‘A human emotion under the circumstances, sister,’ said Father Peter gently, laying a warm hand of understanding on her shoulder.
‘Leave everything to us, Father,’ said Mother Joan, ‘we’ll arrange the supply of food and clothing. Saddle up, sisters, and let’s head for the fences with Father Luke.’
‘It’s condonin’ sin to deal with fences, sister,’ said Father Luke. ‘They ’andle stolen goods.’
‘No, no, the Lord’s fences, you chump,’ said Mother Joan. ‘The challenge He offers for us to jump them and keep us on the right path.’
‘I bless your excursion, sister,’ said Father Peter. ‘I have work to do here, examining and instructing new members. Our work in Hyde Park has borne precious fruit.’
‘West End shops, sister?’ enquired Mother Verity. She and the others, Mother Joan, Mother Mary, Mother Ruth and Father Luke, were on their way.
‘Not likely,’ said Mother Joan. ‘They’ll rob us blind. No, East End shops, sister. Best prices and a knowledge of the kind of food that’s most suitable. They’ll sell us tinned calves’ tongues cooked in jelly in the West End. I’d say bully beef would be a lot more welcome, by George. Forward, sisters.’
‘I’ve got my umbrella,’ said Mother Mary.
‘Keep it at the ready, sister,’ said Mother Joan, ‘a few noddles might need to be thumped.’
‘Could yer repeat that, lady?’ asked the grocer in Commercial Street.
‘I asked what food you’d supply to a family in need,’ said Mother Joan, vigorously buxom.
‘On tick, yer mean?’
‘Certainly not. State the suitable commodities, enough to go in a large carrier bag. And if your price is right, we’ll want enough for fifty bags.’
‘Gawd stone the crows,’ said the grocer, a little man with a large moustache. ‘’Ow many?’
‘Fifty.’
‘Full up? Fifty carrier bags full up?’
‘Yes, and full up with what, may I ask?’ Mother Joan was in a formidable mood.
‘’Ere, give us ’arf a mo’ to get me breath back, lady. Let’s see. Flour, sugar, dried fruit, bakin’ ingredients, tinned corned beef, bread, marge, potatoes – I got potatoes – porridge oats, eggs, condensed milk—’ The grocer paused. ‘Excuse me, lady, but who’s payin’?’
‘I am. With a cheque.’
‘’Old it, lady, it don’t become me business to take cheques. It ain’t Christmas, yer know, an’ nor ain’t I Santy Claus. Fifty carrier bags full up with me goods an’ yer offerin’ a cheque? ’Ave a ’eart, lady.’
‘The Lord shall know you for your miserable distrust,’ said Mother Joan. ‘Where can I cash a cheque hereabouts?’
‘Ah, well, I might be able to ’elp yer there. Charlie, look after the shop a bit.’
‘I gotcher, Dad,’ said a young man in a white apron. He looked as if he was guarding the open sacks of comestibles that lined the floor against the counter.
The grocer took the lady Repenters and Father Luke to a watch and clock shop two doors down. It was dark, dusty and ancient, and crammed with timepieces of every kind. Behind the counter and under a small gaslight sat the proprietor, a glass in his eye, through which he was peering at the dismantled works of a pocket watch. He looked up, took the glass from his eye, and his dark beard came apart to reveal white smiling teeth.
‘Veil, veil, vhat a pleasant day to be sure,’ he said, rising. ‘Good afternoon, ladies, and velcome to my shop. Vhat can I do for you?’
‘Meet me friend, Mr Solly Rubenstein,’ said the grocer. ‘A cheque, Solly, they’d like you to cash a cheque. If I could leave you ladies to it, I’ll work out a price for a full carrier bag times fifty, though I’ll tell yer now, it’s likely to come to nigh on a quid a bag.’
‘What discount?’ asked Mother Joan.
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t fiddle about.’
‘Well, I won’t say it ain’t a fairish order, lady, very fairish, nor can I say it ain’t worth a bit of discount. I’ll work that out too. Give ’em yer best quality service, Solly.’ The grocer disappeared.
‘A cheque, vas it, lady?’ asked Solly Rubenstein.
‘Can you cash me a hundred pounds?’ asked Mother Joan.
Solly Rubenstein blinked and coughed.
‘My dear, vhat vas that figure?’
‘A hundred pounds,’ said Mother Joan.
‘Vhat a painful day,’ sighed Mr Rubenstein. ‘Five pounds, who vould argue over that? Ten pounds, veil, that might raise a small argument for the good of my health, but a hundred pounds, my dear? Tck, tck, do you vish me to fall ill?’
