Two for Three Farthings (22 page)

‘Mr Cooper,' said Miss Pilgrim, ‘do your parents know you are now the guardian of these two children?'

Jim grimaced. New people in his life inevitably asked quite natural questions. Mrs Palmer, a woman who minded her own business, was among the few exceptions.

‘My parents are dead, Miss Pilgrim. They died when I was young. I was brought up in an orphanage.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Miss Pilgrim, ‘that is a hard cross for any child to bear.' They turned into Walworth Road. ‘However, you seem to have overcome misfortune and disability remarkably well. That is to be admired. It's possible that in accepting guardianship of this boy and girl, you were remembering your time in an orphanage. Ethel, pull your socks up.' Ethel, walking ahead with Orrice, muttered to him.

‘Ain't goin' to, she ain't our mum.'

‘Ethel,' called Jim, ‘pull your socks up.'

Effel grumbled, stopped, stooped, and pulled them up. Going on again with Orrice, she let her grumble be known.

‘Ragamuffin Jack don't 'ave to pull his socks up.'

‘Ragamuffin Jack?' said Jim. ‘I've heard of him.' He quoted, with Miss Pilgrim sailing crisply along beside him.

‘Ragamuffin Jack wore a very ragged hat

And two very old odd socks,

His socks fell down on his way to town

And his dog ran away with a fox.'

Effel, turning her head, looked at him with new eyes.

‘Oh, yer know Ragamuffin Jack, mister?' she said.

‘Needs his socks pulling up,' said Jim.

Effel giggled, and Orrice said, ‘Yer funny sometimes, Uncle Jim, ain't he, Miss Pilgrim?'

‘I could not say,' said Miss Pilgrim, ‘I have no sense of humour.'

‘Oh, you're young yet,' murmured Jim cheerfully, ‘you'll acquire one.'

‘I'm afraid, Mr Cooper, you are sometimes given to nonsense of a kind unsuitable to your age.'

‘Good morning, Miss Pilgrim.' Elderly Mrs Hardiman appeared as they turned into Wansey Street. ‘Out with yer lodgers, I see.'

‘I am merely returning from church with them,' said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Good morning, Mrs Hardiman.' And she sailed on.

She was ready to serve dinner at two. Jim made sure he and the kids arrived punctually at her kitchen table. A joint of roast beef appeared. Orrice and Effel gazed at it in mouth-watering awe. Awe was their constant companion at Miss Pilgrim's table. Everything was so posh. To start with there was always a crisp, ironed tablecloth, something their mum had never bothered with much, unless Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce were present. And Miss Pilgrim's cutlery and china shone. A glass water jug, full, sparkled with light. Jim's own impression of their landlady's kitchen in general was that she was such an immaculate champion of cleanliness that the soot and grime of Walworth had long given up laying siege to her house and possessions.

Picking up her carving knife and fork, she glanced at him.

‘Do you wish to carve, Mr Cooper?' she asked, and he thought the question carried an implication of her willingness to believe him capable of slicing a joint.

‘No, you carry on, Miss Pilgrim,' he said. ‘I'm able to, but only on a meat dish with a central holding spike.'

‘Very well.' She carved efficiently and quickly, and the slices of beef fell softly, tenderly and lusciously from the joint. She cut Jim's slices into small pieces. She served the meat with batter pudding, light and crisp, rather than thick and solid Yorkshire pudding. The roast potatoes were perfect, the horseradish hot. Effel said she didn't want no cabbage.

‘She must have green vegetables, Mr Cooper.'

‘Yes, make an effort, Ethel,' said Jim.

‘Don't want to,' muttered Ethel. Miss Pilgrim gave her a stern look. Effel gulped. ‘A' right,' she said, and received a modest helping.

With everyone served, Miss Pilgrim suggested Jim should say grace.

Jim said, ‘For what we are about to receive let us be truly thankful, not only to the Lord but to Miss Pilgrim, whose Christian kindness is a blessing to us.'

‘Amen,' said Orrice and Effel, and began to tuck in.

‘Amen,' said Miss Pilgrim in reserved fashion, and cast a look at Jim. He smiled. ‘Really,' she said. She was not receptive to compliments, and regarded them with suspicion. And from a man, a smile as well as a compliment made her inwardly wince.

The Sunday dinner was consumed with relish by her lodgers. She wondered what she was about in permitting her privacy to be invaded at certain meal times, especially as the children's table manners were little short of atrocious. Mr Cooper spoke to them at intervals, but in far too indulgent a way. The boy needed to be cured of his habit of reaching across the table for salt or pepper, and the girl of wiping her nose either on her sleeve or her napkin.

