickle, there’s worse things at sea, as me old sergeant-major would say. Your mum can’t help bein’ fond of the Bible, but that don’t mean she’s not fond of you any more. And I’m not against the Bible meself, I’m just sayin’ we don’t want all of it at once, do we? Bless yer, Betsy, your mum’s got her funny ways, and we’ll just ’ave to go along with them.’ He ruffled Betsy’s hair. ‘Mind you, with any luck, we won’t get any Bible at all this evenin’, not if she’s been to Whitechapel. Whitechapel people don’t go much of a bundle on preachers and the like, they chuck rotten cabbages at them.’ Do Maud a power of good, that would, he thought. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if your mum comes ’ome lookin’ like she’s been in a greengrocery war. She might need some sympathy and a mite of cheerin’ up, she might even ’ave a bit of a headache.’

  ‘So might we,’ said Jimmy, ‘she talked about puttin’ all of us on bread and water for a while.’

  Dad, having taken things manfully so far, greeted this new piece of information in prickly fashion. ‘There’s not goin’ to be none of that rubbish,’ he said.

  Jimmy mentioned that Mum had said they all ate too much. Betsy protested she hadn’t ever eaten too much, that she just ate till she was full up. Patsy said that Mum had said that Joshua and the Israelites had to put up with a lot of bread and water.

  ‘Well, we ain’t Joshua and the Israelites,’ said Dad, dark brown hair thick, with a widow’s peak, and grey eyes that often showed a twinkle.

  ‘Jimmy told ’er that,’ said Patsy.

  ‘And Mum landed ’im one wiv ’er brolly,’ said Betsy.

  ‘Hard luck, Jimmy,’ said Dad. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jimmy, ‘it’s about callin’ her Mum. She said Mum doesn’t befit her any more, that she’d been anointed by a bloke called Father Peter and he’d named ’er Mother Mary.’

  ‘I’m hearin’ things,’ said Dad. ‘Still, wait till the cabbages start flyin’. All the same, when she gets ’ome, we’d better humour her, we’d better call ’er Mother and let ’er do a bit of Bible readin’. Best to humour her, and while she’s like this we’ve got to rally round the old fam’ly flag, eh?’

  ‘You could tell ’er she ought to repent for muckin’ the fam’ly about, Dad,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Well, good on yer, Patsy,’ said Dad, ‘we can think about that, we’ll work up to it gradual, same as me and the old battalion worked up to givin’ Johnny Turk one in ’is mince pie.’

  ‘Did he repent, Dad?’ asked Patsy.

  ‘Come again?’ said Dad, wondering just how to go to work on his wife.

  ‘When you give Johnny Turk one in the eye, did he repent?’ asked Patsy.

  ‘He didn’t say so, Patsy. He said, “Oh, Ali Baba, me flamin’ eye,” and fell over. Well, I’ll treat meself to a bit of a wash now after me day’s labours, then we’ll ’ave supper. You sure it�
��s cookin’ all right, or d’you want me to take a look at it?’

  ‘Oh, the spuds!’ gasped Patsy, and rushed into the scullery.

  ‘And what about the chops, Jimmy?’ asked Dad.

  ‘I’ve got confidence in me chops,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Well, good,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll manage, Jimmy, don’t you worry, and you’ll get another job soon.’

  ‘Dad, d’you fink our mum’s gone a bit barmy?’ asked Betsy worriedly.

  ‘No, she’s just got religion, Betsy love,’ said Dad.

  ‘Point is, can she be cured?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘Well,’ said Dad, ‘she might be cured already, they might’ve chucked a whole barrow-load of cabbages at ’er in Whitechapel.’

  ‘I don’t fink that’s very funny,’ sighed Betsy.

  They were at supper a little later, around the kitchen table, which was always covered by a green and white check oil cloth. It was very practical and only needed a wipe with a damp cloth to look clean and shiny. As in all cockney homes, the kitchen was the hub of family life. It was where setbacks, triumphs, giggles, laughs, arguments and mother’s laying down of the law were all part of the way the character and spirit of the family were shaped and nurtured. There were signs, however, that Mum’s priorities had changed. The kitchen range and the iron fender that guarded the hearth hadn’t been blackleaded for ages. In the scullery, dirty washing had been piling up in a large tin bath on top of the copper.