‘Why should you fall ill? That’s ridiculous. You’re in business, aren’t you?’ Mother Joan was in a no-nonsense mood. ‘And you have just been recommended to me by the grocer.’
‘True, true, lady, but a hundred pounds and not having the pleasure of being acquainted vith you, veil, that’s awkward, on my vord it is.’
‘I don’t like unobligin’ men,’ murmured Mother Mary.
‘Patience, sister,’ whispered Mother Ruth.
‘Come along, Mr Rubenstein, yes or no, I won’t stand for hedging and muttering,’ said Mother Joan.
Solly Rubenstein looked her over. A lady, of course. ‘Veil, your name and address, perhaps?’ he ventured.
‘Georgina Blake-Huntingdon, the Temple of Penitence, Bloomsbury,’ said Mother Joan crisply. That, she thought, would do nicely, even though her name was Honoria. She had already signed the cheques with her husband’s name, G. Blake-Huntingdon. The forgery was a Christian gesture in view of the cause.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Rubenstein. A sect, of course, and they all looked like highly respectable ladies, except for the plump gent in a top hat. He looked like their portly shepherd. ‘Vell now, madam, for a hundred pounds might I mention collateral?’
Collateral sounded indecent to Mother Mary, and she took a firmer grip on her umbrella. But Mother Joan, because of her faith in the objective, took off a glove and slipped a diamond ring from a finger. She placed it on the dusty counter. Mr Rubenstein put the glass into his eye socket and examined the ring.
‘Well?’ said Mother Joan.
He removed the glass. ‘Should I argue vith a ring like this?’ he said.
‘I don’t advise it,’ said Mother Joan. ‘I’ll call the police if you attempt to defame its value.’
Mr Rubenstein looked at her in horror. ‘Should ve even mention such a thing, madam? Vhy, that vould make us all ill. I vill accept the collateral and cash your cheque for a small charge.’
‘How small?’ demanded Mother Joan.
‘Vell, no more than ten per cent, and who could say fairer?’
‘Ten per cent is ten pounds, Mr Rubenstein.’
‘Disgustin’,’ said Mother Mary. ‘I’ll give ’im ten per cent.’
‘Five per cent,’ said Mother Joan.
‘Dear my soul,’ said Mr Rubenstein, ‘that’s hard, madam, hard.’
‘Five per cent,’ said Mother Joan, ‘and I’m in a hurry, too much so to go to the City branch of the bank. Yes or no, Mr Rubenstein?’
‘Vell,’ said Mr Rubenstein cautiously.
‘Done,’ said Mother Joan briskly.
‘I vill accept the loss,’ said Mr Rubenstein.
‘Fiddlesticks,’ said Mother Joan, and took a cheque from her handbag, with a fountain pen. She filled it in, copying her husband’s scrawling handwriting to match the signature, already forged. Mr Rubenstein examined the cheque. ‘I’ll return for the ring in five days,’ said Mother Joan.
‘Vhen perhaps I might have the pleasure of offering for it?’
‘Perhaps. We’ll see. Now give me ninety-five pounds, please.’
When they were out of the shop, Father Luke said, ‘Well, I can’t say I ever saw a more Christian performance than that, Mother Joan, and I’ve seen some in me time. Mind you, I got to thinkin’ suppose it bounces?’
‘Bounces, Father Luke?’ said Mother Verity.
‘He m
eans if the bank refuses to honour the cheque,’ said Mother Joan.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Mother Ruth, a little askance at the act of forgery.
‘So embarrassing,’ said Mother Verity.
‘Bang goes yer ring, Mother Joan,’ said Father Luke, shaking his head.
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Mother Joan. ‘Count it that we fell at one fence. We shall remount unhurt. Worldly goods are expendable. Come, back to the grocer.’
The street was dingy. Even the traffic looked limply dingy. But the grocer was cheerful and welcoming. Even his moustache looked perky.
‘Me friend Solly obliged yer, ladies?’ he asked.
‘He did,’ said Mother Joan.
‘Ain’t it a kind world, lady? Now, I’ve got a list made out of a boxful of goods, which’ll be times fifty—’
‘A boxful?’
‘Well, a carrier bag’s limitin’, like, and yer’ll get squashin’ and squeezin’, which won’t do the eggs no good, and if yer mean to be really good-’earted, eggs’ll be like Christmas ’as come for the fam’lies concerned. I can supply the boxes, grocery cardboard boxes, which I won’t charge yer no more than a penny each for, and ’ere’s me list of ’ighly recommended contents.’
