Two for Three Farthings (33 page)

The photograph was missing from the mantelpiece the next day. Jim found it in Effel's bedroom, on her mantelpiece. He waited for her to say why she had put it there. He waited in vain. Effel said nothing. He left it in her room. He thought perhaps it represented a memory of her own mother.

Miss Pilgrim, changing the bed linen the following Monday, saw the framed photograph, and asked Jim that evening if it was of the children's mother.

‘No, mine.'

‘Yours? When she was young, Mr Cooper?'

‘Taken when she was seventeen.'

‘Such a fresh-faced, lovely girl,' said Miss Pilgrim.

‘She was only twenty-three when she died, and my father, killed when serving with Kitchener, wasn't yet thirty.'

Miss Pilgrim's blue eyes darkened.

‘I'm sorrier than I can ever say, Mr Cooper. Marriage is an institution blessed by God, especially when there are children, and it was cruel that the marriage of your parents was so brief and fleeting.'

‘As I said to my maternal grandmother, I fail sometimes to understand the ways of our Creator.'

‘Yes, one does ask questions sometimes, Mr Cooper, but we shouldn't let our faith be weakened.'

‘You've never sought the blessing of marriage yourself,' smiled Jim.

‘I devoted myself to my parents. There was fulfilment in that. I shan't ask why you have never married.'

‘Oh, I'm no catch,' said Jim.

Miss Pilgrim folded a freshly-ironed sheet.

‘Your predilection for speaking nonsense is not your most sensible virtue, Mr Cooper.'

‘Well, there's hope for both of us still, Miss Pilgrim.'

‘Hope for what?' she asked, folding another sheet.

‘Your Mr Right may still be out there, waiting for you, and my Miss Right may be just round the corner.'

Miss Pilgrim carefully placed the folded sheets together. Her hands, he noticed, did not have the work-worn look of most Walworth women. Her fingers were long and fine. He supposed she took great care of them because she liked to keep herself immaculate.

‘I think your need is greater than mine, Mr Cooper,' she said. ‘I am self-sufficient, but you are a man with two wards.'

‘My diffidence is against me,' said Jim.

‘Diffidence?' Miss Pilgrim sounded a little sarcastic. ‘I have never met any man with less diffidence than you.'

‘Appearances can be deceptive,' said Jim. ‘In any case, I doubt if Molly Keating, the manager's daughter, for whom I've got a soft spot, would take on a man and two wards all at once and at the same time.'

Miss Pilgrim picked up a pillow slip and eyed it critically.

‘But you're courting her?' she said.

‘Saints alive, no. I really am no catch, Miss Pilgrim.'

‘But you care for her?'

‘Molly's a charming and warm-hearted young lady, and deserves a man better and more affluent than I am.'

‘Utter nonsense,' said Miss Pilgrim crisply.

‘We'll leave it at that,' said Jim. ‘By the way, I'm taking Ethel and Horace to school tomorrow. I'll be a little late for my work, but can make it up with a short lunch hour. I thought I'd catch Alice and invite her to Sunday tea around our table. It's fair to reciprocate, isn't it?'

Miss Pilgrim turned to face him.

‘I'm not sure what Horace will think, but yes, it's fair. Mr Cooper, if the day is fine and warm enough, would you all care to have the tea in the garden with me? My little patch of grass isn't so little that I can't put a folding table on it.'

‘There you go again,' said Jim.

‘What does that mean?' she asked, regarding him with suspicion.

‘Being an angel again.'

‘You are becoming quite impossible, and I cannot respond to such absurdities.'

‘Nothing absurd about Sunday tea in a garden in Walworth,' said Jim, ‘it's close to being a blessing from God.'

‘You are ridiculous,' said Miss Pilgrim.

‘I accept with great pleasure on behalf of all of us, including Alice,' said Jim.

Left to herself, Miss Pilgrim bustled about her kitchen in a vexed fashion. Now what had she done? She had invited them into her own little oasis, her own little summer retreat.

Surely she had not needed to do that?

Alice, always early to school, was waiting at the gates. She had taken to doing that, to waiting for Horace and going into classes with him. He arrived with his sister and with his tall guardian, a kind-looking man with one arm.

‘Oh, good morning, Mr Cooper,' she said. ‘Horace, you're here.'

‘I happen to 'ave come,' said Orrice, warily watching out for other boys. A bloke just couldn't trust what Alice might say.

