Two for Three Farthings

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘I ain’t,’ said Orrice.

  ‘I’m a bit,’ said Effel.

  ‘All right,’ said Jim, ‘we’ll go back home and Effel can have forty winks. You can keep an eye on her, Orrice, while I go to Wansey Street.’

  ‘I s’pose that’s best,’ said Orrice, who would have preferred to keep going the rounds.

  ‘Ain’t goin’,’ muttered Effel.

  ‘Ain’t goin’ where?’ asked Orrice.

  ‘Ain’t goin’ where ’e said,’ muttered Effel.

  ‘Oh, dearie me, oh, bless me soul,’ said Orrice pityingly, ‘where are yer goin’, then?’

  ‘Wansey Street,’ said Effel.

  ‘I dunno we’re ever goin’ to make anyfing of Effel, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice, as they crossed the market into Orb Street. ‘First she says she ain’t goin’, then she says she is. Women, I dunno.’

  ‘Changed me mind,’ mumbled Effel.

  ‘Women,’ said Jim, and laughed. He had a purpose in all this walking. It kept these two active, it kept them from sitting and grieving. He knew their sadness was still present. It showed in Effel’s little moments of quietness, and in Orrice sometimes saying, ‘Me dad—’ and then stopping. Being out and about was, thought Jim, the best thing for them at the moment.

  Wansey Street, next to the town hall, had a distinctly superior look, the terraced houses well-kept, stone window sills a clean light brown, polished windows dancing with light in the April sunshine.

  ‘Well, I dunno, Uncle, do you?’ said Orrice. ‘I dunno it ain’t a bit too respectable.’

  ‘You’re respectable, Orrice. So is Effel.’ Jim smiled. ‘Neither of you have been nicked for pinching or disturbing the peace, have you?’

  ‘What, me and Effel?’ said Orrice.

  ‘You haven’t. Good,’ said Jim. ‘And you’ve both been kind to old ladies, I’m sure.’

  ‘What old ladies?’ asked Orrice, looking at a middle-aged lady crossing the street. Her respectability was very evident. She was carrying a rolled umbrella, and had a crisp feather in her hat. Crikey, he thought, if they came to live here, would Effel have to wear a feather in her boater? It wouldn’t last long, she’d tease cats with it.

  ‘I think we’ll all pass with a push,’ said Jim. Number nineteen had iron railings and two steps. He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He tried a third knock in hope. There was no response.

  ‘They’re out, that’s what,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Why?’ asked Effel, who thought they ought to be in.

  ‘Now ’ow do I know?’ said Orrice. ‘They got to be out or they’d come and answer.’

  ‘We’ll call again,’ said Jim. ‘But back home now. I have to leave at half-past three for my work. Mrs Palmer’s going to treat you to tea later, and then I want you early to bed, my beauties. Have you got toothbrushes?’

  ‘We don’t ’ave none of them,’ said Orrice, ‘we got socks and uvver fings, we ain’t got no toothbrushes.’

  ‘That’s got to be put right,’ said Jim, walking them home, ‘or all Effel’s teeth will drop out before she’s ten. So will yours, before you’re twelve.’

  ‘All of ’em?’ said Orrice.

  ‘Every one,’ said Jim.

  ‘Crikey, Effel,’ said Orrice, ‘yer’ll be a toothless ’ag like old Ma Ricket when yer ten.’

  ‘Course I won’t,’ said Effel. ‘Will I?’ she asked Jim.

  ‘We’ll save you from that, Effel. Which school do you two go to?’

  ‘Sayer Street,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Ain’t goin’ there no more,’ said Effel.

  ‘Who said that?’ asked Jim, walking between them along Walworth Road.

  ‘Effel did,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Didn’t,’ said Effel.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t old Mother Riley,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Ain’t goin’,’ said Effel.

  ‘Don’t either of you like Sayer Street School?’ asked Jim.

  ‘Not much,’ said Orrice.

  Jim thought. St John’s Church School in Larcom Street would be a good option. Nobody knew them there. Nobody would ask them too many questions. And if they could get lodgings in Wansey Street, St John’s School would be only a stone’s throw away.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll call in at St John’s now and see the headmistress. We’ve got time.’

  Mrs Wainwright, headmistress at St John’s, looked the two children up and down. Effel exhibited nervous fidgets. Orrice, cap off, was respectful but not overawed. Jim was quite equal to the atmosphere in the study.

  ‘Their guardian, Mr Cooper?’ enquired Mrs Wainwright politely, a slender lady of fifty.

  ‘With the agreement of their next-of-kin, their aunt and uncle, Mr and Mrs Williams of thirty-one Penton Place, Kennington,’ said Jim, with all the easy conviction of a man who believed that what made sense was preferable to what was fiddlingly exact. Besides, it was as good as true, never mind that his role hadn’t been legalized. Further, he had taken to the kids, and he knew it. They represented a challenge to his set ways as a bachelor. ‘I did myself the compliment of telling myself it would work out better for them than life in an orphanage. I’m a close friend, of course.’ He did not say to whom he was close.

