The Pearly Queen

by Mary Jane Staples

  Sophy was insistent, and they worked together building the bonfire, Jimmy using his gloved hands to cope with thorn and bramble, Sophy pulling at less harmful stuff. The bonfire began to mount. Jimmy went for a pitchfork at that stage. Sophy called to him to bring her one too. Resigned, he did so. They used the pitchforks to dig into the raked mounds of debris and to add them to the growing mountain. Jimmy was quick and efficient, Sophy exuberant and careless.

  ‘Up she goes!’ she cried, showering debris.

  ‘Look, d’you mind not chuckin’ it over me?’ said Jimmy, brushing stuff from his hair.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ said Sophy, ‘and don’t stand in my way.’ She brought more tangled debris on her pitchfork. A girl of the outdoors, the sun had turned her face golden. She jerked upwards with the pitchfork. Twigs, grass and other stuff went up into the air and fell back over her.

  ‘That’s clever, that is,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Oh, blimey,’ said Sophy, and brushed bits and pieces from her hair and frock leaving dust marks on both. ‘Oh, well, never mind, all in a day’s work.’

  Jimmy brought a large forkful and neatly deposited it. Sophy chucked her next load all over the place and yelled with laughter as scythed hay landed on Jimmy’s head.

  ‘Well, thanks for your help,’ he said. ‘Now go and have a nice time somewhere and I’ll carry on.’

  ‘I’m having a nice time here,’ she said. She wouldn’t go, she stayed with him, worked with him, bossed him about, ran around picking up light broken branches, tossed them on to the mountain of debris, talked all the time and got in his way. There was grass in her hair, dust on her face and a tear in her frock.

  ‘Oh, crikey,’ said Jimmy, taking a look at her.

  Her eyes bright, she said, ‘It’s jolly blissful, messing about. I like messing about, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not messin’ about,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’m workin’.’

  ‘Sophy?’ A voice called. ‘Are you down there, doing your sketching?’

  ‘Oh, corks,’ said Sophy, and ran towards the line of beeches. Coming to a stop, she called, ‘Is that you, Mummy?’

  ‘Oh, you are there. Are you doing your sketching?’

  ‘Pardon, Mummy?’

  ‘Come up here, where I can seer you.’

  ‘I’m all right, Mummy.’

  ‘Are you with your father?’

  ‘Daddy’s with the men sawing, I don’t want to get in the way and get sawn up.’

  ‘Thank God for that. What are you sketching?’

  ‘Pardon, Mummy?’

  ‘What are you sketching?’

  ‘Well, there’s lot of things, wild flowers and everything.’

  ‘If you see the boy Jimmy, keep out of his way.’

  ‘Yes, he’s ever so busy, Mummy. I don’t mind helping him, if you like.’

  ‘God help him if you do. Just get on with your sketching.’

  ‘Yes, Mummy, I’ll go and look for my sketch book, I put it down somewhere. Can I have some lemonade later?’

  ‘When the whistle blows. Behave yourself now, and don’t get your frock grubby.’

  ‘No, Mummy.’

  When she rejoined Jimmy she had a thick sketch book and a box of crayons with her. She put them down on the ground. Jimmy looked at her. The ribbon in her hair was loose and dangling, her hair itself all over the place, her frock covered with bits and pieces.

  ‘I think you’d better do some sketchin’, like your mum says.’

  ‘Yes, in a minute.’ Sophy was quick to engage herself again with a rake.

  ‘It sorrows me that you’re a fibber,’ said Jimmy, working on a new area.

  ‘Blessed impudence,’ said Sophy. ‘I didn’t fib to Mummy.’

  ‘You did to me. You told me your mum said it was all right for you to ’elp me.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Sophy. ‘Well, I can always tell Mummy you made me.’

  ‘Oh, crikey,’ said Jimmy, ‘I knew I’d got trouble. Listen, you’d better do a bit of sketchin’, your mum’s bound to ask to see some.’

  ‘All right,’ said Sophy, and sat down on the ground. She opened up the sketch book and the box of crayons, looked up at Jimmy, saw him start work again, and began to sketch.

  Jimmy enjoyed a quiet fifteen minutes. Then, at ten-thirty, a whistle blew.

  ‘Is that for the lemonade?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophy, head bent over her sketching. ‘Jimmy, could you bring mine, I don’t think I’ll go up, in case – yes, you bring mine. There’ll be biscuits as well. Ask for a tray.’

