Two for Three Farthings (15 page)

‘Up to a point,' said Jim, who was as fairly casual about money as he was about ups and downs. Life at the orphanage had taught him to be grateful for the little things, and life outside the orphanage had taught him that most people's lives were about little things. Big things and miracles happened to only a few. One was up sometimes, one was down sometimes. You could aim for the moon if the notion took you, but if you fell it was from a great height. Most people in Walworth managed to survive, managed to smile. They too made the most of little pleasures, little strokes of luck. A little stroke of luck could offset a year's setbacks.

As long as one kept a certain amount of money for a rainy day, if one could keep it, the rest of it was for spending. The maxim in Walworth was, ‘Yer 'ere today, mate, yer could be gorn tomorrer.' Which meant if your old woman hadn't got a shilling to take twenty-eight pounds of washing to the Bagwash Laundry, you left it until next week. A week's more dirt wasn't considered anti-social in Walworth.

Jim felt nineteen Wansey Street represented a stroke of great luck. There couldn't be better lodgings for him and the kids. What a remarkable woman Miss Pilgrim was. Victorian, puritanical, stiff, unbending, starched, precise and willing to give them excellent lodgings and more for twelve shillings a week. He supposed she had worked it out to her satisfaction. Yes, she would have done that. What had she got under the bodice of that ancient black dress of hers? A handsome bosom, certainly. A warm heart in addition, despite her strict religious ethics and her severity? Well, nothing must be done to offend her. Although their bed linen would go into her own wash each week, it was still a very human gesture, and generous. Nowhere were he and the kids likely to get better terms. Her strict Christian beliefs and her eccentricities must be heeded and accepted.

‘Effel, Uncle Jim's gorn all quiet,' whispered Orrice.

Effel, worried, whispered, ‘'E ain't goin' to leave us, is 'e?'

‘I was thinking we'd better go out and get both of you properly fitted up. You've got your second-hand clobber for knocking about in.' Jim suddenly wondered if Miss Pilgrim had decided to make her offer because she felt a man with one arm could not properly manage to do all the things he needed to do for two children. She had made no direct comment at all about his infirmity. ‘Yes, I think we'd better buy you both something for school and for Sundays. We don't want our good fairy, Miss Pilgrim, giving us looks.'

‘Uncle, I got to say it,' said Orrice, ‘she doesn't seem like no good fairy to me.'

‘She looked at me,' said Effel. Looking wasn't as likeable as crackles.

‘Well, we'll put you in a nice Sunday frock, Effel,' said Jim, ‘then she'll enjoy looking at you. Right, hats on. Effel, where's your hair ribbon?'

‘Dunno,' said Effel.

‘Can't have that.'

‘It's 'ere,' said Orrice

‘Oh, a' right,' said Effel. ‘You do it,' she said to Jim.

‘Pardon?' said Jim.

‘Please would yer?' asked Effel, and Jim, one hand deft and manipulative, tied the ribbon around her hair and finished with a bow.

‘Where's your boater?' he asked.

‘Can't find it,' she said.

‘Look under the bed.'

Effel looked under the bed. She pulled out her boater.

‘That Orrice,' she said, ‘where 'e puts fings.'

‘Me?' said Orrice. ‘Me? That's good, that is, I don't fink. I'll plonk yer one.'

‘No plonking,' said Jim. ‘March.'

They all went out on another excursion. Jim kept them so active that it was only in the evenings, when he was at work, that they thought about not having their mum and dad any more. Orrice revelled in every excursion. To him, it was really lively being out with their new uncle, their guardian. Effel went along with each outing in the way of a little girl still not quite sure exactly what her new life was all about, or exactly what their guardian meant to her.

Jim called in at the post office to draw five pounds from his savings, and he helped Orrice open an account with the money the boy still had. Orrice deposited a pound of it. The woman at the counter, giving him the book, said, ‘Could I see what you look like under your cap, Master Withers?'

‘What for?' asked Orrice cautiously.

‘I'm curious to see if there is anyone,' smiled the woman. Orrice, not given to being as retiring as Effel, lifted his cap. ‘My,' said the woman, beaming, ‘aren't you a pretty boy?'

Orrice nearly fell over in his horror.

‘Me?' he gasped in outrage.

Effel giggled.

‘'Oo's a pretty boy, then?' she said.

‘I'll kill yer,' bawled Orrice, much to the amusement of other people.

