The Pearly Queen

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘That’s what comes from gourmandisin’,’ said Mother.

  ‘You been an’ lost all yer buttons,’ said Betsy.

  ‘Gave ’em to some poor woman who hadn’t got any, I suppose,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Yes, you’ve always been a givin’ woman, Mother,’ said Patsy. I’ll give you something, that had been her mum’s favourite expression for years.

  ‘To the poor, I expect,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘We’re poor,’ said Betsy. Mother frowned at her. Nervously, Betsy added, ‘I mean we ain’t rich, are we, Dad?’

  ‘Not yet, Betsy,’ said Dad, doing his best not to let his kids down by rowing with his wife. What was plain, of course, was the fact that Maud had not only gone religious for good, but she’d gone completely barmy as well. Not much anyone could do with a barmy woman except give her her head. ‘Still, as me old sergeant-major used to say, if you keep your buttons shinin’, your boots polished and your expectations modest, you’ve got as good a chance of fallin’ down a goldmine as anyone else.’

  ‘Behold, the Day of Judgement is nigh,’ said Mother.

  ‘Might be the day when I get a job,’ said Jimmy, and got up to fetch cups and saucers from the dresser.

  ‘’Eathens, that’s what those people in Whitechapel are,’ said Mother.

  ‘Crikey, did they chuck—’ Betsy checked herself. ‘Did they treat yer a bit rough, Mum?’

  ‘Don’t call me Mum.’

  ‘I keep forgettin’,’ said Betsy.

  ‘I’ll forget something meself in a minute,’ said Dad darkly.

  ‘I want proper respect,’ said Mother. ‘As for them ’eathen sinners, the Lord ’as commanded me to go among them again, which I’m goin’ to do tomorrow, with some of my sister Repenters.’

  Dad, waiting for the kettle to boil, muttered.

  Jimmy said, ‘What about the fam’ly washin’?’

  ‘I ’aven’t got time for that sort of thing now I’m workin’ on behalf of the Lord,’ said Mother. ‘I’ll be away a lot, so don’t forget about ’aving bread and water for some of your meals, I don’t want to find you’ve had mutton chops again and more rice puddin’. Young man, what’s that you’re doin’?’

  ‘I’m havin’ seconds of Patsy’s rice puddin’,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘It don’t befit you to ’ave seconds,’ said Mother. ‘There’s people starvin’ in some places.’

  ‘Jimmy knows that,’ said Dad, ‘so do the rest of us, and so do most people round ’ere. About time you cooked some rice puddings yourself, Mother, an’ gave them to the starvin’ poor instead of pokin’ them with your fiery sword.’

  ‘Oh, ’elp,’ breathed Betsy.

  ‘Sticks an’ stones may break my bones, but words won’t never ’urt me,’ said Mother.

  Dad made the tea and brought the pot to the table. ‘Anyway, what ’appened in Whitechapel?’ he asked.

  ‘It wasn’t nice, I can tell you that,’ said Mother, vexed. ‘I went among them with Mother Verity to offer them salvation and repentance.’

  ‘Mother Verity?’ said Patsy.

  ‘She was Miss Celia Stokes till she was anointed,’ said Mother.

  ‘I hear you’ve been anointed Mother Mary,’ said Dad.

  ‘I was done that religious honour by our minister, Father Peter,’ said Mother. She frowned at what was left of the rice pudding. ‘Perhaps I’ll ’ave a little of that,’ she said. Betsy fetched a spoon and plate, and she helped herself from the dish. ‘I’ve been very sore tried this afternoon,’ she said. ‘I can do with a bit of eatin’.’

  She ate the lot and scraped the dish. Dad poured the tea, Patsy milking the cups. She looked at him. He winked and nodded. She put milk into all five cups. Mother took her cup without commenting.

  ‘Sugar, Mum – sugar, Mother?’ invited Betsy, pushing the bowl forward. Mother absently sugared her tea.

  ‘Father Peter and ’is assistant, Father Luke, are both comin’ with us to Whitechapel tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘Sounds Roman Cath’lic to me,’ said Dad.

  ‘Excuse me, but we don’t ’old with no Pope,’ said Mother. ‘Father Peter says the Vatican’s full of cardinal gluttony. And our League’s not Protestant or Cath’lic, it’s just to bring the word of the Lord to the land, like the Israelites did when Moses led them out of Egypt and Joshua went among the sinners of the land for their own good.’

  ‘Barmy,’ said Dad under his breath.

  ‘What’s that?’ demanded Mother.

