The Pearly Queen

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Oh, you’re the young madam’s pet as well,’ said Mrs Redfern, giving Ada a plump wink.

  ‘I saw that, Mrs Redfern,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Jimmy, we’ll send a nice wreath,’ said Mrs Redfern.

  ‘And our respectful wishes that you’ll be ’appy in ’eaven,’ said Ada, who found it a lovely lark to tease him. She knew Jimmy would have his own back one way or another. You couldn’t tease Percy. He just talked over it, he just didn’t recognize it, he just talked and talked, he didn’t half like the sound of his own voice. Not that he didn’t have some likeable ways, only although he was two years older than Jimmy, he didn’t seem as grown up.

  ‘I will make a contribution myself,’ announced Mr Hodges in dignified sympathy.

  ‘Oh, yer poor lad, Jimmy,’ said Ivy.

  ‘All right, I’ll go quietly,’ said Jimmy. ‘I suppose I’ll ’ave to,’ he added, ‘if I’m dead.’

  Ada stifled shrieks, and cook laughed until her tears run.

  ‘You’re a one, you are, Jimmy,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I’d better go an’ do some work while I’m still alive,’ he said.

  Ada followed him out to the terrace. ‘It’s awful for you, Jimmy, bein’ the young madam’s pet and goin’ to your doom because of it. Still, it’s been really nice knowin’ you.’

  ‘Nice knowin’ you too, Ada,’ said Jimmy, and took something from his jacket pocket. ‘Here, this is me deathbed gift to you.’ And he put a half-pound bar of Peters milk chocolate into her hand. Ada’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘For me, it’s for me?’ she said.

  ‘You’ve been a nice kind girl to me,’ said Jimmy, ‘’specially while the fam’ly’s been away. Mind, I’m watchin’ you, young Ada, and all your sauce, I know when you’re bein’ larky.’

  ‘Jimmy, thanks ever so much for this,’ said Ada.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Jimmy, and went down to his work, in the September sunshine. Patsy and Betsy would be going back to school next week, and Mother would probably still be absent. And on Monday he was going to start work at Mr Gibb’s furniture factory in Peckham for a pound a week. He began to whistle.

  The landscape gardeners were already at work, and had been since eight o’clock. They’d cleared some huge areas, each of which looked yellow. Little hills of charred bonfires showed silvery grey peppered with black. Groups of beeches, oaks and chestnuts had been left standing, so had a huge willow close to that quagmire of a pond. Farther down, the gardeners had created potential magic by ridding a large mass of high rhododendrons of unwanted saplings and parasitical undergrowth. Jimmy had learned enough from Mr Thorpe to know that that magic would appear in the spring, when the rhododendrons would burst into colour. He felt, not enviously, that when the whole job was finished, Mr and Mrs Gibbs would wake up to something really worth looking at every morning. It would be like living in the country.

  He began his usual work of tidying up. That was what he’d been doing every day, tidying up. But Mr Thorpe had said to him, don’t you worry, lad, tidying up’s got its place in this kind of work, ground like this can’t be turned over if it’s not been tidied up and tree roots pulled out by a team of horses. All the burning that’s been done, that’s part of it too, all the ashes will be spread like potash and dug in. It won’t be wasted, don’t you worry.

  Mrs March of Willow Lodge was in her rose garden, brimmed hat shading her face, secateurs in her hand and a trug on her arm. She was snipping dead blooms.

  ‘Oh, hullo, Mrs March.’

  Mrs March jumped and turned. ‘Oh, it’s you, Sophy,’ she said, smile a little wary. The daughter of her newest neighbours was already known as a terror. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘I came round the side,’ said Sophy, looking healthy from the sea air of Devon and demure in a blue frock worn with a sweet smile. She had a small white cardboard box in her hand.

  ‘Did you enjoy Devon?’

  ‘Oh, jolly famous,’ said Sophy. ‘Is Clarissa in?’

  ‘She’s down in the summerhouse, reading,’ said Mrs March. ‘She’s going out with a friend in half an hour.’

  ‘Oh, jolly good, Mrs March, I’ll just go and say hullo to her. I’ve got a little Devon cake for her. We’re back at school next Tuesday, what a life. Aren’t your roses lovely?’

  ‘Would you like some for your mother?’ asked Mrs March, thinking a neighbourly gesture might perhaps save her husband’s greenhouse from accidental destruction by Sophy. But Sophy was already on her way to the summerhouse. She wasn’t there long. She came back, smiling winsomely at Clarissa’s mother, who had cut some lovely blooms for her.