Mother Joan studied the pencilled list: flour, a two-pound bag, sugar, a two-pound bag, four pounds of rice, pound of tea, four tins of condensed milk, two pounds of mixed dried fruit, a large tin of corned beef, two pounds of margarine, a large packet of porridge oats, a dozen eggs, two large loaves and other items. The cost of a boxful came to sixteen shillings and sevenpence. The grocer pointed out the gross cost was actually seventeen and sevenpence, that he was giving a bob discount on every boxful.
‘Sixpence, I fancy,’ said Mother Joan.
‘Eh?’ said the grocer.
‘Nearer sixpence.’
‘Well, I did it approximate, like, an’ you could say it’s somewhere near to a bob.’
‘I’ll pay sixteen shillings and sixpence for each boxful,’ said Mother Joan. ‘It’s the Lord’s bounty.’
‘Eh? Well, yes, see what yer mean, lady, the Lord’s charity, eh? They could do with a lot of that round ’ere. When d’yer want all the stuff ready? Yer got certain perishables to think about. And I got one or two items to order on account of yer large an’ valued commission.’
‘Friday, I think,’ said Mother Joan. ‘Have them all ready by mid-morning on Friday.’
‘Right y’ar,’ said the grocer. ‘Would yer kindly do me the honour of showin’ me the colour of yer money, and offerin’ twenty-five per cent in advance to show a bit of goodwill, lady?’
‘Very well,’ said Mother Joan, and took the roll of banknotes from her handbag. ‘Ten pounds, I think, would be fair enough.’
‘Yes, that’s fair do’s, lady, and I’m obliged to yer. ’Ere, where you off to, Charlie?’
‘Just got to see a man about a dog, Dad,’ said Charlie, and slipped out of the shop.
Mother Joan inspected a sample cardboard box of a size that would comfortably contain the goods, thanked the grocer and asked him if he could recommend a good clothier’s where comfortable and durable overcoats could be purchased for adults and children, jerseys for boys, frocks for girls and boots for everyone.
‘Isaac’s, High Street, missus. Isaac’s Ware’ouse, fit the Chinese out from ’ead to ’eel, he could, an’ there’s a hundred million of them, I’ve ’eard.’
‘Good. Splendid. And if you’ve sinned, repent and you shall find the kingdom of heaven.’
‘Kind of yer, lady, I’ll ’ave some of that when I’ve got time from earnin’ me livin’.’
The ladies, escorted by a beaming Father Luke, left the shop and went on to Whitechapel High Street. There they found Isaac’s Warehouse, and the amiable proprietor himself, a gentleman who regarded every customer as the joy of his life. Nothing was too much trouble for him in his desire to satisfy, and the only time joy departed from him was when he failed to satisfy and the customer left without buying anything. That did not happen too often. What did happen, often, was a customer going off wondering why he’d bought three pairs of braces and a pair of trousers when all he’d wanted was a belt. Isaac Sutch was an endearing salesman. He was delighted to meet the ladies of the League of Repenters, and to congratulate Father Luke on his well-fitting frock-coat. He could offer him an even better-fitting one at cut price. He was overwhelmed with happiness to know what Mother Joan was after. Overcoats by the dozen for adults and children? Boots? Jerseys? Frocks? Moses be praised. All prices would be slashed. No, no, he would ask for no money until the order was delivered to Bloomsbury, except perhaps for a small deposit. He could recognize ladies when he saw them, and a gentleman. Ladies from everywhere were his customers. A cheque? Of course, of course, Lady Roseberry always paid by cheque. He would only ask for delivery to be made when the cheque had been cleared, purely as a matter of friendly business, of course. What a day of joy to be of service to such customers, the details would be written down immediately. The whole cheque would be paid now? What could be happier than settlement before delivery? Such trust was of a kind to bring tears to the eyes. So, to the details.
They emerged eventually in satisfaction. Father Luke declared himself a total admirer of Mother Joan and her sister Repenters. Mother Mary declared things were improving, she hadn’t had any call to use her umbrella.
‘I’d like to mention that Mrs Murphy could do with improvin’,’ said Father Luke, as they made their way to the London Underground, ‘she still ain’t saltin’ the potatoes, yer know, sisters.’
‘A small thing, Father Luke,’ said Mother Ruth. ‘Let us be grateful for all that we receive at the table.’