  ‘Dear me, such responsibility for a man,’ said the headmistress.

  ‘For a woman too, I should think,’ said Jim.

  ‘A woman is a more natural guardian.’ The headmistress, slightly severe of manner, nevertheless offered that comment with a smile. Jim responded with a nod of agreement. ‘I have to admire your gesture, Mr Cooper, it’s very Christian. But is it necessary to take the children away from their present school?’

  ‘Not necessary, no, but St John’s will be nearer, and I prefer church schools. Also, Ethel and Horace favour the change.’

  ‘Well.’ Mrs Wainwright did some thoughtful musing. ‘How old did you say they were?’

  ‘Ethel’s seven, Horace is ten.’

  ‘Your birthday, Ethel?’ enquired the headmistress kindly.

  Effel looked for a moment as if she was going to say she wasn’t telling. Jim’s hand fell lightly on her shoulder, and she said, ‘Feb’ry fourf.’

  ‘Fourth,’ said Mrs Wainwright who, with her teachers, spent many hours trying to get cockney children to sound their aitches and distinguish between ‘f’ and ‘th’. ‘And yours, Horace?’

  ‘Jan’ry ten, missus,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Mrs Wainwright.

  ‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice, and she looked at him. His fresh face was almost angelic, hiding the pugnacity of his spirit. She made a note on her desk pad, then said, ‘Long trousers when he’s only ten, Mr Cooper?’

  Knowing Orrice liked his long trousers, Jim said, ‘Well, shorts and brittle knees don’t go too well together.’

  ‘Horace has brittle knees?’

  ‘Long trousers do give them some protection,’ said Jim.

  ‘He may get laughed at,’ said the headmistress. Few boys went into long trousers before the age of fourteen.

  ‘He’ll speak up for himself,’ said Jim.

  ‘Yes’m, I got a tongue,’ said Orrice. ‘Me dad always said—’ He stopped.

  ‘It’s all right, Horace,’ said Mrs Wainwright, a kind heart beneath her starched white blouse. ‘Very well, Mr Cooper, they may begin on Monday.’

  ‘Not tomorrow?’

  ‘Give them until Monday,’ said Mrs Wainwright understandingly. Children bereaved needed a little time to face up to school.

  ‘I’m very obliged,’ said Jim.

  Surprisingly, Effel spoke up.

  ‘Fank you, miss,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the headmistress with a slightly pained smile. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Yes, fank you,’ said Effel.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Mrs Wainwright.

  ‘It’ll come right in the end,’ said Jim, and his warm and cheerful goodbye left her feeling pleased to have obliged him.
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br />   ‘Right,’ said Jim at twenty-five past three, ‘I’m off in five minutes. That leaves you in charge, Orrice.’

  ‘I gotcher, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice. They had just had a nice cup of tea, and a currant bun each, bought from the baker’s by Jim first thing this morning.

  ‘’Oo you in charge of?’ whispered Effel.

  ‘You,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Crumbs,’ said Effel, feeling that made her valuable.

  ‘Stand guard over Effel, and all our worldly goods, Orrice,’ said Jim, ‘and make sure you’re both in bed by nine o’clock. At five, Mrs Palmer will call you down and treat you to a rattling good tea. Best behaviour, don’t forget, and clean hands. Tomorrow morning we’ll see about buying clothes and toothbrushes for you.’

  ‘We got clothes, we brought some,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen them,’ said Jim. ‘Very nice. But you’ll both need more, especially for school. After that, we’ll call again at that house in Wansey Street. Well, that’s all for now. So long. Be good now.’

  When he had gone, Effel said uncertainly, ‘’E’s comin’ back, Orrice, ain’t ’e?’

  ‘Course ’e is, sis, ’e lives ’ere. If ’e didn’t come back, ’e wouldn’t ’ave nowhere to live.’

  ‘I just asked,’ said Effel, ‘that’s all. I just asked.’

  ‘All right,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Orrice, d’you like ’im?’

  ‘Course I do, soppy, don’t you?’

  ‘Ain’t saying,’ said Effel.

  When Jim reached the club, the manager intercepted him.

  ‘A word, Jim. We’re losing Bob Edwards, he’s going to Australia with his family next month. Look here, you’re too good for kitchen work. How would you like to take Edwards’s place and help us keep the books?’

  Jim had never done book-keeping in his life, but he gave the offer instantly favourable thought.

  ‘Well,’ he said, brain ticking over.

  ‘It pays thirty bob a week, you know.’

  ‘I’m a bit rusty,’ said Jim.

  ‘You’ve got three weeks to brush it up.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Jim, making a mental note to borrow relevant reference books from the library. The extra shillings a week would be a great help. Especially now. ‘I’m grateful for the opportunity.’

  ‘Better than kitchen work for a man like you, Jim. Better hours too, eight-thirty to five-thirty.’

