Two for Three Farthings (9 page)

‘Ain't goin',' breathed Effel.

‘Who said that?' asked Jim, popping the eggs gently in.

‘Effel said it,' answered up Orrice. ‘Effel, we got to do what 'e says.'

‘Ain't goin',' said Effel.

‘Well, when she's washed and dressed, Orrice, put her in one of those sacks and we'll carry her,' said Jim.

‘All right,' said Orrice.

‘No, I ain't goin' in that,' said Effel, ‘I'll be squeezed to me death, I will. Ain't right, puttin' little girls in sacks.'

‘I fink we got a problem with Effel, Uncle Jim,' said Orrice solemnly.

‘Ain't goin' in no sacks,' said Effel.

‘More comfortable on two legs,' said Jim, timing the eggs.

‘A' right,' said Effel.

That settled, Jim served them a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs with slices of bread and margarine. Effel and Orrice sat down at the little table and ate with the healthy appetites of a girl and boy relieved of the worst consequences of their bereavement. Afterwards, Jim left them to wash at the handbasin that Mr Palmer, a plumber, had installed in the upstairs lavatory, while he went out to do a little shopping.

‘Effel, yer got to.'

‘Ain't got to,' said Effel. ‘Won't.'

‘I'll punch yer,' said Orrice.

‘I'll kick yer,' said Effel.

‘'E won't be yer uncle if yer don't get yer 'air combed.'

‘Yes, 'e will, 'e said so.'

‘Only if yer got them tangles out.'

‘Won't,' said Effel, ‘it 'urts.'

‘Well, mine 'urt, but I still combed it.'

‘You got a boy's 'ead,' said Effel.

‘What's the difference, yer soppy date?' asked Orrice.

‘Made of wood, that's what,' said Effel. ‘Wood don't 'urt like a girl's 'ead does.'

‘Effel, yer playing up,' said Orrice, ‘I betcher 'e ain't goin' to like it.'

‘Oh, a' right,' said Effel, ‘you do it for me.'

‘Me? Comb yer 'air?'

‘Do it,' said Effel, and sat down on a chair.

‘Women,' said Orrice disgustedly, but he picked up the comb and went to work. Effel gave tight little yells. The comb tugged and pulled. ‘Crikey, what yer got on yer 'ead, anyway?' asked Orrice. ‘Barbed wire? I'll do me 'and an injury, I will.'

‘Yer pulling me 'ead off,' gasped Effel.

‘Yer won't miss it,' said Orrice, ‘it ain't been no good to yer. Girl's don't need to 'ave 'eads really. There's nuffink in 'em.'

‘Hate yer,' said Effel. ‘Want me mum, I do.'

‘Don't say fings like that, sis.' Orrice dragged the comb through a tangled strand. ‘It don't do no good.'

‘No, a' right,' said Effel, and sighed. The comb wrestled with the strand. She gritted her teeth, then said, ‘Orrice, where's 'e got to? Ain't 'e comin' back?'

‘Our new uncle?'

‘Yes, 'im. Oh, yer pullin' me 'air out—' Effel stopped as the door opened and Jim came in, a brown paper carrier bag in his hand.

‘A little food for meals,' he said. He looked at Effel. She blushed and dropped her head, the comb standing stiffly in her thick hair. Jim thought that in her dyed black frock, with her hair disordered, she looked a quaint little thing. ‘Orrice, what's happened to Effel's hair?'

‘I been trying to comb it,' said Orrice.

‘Looks like a haystack,' said Jim.

‘There y'ar, told yer, Effel,' said Orrice.

‘Didn't,' said Effel, eyeing Jim uncertainly.

‘We'll see to it,' said Jim. ‘First, let's tidy up. Orrice, fill the water jug from the tap in the lav. Effel, put all the breakfast things in that bowl next to the gas ring.'

Effel, about to say she wasn't going to, said instead, ‘Me?'

‘There's a good girl,' said Jim. ‘I'll make the bed. What's that?' He pointed to a shapeless heap on the floor.

‘It's Effel's coat,' said Orrice, on his way out with the pitcher.

‘Effel?' said Jim, turning the pillows and shaking them.

‘Fell orf the chair,' said Effel.

‘It's that kind of coat, is it? Pick it up and hand it to me.' Effel picked the coat up and held it out. He took it from her and addressed it. ‘Pay attention, coat. Whenever Effel hangs you up or folds you over a chair, kindly don't fall off and look untidy, or you'll be shot at dawn.'