  ‘Oh, that’s awfully kind of you, Mrs March, Mummy will love them. We don’t have anything in our garden, you know. Well, we don’t even have a garden, just a half-cleared jungle.’

  ‘You’re very welcome to these, Sophy, but mind the thorns on your dress. Did you see Clarissa?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs March, I gave her the little cake. Goodbye.’

  My, she has improved all of a sudden, thought Mrs March.

  Clarissa didn’t think so. Down in the summerhouse, where she’d been enjoying a gripping novel by Ethel M. Dell, she was trying to clean her face with her hankie. Sophy had plastered it with a wet mud cake. Clarissa dared not complain to her mother. Sophy had threatened to put a frog down her drawers if she did. Clarissa shuddered at the mere thought.

  Sophy the Dreadful struck again. This time from behind. Jimmy fell headlong into the foundations of a new bonfire he was building.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Sophy, ‘I didn’t see you.’

  Jimmy rolled off the ruined cradle and came to his feet. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘I sometimes don’t look where I’m goin’ myself. I walked into a door once. It didn’t half get ratty, it knocked me over. You’re back, I see.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Sophy, a colourful but haughty sprite of the morning. ‘Are you the boy who spends all his time talking to girls instead of getting on with your work?’

  ‘No, I’m the other one,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘What other one?’

  ‘The one who keeps gettin’ tripped up by some potty girl who looks a bit like you,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Oh, that one,’ said Sophy.

  ‘Enjoy your ‘oliday?’ said Jimmy. ‘Thanks for sendin’ me a card, by the way.’

  ‘I noticed you didn’t send me one. Too busy getting off with soppy girls, I suppose, you sickening boy. I’ve a good mind to push you under a bus.’

  ‘Yes, well, I can’t stand about talkin’ to peculiar girls,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’ve got me wages to earn.’

  ‘I’ve not come to help you, you know,’ said Sophy.

  ‘Hooray,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’ve got a chance of goin’ home alive.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t got any chance of seeing Clarissa March again. She’s fallen into a mudhole.’

  ‘Point is, did she fall or was she pushed?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Just let it be a lesson to you, Jimmy Andrews. Still, I might just come and help you this afternoon.’

  And she did. She gave him a terrible time, and all because of Clarissa March. Sophy regarded Jimmy as her own private property.

  ‘Dad,’ said Betsy that evening, ‘ain’t our mum ever comin’ ’ome again?’

  ‘Well, I’ll give ’er a bit more time, pickle,’ said Dad, ‘then I’ll go and fetch her. We can’t expect your Aunt Edie to keep fillin’ in for her every weekend.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Betsy.

  ‘It’s fun when Aunt Edie’s here,’ said Patsy.

  Jimmy looked at Dad. Dad grimaced. But there it was, his girls didn’t think very much of their mum. Nor was he too pleased with her himself. She’d left him with all kinds of problems, including a new one, a hell of a one.

  ‘I might be ’ome from work a bit late tomorrow,’ he said, ‘so don’t wait supper on me.’

  ‘All right, Dad, we’ll keep yours ’ot,’ said Patsy. She felt for hi
m. So did Jimmy. Patsy, in the event of a parental bust-up, wasn’t going to be on anyone’s side but her dad’s. And she knew that while Jimmy would think poor old Mum, he had too much liking and respect for Dad not to give him support. As for young Betsy, although she missed her mum, it was Dad who gave her cuddles and affection. Her mum’s funny ways and strange talk made her feel uncomfortable.

  It was Friday evening. Opening the door of the Temple, Father Luke looked at the caller and said, ‘What can we do for – ’ere, I know you.’

  ‘Right first time,’ said Dad.

  ‘You’re not comin’ in ’ere,’ said Father Luke, and tried to close the door. Dad put his foot in the way. In his brown cap, durable brown jacket and his working corduroys, he looked formidable to Father Luke, who had seen him treat Mother Mary with heathen disrespect.

  ‘Don’t play about,’ said Dad, ‘just fetch my wife down. I don’t mind waitin’ sixty seconds. In here.’ He pushed the door wide open and stepped into the hall. Father Luke’s portly figure suffered spasms of uneasiness.

  ‘I ’ope you’ll conduct yerself Christian-like in this ’ouse of penitence,’ he said. ‘The Lord ’as given us ’Is blessin’.’

