Two for Three Farthings (29 page)

‘Mr Cooper?' Jim, coming from a bedroom to the landing at a few minutes after ten the following morning, put his head over the banisters. Miss Pilgrim stood in her little hall, looking up at him.

‘Yes, Miss Pilgrim?'

‘Could I speak to you for a moment, please?'

He went down and followed her into her kitchen. She turned and faced him, her mouth set in its firm line.

‘It's all right,' he said. ‘I think I may have found new lodgings. A friend of mine, Molly Keating, the manager's daughter, has spoken to a couple who have a house in Webber Street, off Blackfriars Road.'

Miss Pilgrim seemed neither pleased nor relieved.

‘Blackfriars Road?' she said. ‘There are quarters very suspect and dubious off Blackfriars Road, Mr Cooper.'

‘So there are off Walworth Road, Miss Pilgrim.'

‘But you must think of your wards and their schooling.'

‘I'm not in the habit of discounting the needs of my wards,' said Jim. ‘You may think I do—'

‘Really, Mr Cooper, I am not used to being addressed with aggression.'

‘I'm not used to being told I'm irresponsible.'

Miss Pilgrim, wearing her stiff black dress, drew herself up to her full height. Bloody magnificent, thought Jim, but watch yourself, ice maiden, I'm spoiling for a fight.

Stiffly, she said, ‘Mr Cooper, I have to apologize.'

‘Do you?'

‘Yes. I am ashamed of myself. Never before have I lost all sense of humility before God and been so unChristianlike. It was deplorable of me to speak to you as I did last evening. I was quite wrong in all I said. I ask your forgiveness.'

‘Miss Pilgrim?'

‘I did not even have the grace to thank you for recovering my handbag at great danger to yourself. You were brutally struck.' Miss Pilgrim's firm mouth quivered a little. ‘I cannot understand myself. Never, I assure you, have I been so out of temper. I know I am demanding in what I expect of others, I know I am strict and that I abhor a lack of self-discipline in people – in children too – but I am appalled at my own behaviour last evening. You must forgive me.' What she did not mention, and could not, was that it could all be put down to the indecent humiliation she had suffered on that swing, when her legs and underwear were revealed to the gawping eyes of Hampstead Heath. And to his eyes.

‘Miss Pilgrim, does this mean you'll withdraw the week's notice?'

‘Mr Cooper, I beg you, you simply cannot take Horace and Ethel to Blackfriars Road. There are dens of iniquity close by. St John's is the best primary school in Walworth, and here, in Wansey Street, is an element that will favour the children. We must give them a chance, Mr Cooper, we must put them on the road to a reasonable future.'

‘We?' said Jim.

‘I will help,' said Miss Pilgrim resolutely. ‘It is too much for a man who has his work to go to. If you will give me permission, I will do what I think is necessary with them in the matter of correction and discipline. Children are wild creatures, Mr Cooper, and will run with the devil as much as with God when they grow up, unless they are taught the advantages of good behaviour and of clearly knowing the difference between right and wrong. There, perhaps—' Miss Pilgrim frowned at herself. ‘Yes, perhaps I've indicated I'm prepared to interfere in what is none of my business. Please disregard it. I am able to see my faults and admit them.'

‘Miss Pilgrim, you're an angel of mercy,' said Jim.

‘I would rather you punished me with frank words, Mr Cooper, than with more nonsense.'

‘I don't think it's nonsense. I'm very relieved we can continue to lodge with you.' Jim smiled. Miss Pilgrim's lips came firmly together again, as if resolution was her defence against a man's smile. ‘Correction and discipline, Miss Pilgrim. What, in your opinion, does that mean?'

‘Ethel, I'm afraid, needs the occasional smack. Horace needs to be taught to speak and not gabble. The boy is very bright, Mr Cooper, and I daresay has a great deal of promise. His teachers will attempt some help. I am willing to give further help. With your permission. Regular poetry reading will do it.'

‘Poetry reading?'

‘Yes. Acceptable poetry to a boy. Not Byron. Tennyson, perhaps, and Robert Browning. There is a fascination for children in such a poem as Browning's “Pied Piper”.'

‘I was fascinated by it myself. Miss Pilgrim, thank you.'

The ghost of a smile ran its fleeting course over her face.

‘I am forgiven?' she said.

‘I'm nobody,' said Jim.

‘Ridiculous,' she said.

