Two for Three Farthings (37 page)

‘We'll make it the week after.'

‘Mr Cooper, you should ask Miss Keating, she will be much more suitable company than I will.'

‘Molly's just gone to Devon for a fortnight, and I don't see anything unsuitable about your company, Miss Pilgrim. It's settled, then. Say Tuesday week.'

‘It is not settled, Mr Cooper.' Miss Pilgrim rustled about. ‘Except that I shan't be going. Please leave it at that. Are you quite all right now?'

‘Al,' said Jim. ‘Sorry to have messed up your morning.'

‘I'm much too thankful you came to no harm to worry about other things.'

‘Shall I scrape the potatoes for you?'

‘Thank you, but no.' Miss Pilgrim did not ask how he could manage to scrape the new potatoes. ‘I prefer to have my kitchen to myself when I'm preparing meals.'

‘I'll push off, then,' said Jim.

‘It will do you no harm to sit there, Mr Cooper, for a while longer. And you may talk, if you wish. That won't interfere with my tasks.'

He sat and talked. Miss Pilgrim, slightly aloof in her responses, could not think why it was that her kitchen was becoming less and less her own province.

The congregation sat in stunned silence. The vicar, having outlined the known facts concerning events relating to a parishioner whom he did not name, was in chastisement of people who, knowing nothing of the facts themselves, chose to listen to whispers and to pass them on.

‘Shall it be said that among you such unhappy people exist? Are there any among you who would condemn any man or woman by whisper alone? I hope and pray there are not. What I would ask of you is to say to those who whisper, “Don't bring me malice and rumour, bring me proof.” Few of us are worthy enough to cast stones, and even those who think themselves immaculate should hesitate before—'

‘Don't point your finger at me!' Mrs Lockheart was on her feet, her pretty charm wrecked by fury. ‘You are a hypocrite to side with a murderess!'

‘Madam,' said the vicar, ‘be so good as to go to the vestry, and I'll talk to you there.'

‘I'll talk to you here!'

The vicar nodded to the organist, and the organ immediately drowned Mrs Lockheart's voice. The vicar came down from the pulpit, and the congregation rose. Mrs Lockheart was a shocking sight in her fury, and people surged to leave the church. The vicar stood on the chancel step, waiting. The church cleared of choir and congregation, leaving Mrs Lockheart in confrontation with the vicar, who then spoke sternly and without compromise to her. She turned and rushed out. There was no-one to listen to her angry complaints, except elderly Mrs Hardiman.

‘Well, you can't wonder at it, dearie,' said Mrs Hardiman, when she could get a word in, ‘all them things you said don't rightly sound the same as what our vicar said. Now you go 'ome and make yerself a hot cup of tea, and have a good sit down, like.'

‘You silly old fool,' said Mrs Lockheart, and went away.

Out shopping the next morning, Miss Pilgrim was stopped by two neighbours. They were friendly far beyond expectation, rejoicing rather than apologetic. Cockneys rarely wore an apologetic air. It did not suit their hearty and challenging approach to life. ‘Sorry, ducks,' said it all and did not embarrass either party.

‘You must come and 'ave a nice cup of tea, Miss Pilgrim, I don't 'ardly know when the last time was.'

‘My old man was saying only yesterday you 'adn't been in lately, Miss Pilgrim. Thinks a lot of you, Alf does. More shame on them as don't 'old you in kind regard.'

‘Pity you missed church and all yesterday, Miss Pilgrim. The vicar, well, I never 'eard 'im so downright punishin'. Made everyone sit up, like.'

‘Really?' said Miss Pilgrim. ‘What about?'

‘Well, 'e didn't name no names, but 'e poured 'oly fire on all them whispers that's been goin' on. Been a shame, Miss Pilgrim, a downright shame. When you got a spare moment, come in and 'ave that nice cup of tea with me.'

‘Yes, and any time in my 'ouse, Miss Pilgrim.'

‘How kind,' said Miss Pilgrim, and went immediately to the vicarage. The vicar was in and received her with a smile. ‘Vicar, what was your sermon about yesterday?'

‘My word, you do come straight to the point, Miss Pilgrim.'

‘I never see any reason not to. I've just listened to some extraordinary comments from Mrs Wills and Mrs Higgs.'

‘They were referring, probably, to a few remarks I made after my sermon, when I spoke about people who cast stones because of rumours and whispers.'

‘I am appalled you should take a certain person as seriously as that, vicar.'