  ‘Well, the Lord’s got His ’eavenly ways, of course,’ said Dad, ‘and there’s no tellin’ who He’ll bless, but if you don’t get up those stairs double-quick and fetch my wife down, I’ll give you me own kind of blessin’. Or I’ll go up meself.’

  ‘I’ll ask the minister,’ said Father Luke. After all, the minister was bigger than he was, and a bit bigger than this man, too, who’d come after Mother Mary once before.

  ‘Sod the minister,’ said Dad, ‘get my wife.’

  Father Luke beat a hasty retreat up the stairs. Dad waited a full minute, then made for the staircase, at which point Father Peter appeared, Mother beside him. From the landing they gazed down at Dad.

  ‘What is your wish, sir?’ boomed Father Peter.

  ‘I’ve got no wishes,’ said Dad, ‘only intentions. Get your things packed, Maud, I’m takin’ you home.’

  ‘State who you are, sir,’ demanded Father Peter, while Mother stared down at Dad with a puzzled look on her face.

  ‘I’m her husband,’ said Dad.

  ‘What impertinence,’ said Mother, ‘I’ve never seen you before in all me life.’

  ‘Game’s up, Maud,’ said Dad, ‘so’s your time ’ere. You’re comin’ ’ome. Pack your things.’

  ‘I’ll give you pack my things,’ said Mother, and disappeared. Dad began to climb the stairs. Father Peter spread his wide shoulders and stood to oppose the intruder.

  ‘Get you gone, sir. Mother Mary has no wish to leave, and has disclaimed you. Depart from this house of God.’

  ‘Now don’t make me cross,’ said Dad, reaching the landing. ‘I don’t like gettin’ cross, and you won’t like it, either.’

  ‘That which a man claims but does not own shall be denied him,’ said Father Peter.

  ‘Stone the crows,’ said Dad, ‘you’re all bleedin’ barmy.’ Mother reappeared. ‘’Ullo,’ said Dad, ‘that looks like another umbrella.’

  Her new brolly raised, Mother went for him. ‘I’ll give you comin’ ’ere and callin’ yourself me ’usband!’ she shouted, and down came the umbrella. Dad, fit and strong, dealt as easily with her as he had before. He disarmed her and threw the brolly down the stairs. ‘Oh, you disgustin’ ’eathen!’ shouted Mother.

  Other women were on the landing now, staring at the scene. Father Luke watched from a safe distance. ‘Oh, ’ow dare you molest me!’ Mother shook a fist at Dad.

  ‘Pack your things,’ said Dad again, ‘an’ stop shoutin’.’

  But she shouted the more. Dad looked hard at her, seeing the flush on her face, the glitter in her eyes, and the impossible nature of her mood. What good would it do to bundle her out of this place and carry her home? And what would happen when he got her there? What good was she to her family the way she was now? Betsy would see her as a strange and crazy woman, and Patsy had too much spirit to put up with her for very long. Jimmy would be able to handle her to some extent, but was likely after a week or so to recommend taking her back to Bloomsbury. And who’d be able to stop her simply walking out whenever she liked?

  Dad sighed. ‘I feel sorry for you, Maud,’ he said, and went back down the stairs and out of the place.

  ‘Poor blighter,’ said Mother Joan, ‘I suppose he’s some woman’s husband who’s taken a fancy to you, Mother Mary. Probably met you when you were giving out pamphlets, probably all set to go off his rocker. While some of us have seen the light, unfortunate persons like him only have hallucinations. A cousin of mine had a fatal hallucination several years ago, and went skating on a lake she thought was frozen. Middle of the summer, actually. Sank without trace. Couldn’t swim, poor woman. Right, buck up, Mother Mary, it’s all over.’

  After supper Dad spoke privately again to Aunt Edie, who had arrived for one more weekend. He’d said nothing so far about his visit to Bloomsbury. Now he told Aunt Edie what had happened there.

  ‘I see,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘so that was why you were late ’ome, you went there from work. Well, I pity Maud for what she’s doin’ to ’erself, but for what she’s doin’ to ’er fam’ly I could knock ’er silly head off.’

  ‘The point is, Edie, it’s gettin’ unfair on you,’ said Dad. ‘You’ve got your own life to live, we can’t ask you to give up all your weekends on our account. We’ve got to face up to managin’ by ourselves.’