‘I mean I'm not Jesus Christ, I'm not saintly enough to forgive anybody, and there's nothing to forgive. I repeat, you're an angel, Miss Pilgrim.'

‘Rubbish, Mr Cooper.'

‘And I accept all the help you're willing to give Horace and Ethel.'

‘Yes, I am willing. Mr Cooper, would you care to take a cup of Camp coffee with me as a sign that we have come to agreeable terms with each other?'

‘Bless you,' said Jim, and made a mental note to inform Molly he no longer needed alternative lodgings.

At the morning break in the playground, Higgs had Alice cornered.

‘Yer an 'a'porth of barmy goosepimples, you are,' he said, ‘yer been an' picked a couple o' dates, you 'ave. Wivvers wears 'is farver's trousers, and 'is sister's a nicker. Nicked yer skippin'-rope, didn't she?'

‘No, she didn't,' said Alice.

Orrice, standing at an open door, was listening.

‘Course she did.'

‘She didn't,' said Alice. ‘Ethel's nice.'

‘Yer want yer mince pies tested, then,' said Higgs, ‘she's 'orrible. So's Wivvers.'

‘So are you,' said Alice.

‘Like 'im, do yer? Well, yer won't after I've pushed 'is cake'ole in.'

‘Yes, I will,' said Alice.

‘What, wiv 'is clock all messed up?'

‘Horace could eat you for dinner,' said Alice proudly.

‘'Ere, try this for afters,' said Higgs, and with the supervising teacher's back turned, he grabbed her. Pretty young Alice was always tempting to kiss.

A hand tapped his shoulder. He turned. Orrice was behind him.

‘Kindly put 'er down,' said Orrice.

‘'Oppit, faceache,' said Higgs, and wound a tight arm around Alice. Orrice kicked him in the back of his knees. He let go of Alice and fell down. The teacher turned. Alice surrendered herself gladly to Orrice and walked away hand in hand with him. The teacher arrived beside the fallen Higgs.

‘What are you doing, Higgs?'

‘Me, Miss Forster?' said Higgs.

‘Yes, you.'

‘Nuffink,' said Higgs.

‘Well, rise up and continue doing nothing on your feet.'

‘Horace, you're ever so brave,' said Alice on the other side of the playground.

‘Well, Alice, I got to tell you, so are you,' said Orrice. She had stood up to Higgs a treat. ‘Good on yer, I like yer, but d'you mind not 'olding me 'and? There's blokes looking.'

‘But, Horace, they all know we're sweethearts,' said Alice.

‘Oh, me gawd,' said Orrice, ‘don't talk like that, Alice, you'll send me to me grave.'

Effel rushed up and glared at Alice.

‘What you 'olding me bruvver's 'and for?' she cried.

‘Oh, you can hold his other one, Ethel,' said Alice, ‘you're his sister and I'm his sweetheart.'

A whole gang of kids heard that and yelled with laughter. Orrice died.

Life became onerous to him. He couldn't get rid of Alice or her sweetness, and then there was poetry reading every evening in Miss Pilgrim's sitting-room, with Effel made to sit and listen. Their guardian had informed them that their landlady was going to help further their education. While Effel had no idea at all what that meant, Orrice had a ghastly suspicion it meant being turned into a posh cissy. Poetry. Reading it. With Miss Pilgrim's eye fixed severely on him. He might as well die again and this time not get up.

But he accepted his lot in respect of poetry reading because Jim had a good old-fashioned chat with him, man to man, and touched a chord of ambition in the boy. But it took two successive evenings, an hour each time, to get through the first few verses of ‘The Pied Piper'. Miss Pilgrim had made him read, re-read and read again. On this, the third evening, he applied himself to an exciting bit, about the rats of Hamelin town.

‘Rats, they fought the dogs an' killed the cats,

Made nests—'

‘And,' corrected Miss Pilgrim.

‘Where?' asked Orrice.

‘“
And killed the cats
,”' said Miss Pilgrim.

‘I said “and”, didn't I?' queried Orrice.

‘Not quite, young man. But at least you are beginning to read, and not gabble. Start again.'

Effel giggled at the look on her brother's face. Miss Pilgrim laid stern eyes on her.

‘Well, it's funny,' gulped Effel.

‘It's far from funny, miss, and if you listen it will be as much a help to you, as your brother. Your turn will come, Ethel. You are sadly in need, child.'