  ‘Don’t fall down a hole while I’m gone,’ said Jimmy, and he heard her giggle as he went up through the paths to the terrace. It wasn’t Mr Hodges who was there with the lemonade, it was Mrs Gibbs, looking corking, he thought, in a lovely lilac summer dress.

  ‘So there you are, Jimmy,’ she said, smiling down at him as he came up the steps.

  ‘Hullo, Mrs Gibbs,’ he said. There was a tray on an ornamental garden table. He saw two glasses of home-made lemonade and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘You look very workman-like, young man,’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘Yes, I’ve only tripped over the apron once, Mrs Gibbs, I think it must’ve been made for a six-feet-six bloke, don’t you?’

  Mrs Gibbs smiled again. What a very nice boy he was. He came from Walworth, he looked a growing young man, and his frank and open grey eyes gave her the impression that far from being afraid of life, he’d fight it all the way. Just like her husband, a Brixton cockney, who’d challenged life at every turn and made of himself the kind of man she admired. Mrs Gibbs took very warmly to Jimmy at that moment.

  ‘Well, any old apron will do to prevent you tearing your jersey to pieces, won’t it?’ she said. ‘There’s your lemonade and biscuits, and where’s that harum-scarum daughter of mine? Climbing a tree, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘I saw her doin’ some sketchin’, Mrs Gibbs.’ Jimmy knew Sophy was going to be in the soup on account of the state of her frock, and dirt all over her hair and face, but one principle was sacred to Walworth boys: if someone was going to be in the soup, you did your best either to keep them out of it or to make sure the soup wasn’t too hot. ‘Oh, and I think I’ve got to apologize, Mrs Gibbs. She just came to say hullo to me, which was nice of her, I must say, but I didn’t see ’er comin’, I crossed her path and accident’lly tripped her up. I’m very sorry, Mrs Gibbs.’

  Mrs Gibbs gave him a searching look. Jimmy was as grave as an owl. ‘I see, Jimmy. You tripped her up. Is her condition fatal?’

  ‘Beg your pardon, Mrs Gibbs?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Mrs Gibbs smiled again. ‘Where is she? Why hasn’t she come up for her lemonade?’

  ‘Oh, she’s probably gone deaf from concentratin’ on her sketchin’,’ said Jimmy. ‘I go deaf myself when I’m doin’ something I’ve got to think seriously about. I just ’ope I’m not in a deaf condition if our house ever catches fire and I don’t hear the fire engines. I don’t like thinkin’ about that sort of thing, do you, Mrs Gibbs?’

  Mrs Gibbs laughed. ‘I’m an optimist myself, Jimmy.’

  ‘Yes, I think you make a very nice optimist, Mrs Gibbs. Shall I take Sophy’s lemonade to her? I think I know where she is, I think I know where to find her.’

  ‘Very well, Jimmy, and when you do find her tell her if she returns to the house looking like last year’s ragbag, I’ll sell her to the dustmen when they next call.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell ’er that, Mrs Gibbs. Shall I take the tray?’

  ‘Do that, Jimmy,’ said Mrs Gibbs and stood on the terrace watching him as he carried the tray down the path and disappeared into the jungle. She heard him whistling, and felt rather touched that her husband had given the boy the chance to earn himself some money. Sophy was down there with him, of course, and doing her precocious best to torment the life out of him. Mrs Gibbs hoped Jimmy would give as good as he got. She had a feeling he would.

  ‘You haven’t been very quick,’ sai
d Sophy as Jimmy arrived with the tray.

  ‘Well, your mum and me had a talk,’ said Jimmy. He put the tray down on the ground and gave the girl a glass of lemonade. She was sitting with her sketch book on her lap.

  ‘You didn’t tell her where I was, did you?’ said Sophy.

  ‘I said I thought I knew where to find you, so she let me bring the tray. And I gave her a sort of warnin’ that you might look a bit of a shock to ’er when she next sees you.’

  ‘Listen, you blessed boy, don’t you tell my mother things like that.’

  ‘Listen, faceache, your mum’s goin’ to sell you to the dustmen if you go back to the house lookin’ like a ragbag.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Sophy, ‘if you call me faceache again, I’ll kick you silly.’

  ‘Yes, you would, too,’ said Jimmy, drinking his lemonade. ‘I bet you’re a danger to human life. I told your mum I accident’lly tripped you up, so she’ll expect you to look a bit of a ragbag. Just don’t get to look like last year’s, that’s all.’