For afters, there was date pudding and piping hot custard, ambrosia to Orrice and Effel. Orrice remarked that Miss Pilgrim was spiffing.

‘Angelic,' said Jim.

‘I am not in the least angelic, Mr Cooper,' she said. ‘I am a practical Christian, having discovered a bowl of rice to be of far more value to a starving child than a hundred angelic smiles or well-meaning sermons.'

‘Yes, that makes sense,' said Jim affably, ‘but this date pudding is still angelic.'

‘Could I 'ave some more?' asked Orrice, having scoffed his in quick time.

‘More?' said Miss Pilgrim, much as if Oliver Twist had arrived at her table. ‘More?'

‘If yer please'm,' said Orrice. ‘It ain't 'alf good, and it's 'elping me forget the 'orrors of me life.'

‘What horrors?'

‘I told yer, Miss Pilgrim, you know, that Alice French, callin' me Orrice dear an' makin' me go to—'

‘Enough, boy,' said Miss Pilgrim with awesome severity. But she gave him a second helping of the pudding. ‘I should hope, Mr Cooper, since you're a well-read man, it won't be beyond you to teach this boy a few social graces. It really is quite painful to have him refer to sweet Alice French and her kindnesses as the horrors.'

‘Black mark, Horace,' said Jim. Orrice grimaced, Effel muttered.

‘Mr Cooper,' said Miss Pilgrim, ‘you said your parents were dead. Do you have grandparents still alive?'

Did he? Maternal or paternal? They'd be old, in their seventies at least.

‘My mother's parents live in Hampshire,' he said. It was wishful thinking, it implied they were still alive.

‘You must take your wards to see them one Sunday, I'm sure they would like the train ride. Train rides open up a little of the world to Walworth children.'

Orrice and Effel looked up eagerly, and Jim said he'd take them one day.

‘When's one day?' asked Effel.

Making up his mind, Jim said, ‘Next Sunday morning. And when we've done the washing-up for Miss Pilgrim, how about a bus ride this afternoon to Hyde Park?'

‘'Yde Park?' said Orrice. ‘Crikey, we'd like that, wouldn't we, Effel?'

Effel said yes, at which Miss Pilgrim informed Jim she did not require anyone to do her washing-up, and that he could take the children out as soon as he liked.

‘Can't be done,' said Jim, ‘not until we've shown our appreciation of our splendid dinner. We'll do it, Miss Pilgrim, dishes, pots, pans, everything. Leave it to us while you put your feet up.'

‘I am not so old, Mr Cooper, that I need to put my feet up,' said Miss Pilgrim with a touch of acidity, ‘and nor am I used to having my domestic routine rearranged for me.'

‘Oh, rearrangements are sometimes good for all of us,' said Jim, ‘especially for women, who are always on the go. You take a rest.'

‘Certainly not.'

‘We'll vote on it,' said Jim. ‘Hands up on our side all those who can't wait to get at the washing-up.' He put his own hand up. Orrice followed suit. Effel sat on both her hands. ‘Carried unanimously,' said Jim, ‘Ethel's voting with a smile.'

‘Ain't,' said Effel mutinously.

‘But you meant to,' said Jim, ‘so it counts. Off you go to your sitting-room, Miss Pilgrim.'

‘Certainly not,' she said again. She had no intention of leaving her precious china at the mercy of two careless children and a man with one arm. But Jim, insistent, had Orrice and Effel organized in no time. He washed every item himself, using his one hand with dexterity. Normally, at the club, he rinsed everything under a hot tap, and everything was placed in racks to dry. Now, Orrice and Effel did the drying, with tea towels, Effel in a slightly petulant way. She mumbled that her mum and dad hadn't ever made her do things.

‘Well, I'm different,' said Jim, ‘I like kids to give a hand, and I like it that you're volunteering, Ethel.'

‘I don't fink I like you,' grumbled Effel.

‘Ungracious child,' said Miss Pilgrim, who was bustling about and taking things from Effel and Orrice as soon as they'd been dried. She did not want anything to remain too long in their undisciplined hands. It was a relief to her when the job was finished and she was able to get them out of her kitchen.

