Two for Three Farthings (3 page)

As well as the tin of sardines and half a loaf, they also found some Quaker Oats. To stop Effel just sitting and pining, Orrice let her make some porridge. It turned out a bit lumpy, but they put milk and sugar in it and stirred it in their bowls. The resultant concoction was white, glutinous and irregular, and not too much like the porridge their mum put on the breakfast table each morning.

‘We best 'ave a good wash before we go,' said Orrice, ‘we got lots of time.'

‘'Ad me wash,' said Effel, which meant a lick and a promise at Aunt Glad's. She spooned the porridge into her mouth. She grimaced and cast a covert look at her brother. Orrice was getting on manfully with his lumpy helping. ‘Is it a' right?' she asked.

‘You betcher,' said Orrice gallantly. ‘Yer goin' to be a nice cook, Effel, when yer growed up a bit. Listen, we best have a proper good wash, in case, like. Yes, we best do that.' He was thinking of an empty house that would give them shelter but might have the water turned off. He was a clean boy, and his face, cheerful and earnest by turn normally, always had a fresh look. Effel, however, never minded a smudged face. She was far from the stage of worrying about what she looked like. Her favourite book, which her dad had often read to her, was called
Ragamuffin Jack.
Ragamuffin Jack was her idea of fun. He was always falling into things like duckponds or coal-holes. ‘Effel, you listening?' asked Orrice.

‘Don't want to,' said Effel.

‘You got to 'ave a good wash before we leave.'

‘Ain't,' said Effel.

‘Yes, you 'ave,' said Orrice sternly, ‘we ain't goin' to go out lookin' like orphans. We'll 'ave old ladies comin' up and saying you poor dirty orphans, you best come to a police station. I'll wash yer, if yer like.'

‘You ain't combed yer ‘air,' said Effel by way of a riposte. If Orrice always had a clean-looking face, his hair, dark brown like hers, always had a tousled look. He hid it under his cap.

‘All right,' he said, ‘I'll comb it before we leave. Eat yer porridge up, Effel.'

‘Don't want it,' said Effel, ‘it's—' She made a face, not wanting to admit it was lumpy. ‘I ain't 'ungry.'

‘No, I s'pose not,' said Orrice. They both had aching hearts, and food didn't have its usual appeal. But Orrice thought he ought to do something to cheer his sister up a bit. He didn't think they ought to go out into the world feeling too miserable. ‘I'll eat yourn up for you, if yer like, sis.'

‘Me porridge?' said Effel disbelievingly.

‘Well, we don't want to waste it, it's nice,' said Orrice, and he tucked into her helping as if it was the best porridge ever made. Effel brightened up. Courageously, Orrice ate it all.

Then they had the sardines, with some bread and margarine. Effel ate dolefully, her spirits low again. The thought of leaving home for ever wasn't something she could easily take in.

‘I ain't goin',' she said suddenly.

‘Course you are, we got to,' said Orrice, ‘we don't want to be a trouble to Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce. I'll look after yer, sis. I betcher we'll meet some nice 'elpful people.'

Effel, again brightening up, said, ‘D'you want me last sardine?'

‘No, you eat it up, sardines is good for yer,' said Orrice.

‘Don't want it. You 'ave it.'

Courageous again, Orrice ate it for her.

They were putting things in sacks. Effel couldn't hold back her tears when they went into their parents' bedroom to look for nice things to take. It seemed a sort of awfully sad room now, all quiet and lifeless. Orrice suffered another lump in his throat. Effel went out, leaving him to look through the room. When they met again on the tiny landing, Orrice's sack a quarter full, Effel had a pile of old dog-eared story books in her arms.

‘Effel, yer can't take all them.'

‘Goin' to,' said Effel.

‘Effel, yer can't, they're too 'eavy.'

‘No, they ain't,' said Effel, wanly obstinate.

‘Course they are.' Orrice knew he had to be firm. ‘Look at 'em, they're nearly makin' yer fall over frontwards. Come on, I'll take 'em back in yer room for yer.'

‘I'll kick yer,' said Effel.

‘Effel, you know it ain't nice talkin' about kickin',' said Orrice in reproach, ‘not now it ain't.'

Effel compromised. She settled for two volumes of Ragamuffin Jack. She also agreed to let Orrice give her a good wash, which he did, her legs and knees as well, although she was quaintly offended at being made to lift her frock and petticoat up. Her petticoat, which had seen its best days, made Orrice think.