Effel looked at him, trying to make him out, trying to understand how he could be an uncle to her and Orrice, and if he would be a bit grumpy with them. She watched him hang the coat up, then in a slightly reluctant way she began to collect the breakfast things for washing-up. Her mum and dad had never asked her to do things like that. Orrice came back with the pitcher, filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring.

‘I'll do the washin'-up, if yer like, Uncle Jim,' he said.

‘Good,' said Jim, the bed made. ‘Right,' he said, ‘morning inspection. Let's have a look at the two of you.' He inspected their faces. ‘Good.' He inspected their ears. ‘Fairly good. Now for Effel's haystack.' He contemplated the problem of her hair. He was totally a beginner at this sort of thing, and he had no real idea of what Effel and Orrice wanted of him in the way of guardianship. Kindness, naturally. What else? He knew that as a young boy he himself had often longed for simple fun. Simple fun didn't happen too often at orphanages. He knew what he wanted from Effel and Orrice. Cleanliness, a reasonable amount of obedience, and a commendable amount of self-respect. He couldn't let them run wild, however engaging they might be. ‘Right, you do the washing-up, Orrice, and I'll mount an attack on Effel's haystack.'

Effel gritted her teeth as he began work with the comb. He drew it through the ends of tangled strands, and the tangles gave way. The comb moved further up. Effel bore it mutinously but bravely. Her hair began to feel soft to the comb, to run through the teeth with faint whispers. The strands eventually hung tidily over her neck. Jim thought about the necessity of new lodgings. He had made two calls while he was out, but neither had opened up the possibility of three rooms. It was not going to be as easy as renting one room or two. Not many households had three rooms to offer. Three rooms meant the whole of the upstairs in most cases. He had better get a move on.

Effel's hair shone. It ran freely and took the comb freely. Its natural little waves rippled. It was, however, in need of a wash. So, probably, was Orrice's. It was difficult for any kids to keep clean in Walworth, and the sooty atmosphere was no respecter of hair. But there were advantages in living in the area. There were a large number of streets in which the compact terraced houses, built while Queen Victoria was still alive, offered homely accommodation to people able to afford the very reasonable rents. Also, living was cheap, the East Street market a boon. A seasonal glut of vegetables or fruit could mean giveaway prices. Lastly, the people, with few exceptions, had hearts of gold. So one put up with the dust of summer and the soot of winter.

Orrice, washing-up done, took a look at his sister's hair.

‘Crikey,' he said, ‘yer got proper hair, Effel, yer look like a girl.'

‘I'll kick you,' muttered Effel.

‘No kicking,' said Jim, ‘it's a punishable offence.'

‘Cor, a wallopin', I bet,' said Orrice.

‘I ain't goin' to be walloped,' said Effel.

‘Probably no sugar in your tea,' said Jim.

Effel, looking down at her feet, said, ‘What's me 'air like?'

Jim moved behind her, placed his hand on her ribs and lifted her until she could see herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. He was aware of her young body stiffening in his hold. He set her down.

‘How's that?' he asked lightly.

‘It's a' right,' said Effel. The look of her hair had actually been a surprise to her, but she was guarded this morning in her attitude towards him. He took some new yellow ribbon from the carrier bag, cut a length with scissors and tied it round her hair, Orrice in wonder that he did it with only one hand, even making a bow.

‘Right,' said Jim, ‘now we're going out to call on your Aunt Gladys, and then invite prospective landladies to see what my niece and nephew look like with clean faces, clean ears and combed hair. Hats on. No coats. It's a nice day. Good grief, that's a hat, Effel?' He regarded the battered boater with a smile. In the morning light it was his first real look at it. It sat a little tiredly on Effel's head. ‘Yes, very nice, Effel, but what's that on your mop, Orrice?' Orrice looked all huge cap and no eyes.

‘It's me cap,' he said, ‘me dad give it me last year, 'e didn't want it no more.'

‘I see, off we go, then,' said Jim: He led the way out, Orrice closing the door behind them. They went down the stairs. Mrs Palmer appeared in the little passage.

‘Morning, Mr Cooper, these children's your niece and nephew?' she enquired.

‘This is Ethel, and that's Horace,' said Jim.

‘My, I never seen cleaner faces,' smiled Mrs Palmer. But she thought their parents must be very poor, because their clothes were pitifully shabby. Still, clean faces could count for more than clothes. ‘They look sweet, Mr Cooper.'