‘'E's wiv me,' said Effel grimly, but Effel was fighting a losing battle. Every arrow bounced off Alice.

Jim looked down at Alice in her school boater, her curling hair falling to her shoulders, her smile welcoming Orrice, and he thought of his mother at the age of nine.

‘Alice,' he said, ‘would you like to come to tea on Sunday?'

‘Eh?' said Orrice, mouth dropping open in disbelief that his Uncle Jim could play the traitor.

‘Oh, could I?' asked Alice in bliss.

‘If it's fine, we'll be having it in our landlady's garden,' said Jim.

‘I ain't comin',' said Effel.

‘But tea in a garden, Ethel, won't that be lovely?' said Alice.

‘I'm 'earing things, I am,' said Orrice.

‘Come at four, Alice,' said Jim.

‘Oh, yes, thank you, Mr Cooper.'

‘Orrice ain't comin',' said Effel. ‘Nor me.'

‘Horace will walk you home afterwards,' said Jim to Alice.

‘Watcher, Orrice,' said an arriving boy, ‘'ow yer doing?'

‘I'm ill,' said Orrice.

Alice looked up at Jim. Jim winked. Alice laughed. Orrice went into assembly feeling faint.

He spoke to Jim that evening. In his forthright way, he said, ‘Uncle Jim, before I go down for me poetry readin', I got to have a talk with you.'

‘Man to man?' said Jim.

‘Yes, if yer like.'

‘About Alice?'

‘Ugh,' said Effel, cuddling one of her Ragamuffin Jack books for comfort and consolation.

‘Uncle Jim,' said Orrice sorrowfully, ‘you done me in proper. Invitin' Alice to Sunday tea 'ere, that done me in a bit to start with, but me walkin' her home, I didn't fink—'

‘Think,' said Jim.

‘Yes, I didn't think you'd do that to me, get me to walk her all the way 'ome to Crampton Street,' said Orrice, ‘and I dunno I can do it except with a sack over me 'ead, so's they won't see me.'

‘They?' said Jim gravely.

‘Me schoolfriends,' said Orrice. ‘It's all over the school already that Alice is me—' Orrice couldn't bring himself to say it. As it was, he had a dozen fights lined up with kids who'd said things.

‘Carry on,' said Jim.

‘Orrice ain't saying,' muttered Effel, ‘'cos she ain't 'is sweet'eart. I am.'

‘Oh, yer date,' said Orrice, ‘you're me sister, you can't be me sweetheart.'

‘Never mind, Horace,' said Jim, who agreed with Miss Pilgrim that the boy should acquire some social grace, ‘you can talk to Alice about it when you walk her home. Point out to her you can't commit yourself now, not at your age, but you'll think about it when you're older.'

‘I'm goin' to work on the railways when I'm older,' said Orrice. ‘I thought you was my friend, Uncle Jim, I didn't think you'd 'elp to send me barmy.'

‘I am your friend, Horace.'

‘Orrice ain't goin' to walk 'er 'ome wivout me,' declared Effel.

‘Now see what yer done, Uncle,' said Orrice, ‘me life's not me own any more.'

The vicar appeared at the entrance to the church after the Sunday morning service, to say a few words to each departing parishioner. Mrs Lockheart, who had again been present, was detained for a few moments longer than other people, the vicar regarding her with curiosity while exchanging pleasantries with her. She was smiling when she detached herself to join a group of women who seemed in no hurry to get home. Jim, waiting with Orrice and Effel, saw Miss Pilgrim appear. The vicar spoke to her. Miss Pilgrim eyed him enquiringly, then she nodded and went back into the church with him.

‘Horace,' said Jim, ‘you walk on home with Ethel.'

Orrice, spotting Alice heading towards him, took Effel away at a fast pace. Jim walked across to the group of women. Mrs Lockheart smiled at him.

‘Can you spare a few moments?' he asked.

‘With pleasure, Mr Cooper,' she said. She excused herself to the ladies and joined him.

‘Let's walk,' said Jim, and took her at a stroll along Larcom Street. ‘Mrs Lockheart, it's time you went back to where you came from.'

‘Whatever do you mean, Mr Cooper?'

‘I mean you've done enough damage. If that's what you came for, you've succeeded. You've got the vicar worried now. So give it a rest. Your brother was bitten by a viper, and the inquest confirmed this. I've checked. I suggest that before you leave you write a letter to the vicar clearing Miss Pilgrim of any connection with your brother's unfortunate death.'