‘The matter had taken on a very serious aspect, Miss Pilgrim. I make no apologies for my determination to protect your good name. I trust I've succeeded in discouraging the misguidedness of that certain person.'

‘Such nonsense, vicar. I'm only too glad I wasn't there to listen to you.'

‘I'm glad myself. Your presence would have deterred me from speaking out.'

‘I should have been there, but my lodger—' Miss Pilgrim came to an abrupt halt, and her lips compressed. ‘I cannot fault your motive, vicar, but really. Good morning.'

Jim, who was taking his holiday fortnight, less one day that he owed the club, returned from a visit to the Zoo, Orrice having endured the long day well, Effel a little tiredly in tow. They had never been to the Zoo before. Effel had been dumbstruck and chattering by turn. Orrice had fed the monkeys with the permitted nuts.

Miss Pilgrim requested Jim to see her as soon as he had freshened up. She received him in her kitchen. Her blue eyes fixed him.

‘You are an impertinent scoundrel, Mr Cooper,' she said icily.

‘A what?' said Jim.

‘Wait, I should not want to accuse you on suspicion alone. So first tell me if your fall yesterday morning was genuinely accidental or deviously contrived.'

‘Deviously contrived?' Jim played for time to think. ‘Have you been reading
Pickwick Papers
, Miss Pilgrim?'

‘Not for many years, Mr Cooper. Be so good as to answer the question.'

‘Why are you asking it?'

‘Because I discovered this morning that the vicar addressed his congregation yesterday on the wearisome matter that has come about through the presence in this neighbourhood of Mrs Lockheart. He decided, apparently, that it was his duty to scotch every rumour. Providing I was not in the church myself.'

‘What a splendid chap,' said Jim, at which Miss Pilgrim eyed him witheringly.

‘Strangely, Mr Cooper, I was unable to attend church. Why was that? Because I found you unconscious on my hall floor. Or so it seemed. I put aside any thought of leaving you there.'

‘You're a natural Samaritan,' said Jim.

‘You're a natural humbug. Unconscious indeed. It's my firm conviction that you tricked me, that you conspired with the vicar to keep me here, away from the service. Isn't that so?'

‘Well, I'll tell you what is true,' said Jim, ‘and that's the fact that I gave myself a nasty bump on the head. It's still tender. But did the vicar actually give his congregation a talking-to? Damn good. He looks a gentle man of God to me, I'm glad to know he can deliver fire and brimstone when necessary. It's my belief that fire and brimstone are a good old-fashioned remedy for people who stray from the path of love-thy-neighbour stuff. Next time I see the vicar I'll shake his hand. I'm very much in favour of him standing up for an admirable woman like you. If that's all, Miss Pilgrim, I'll go and see to the kids' supper. They're both starving.'

Miss Pilgrim regarded him in a strangely helpless way. Her mouth quivered. She set it firmly again.

‘You deceived me, Mr Cooper.'

‘I thought the cause a good one,' said Jim.

‘You actually had the audacity to connive with the vicar.'

‘Connive? That's a bit much, old thing.'

‘I'm not an old thing, nor am I a simpleton.'

‘That's the last thing I'd take you for,' said Jim. ‘It's true I had a chat with the vicar. We decided—'

‘Such impertinence!'

‘Oh, lord,' said Jim.

‘It was unforgivable. I did not think I'd find both impertinence and deceit in you. What other dubious secrets do you have?'

Jim grinned, then spoke on impulse.

‘I'm illegitimate,' he said, and Miss Pilgrim's fearless eyes opened wide. ‘My parents weren't married.'

She was silent for a moment before she spoke.

‘That is an accident of birth, for which you were not responsible, Mr Cooper. I was speaking of faults and failings, not of something unimportant.'

‘Unimportant?' said Jim.

‘Uncle Jim? Uncle Jim?' Orrice made himself heard from the top of the stairs. ‘I finished makin' the bread and butter, shall I put the sausages on? Effel's slicing the tomatoes. Uncle Jim?'

Jim put his head out of the kitchen door.

‘Good on you, laddie,' he called. ‘Yes, put the sausages on. All of them. Don't forget to prick them with a fork first.'

‘I fried sausages before,' called Orrice, ‘I'm not daft, yer know, Uncle.'

‘That's a fact, you're not, old chap. All right, leave it to you. I'll be up in a moment.'

‘Is that boy handling a hot pan on the gas ring?' asked Miss Pilgrim.

‘I've faith in Horace,' said Jim. ‘What did you mean, my illegitimacy is unimportant?'