‘No killing,' said Jim, ‘especially not in public.'

Orrice slammed his cap back on, pulled it down to his nose, marched to the door in high blind dudgeon and cannoned into an entering woman.

‘Oh, hexcuse me, I'm sure,' she said.

‘He's a little off colour at the moment,' said Jim.

‘Can't tell if 'e's on or orf under that cap,' said the bumped woman.

‘'E's pretty, yer know,' said Effel, and Orrice, with a strangled yell of rage, hurled himself through the door into the street. He fell over the feet of an elderly man. It wasn't the best few minutes of Orrice's life. He marched along with Jim and Effel, with strange noises issuing from under his cap.

Jim bought two black skirts, two white bouses and two pinafore dresses for Effel to wear to school. And a yellow frock for Sundays, plus vests, knickers, shoes and socks. Effel was openmouthed. She'd never seen so many actually new clothes, and she'd never worn shoes, only boots. She consented to try the frock on. Jim thought she looked delicious.

‘Yes, very nice, Effel,' he said, at which Effel rushed back into the changing-room.

‘That's a shy one,' said the assistant.

‘She wasn't in the post office,' growled Orrice.

In the boys' department of a men's outfitters, Jim bought Orrice two good quality woollen jerseys, one dark blue, the other dark grey, and two pairs of trousers. He also bought him underwear, socks and shoes, and a Sunday suit for fifteen shillings. Orrice wasn't sure about a Sunday suit, he'd never had any kind of suit, and he didn't want other boys catcalling him. But Jim prevailed, and Orrice tried the suit on.

‘Oh, don't 'e look more pretty?' cried Effel.

‘That's done it, that 'as,' said Orrice, ‘I ain't 'aving no suit.'

‘Wrap it up when he's taken it off,' said Jim to the assistant.

‘Might as well be dead, I might,' muttered Orrice. When they were outside with their many parcels, he said between grinding teeth, ‘I dunno I'm goin' to let me sister live for more'n a few more days.'

‘I don't care,' said Effel.

‘I betcher yer would,' said Orrice, ‘I betcher you'd holler when I'm cuttin' yer bonce orf.'

‘Wouldn't,' said Effel. ‘Would it 'urt?' she asked Jim.

‘Only at the time,' said Jim. ‘But no cutting off of bonces, Orrice.'

‘Only Effel's,' said Orrice, ‘that's all I'm beggin' yer, Uncle Jim, just Effel's.'

‘Forbidden,' said Jim. ‘Now, who fancies fried eggs and bacon again at Toni's?' He guessed, correctly, that eggs and bacon were a treat to the kids.

Effel and Orrice were totally in favour, although Orrice said he wasn't going to take his cap off. Jim said caps would be removed at all meal times. Orrice growled that Effel would say things out loud about his looks.

‘Effel, no talking out loud in Toni's,' said Jim.

‘Don't want to,' said Effel.

‘Afterwards,' said Jim, ‘we'll buy toothbrushes and toothpowder for both of you.'

Toni looked up at the entrance of Jim and the kids.

‘Ah, good-a morning, sir,' he said to Orrice. ‘Good-a morning, signorina,' he said to Effel, who at once planted herself rigidly behind Orrice. Toni grinned.

‘It ain't funny, mister,' said Orrice.

‘Eggs, bacon and bread and butter for three, Toni,' said Jim, ‘and lemonade for sir and signorina.'

‘You got kids, I got eggs-a bacon coming up pretty quick, Jim,' said Toni, and put his pan to work. He watched them seat themselves at a table. He saw Orrice take his cap off. ‘Hey, what you think, Jim,' he called, ‘first time I see that kid. Hey, you kid.' Orrice turned his head. ‘Hey, what-a you wear that cap for, kid? You're a fine-looking boy, eh?'

Orrice turned slightly red. Effel simpered with mischief.

‘Oh, well,' said Orrice, ‘I s'pose that ain't as bad as being called pretty. You 'eard that, Effel?'

‘'Oo's a pretty boy, then?' said Effel, but not out loud, only in a murmur.

Orrice ground his teeth.

‘I ain't got the strength to 'old meself back, Uncle Jim,' he said. ‘I just got to shut Effel up, I just got to spread 'er all over the pavement when we get outside.'

‘Well, just this once,' said Jim.

‘There, you 'eard that, sis, didn't yer?' said Orrice.

‘Ain't saying nuffink out loud,' said Effel.