Orrice turned pink under his cap. Fancy being called sweet. And when he was a growing boy and all.

‘Fairly tolerable handfuls, Mrs Palmer,' said Jim, ‘and I'm taking them out to help me search for new lodgings.'

‘Oh, yes, and I got some names and addresses for you,' she said. ‘They're people that's got rooms to let.' She pulled a piece of paper from her apron pocket and gave it to Jim.

‘Much obliged,' he said. ‘Thanks. Come on, kids.'

They left the house, with Orrice muttering, ‘I'm a boy, I am. I ‘ope she don't go tellin' everyone I'm sweet, 'cos I ain't. And I dunno you could say Effel is.'

‘Oh, Effel will pass with a push,' said Jim. He offered the little girl his hand as they were about to cross Walworth Road. Effel made instinctively to take it, then drew back. She still wasn't sure of things, nor of him. He wasn't her dad, nor like her dad.

He took them to Kennington, Orrice directing him to Aunt Glad's house. Brother and sister walked down the street a little way and awaited the outcome of the interview.

Aunt Glad, just about to make another trip to Deacon Street in the hope of finding the missing orphans there, answered a knock on her door. A gentleman of kindness smiled at her and lifted his hat. She noted his lost arm.

‘Good morning,' said Jim, ‘are you Mrs Williams, Mrs Gladys Williams?'

‘Yes, that's me,' said Aunt Glad, taken with his politeness. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr—?'

‘Cooper, Jim Cooper. I've come about your niece and nephew, Ethel and Horace Withers.'

‘Oh, lor' – oh, they're all right, ain't they?' Aunt Glad's worry over them leapt into apprenhension. She associated Jim's civility with authority. Something had happened to Orrice and Effel. ‘They've not 'ad an accident, 'ave they?'

‘No, nothing like that, Mrs Williams, nothing at all to worry about.' Jim was reassuring.

‘But I am worried, I been thinkin' about goin' to the police, you've got to tell me if they're all right.'

‘They are. Could I talk to you? Have you got time? The children spoke well of you.'

‘Oh, come in, come in,' said Aunt Glad. She took him into her parlour, traditionally crowded with furniture, and the windows hung with old lace curtains. ‘I was just goin' to Deacon Street to look for them. Me and me ‘ubby went the other night when they didn't come back 'ere for the supper I 'ad ready for them. We couldn't 'ardly believe the note Orrice left, sayin' they were goin' to Southend and 'oping to get a boat to Australia. Oh, them poor loves, thinkin' Uncle Perce an' me only wanted to get rid of them.'

‘No, they didn't think that, Mrs Williams,' said Jim, ‘they simply didn't want to be a trouble to you.'

‘Do sit down, I'm sure,' said Aunt Glad, uncertain about him, but liking his open and friendly look. Authority didn't usually look friendly, nor have a missing arm. ‘How did you know about them, 'ave you got them at a police station somewhere?'

Jim, seated, carefully explained the position, and gave her details of what had befallen her niece and nephew.

‘They're fine now, Mrs Williams.'

Astonished, Aunt Glad said, ‘You took them in, Mr Cooper?'

‘It seemed the best thing to do,' said Jim. ‘Orrice thought, of course, that his little note to you would relieve you of worry. Kids think in simple terms, I suppose. He thought running away would be a very simple solution. Mrs Williams, I'll come to the point. I've no family myself, I'm a bachelor relying on kind landladies to put me up, and as I'll soon be moving to new lodgings, with room for the children, I'm quite willing to look after them until such time as things might be better for you and your husband, when you might want to look after them yourselves.'

‘Well, bless me soul,' said Aunt Glad in new astonishment, and eyed him searchingly. She couldn't see anything about his looks or his appearance that made her feel he was a dubious piece of work. And she was sensible enough to realize that if he had anything shifty or underhand in mind, then he wouldn't have come to see her. ‘Well, I don't know as I could rightly say, Mr Cooper, I can't think at the moment what to say at all.' She gave him another look. ‘You been in the war, Mr Cooper?'

‘In the infantry,' said Jim.

‘It cost you yer arm,' said Aunt Glad.

‘It wouldn't have been any good to me the way it was at the time.'

Out of a mixture of worry, relief and uncertainty, came a little smile from Aunt Glad. Perce had a bit of a sense of humour himself, he didn't let things get him down any more than this man with the nice kind eyes did.