‘Why, Mr Cooper, I do believe you've been talking to Rebecca. I hope you're not a gullible man. Rebecca has a forked tongue, you know.'

‘A forked tongue has been wagging in every street around here,' said Jim, ‘but it doesn't belong to Miss Pilgrim.'

‘Oh, dear me,' said Mrs Lockheart prettily, ‘she has a champion? But how does a viper get from a conservatory into a sleeping man's bed?'

‘Snakes its way there. You told me your brother was found dead in his bed. At the mission, I presume.'

‘A guest, Mr Cooper.'

‘Yet I heard you ask Miss Pilgrim if he said anything during his last moments. That doesn't add up. Nor do you.'

‘How clever of that viper to find its way to my brother's bed,' murmured Mrs Lockheart as they approached the Walworth Road.

‘Mrs Lockheart, I accept none of your insinuations about Miss Pilgrim.'

‘Dear me,' she said, ‘I see how true it is that love is blind.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?' asked Jim, disliking her thoroughly.

‘Clarence, poor man, was also in love with Rebecca.'

‘So she put a viper in his bed? You're out of your mind, Mrs Lockheart.'

Mrs Lockheart stopped and turned on him, her charming smile vanishing. Her eyes glittered and her expression became waspish. No, thought Jim, not waspish. There was a more appropriate adjective. Viperish.

‘You dare say that to me?' She almost hissed the words. ‘You will regret that.' And she walked away, back towards the church. Jim walked home. Orrice and Effel were waiting on the doorstep. He used his key to let them in.

‘You all right, Uncle?' asked Orrice. ‘You don't look very 'appy, does he, Effel?'

‘Not my fault,' protested Effel.

‘I'm all right now I'm in clean air,' said Jim.

He heard Miss Pilgrim come in ten minutes later. He went down to see her. In her kitchen, she was aproned and busying herself with the dinner preparations. She did not seem as if her interlude with the vicar had disturbed her. She looked her usual composed self.

‘Yes, Mr Cooper?'

‘The vicar spoke to you,' said Jim.

‘That is so.'

‘About Mrs Lockheart and what she's been saying to people?'

‘The conversation I had with the vicar was a private one, Mr Cooper.'

‘I had a conversation myself. With Mrs Lockheart.'

‘It's a free country, I'm told,' said Miss Pilgrim, placing prepared potatoes in the pan containing a joint of mutton. ‘And I naturally assume your conversation was not about me.'

‘It was all about you,' said Jim.

‘You had no right,' she said sharply.

‘As you pointed out, it's a free country.'

‘That doesn't give you the right to discuss my affairs.'

‘I'm a friend,' said Jim.

‘Then you should do as I ask, and not interfere. It will do no good. That woman appeared out of thin air. When she gets tired of what she's doing, when it begins to bore her, she will disappear as suddenly as she came. I forgive you for discussing my affairs with her, and I wish to hear no more about it. Come down to dinner at two as usual, please – oh, and I have baked a fruit cake for tea. The weather is fine enough for us to have it in the garden, with your guest Alice, and I trust your wards will be on their best behaviour. Perhaps over dinner we can have some interesting talk on Horace's next poem, “How We Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix”.' Miss Pilgrim placed the meat dish back in the oven. ‘You know that one, Mr Cooper?
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three
?'

‘Oh, my sainted aunt,' said Jim, and laughed.

Miss Pilgrim drew herself up and regarded him stonily.

‘What is amusing you, Mr Cooper?'

‘You, Miss Pilgrim. You're irrepressible.'

‘Kindly go away, Mr Cooper, I'm far too serious-minded to appreciate that kind of remark. I'm also busy.'

‘Just one question, Miss Pilgrim. Do you know how to handle a snake? That is, how to take hold of it without harm to yourself?'

Her blue eyes took on their familiar frostiness.

‘Yes, you have been discussing me with that woman,' she said.

‘Can you handle snakes?'

‘I refuse to answer. Please go away.'

Jim went. He felt an easing of his worries, however, despite her icy response to his question. She was standing up to everything that Mrs Lockheart was maliciously throwing at her. He had no doubt that the vicar himself had expressed worries to her. She had probably told him in her fearless way not to concern himself. One would have to be lacking in character to doubt the integrity of a woman as admirable as Miss Pilgrim.