‘Amen,’ said Mother Mary, ‘we don’t want gluttony raisin’ its sinful ’ead.’
Street kids scurried about, darting between the ladies, and Mother Verity sighed at their thinness and shabbiness, but marvelled at their energy and at the giggling laughter of little girls being chased. A man, bare-headed and in a blue jersey, his trousers threadbare, approached, carrying a young girl. She was giggling, too, at him. Mother Verity quivered. He glanced at her as he passed the walking group. A cynical smile showed. Mother Verity went impulsively after him.
‘Sir,’ she called. He stopped and turned. The girl, face smudged but hair brushed and shining, stared at her. ‘Sir, pardon me, please, but may I ask you a question?’
Will Fletcher, tall but lean with privation, said, ‘Gawd help us, don’t tell me you’ve been carryin’ the ’oly word to Christian Street again.’
‘No, there are things we must first do for the people before we go there again, Mr Fletcher.’
‘Hear that, Lulu? I’m Mr Fletcher to this ’oly lady.’
‘She give me sixpence,’ said Lulu.
‘The girl is not your daughter, you said?’ enquired Mother Verity.
‘I lodge with ’er fam’ly, that’s all,’ said Will Fletcher, and his smile was there, a smile she’d come to recognize as mirthless. ‘Look, lady, I’m sorry I was a bit rough with yer, but I happen to be out of patience with your kind. You can believe in the goodness of the Lord as much as you like, but don’t expect me to, even if I don’t feel proud of meself for man’ andling yer. You go your way, lady, just let me go mine.’
‘I believe most of all in helping the suffering,’ said Mother Verity, a little flush on her face because his blue eyes seemed so cynical and searching. ‘Mr Fletcher, may I ask if you served in the war?’
‘It shows, does it?’
‘Yes, Mr Fletcher, it does, and I think one of the reasons why it shows so bitterly is because the country has already forgotten you, and hasn’t even bothered to reward you with a job. Is that so, Mr Fletcher?’
‘Well, hell an’ the devil,’ said Will Fletcher, ‘you’re speechifyin’ me.’
‘I am only trying to say I understand.’
‘After what I did to you in front of all those people?’ he said.
‘That is forgotten and for
given,’ she said, although it was not forgotten.
‘You’re a funny woman.’
‘I should like to talk to you sometimes about the consolation the Lord can bring to all of us,’ she said.
‘Oh, my achin’ ribs,’ said Will Fletcher, and laughed. Lulu, finding the laughter infectious, giggled. ‘You’re on a hidin’ to nothing there, lady.’
‘I am Miss Celia Stokes.’
‘Well, good for you, Miss Celia Stokes, but do me a favour an’ don’t come round offerin’ me the Lord’s consolation. Say goodbye, Lulu lovey.’
‘Goo’bye,’ said Lulu.
‘I wish yer well,’ said Will Fletcher, and off he went, Lulu joggling in his arms.
Mother Mary arrived. ‘That was that disgustin’ brute,’ she said. ‘Oh, you poor thing, sister, I was sure ’e was goin’ to be outrageous again, but I ’ad me umbrella ready.’
‘He’s a man who needs help, sister.’
‘I’ll give ’im help,’ said Mother Mary. ‘Still, I suppose the Lord does expect us to do what we can even for him.’
‘I’m sure He does, sister. Come along, let’s catch the others up.’
They renewed contact at a moment when two men, one short and thin, one large and thickset, approached in a talkative vein. The large man suddenly veered, shouldering Father Luke and Mother Ruth aside. The short man darted and made a lightning grab at Mother Joan’s handbag, who was being momentarily isolated. Father Luke, outraged at finding himself sprawling on the pavement, jumped up.
‘’Old on, sister, ’old on, I’ll go an’ find a copper!’ And off he went, as fast as his plump legs would carry him.
Mother Joan struggled to retain her handbag.
‘The very idea! You scoundrel! Let go!’ The strap of the handbag was slipping down her left arm, she clutching the bag itself with her right hand.
‘Give it ’ere, yer fat old cow!’ hissed the thief.
Mother Mary sprang into action. She dealt the sinful villain a punitive blow over his capped head. Her umbrella shivered and descended again. The large man went for her. She stopped him by ramming the point of the brolly into his breadbasket. People in the street looked, walked on and did nothing. A shopkeeper, standing at his open door, retreated to the interior. A woman, entering Isaac’s, informed the proprietor that a robbery was taking place, at which Isaac deplored what the world was coming to and asked for the happiness of serving her.
The Pearly Queen Page 14