  Dad ignored all that for the moment. He knew his girls were upset about their mum. Jimmy was old enough to take it in his stride. Dad commented on the supper, saying he’d never had greens more green, mashed potatoes more tasty and a mutton chop better done. Betsy asked if she was going to have to do the greens every day.

  ‘Only till cauliflowers come in,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Betsy, ‘I hate cauliflowers.’

  ‘Well, you need only hate them till runner beans come in,’ said Jimmy.

  Betsy said, ‘What, me slice runner beans every day?’

  ‘Only till sprouts come in,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Ugh, I hate sprouts worse than cauliflowers,’ said Betsy.

  ‘Oh, well, greens come in again after sprouts,’ said Jimmy.

  Betsy, thinking about the washing, said, ‘Dad, I only got one clean pair of fings left.’

  ‘Well, dear oh lor’,’ said Dad, taking off Mrs Shaw, a gossipy neighbour. ‘We can’t ’ave that, lovey.’ He regarded his girls. Betsy at nine had a cheeky-looking face and was full of tricks. She had her mum’s light brown hair and brown eyes. She was a giggly pickle. Well, normally she was. Patsy at thirteen was active and lively, with fair hair and hazel eyes that could look blue when the sun caught them. She liked her hair left long, tying it with a ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her mum had been very pretty as a girl, and Patsy had a lot of that prettiness. And she always had a tidy look, whereas Betsy always had a rumpled look, as if she’d just had a pillow fight. Pillow fights made her yell with excitement. They made her mum call up and threaten to give her something.

  As for Jimmy, he was a good-looking boy with a lot of sense. He could be very funny. It had been a blow to him to lose his job, but his sense of humour was keeping him going. During the war, when he was only eight, he wrote to the prime minister about the air raids, asking if the government couldn’t train pigeons to go up and do a puncturing job with their beaks on German zeppelins. Although the prime minister must have been very busy, he’d actually sent a reply saying he’d talk to some pigeon fanciers about it. Mum showed the reply to neighbours, some of whom said it sounded dangerous, they didn’t want punctured zeppelins falling on top of them.

  ‘I got to ’ave more clean pairs of fings,’ said Betsy.

  ‘So ’ave I,’ said Patsy, who liked everything she was wearing to feel clean. She was sorry for girls who came to school looking as if their frocks hadn’t been in a copper for ages.

  ‘Well, I tell you what,’ said Dad, ‘how about cartin’ everything off to the Bagwash laundry in the mornin’ while I’m at work? Say the bedsheets and pillow cases as well. Could you three manage that?’

  ‘Then bring it all back later and ’ang it on the line?’ said Patsy.

  ‘Just in case your mum’s not goin’ to do anything about it,’ said Dad.

  ‘What about the ironing?’ asked Patsy.

  ‘Well, if your mum’s not in the mood,’ said Dad, ‘I’ll try me hand at it.’

  ‘Dad, men don’t do ironing, they do their own work,’ said Patsy, who wasn’t going to have her mum’s mood make things that awkward for her dad.

  ‘Most men don’t do ironing, I grant yer,’ said Dad. ‘But a lot of old soldiers could, and I’ve done some darnin’ in me time, too.’

  ‘I’ll do the ironing,’ said Patsy.

  ‘We’ll see, me love, we’ll see,’ said Dad. ‘Now it’s me pleasure to tell you the supper was a treat—’

  ‘Oh, me rice puddin’!’ exclaimed Patsy, and rushed out to the oven.

  ‘Who said rice puddin’?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Patsy,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘She done it with milk,’ said Betsy, ‘it’s been cookin’ hours and hours.’

  ‘Bless the girl,’ said Dad.

  Patsy reappeared and placed the hot dish down on the bread board in the centre of the table. The skin was brown with grated nutmeg. ‘Patsy, I’m proud of you,’ said Dad. ‘Did I ever mention we used to ’ave rice puddin’ in the Army? Well, boiled rice mostly, with jam. A bit like sticky glue, but nourishin’, of course. We had a roll call just after dinner once, and the sergeant-major got to a bloke whose monicker was Rafferty. Rafferty didn’t answer. “Rafferty!” hollered the sergeant-major. There still wasn’t any answer, but Rafferty was present all right. “Rafferty!” bawled the sergeant-major. So I spoke up, bein’ Rafferty’s platoon corporal, and I said he couldn’t answer because he’d ’ad two helpings of boiled rice with jam, and that his Irish north-and-south was all stuck up in consequence. You should’ve seen the sergeant-major havin’ fifty fits all at once. Well now, look at that, Patsy’s rice puddin’. You’re a treasure, Patsy.’