‘It's the person who is important, Mr Cooper,' said Miss Pilgrim in matter-of-fact fashion, ‘and how he or she face up to the world. You have faced up to it very well. You've overcome the disadvantages of your birth, your orphaned state, and a lost arm fighting for your country. Not many men with those disadvantages would look or behave as you do. You are a man, Mr Cooper, in the best sense of the word, and I hope you never think you have anything to be ashamed of. Except perhaps your deceitfulness. When I think of how concerned I was for you, I'm shocked at my naivety, knowing as I do now that you were lying there laughing at me.'

‘Never,' said Jim, astonished that someone so strictly-minded could dismiss his illegitimacy as unimportant. ‘You're a magnificent woman.'

‘Oh, dear,' said Miss Pilgrim, and sighed. ‘I'm so many things, I'm angelic, generous, warm-hearted, remarkable, and now magnificent.'

‘Also perfection in a kitchen.'

She shook her head at him.

‘I've never known any man whose tongue runs away with him as much as yours,' she said. ‘I am no better and no worse, I hope, than my neighbours. Please go and take charge of that hot pan before Horace sets the house alight.'

‘Yes, I'd better, I think.'

‘And don't speak again of the accident of your birth as if it makes you less than you are.'

Jim smiled.

‘Remarkable,' he said, and went upstairs to see how the sausages were doing.

Miss Pilgrim did not accompany Jim and the children on their outing to Brighton. She had too much embroidery work on hand. Despite the rent she received, she still needed the extra income, for she was no more than solvent. She had very little to call on for a rainy day. She shared with the people of Walworth the strain of being as poor as a church mouse. She could not afford new clothes, and her wardrobe remained a well-preserved one. It was fortunate that in Walworth she could shop economically and well for the necessities of life, and she was a familiar figure to the market stallholders.

She was not turning out as much embroidery as formerly. She did not seem to have as much time. There were thieves about in the shape of her lodgers, who stole hours every week from her. She put her embroidery aside for an hour every evening, except at the weekends, in order to improve Horace's diction. She put it aside frequently for Mr Cooper. She fretted at her slide into self-indulgence. Worse, at the fact that she was yielding so much of her privacy. But the burden she had taken on when accepting lodgers was of her own making, and she must endure it.

Of course, the time would come when her lodgers would leave. Mr Cooper would realize that if his wards were to have any kind of future, it should not be in Walworth lodgings. He must marry, he must give the children a mother, and give them all room to breathe in a rented house. He had affection for his manager's daughter, Miss Keating. He really must begin to think seriously about her.

Miss Pilgrim's teeth snapped a thread.

Effel turned in her bed, sighed, snuggled beneath the bedclothes and drifted into contented sleep. Orrice lay sound asleep beside Jim, the boy dead to the world. It was the last Friday of Jim's holiday, and he had taken them to Hampshire again. They had met his grandmother, who had heaped apples and sweets on them, and been ever so nice to their guardian. Then they had had a picnic in the country, and a ramble in the afternoon.

While the kids slept the sleep of the contented and weary, Jim slept in fits and starts. Something was happening to his life. Something was not right with his life. Something was missing. He had the kids, he had things of his mother's and new memories of her, he had comfortable lodgings, a steady if modest job, and a landlady whom he could not fault, even if she was a perfectionist in many things. He also had grandparents and the affectionate friendship of Molly. But there was still something missing.

He sat up. His nostrils twitched. There was an acrid element in the air. Silently, and without disturbing Orrice, he slipped from the bed in his flannel pyjamas. He opened the door and moved out on to the landing. The darkness of the hall and stairs was faintly broken by flickers of light. Smoke was rising from the hall. From the top of the stairs his startled eyes saw the cause. Against the front door was a heap of burning rags, the flames feeding on what he could smell, paraffin. By their light he saw a long rag depending from the letter-box, with flickering fire creeping up it. Doorpaint was peeling. Jim ran back into the bedroom, took his old, hard-wearing trenchcoat from its hook, ran down the stairs in his bare feet and into Miss Pilgrim's kitchen. He plunged the coat into her scullery sink and turned on the tap. He flooded the coat, picked up the heavy, sopping garment, ran back into the hall and smothered the burning mass, using his one hand and his body. A tongue of flame, escaping the onslaught, caught his hand and scorched it. He moved, he extinguished the little burst of fire, plunging the hall into darkness, except that the doorpaint was beginning to burn. He lifted the soiled coat and killed the little running flames.