‘Effel, you got clean ones on?'

‘Ain't sayin'.'

‘Effel—'

‘Mind yer business,' said Effel.

They were finally ready to leave at a quarter to three. Orrice said Effel had best take her coat for when winter came, and that she could wear it to save carrying it in the clothes sack. Effel had charge of this sack. It contained the best of their clobber. Her old brown coat, a rescued cast-off, reached to her boots, covering her dyed mourning frock, and on her head she wore the ancient boater with a black band. Orrice wore his cap, jersey, trousers and boots. His sack bulged at the bottom with the things he'd decided to take, including the old tin alarm clock, his dad's razor, his mum's brooch, a brush and comb, knives, forks and spoons, two enamel mugs, two enamel plates, two wrapped pieces of crest china from Southend, a little sepia photograph of his parents taken on Southend Pier and framed in cheap metal, Effel's rag doll, her two Ragamuffin Jack books, and his dad's battered but still working gun-metal pocket watch.

He took a look from the front door to see if any neighbours were about, then called to his sister.

‘All clear, Effel, come on.'

There were new tears in Effel's eyes as she left the only home she had known, the home of her mum and dad. Before Orrice closed the door, she said, ‘We ain't never comin' back again?'

‘D'yer fink we ought to say goodbye to 'em, sis?'

They stepped back into the little passage.

‘Goodbye, Mum, goodbye, Dad.'

Orrice felt he had to close the door very quietly then, and did so.

They walked up the street in the direction of Walworth Road, Orrice carrying his sack over his shoulder, Effel clasping hers to her chest, the tears running down her cheeks. Orrice put his arm around her and they walked on.

He had left a note for Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce, telling them that he and Effel hoped to go to Southend and get a boat to Australia. He thought that would stop them worrying.

They turned south when they reached Walworth Road. They were both quiet, both thinking of the home they had left and the parents who had gone for ever. Nor was it a great consolation to know they were having to run away, although Effel was sure Orrice would know what to do about everything.

As they passed under the railway bridge, he said, ‘'Ere, sis, I just thought, we could go an' see that nice lady in the town ‘all, the one that 'elped Mum an' Dad when our drains got blocked up. Do yer remember 'er? We took 'er some fruit that Dad brought 'ome from the market.'

Effel brightened as she remembered how she and Orrice had gone to the town hall just before Christmas to take the fruit, and how kind the lady had been.

‘Will she look after us, Orrice?'

‘Well, I don't s'pose she could do that, not actu'lly look after us,' said Orrice, ‘but I betcher she'd 'elp us to find somewhere so that we didn't have to go to no orphanage. I betcher, Effel.'

‘A' right,' said Effel.

‘Come on, it ain't far.'

They walked bravely on.

Mr Simmonds, in charge of the enquiries in the Sanitary Inspector's department at Southwark Town Hall, looked up as a knock on the door was followed by the entry of a young boy in a huge cap, and a small girl in a battered boater. They each carried a sack. He recognized them, the children of a Mr and Mrs Withers, who had had problems with their drains. His assistant, an efficient-looking young woman, made to rise.

‘I'll see to them,' he said, and got up from his desk and went to the high counter, which often served as a protection against irate residents with bitter complaints about council shortcomings. The large cap lifted, and he looked down into the brown eyes of fresh-faced Orrice. Nervously, Effel hid herself behind her brother. Mr Simmonds smiled, and looked owlishly benign in his spectacles. ‘Good afternoon, Master Orrice,' he said, ‘what can we do for you?'

‘Is the nice lady 'ere?' asked Orrice.

‘Well, Miss Morris is here,' said Mr Simmonds. He turned to his assistant. ‘Are you nice, Miss Morris?'

Miss Morris gave him the kind of look that plainly told him she thought the question puerile.

Orrice, coming up on tiptoe, said, ‘It ain't 'er we want, is it, Effel?'

‘Can't see,' gulped Effel, ‘ain't saying.'

‘It's the other lady,' said Orrice, ‘the one that was nice.'

‘I think you mean Mrs Emily Adams,' said Mr Simmonds kindly.

‘I dunno I remember 'er name,' said Orrice, and looked around in hope.

‘I'm afraid she's left,' said Mr Simmonds. Orrice's face dropped. ‘Can I help?'

