Two for Three Farthings

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘’E ain’t alive no more,’ said Effel, and tears welled.

  ‘Don’t cry, sis,’ said Orrice, putting an arm around her, ‘we’ll run away, that’s best, don’t yer fink?’

  ‘A’ right,’ said Effel.

  When they reached their house, they entered by pulling on the latchcord. The emptiness of the house was a melancholy thing to them. Without their brawny, outgoing mum, it was never going to be a home again.

  ‘We best take some of Mum an’ Dad’s nice fings,’ said Orrice. ‘I mean, I betcher they’re ours, I betcher that’s what the law says.’

  ‘What’s the law?’ asked Effel, as they stood in the kitchen.

  ‘I dunno exactly, not exactly,’ said Orrice, ‘except it’s what the King says. An’ I betcher the King says Mum an’ Dad’s fings are ours. We’ll run away this afternoon, sis, and we’ll take the nicest fings wiv us. I’ll get a sack. We’ll take the alarm clock, Dad’s razor for when I grow up, Mum’s brooch for you, if it ain’t in pawn, the knives an’ forks wiv bone ’andles—’

  ‘Knives an’ forks?’ said Effel, her interest mournful.

  ‘Course knives an’ forks,’ said Orrice. ‘When we find somewhere, we got to eat, we got to cut some fings up, like bread. Yer got to fink about it, Effel, and about what yer want to put in the sack, and I best get another one for our clothes.’

  ‘Ain’t got no clothes,’ said Effel.

  ‘Course you ’ave, soppy.’

  ‘Ain’t got nuffink much good,’ said Effel.

  ‘Effel, anyfink you got is some good, you can’t walk about gettin’ all worn an’ ragged.’

  ‘A’ right,’ said Effel. A little dry sob coughed itself into a sigh. ‘Orrice, is Mum an’ Dad up in ’eaven?’

  ‘You bet,’ said Orrice loyally.

  ‘Is Jesus lookin’ after them?’

  ‘Course ’E is, that’s what ’E’s up there for.’

  ‘I wish I was wiv ’em,’ said Effel.

  ‘Don’t cry, sis,’ said Orrice, and put an arm around her again. His little sister could be a terror sometimes, but she was all he had now. And he was all she had. ‘Tell yer what, let’s eat Aunt Glad’s sandwiches.’

  ‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ said Effel.

  ‘Well, I fink there’s a tin of sardines we could ’ave a bit later,’ said Orrice, ‘an’ some bread as well. I fink I’m a bit ’ungry now.’

  They ate the paste sandwiches.

  They wandered about the house afterwards, looking at everything. There wasn’t really very much they could take, not without burdening themselves with heavily laden sacks. And it didn’t do their spirits much good, going round a house that wasn’t really a home any more.

  Just after noon there was a knock on the front door. Effel quivered.

  ‘Orrice, is it someone come to take us to Dr Banano’s?’ she whispered.

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t fink so, Effel.’

  ‘Don’t let’s answer in case,’ begged Effel.

  ‘We best see,’ said Orrice, and faced up to whatever challenge awaited them on the doorstep. It was a policeman. They recognized him as a local bobby. He fingered his chinstrap and smiled at them.

  ‘Morning, Effel. Morning, Orrice.’ He was briskly kind. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes, mister, fanks,’ said Orrice, and Effel put herself behind him, as she always did whenever she was a little shy or fearful.

  ‘That’s good.’ Constable Brownlaw’s expression was sympathetic, his manner fatherly. Go round and see those kids, his sergeant had said, it’s your beat, you know them best. ‘It’s been—’ He checked. He did not want to say anything that would make Effel cry. ‘Well, it’s good you’re both up and about. But you’re not at school, I see. Thought you might not be. Tomorrow maybe, eh? Thought I’d just come round and see if you’re both all right. You sure you are? D’you want any help with anything?’

  ‘No, we’re all right, mister, honest,’ said Orrice, and Effel quivered nervously behind him.