‘Yes, Miss Pilgrim.' Effel frowned, but secretly found it fascinating to watch and listen, to take in the picture of their awesome landlady making Orrice read poetry. Orrice kept looking as if he was in awful pain.

‘Start again, young man,' said Miss Pilgrim, and Orrice started again.

‘Rats, they fought the dogs an' killed the cats—'

‘You are not trying or concentrating,' said Miss Pilgrim.

‘Now what ain't I done, Miss Pilgrim?'

Miss Pilgrim sighed.

‘You have just massacred the King's English,' she said. ‘What haven't I done now is much more acceptable than now what ain't I done. I'm despairing.'

‘I'm flabbergasted myself,' said Orrice, and Miss Pilgrim sat up and actually smiled.

‘Why, Horace, you said that beautifully. Say it again.'

‘I'm flabbergasted myself.'

‘Lovely,' said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Now, once more with the rats.'

‘Rats, they fought the dogs and killed the cats—'

‘Excelsior,' said Miss Pilgrim.

‘Made nests inside men's Sunday 'ats—'

‘Oh, dear.' Miss Pilgrim was letting Orrice get away with nothing.

‘What haven't I done now?' asked Orrice, at which she gave him a look of rare approval.

‘You are doing very well,' she said, ‘but I thought last night we had overcome the problem of dropped aitches.'

‘Yes'm,' said Orrice, ‘but can't we get on and see what 'appens—' He checked at Miss Pilgrim's pained look. ‘What happens about these rats?'

‘You're interested in the tale the poem is telling?'

‘I fink—'

‘Really, young man, really.'

‘Oh, blow,' said Orrice. ‘I mean I think I am.'

‘Good. Read on.'

‘Made nests inside men's Sunday hats

And even spoiled the women's chats

By drownding—'

‘Drowning,' corrected Miss Pilgrim.

‘By drowning their speakin' with squealin' and squeakin'

In fifty different sharps and flats.'

‘Apart from losing a few g's, very good. Continue, Horace.'

Orrice continued. Effel stopped all fidgeting and listened fascinated to the tale of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Miss Pilgrim persisted and Orrice persevered, and by his perseverance alone she recognized a boy who might do much better for himself than driving a coal cart or being a railway porter.

The bell for Sunday morning service was still ringing when Miss Pilgrim entered the church. Most people were already in their pews. Mrs Lockheart was again present, seated midway, next to one of Miss Pilgrim's neighbours. Miss Pilgrim proceeded down the aisle in her cool, resolute way. Mrs Lockheart turned her head to look at her. She was ignored. A whispering broke out, and scores of eyes watched Miss Pilgrim all the way to her usual seat in a front pew.

‘You can't 'ardly believe it, a missionary's daughter and all.'

‘It don't seem 'ardly creditable.'

‘Poisoning's wicked, yer know, it's fire an' torture.'

‘Imagine 'er doing it an' still comin' to church.'

‘I expect a body can get away with it in China, it's full of them foreign Chinese.'

Miss Pilgrim, fully aware of the whispers, discounted them by sitting straight-backed and fearlessly upright.

She was avoided when she came out of the church at the end of the service, except by Jim, Orrice and Effel. Orrice and Effel had resigned themselves to the fact that their guardian meant to take them to church regularly. Jim had not been unaware of the whispers himself, nor of the covert looks directed at Miss Pilgrim. They gave him new food for uneasy thought. However, with Orrice and Effel, he accompanied Miss Pilgrim home without mentioning what was on his mind. In any case, in a crisis he knew he would prefer to stand with Miss Pilgrim. He did not trust the smiling, agreeable, talkative Mrs Lockheart, who seemed to have set up home in Walworth, hardly the most salubrious neighbourhood for a woman of her kind.

Entering the accounts office at the club at half past eight on Monday morning to begin his new job and his new hours, Jim found Molly there. It was a cosy-looking office, with a radiator, and there were two desks, facing each other. One desk was piled with book-keeping ledgers. A wooden tray contained a host of invoices.

Molly's smile was warm and welcoming.

‘Hello, old soldier, lovely morning.'

‘It's raining,' said Jim, ‘but nice to see you, Molly.'

‘Yes, that's what I meant. Lovely. Look, I only work in the afternoons normally, as you know. I can't stand all day in an office when there's life to be lived, but I'm coming in every morning for your first week here. Dad asked what for. I said you were rusty and that I was going to polish you up. Dad asked were you specially rusty, and I said no, just special.'