  ‘Tea all right?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Who put milk and sugar in it? You know I’ve given up that sort of thing.’ Mother looked put upon as she sipped her tea.

  ‘We’re takin’ the washin’ to the Bagwash laundry tomorrow,’ said Patsy, ‘and after it’s been out on the line, Dad says ’e’s goin’ to ’ave a go at doin’ the ironing.’

  ‘What?’ asked Mother.

  ‘Yes, fancy Dad ’aving to do the ironing,’ said Patsy in disgust.

  Mother gave her a puzzled look. ‘What’s that girl’s name?’ she asked.

  ‘Patsy,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Well, Patsy, if that’s who you are,’ said Mother, ‘mind what you say about Mr Andrews. I ’appen to be in holy wedlock with him.’

  ‘I thought you’d forgot that,’ said Patsy pointedly.

  ‘What! Where’s my umbrella?’ asked Mother.

  ‘You can forget that,’ said Dad.

  ‘By our sins we shall be punished accordin’,’ said Mother. She put her empty cup down. ‘I’m goin’ out now.’

  ‘You’ve only been in ten minutes,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’m goin’ to the public baths for a bath,’ said Mother. ‘I’ll see to some bread and water for all of you when I get back.’ She rose from the table, picked up her brolly and handbag and went to the downstairs bedroom she shared with Dad to collect a change of clothes. Then she took herself off to the public baths, open on Friday evenings. She left the members of her family looking at each other.

  ‘What a palaver,’ said Dad, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Still, she’ll get over it in time. Just for the present, though, I don’t think we’d better tell the neighbours she’s started to call ’erself Mother Mary.’

  ‘Dad, I don’t want no bread and water,’ said Betsy. ‘I just ’ad me supper and a cup of tea.’

  ‘Let’s clear up,’ said Dad in hearty fashion.

  They cleared up, washed up and tidied up, then Jimmy went out for a walk. No-one asked where he was going. They knew he was going to walk around and talk to himself. He’d been doing that a bit in the evenings since he’d lost his job.

  This is a fine time for Mum to go off her chump, he said to himself as he began his walk. Dad’s handling her fairly well, but Betsy can’t think what’s happening, and Patsy’s going to lose patience quick. And I’ve got to get . . .

  ‘’Ello, Jimmy, fancy seem’ you,’ said neighbour Mrs Shaw from her open door.

  ‘Yes, I only just got back from the North Pole,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Beg yer pardon?’ said Mrs Shaw.

  ‘Just a joke, Mrs Shaw.’

  ‘I saw yer mum a bit ago,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘She went in the public baths. Is she all right? Only I ’eard she’s been goin’ out a lot, every day I ’eard. ’As she got a job doin’ daily cleanin’ or something now you lost yer own job? Me old man says that’s terrible ’ard luck on a young bloke like you, ’specially now yer old enough to start takin’ girls out. Not that we’ve ’eard if you’ve got a girl or not, only Mrs Carey was only sayin’ to me last week she expects a ’and some boy like you is bound to ’ave a girl somewhere. You’re not sayin’ much, I notice.’

  ‘Well, you’re doin’ fine by yourself, Mrs Shaw,’ said Jimmy. ‘I don’t feel you need a lot from me. You carry on.’

  ‘Well, I do ’ope you get another job soon, Jimmy, and that yer mum’s all right,’ said Mrs Shaw, deaf to little digs from anybody. ‘Only I said ’ello to ’er the other day when she was on ’er way somewhere, a
nd she just walked by me as if I wasn’t there, like, and today I saw ’er goin’ up to the Walworth Road with a banner. Mind, it was folded and under ’er arm, so I couldn’t see what was on it – ’ere, where’s ’e gone?’ She addressed the startled question to empty air. Jimmy had resumed his walk. ‘Well, what a funny fam’ly they’re gettin’ to be.’

  Poor old Ma Shaw, said Jimmy to himself. When they get like that they finish up talking to lampposts. I reckon lampposts have a lot to put up with, what with dogs weeing over them and kids shinning up them. What does she mean, do I have a girl? Fat lot of use I’d be to any girl while I don’t have a job. I know what I have got, a gorblimey headache on account of no work. I don’t like being unemployed, I’ll have to buy some daily papers that advertise situations vacant. I think I fancy a well-paid job with a firm that won’t go bust. Suppose I got fixed up with a decent boss whose daughter fell for me? Crikey, I like the sound of that, no good being too proud. Watcher, lamppost, fancy being on the wrong end of a chat? I’ll send Ma Shaw along, you’re bound to get to know her sometime. He walked around in this fashion for a while, it helped to ease his frustrations. He didn’t like the thought of Dad being the sole provider for the family again, especially now Mum was being a barmy worry.