  ‘Gone into long trousers, Orrice, have you?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘Mrs Lucas give ’em to me for the funeral,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Who’s going to take care of you?’

  ‘We got our Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce in Kennington,’ said Orrice.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Constable Brownlaw. ‘You’re going to live with them?’

  ‘Well, for a bit,’ said Orrice, ‘but they don’t ’ave room for us for always. I expect we’ll ’ave to go in an orphanage later.’

  Constable Brownlaw sighed inwardly. He knew these kids, he knew Effel for her little tantrums and her little shynesses, and he knew Orrice for his boyish pranks and sturdy character. And everybody knew them as an indivisible pair, for wherever Orrice went, Effel was sure to go. They were lovable kids in their attachment to each other. Fate had dealt a scurvy blow in making orphans of them.

  ‘Well, you’ll be together,’ he said, although he knew that in most orphanages boys and girls were kept strictly segregated for the most part. ‘You sure you don’t need any help? Are you managing to pack what you want to take with you to your aunt and uncle’s?’

  ‘Yes, fanks, mister,’ said Orrice, then added bravely, ‘we’re goin’ to take some of our mum an’ dad’s nice fings, like Mum’s brooch an’ Dad’s pocket watch. And ’is razor for when I get older.’ He thought that if the policeman said it was all right to, then it was.

  And the policeman said, ‘Good, so you should, Orrice, it’s something to remember them by. Take everything you most like.’

  ‘Course, we ain’t takin’ no furniture,’ said Orrice, ‘just small fings.’

  ‘Very sensible, Orrice. Be a job, wouldn’t it, taking tables and chairs.’ Constable Brownlaw smiled again. ‘Look, round at the station – well, there’s this.’ He slipped a hand into his tunic pocket and extracted a stiff brown envelope. Orrice and Effel looked at it, Effel from behind her brother. ‘It’s a little collection we made at the station, just to give you a bit of cheer. If your aunt and uncle do take you to an orphanage – you sure they would?’

  ‘Well, yer see, mister, they’re ’ard-up and they already got two boys an’ three girls, and only a little ’ouse. An orphanage ain’t what they want, only they ain’t got room for me and Effel as well as their own kids, like. It ain’t their fault—’

  ‘I see, Orrice. Well, if you do land up in an orphanage, they’ll ask you what money you’ve got, and they’ll want to look after it for you, and maybe give you a penny each from it now and again. But if you want to spend some of it before you get there, say on a little treat for yourselves, you go ahead. Here.’ He handed the envelope to Orrice, who took it in wide-eyed astonishment. He could feel it was heavy with coins.

  ‘Mister—’ He had a lump in his throat. ‘Mister, did yer like our mum an’ dad?’

  ‘Bless yer, Orrice, salt of the earth your mum and dad were. That’s from the station, from all of us. It’s rough luck that’s come your way, young ’un, but you’re good kids, and you’ll grow up fine, you and Effel, and don’t let anyone discourage you. You keep your chins up all the way. Good luck, kids.’ Constable Brownlaw gave them both a pat and a smile, and departed.

  Orrice called his thanks, then closed the door and went into the kitchen with Effel. He opened the envelope. Out came the money, pennies, three-penny bits, and even tanners. They counted it. It came to nineteen shillings and sevenpence.

  ‘Cor lummy,’ breathed Orrice, ‘we’re nearly rich, Effel.’

  ‘Can we buy the ’ouse?’ asked Effel.

  ‘Well, I dunno about that,’ said Orrice cautiously, ‘I should fink the ’ouse might cost a bit more than nineteen bob. No, we best keep it for buyin’ food. Effel, we got twenty-five bob an’ sevenpence in all, would yer believe.’ They had found three shillings and eightpence in their mum’s purse, and two and fourpence on the chest of drawers in their parents’ bedroom, which was where their dad had always put his money at night. ‘Well, we be
st ’ave our dinner now, and run away afterwards.’

  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.

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 w
as 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.