‘It's all right,' said Orrice, who wasn't going to tell everyone that he and Effel were in need. ‘It don't matter, mister.'

‘Sure?' Mr Simmonds caught Effel's peeping eye and smiled again. She ducked her head and whispered to her brother.

‘'E's lookin' at me.'

‘We best be goin', mister,' said Orrice. ‘Come on, Effel.'

Effel rushed in relief to the door, dragging her sack with her. The puzzled Mr Simmonds watched them go, the boy in his huge cap, the girl in a long, old brown coat that almost swept the floor. He thought there was something pathetic about them. He wondered why they weren't at school.

Orrice decided they'd run as far as the East Street market, where he might be able to start earning money by running errands or carrying boxes for stallholders. Effel could mind the sacks. He had the sense to realize that although they were nearly rich at the moment, they wouldn't be like that for too long. He ought to start earning coppers right away, then when the market packed up for the day, he and Effel could begin looking for somewhere to spend the night, perhaps in an empty house. They could take some food there, say a loaf of new bread for fourpence, and some marge and some slices of corned beef. Or some cheese. Effel liked cheese.

It seemed a long way to Effel, from Deacon Street to the town hall and then to East Street. When they eventually reached the entrance to the market, she found it necessary to tell Orrice she wanted to go somewhere.

‘Oh, that's good, that is,' said Orrice, ‘why didn't yer go before we came out, yer date?'

‘Didn't want to.'

‘Couldn't yer wait?' asked Orrice hopefully.

‘Course I couldn't,' said Effel.

‘Oh, cripes,' said Orrice, ‘now we got to look for a public lav.'

‘Costs a penny, that does,' said Effel.

‘What?' asked Orrice, horrified. A ladies' public convenience was as much a mystery to him as darkest Africa. ‘An ‘ole penny just to wee. You can buy two cracked eggs for a penny. Effel, can't yer wait till it's dark?'

‘Ain't goin' to,' said Effel.

‘You got to.'

‘Can't,' said Effel.

‘Oh, blimey,' muttered Orrice. ‘All right, come on.' With his sack over his shoulder, he took his sister's hand and pulled her along the pavement behind the stalls, her clothes sack dragging. He took her to a woman standing at an open door at the side of a market shop. ‘Missus?' he said. The woman looked down at him. Orrice turned up his earnest face. ‘Missus, could yer do me sister a favour?'

‘Not if I don't like the sound of it,' said the woman, a shawl around her shoulders on this breezy April day. Kids could get up to every trick.

‘Could she use yer lav, please?' The earnest brown eyes beguiled the woman.

‘Eh?' She peered suspiciously at the little girl swamped by a long coat. Effel's teeth were gritted.

‘Could yer let 'er, please?' begged Orrice from under his cap.

The woman gave in to understanding and sympathy.

‘Come on, then, ducks,' she said, ‘come up to me flat.'

Effel disappeared with her, leaving Orrice with both sacks. He sat on the doorstep and waited, interesting himself in the market activities. He liked the hustle and bustle of markets. A man came up, a man in the waistcoat, tieless shirt, knotted scarf, corded trousers and flat cap of a costermonger.

‘What yer doing, kid?' he asked.

‘I'm just sittin',' said Orrice.

‘I thought yer was. I said to meself, I said, that kid's just sittin'. Well, I 'opes yer won't take umbrage if I tell yer yer sittin' in me way. Yer can oblige me by 'opping orf.'

Orrice scrambled up.

‘I ain't takin' no umbrage, mister. D'yer want any errands run?'

‘Yus, it so 'appens I does,' said the costermonger, ‘I wants me old woman to run all the bleedin' way down to the old clothes stall by Brandon Street, but you ain't 'er, are yer, sonny?'

‘I'll go for yer, mister, I can run,' said Orrice.

‘Oh, yer can, can yer?' The costermonger looked impressed. ‘All right, orf yer go, then.'

‘What's the errand, mister?'

‘Don't know, do yer?' A grin flickered.

‘No, mister,' said Orrice.

‘So it ain't no good yer running, then, is it?'

‘Mister, that ain't fair,' said Orrice stoutly.

‘It's learnin' yer, sonny, it's learnin' yer.'

‘It still ain't fair,' said Orrice.

‘Well, 'ow about a clip round the ear'ole?'