  ‘Yes, and I daresay you could manage to some extent,’ said Aunt Edie. ‘I daresay Patsy could turn ’erself into a mother figure, but ’ow fair would that be on ’er? Life’s ’ard enough as it is without askin’ a girl of Patsy’s age to take on the job that Maud should be doin’.’

  ‘We’d all muck in,’ said Dad, ‘we all ought to stand on our own feet and give you a break.’ He was at the window of the parlour, looking out at the street, his back to Aunt Edie. She knew why.

  ‘Don’t make me spit, Jack Andrews,’ she said. ‘We’ve already talked about this, and you know ’ow I feel about you and the fam’ly. In any case, if it comes down to what’s right, I’m as good as your children’s aunt and I wouldn’t be much of a one if I let Patsy do what I know I should be doin’.’

  ‘Edie, you’ve got to do a bit of livin’ for yourself,’ said Dad.

  ‘Well, I’m fed up with livin’ just for meself. If Maud does go right over the top, like I think she will, I’m goin’ to come and look after all of you permanent, as I said before. D’you hear that, Jack?’

  ‘We’ve got problems, Edie.’

  ‘Well, we’ll ’ave to work on them, won’t we, love?’

  ‘Mrs Hitchins?’ called Mother Verity from the passage.

  Mrs Hitchins came out of her kitchen and smiled at her quietly-dressed lodger. ‘Oh, you’re goin’ now, Miss Stokes?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve put away the few things I brought.’ Mother Verity had been in her rooms for a while, and from her front window had again seen little Lulu come home from school. ‘I must thank you for taking the bed out of the living room.’

  ‘That’s all right, me ’usband did that, it’s made more space for you, I ’ope.’

  ‘It’s all very comfortable, Mrs Hitchins. By the way, I noticed a hall close to the church. Do you know if it can be used for the benefit of the public?’

  ‘Oh, yes, just ask the vicar,’ said Mrs Hitchins.

  ‘I will. Mrs Hitchins, are there poor people around here who are in need of clothes and footwear?’

  ‘I don’t know when there ’asn’t been,’ said Mrs Hitchins, ‘and the war ’asn’t made it no better. I don’t know why we bothered to win it.’

  ‘Perhaps I could arrange a distribution to needy families in the hall,’ said Mother Verity. ‘I do charity work among the poor, you see.’

  ‘Oh, like the Salvation Army,’ said Mrs Hitchins brightly.

  ‘Yes, quite like them.’

  ‘You’re a k
ind lady, Miss Stokes.’

  ‘Oh, I’m very ordinary, Mrs Hitchins. Thank you for everything.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ said Mrs Hitchins, ‘and me ’usband and me’ll look forward to you movin’ in permanent when you’re ready.’

  Mother Verity returned to Bloomsbury in time for dinner, over which she was told about the aggressive man who had called in a misguided attempt to claim Mother Mary as his wife.

  ‘I gave ’im something, I can tell you,’ said Mother Mary.

  ‘But you are married, you do have a husband, don’t you?’ said Mother Verity gently.

  ‘My place is now with the Lord,’ said Mother Mary, and other little doubts began to assail Mother Verity. She addressed Father Peter, telling him she had decided to help the poor people of Bethnal Green, and that Mother Ruth had promised to assist her.

  ‘I commend you, Mother Verity,’ intoned Father Peter from the head of the table. ‘I should say we are planning a splendid return to Whitechapel, with perhaps enough garments to clothe the Lord’s five thousand.’

  ‘You must spare some for Bethnal Green families,’ said Mother Verity firmly, and met the dark enquiring eyes of the minister without a flutter.

  ‘Of course, of course, sister,’ he said, ‘we must all pursue our work in the way the Lord guides us, and if He has guided you to Bethnal Green, go there, by all means. Clothe the poor and do what you can for those who are hungered, but show them that the way to Christian worthiness is not by bread alone.’

  ‘That’s the stuff,’ said Mother Joan, tucking in to steak and kidney pie with the relish of an energetic Christian woman who had today forged another cheque to help the cause, this time for a huge consignment of children’s boots from Isaac’s Warehouse.

  On Saturday afternoon, Sophy sat on the terrace steps with Jimmy. They were drinking tea and eating fruit cake. It was the first time today that Mrs Gibbs had allowed her daughter to hob-nob with Jimmy. Much as she liked the boy, she knew it would be unwise to encourage the development of a close friendship. The respective families were poles apart, and in any case Sophy would get bored eventually and Jimmy would suddenly find she had no more interest in him than in a stable boy.