In Hyde Park, after an exciting bus ride, Jim walked them around the extensive acreage of London's most popular playground. The expanses of green grass and the sun-dappled waters of the Serpentine were breathtaking to Orrice and Effel. London was still recovering from the war, but there was nothing depressing or shabby about this green oasis in the centre of the metropolis. Effel stared at well-dressed ladies and girls in bright frocks and hats. Orrice took in the wonders of the park and the adventurous look of boats on the Serpentine. At a refreshment kiosk, Jim bought them an ice-cream wafer each. Orrice was overwhelmed, and felt that he and his sister had a new dad. Effel still wanted her old one back.

On Tuesday morning, Jim knocked on Miss Pilgrim's living-room door.

‘Come in.'

Entering, he found her immersed in her needlework.

‘That looks lovely,' he said.

‘I hope so,' she said. ‘What is it you want, Mr Cooper?'

‘To see you,' he said. Her handsome countenance took on a familiar coolness. He noted the brushed perfection of her thick black hair, but even its shine seemed austere. ‘The second week's rent is due, and I also have to settle the food bill. Is it inconvenient just now?'

‘Not now you're here,' she said. ‘The rent is twelve shillings, and the cost of the food is nine shillings and fourpence.'

‘Is that all? Nine shillings and fourpence for the three of us?'

‘I shop economically, Mr Cooper. I don't like coming home feeling I've failed to get value for my money.'

‘You've given us first-class value,' said Jim. ‘Let's see, rent and food. Twelve bob plus nine and fourpence. One pound, one and four.'

‘Correct,' said Miss Pilgrim, and Jim placed the money on the table with the rent book.

‘Don't worry about the rent book entry at the moment,' he said, ‘I can pick it up later.'

‘Very well. I am, as it happens, in the middle of some very delicate work. I'll return the book in twenty minutes, when I'm going out to shop for today's midday meal. Thank you, Mr Cooper.' It was a cool dismissal. Jim went back to his book-keeping manual.

She came up to his room twenty minutes later wearing a grey hat and the stiff-looking black dress that reached to her ankles. It was years out of fashion, but it dignified her tall figure. She gave him back the rent book.

‘Many thanks,' said Jim. She nodded and left. He heard the rustle of her clothes. She was undoubtedly still in favour of starched Edwardian petticoats.

After she had been gone five minutes there was a knock on the front door. Jim went down to answer it. A slim, good-looking woman in her mid-thirties stood on the step, her spring coat very fetching, her hat crisp and smart. She eyed him in frank curiosity.

‘Good heavens,' she said, ‘could you possibly be her husband?'

‘Ask me another,' smiled Jim, ‘I'm not quite with you.'

‘Is Rebecca at home?'

‘Are you looking for Miss Pilgrim?'

‘I am. I'm Mrs Audrey Lockheart. May I ask who you are?'

‘Well,' said Jim, ‘in the first place, I'm nobody's husband, I'm Jim Cooper, a bachelor. I'm afraid Miss Pilgrim's out.'

‘Oh, I really don't mind waiting,' said Mrs Lockheart with a smile. ‘I'm very much acquainted with Miss Pilgrim. May I come in and wait if she isn't going to be too long?'

‘Of course,' said Jim, intrigued. The visitor looked as if she had very little in common with Miss Pilgrim fashion-wise. Not only was there an elegance in the look of her coat, and a stylishness to her hat, there was a newness to both items. ‘Yes, do come in, Mrs Lockheart.' He stepped aside and she entered. He closed the door and debated for a moment. Miss Pilgrim was a close guardian of her privacy. He could not be certain she would approve if he gave the freedom of her sitting-room to a caller, even if the caller had declared herself an acquaintance. ‘Would you like to wait upstairs?'

‘I'll be quite happy to, Mr Cooper. You did say Cooper? Yes, I thought you did. Does Rebecca – Miss Pilgrim – have a sitting-room upstairs?' Mrs Lockheart, personable, was gently enquiring.

‘Well, no,' said Jim, ‘I live upstairs with my two wards, a boy and a girl. But you're very welcome to wait in our living-room.'

‘How kind, thank you so much.' Mrs Lockheart began to ascend the stairs, the post-war length of her coat allowing her to show sleek calves and faultless stocking seams. Jim followed her up and took her into his living-room, where the table was spread with papers covered with book-keeping scribbles. ‘Well, this is cosy, isn't it?'

‘Please sit down,' said Jim, and she unbuttoned her light coat, hitched the skirt of her grey costume and seated herself, her movements fluent, her manner that of a woman able to communicate easily with people. ‘I'm not sure how long Miss Pilgrim will be,' he said. ‘Not too long, probably. She's only gone to the shops.'