  ‘You cheeky beast,’ said Sophy.

  Jimmy ate a biscuit, then went back to his work. He began to build a pile for another bonfire, as Mr Gibbs had told him to. He liked the work, he liked the activity of it. Sophy appeared beside him, stooping to pick up the heavier debris and to throw it on the pile.

  ‘No, not yet,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’m buildin’ a cradle first.’ He showed her: one layer of sticks first, then another layer crossways over it, and so on.

  ‘Oh, I’ll get bits of branches like sticks,’ said Sophy, and off she went to search and rummage. Jimmy made a wide sweep of the littered clearing, finding his own kind of kindling.

  He heard a yell. ‘Jimmy, come here!’ He took a look. There she was, trapped in a tangle of stuff. Away to the left, axes and saws were at work, weedy saplings falling. He walked up to her. Her legs were buried in a forest of ferns, the skirt of her dress caught by smashed bramble.

  ‘I don’t think that looks too good,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Sophy. ‘What a blessed clever boy, what a shame you look like a boiled cauliflower. Well, don’t just stand there, do something!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ve got to say that, I’ve got to say I’m sorry, because I’m afraid you’re stuck. Never mind, when I’ve finished me morning’s work, I’ll go and find your dad. I expect ’e’ll be able to do something.’ And he went back to his work, Sophy left in a state of disbelief.

  ‘Oh, you rotten boy! Come back, do you hear? Oh, crikey, you wait, I’ll hate you for ever, Jimmy Andrews, I’ll never speak to you again, so there!’

  ‘Is that a promise?’ called Jimmy, piling debris over the cradle.

  ‘Yes, it is! Oh, I’ve never met a rottener boy, I feel sick at letting you save my life.’ Sophy was sure she was sinking deeper, chopped bramble taking hold of her frock.

  ‘Well, all right, if it’s a promise,’ said Jimmy. There was a pair of heavy secateurs in a spare wheelbarrow. He slipped off his right glove, picked them up and returned to the trapped girl. He began to cut the clinging pieces of bramble to bits, pulling them away.

  ‘Oh, my hero,’ said Sophy wickedly.

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t speak,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to, I’m not going to actually speak to you, I’m just going to say things, that’s all.’

  ‘Stand still,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Well, I like that,’ said Sophy. ‘If I could stop standing still I could get out, couldn’t I? Look what you’ve done to my frock.’

  ‘Listen, faceache—’

  ‘I’ll kick you.’

  ‘Your frock’s had too many fights with thorny bits,’ said Jimmy, ‘it’s nothing to do with me.’ He cleared away the bramble. Sophy didn’t step free from the ferns, she jumped free. The skirt of her frock ripped.

  ‘Oh, help,’ she said, ‘now look what we’ve done.’

  ‘Now look what you’ve done, you mean,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Mummy’s going to have something to say to you. Oh, well, it can’t be helped, let’s get on.’

  Jimmy was already getting on. Sophy began to dart about again, to drag and haul broken branches. Jimmy hauled larger ones. He’d done his best to discourage her, but Sophy had no intention of being left out of activity like this, especially not when she had as a companion a boy even more active than she was. She acquired another tear in her frock.

  The several acres had become a woodland run wild. The landscape gardeners called in to tame it and make a parkland of it had an immense task on their hands for months. The sounds of their saws and axes was constant.

  A voice broke through. ‘Heavens above, can this be true?’

  They turned. Sophy’s mother was there. Mrs Gibbs had been unable to resist coming to investigate.

  ‘Oh, crikey,’ said Sophy. Her hair was a mess, her ribbon gone, her frock torn and grubby, and there were smuts on her face.

  ‘You horror,’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘Me?’ said Sophy.

  ‘Can that be the frock you put on this morning?’

  ‘It’s only an old one, Mummy.’

  ‘This is only the second time you’ve worn it. What’s happened to it, have you been attacked by tigers? Are there tigers in this jungle?’

  ‘Mummy, of course not, and they’re only little tears.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Gibbs,’ said Jimmy, ‘but when I accident’lly tripped her up, there was bramble in the way.’

  ‘Yes, honestly, Mummy, it’s all over the place, you’ll have to speak to Daddy about it.’