  He was back home a few minutes before Mother returned wearing a fresh blouse and skirt and carrying her discarded costume. She said nothing about doling out bread and water, she said she’d met a nice religious woman while they were both waiting for baths to become available. The woman had a husband who was a shocking sinner, he went in for drink something chronic. So Mother said she and her friend Mother Verity would try to give him something more to think about than drink.

  ‘Well, best of luck, Maudie,’ said Dad, ‘do a good job on ’im. We had a Private Ashby who liked a few. One time we laid claim to some crates of Palestine beer that ’ad fallen off an overloaded camel. Private Ashby drank four pints too many, and it turned ’im funny and made ’im fall about. Up came the sergeant-major. “On yer feet, that man!” he hollered. Well, Private Ashby managed to stand up. He looked at the sergeant-major and said, “Gawd ’elp us, that camel’s come back for the empties”.’

  Betsy giggled, Patsy laughed and Jimmy grinned.

  ‘Have you finished, Jack Andrews?’ asked Mother.

  ‘Yes, that’s all, Maudie,’ said Dad.

  ‘Well, I’ll make us all some cocoa now, then read me new Bible to you.’

  ‘From the beginning?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘I’ll go deaf,’ said young Betsy. Mother gave her a look. Betsy gulped. ‘I mean . . . oh, ’elp, I don’t fink I know what I mean.’

  Someone knocked on the front door, and Betsy escaped more looks by running to answer the summons. On the doorstep was harum-scarum Lily Shaw, from several doors down. She was thirteen and one of Patsy’s street friends.

  ‘’Ello, Betsy, can Patsy come out?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll ask me dad,’ said Betsy, and called from the door. ‘Can Patsy go out with Lily, Dad?’

  Mother appeared, the new Bible clasped to her slender bosom. ‘Into the parlour with you, my girl,’ she said to Betsy. ‘You as well,’ she said to Lily.

  ‘Me, Mrs Andrews?’ said Lily. ‘In yer parlour?’

  ‘At once,’ said Mother.

  ‘But it ain’t Sunday, Mrs Andrews,’ said Lily.

  ‘Never mind that, the Lord is present every day,’ said Mother, and shooed both girls into the parlour. Patsy, Jimmy and Dad joined them, Dad having said everyone had best humour Mother. Jimmy thought Dad was right, humouring her was the best thing to do at the moment.

  ‘You can all sit down,’ she said graciously. She herself remained standing beside the old upright piano, which she only allowed to be used religiously these days, and only on Sundays.

  ‘Patsy, we goin’ to play parlour guessin’ games?’ asked Lily, who was a plump tomboy.

  ‘No talkin’, if you don’t mind,’ said Mother, and gave Lily’s plumpness a disapproving look. ‘Someone else ’as been sinfully over-eatin’, I see,’ she said.

  ‘Who d’yer mean, Mrs Andrews?’ asked Lily in all innocence. No-one did any over-eating in her family, she was naturally plump. ‘What yer lookin’ at me for, Mrs Andrews?’

  ‘Who is that girl?’ asked Mother. ‘What’s she doin’ here?’

  ‘It’s only Lily, Patsy’s friend,’ said Dad.

  ‘She should ’ave said. Now everyone listen, if you don’t mind, and be humble before God.’ Mother opened her Bible, removed a bookmark, and read from the third chapter of St Matthew. ‘“In those days came John the Baptist, preachin’ in the wilderness of Judea and sayin’ repent ye, for the kingdom of ’eaven is at hand.”’ Mother looked up, a triumphant expression on her face. ‘There, you all ’eard that, you all ’eard that John the Baptist said it himself. So what ’ave you all got to say for yourselves?’

  Lily looked puzzled. Patsy rolled her eyes at Jimmy. Betsy looked uncomfortable. At nine she couldn’t make her mum out. Jimmy spoke up.

  ‘Well, Mother,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you forgot the cocoa.’

  ‘Yes, you said cocoa first and this after,’ remarked Patsy.

  ‘I don’t mind some cocoa,’ said Lily, ‘but I—’

  ‘Stop talkin’,’ said Mother, and read some more. ‘“And they were baptized of him in Jordan, confessin’ their sins.” There, you all ’eard that too, didn’t you? It was the people repentin’.’