  ‘Good as the Queen of Sheba, that’s me,’ said Patsy.

  ‘I’ve never ’eard the Queen of Sheba did rice puddings,’ said Jimmy. ‘I thought she just went in for puttin’ rubies in her belly button.’

  ‘That’s rude, sayin’ belly button, ain’t it, Dad?’ said Betsy.

  ‘Dimple, I call it,’ said Dad.

  Patsy served out rice pudding to all, and everyone began to enjoy it.

  ‘Someone’s comin’ in,’ said Patsy, lifting her head. Footsteps sounded in the passage.

  ‘It’s Mum,’ said Betsy, looking nervous.

  ‘Mother,’ said Jimmy, looking solemn.

  ‘Just act natural,’ said Dad, ‘and as if we’re all doin’ some repentin’.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mother entered the kitchen: a slender woman of thirty six, she still owned a measure of attractiveness, despite her lack of make-up and despite the disordered look of her clothes. The long jacket of her black costume had lost all its buttons, and the skirt seemed very sorry for itself. Her black velvet hat was slightly askew, held in that position by her hatpin. Her umbrella was in one hand, handbag in the other. Crikey, her clothes, thought Betsy. She’s been in the wars, thought Patsy. Good old Mum, she’s at least come out alive, thought Jimmy.

  ‘So you’re back,’ said Dad, then adjusted his welcome. ‘Glad to see you, Mother.’

  Mother gazed in shock at the rice pudding. ‘You’re all eatin’ rice puddin’,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘Well, we couldn’t just sit and look at it,’ said Jimmy, ‘we thought we might as well eat it, ’specially seein’ Patsy made it.’

  ‘And Jimmy cooked the mutton chops,’ said Patsy.

  ‘What?’ said Mother in new shock. ‘You’ve all ’ad mutton chops as well as rice puddin’?’

  ‘And greens,’ said Jimmy.

>   ‘And mashed potatoes,’ said Patsy.

  ‘I don’t know how I can ’old my head up,’ said Mother, ‘knowin’ you’ve all been gourmandisin’. I was goin’ to give them mutton chops to the poor.’

  ‘What a shame,’ said Jimmy, ‘they’ve all gone now.’

  ‘It’s just been supper, Maudie,’ said Dad easily, ‘just a bit of custom’ry eatin’.’

  ‘I left a loaf of bread in the larder,’ said Mother sternly, ‘and a jug of water on the table. To think you’ve all been ’aving mutton chops and rice puddin’. I can’t turn my back a minute without you doin’ some sin or other.’

  ‘Never mind, Mother,’ said Jimmy, ‘we’ve been doin’ some repentin’ as well. And you can see how Patsy’s repentin’ for makin’ the rice puddin’.’

  ‘Yes, I don’t ’ardly know where to put my face, Mum – I mean Mother,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Still, it would’ve been more of a sin not to eat it,’ said Dad, ‘you can’t let good food go to waste. Like a cup of tea, Mother?’

  ‘Well, I could do with a cup,’ said Mother, ‘I’ve ’ad a tryin’ day on behalf of the Lord. But don’t put any milk or sugar in.’

  ‘That’s not tea, Mum, that’s ugh,’ said Betsy.

  ‘Don’t call me Mum,’ said Mother, ‘it don’t befit me.’

  ‘I forgot,’ said Betsy, feeling and looking very upset.

  ‘Be your age, Maudie,’ said Dad.

  ‘Sit up,’ said Mother, walking around the table to give each member of her family a critical look. She addressed Jimmy. ‘What d’you think you’re doin’?’ she asked.

  ‘Finishin’ my rice pudding,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘What impudence,’ said Mother. ‘And where are you goin’?’ she asked Dad as he came to his feet.

  ‘To put the kettle on, seein’ you’re so busy doin’ nothing,’ said Dad. ‘Try sittin’ down instead of standin’ in me way.’

  ‘Yes, I can do with a sit down,’ said Mother. She put her handbag and umbrella on the dresser and sat down. ‘I’ve been among sinners nearly all afternoon, and it’s been a sore trial.’

  ‘We’re sufferin’ a sore trial ourselves,’ said Dad from the scullery.