  ‘Yes, there is a lot of it, Mrs Gibbs,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Yes, isn’t there?’ said Mrs Gibbs, quite aware that the boy was trying to protect her daughter. ‘Please carry on, Jimmy. You come with me, miss.’

  ‘But, Mummy, we’re busy,’ protested Sophy.

  ‘You’re a horror,’ said Mrs Gibbs, ‘and you’re destined for the dustbin. Pick up your sketch book and come with me.’

  ‘Oh, corks, it’s the lash, I bet,’ said Sophy, and went with her mother, picking up her sketch book and box of crayons on the way. Following her, she said, ‘I don’t know how Jimmy’s going to manage without me, Mummy. I mean, what’s Daddy going to say when he finds out I’ve had to stop helping?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what he’s going to say, I’m hoping he’ll smack your bottom.’

  ‘I’ll leave home,’ said Sophy.

  ‘Good,’ said Mrs Gibbs. They reached the terrace. ‘Sophy, I despair of you. Heavens, you’re thirteen, not nine, you dreadful girl. What am I going to do with you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose there’s much you can do now, Mummy, I suppose I’m going to be a dreadful girl all my life.’

  ‘Over my dead body, you are,’ said Mrs Gibbs, who always had a terrible problem trying to keep a straight face whenever she had this kind of dialogue with her irrepressible daughter. ‘You’re going to turn over a new leaf this holiday, and go about with girls who have managed to become acceptable young ladies.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Sophy. ‘I don’t like girls, they’re soppy, can’t I go about with Jimmy? After all, he did save my life.’

  ‘That young man comes from a family not as fortunate as ours, Sophy, and your father is giving him a little work here. It’s not very fair of you, is it, to make yourself a nuisance to him because you want him as some kind of toy. I’m not going to let you do that, he’s too nice a boy to be used for your amusement.’

  ‘Mummy, what an awful thing to say, I don’t know how to forgive you, but I’ll have to, all girls have to forgive their mothers.’

  ‘I’m grateful, of course,’ said Mrs Gibbs, ‘but you’re going to spend the rest of the day up here, where I can keep my eye on you. Go and change that frock, and wash your hands and face, then do some serious sketching. What have you done so far?’

  ‘Well, I kept getting interrupted, so I’ve only done one,’ said Sophy, ‘it’s nothing much.’

  ‘Show
me.’ Mrs Gibbs knew the necessity of being firm with her daughter, who was spoiled outrageously by her doting father. A little reluctantly, Sophy opened her sketch book and showed her mother a black crayon drawing of the boy she’d been having fun with. Mrs Gibbs regarded it with a little shock of instant pleasure for her daughter’s undoubted talent. It was a gifted black and white impression of Jimmy’s head and shoulders.

  ‘Darling, that’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Don’t throw talent like that away.’

  Sophy was a reluctant scholar. ‘Mummy, I don’t have to be up here sketching all day, do I? Not all day.’

  ‘You can do other things, but you’re not to lose yourself in that jungle again,’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘Oh, lor’, what a life,’ said Sophy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘That’s the spirit, Father,’ said Mother Joan. She was back from Berkshire, with several blank cheques in her handbag. ‘No point in making the battle more difficult. A rattling good nosebag and—’

  ‘Nosebag, sister?’ queried Father Peter.

  ‘Bags of fodder,’ said Mother Joan, ‘and clothes as well. No good ignoring their stomachs and backs. Remember how our Lord fed the five thousand, and I daresay He’d have provided them with winter vests too, if necessary.’

  ‘Ah, to the poor shall be given the sustenance and warmth that will mellow their hardened souls,’ said Father Peter.

  ‘My idea precisely,’ said Mother Joan.

  ‘Some of their souls need a good hidin’,’ said Mother Mary.

  ‘We must be charitable, sister,’ said Mother Verity.

  ‘’Ear, ’ear,’ said Father Luke, ‘I’m all for the Lord’s bounty bein’ provided to the poor through the charitable ’ands of Mother Joan, and to us through the charitable ’ands of Father Peter. Ah, them ’ardened souls, don’t the Lord say judge not and you won’t be judged yourselves? I wasn’t too ’appy about them thievin’ our new urn, the price of which came out of Father Peter’s gen’rous pocket, but then I said to meself, Father Luke, I said, we put temptation in the way of people who don’t ’ave urns, which was a sin.’

  ‘For which we are duly penitent,’ said Father Peter.

  ‘Mind, I was a bit vexed,’ said Mother Mary.