Jim took them to their new school on Monday morning, Effel in new white blouse, sensible black skirt and her better boater. With the class of seven-year-olds seated, Effel stood beside the teacher's desk.

‘Children,' said the teacher, Miss Forster, ‘say hello to our new pupil, Ethel Withers.'

‘Hello!' bawled the class of boys and girls.

‘Hello, Ethel, if you don't mind,' said Miss Forster.

‘'Lo, Effel!'

‘Go and sit down, Ethel,' said Miss Forster, ‘there's a place in the front row, next to Daisy Rogers.'

‘Don't like 'er,' muttered Effel under her breath.

‘Pardon?'

‘Nuffink,' said Effel.

Miss Forster took the girl's hand and led her to the desk. Daisy Rogers made room. Effel sat down, mutinously.

‘There's pencils there, look,' said Daisy, lifting the desk lid.

‘Oh, a' right,' said Effel, yellow ribbon around her hair, white blouse so neat-looking to herself that it almost worried her.

Miss Forster set them to work after the Scripture lesson, the pupils using coloured crayons. She walked round the desks, encouraging and cajoling. Crayon drawing was very popular, and the pupils became absorbed in their fanciful creations. Miss Forster stopped to look at Effel's drawing-book. The page showed round dots of different colours, each conglomerate of dots forming a rough circle, and the whole forming a large circle.

‘What's that, Ethel?' asked the teacher.

‘A wreaf,' said Effel, who knew from her experiences at her other school that it was no good telling teachers she wasn't talking. If you did that they made you stand in front of the class with everyone looking at you. You felt silly. ‘A wreaf like at funerals, miss.'

Having received certain information from the headmistress about both new pupils, Miss Forster said gently, ‘Yes, I see. Well, do you know, Ethel, it's very good. Why, it's impressionist.'

‘What's imp – what's that?'

‘It's a method some famous painters use. See, you've made an impression of a wreath of different flowers. The little circles are all heads of flowers, aren't they, close together?'

‘It's for our mum an' dad,' said Effel. Her head dropped and her eyes were suddenly wet. But she wasn't going to cry, not in front of a classful of other children. Miss Forster lightly patted her shoulder.

‘It's very good, Ethel,' she said, and moved on.

‘Don't you like it 'ere?' whispered Daisy. ‘I'll look after you. See, I'm drawing a cat.'

‘We 'ad a cat,' said Effel, and wondered what had happened to it.

Orrice too had stood by a teacher's desk to be introduced. The teacher was Mr Hill, known as Whiskers behind his back because he had a large grey moustache. The class was for nine-year-old and ten-year-old boys and girls. Orrice's eyes flickered about, ready to alight on anyone making faces at him because he was new here.

‘'Ere, sir,' called a boy from the back, ‘he's got his farver's trousers on.'

Girls giggled. Orrice took a note of the boy.

‘Stand up, Higgs,' said Mr Hill.

‘Yessir,' said Higgs, a slim boy, and stood up.

‘Did you say farver's trousers?'

‘Yessir.'

‘Father's, Higgs, father's.'

‘Yessir.'

‘Kindly say it.'

‘Yessir. Farver's, sir.'

‘I'm onto you, my lad,' said Mr Hill. ‘Ten minutes reading aloud for you in a moment. And kindly note that Horace Withers's trousers fit him. So they can't be his father's. Withers, find a place at a desk.'

Orrice walked straight up a gangway between desks, found a spare place next to a girl, and eyed Higgs across the gangway. Higgs met the challenge with a bold grin. The girl whispered, ‘Is that really your name – Horace?'

‘What's yourn, then?' asked Orrice.

‘Alice French. Fancy long trousers.'

‘Fancy a frock with egg on it,' said Orrice.

‘Oh, it isn't,' protested Alice.

‘All right, only jokin',' said Orrice, and gave her a smile. It wasn't fateful to give girls a smile, it just showed them you were willing to put up with them being girls.

Nine-year-old Alice looked into joking brown eyes and at a fresh, healthy face. Her lashes fluttered.

‘You're ever so nice,' she said.

‘Oh, gawd,' said Orrice. That was the trouble with girls. You couldn't have a sensible conversation with them.

‘Attention, class,' said Mr Hill. ‘Scripture books out.' He tapped his desk with a ruler, and his pupils came to order. ‘Higgs will read out loud from the top of page ten, where Jesus is comforting His disciples.'