  ‘Please, Mrs Andrews, I best go,’ said Lily. ‘Me dad’ll wallop me if ’e finds out I been listenin’ to the Bible. Dad don’t believe in God an’ the Bible, Mrs Andrews, ’e says ’e wouldn’t ’ave come out of the Boer War with chronic rheumatics from a wound if God ’ad been in ’eaven lookin’ down on ’im.’

  ‘Well, I never ’eard anything more blasphemous,’ said Mother, closing the Bible and putting it on the piano. ‘I’d better come ’ome with you and bring my umbrella, your father’s got to be spoken to. We’ll go straightaway.’

  ‘Oh, me gawd,’ gasped Lily, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you, Mrs Andrews, me dad’s—’

  ‘Come along,’ said Mother.

  Dad let her go with Lily. He felt the best way to cure her was to keep giving her her head. She came back ten minutes later, and at an undignified run. Lily’s dad was roaring after her, despite his stiff leg. Mother rushed into the house. Behind her, Lily’s dad reached the open front door. From there he bawled at her as she ran through the passage to the sanctuary of the family kitchen.

  ‘Yer daft loony!’ Lily’s dad let himself go. ‘What d’yer think you’re playin’ at, comin’ round my ’ouse and pokin’ me with that bleedin’ umbrella? You there, Jack Andrews, are yer? Well, keep yer daft missus to yerself, or she’ll send us all barmy.’

  Dad went to the door. ‘No ’ard feelings, Gus,’ he said. ‘Maudie’s got ideas lately about doin’ good works.’

  ‘Well, don’t think I don’t sympathize with yer,’ said Lily’s mottled dad, ‘only I don’t want ’er doin’ any good work on me, it’ll aggravate me rheumatics. I dunno, I can ’ardly walk back ’ome as it is. Come right in with Lily, she did, talkin’ about blasphemous sinners and pokin’ me with that umbrella of ’ers. I asks yer, Jack, is that neighbourly, is it friendly?’

  ‘Just a notion she’s got about makin’ us all good Christians,’ said Dad.

  ‘That’s ’er game, is it? Well, ask ’er to leave me out, I ain’t partial to bein’ a good Christian, I just want to mind me own business an’ give me rheumatics a rest, I don’t want umbrellas pokin’ it about.’

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ said Dad. By the time he got rid of his aggrieved neighbour, Mother had decided she wouldn’t make cocoa, after all, that it was too rich. She wanted to empty the contents of the tin into the sink and flush it away. Jimmy was thwarting her, saying it would do more good to give it all to the poor.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘and while you’re about it, give everything else away too
, except the bread.’

  Dad said he’d brought home some free packets of tea and a tin of mixed biscuits from the firm. He couldn’t give those away to the poor, the firm’s rule was that such things were only for employees and their families, and he’d get the sack if he broke the rule. Mother said that didn’t sound like a Christian rule, and Dad said it had to be because the manager was a churchwarden in Streatham. Mother asked why everyone was arguing with her.

  ‘I ain’t,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Nor me, am I, Dad?’ said Betsy.

  ‘Stop bein’ contradict’ry, or I’ll make you say the Ten Commandments twice over in a minute,’ said Mother.

  Later, when she and Dad were in bed, Dad said, ‘If you’ve got to be religious, I suppose you’ve got to be, but take it easy with Betsy and Patsy.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doin’, bein’ in bed with you while I’m sayin’ my prayers,’ said Mother, ‘it’s just not decent.’

  Dad sighed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Saturday morning and Dad was up first, as usual. As he didn’t have to get to the London Bridge depot until nine o’clock on Saturdays, he was making the breakfast porridge. Although Mother was up and dressed too, she was still in their bedroom doing some religious contemplation. She had refused to say exactly what happened in Whitechapel the afternoon before, but he could guess. The East End cockneys didn’t mind the Salvation Army, but they had no time for people who came and preached at them.

  Mother appeared when Patsy, Jimmy and Betsy were down, and Dad began to dole out the porridge from the saucepan.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Mother.

  ‘The usual porridge,’ said Dad.

  ‘I don’t like all this rich livin’,’ said Mother.

  ‘It’s only porridge,’ said Patsy.

  ‘With syrup,’ said Dad, ‘as it’s Bank Holiday weekend.’ He put a tin of Tate and Lyle’s golden syrup on the table. That was another gratuity from his firm.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Betsy in bliss. ‘I didn’t know we ’ad that in the larder, Dad.’

  ‘Brought it home last night,’ said Dad.