  That, thought Jim, was a clincher. He decided something of a very pleasant kind was happening to his life.

  Library, here I come. Lodgings, show yourselves.

  Later that evening, Uncle Perce called at the club. The manager gave Jim fifteen minutes to talk to his visitor. It didn’t take Uncle Perce more than ten minutes to sum up this man. Aunt Glad had been right. He was a bit of a real gent, and an old soldier, and what’s more, a bloke you could talk to and listen to.

  ‘Good on yer, mate,’ said Uncle Perce in the end. ‘I tell yer, I’m grateful the kids bumped into you. I got trust in you. Put it there.’ He shook hands heartily with Jim. ‘They’re good kids.’

  ‘Yes, I like them,’ said Jim.

  ‘Good on yer,’ said Uncle Perce again, and it was settled.

  Back in the house a little after midnight, he found Effel and Orrice deep in slumber. By the light of the candle he looked down at them. Effel lay with all her childish woes in limbo. In her modesty, she was wearing the old dressing-gown again, the collar tucked up around her neck. She was lying on her side, her open mouth touching the pillow. Little burbles of sound travelled muffledly over the pillow. Orrice lay on his stomach, face quite buried, his breathing deep and relaxed.

  With healthy sleep claiming them, they were out of their forlorn little world for the moment. They had endured bravely. They had not walked the streets weeping. They were lovely kids.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  There was a neatly penned notice on a postcard in the window of the newsagents in Walworth Road. It read very well.

  ‘A Suite of Rooms to let for two Respectable Single Ladies at 19 Wansey Street.’

  It had been put in the window that morning at a cost of tuppence a week.

  Inside the house, Miss Rebecca Pilgrim was polishing the stairs banister when the front door knocker sounded. She descended the stairs, placed the cloth and tin of polish in the drawer of the hallstand, and opened the door. On the step stood a middle-aged woman heavily stout, and a young woman perceptibly thin.

  ‘Morning, you the one that’s got rooms to let?’ enquired the former from under a loud purple hat.

  Miss Pilgrim regarded the callers frostily.

  ‘They’re for two single ladies,’ she said.

  ‘We’re single,’ said the stout woman. ‘Well, I’m widdered and Amelia ain’t married yet. D’yer mind showing us the rooms and telling us ’ow much the rent is?’

  ‘There are three rooms,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and paused. ‘The rent is a pound a week.’ She had actually decided on twelve shillings.

  ‘A pound?’ The stout woman quivered. ‘’Oo yer kiddin’? Yer don’t think a body can pay that, do yer?’

  ‘I’m sorry, then. Good morning.’ Miss Pilgrim closed the door. The knocker was rapped immediately. She reopened the door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘All right,’ said the stout woman, ‘we’ll offer ten bob. Can’t say fairer than that, no-one could. Yer got to be kiddin’ when yer say a pound.’

  ‘Good morning,’ repeated Miss Pilgrim stiffly, and closed the door again. The letter-box flap was pushed open and the stout woman shouted through it.

  ‘Yer ’eartless haybag, I’ll ’ave yer up for extortin’, you wait!’

  Miss Pilgrim took out the cloth and polish, and went back to the work of making the shining banister shinier. One could accept the eccentricities of many of the poor people of Walworth. One did not have to accept the loud and blowsy, however sensitive were one’s Christian instincts. To have a woman like that in the house was unthinkable. Miss Pilgrim asked for forgiveness on account of the little lie she had told, and went on polishing.

  The knocker summoned her again fifteen minutes later. This time a pleasant-looking woman was there.

  ‘Good morning, I’ve just seen the notice in the newsagents. Is this the house?’ The woman smiled. ‘I’m Mrs Purvis.’

  ‘The rooms are for two single ladies,’ said Miss Pilgrim.

  ‘Oh, I’m enquiring for my niece, who’s coming down from Northampton.’

  ‘It’s a suite of three rooms for two single ladies.’

  ‘Yes, I do see,’ said Mrs Purvis, ‘but if my niece paid the full rent, I’m sure that would be all right, wouldn’t it? What is the full rent?’

  ‘Twelve shillings,’ said Miss Pilgrim.

  ‘Twelve? But that’s nearly as much as some young ladies earn.’

  ‘That is why I have suggested it is suitable for two ladies.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll get anyone paying twelve shillings, not in Walworth, not for lodgings. You can rent a house for twelve or fourteen.’

  ‘Not a house like this,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘The suite is two bedrooms and a living-room with some kitchen facilities. And own amenities.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Mrs Purvis, and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think my niece can afford twelve shillings a week. I suppose I could ask around to see if another young lady would share with her.’

  ‘Please do that,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Good morning.’

  She spent the next ten minutes frowning. She was quite unused to this sort of thing. But she needed the money. It was bitter to have to admit it, but she did. Her mother had left her an income of ten shillings a week, inherited from her father. She could not afford to touch the capital, which lay invested in government securities. She supplemented this by doing fine needlework at home, the finished articles being bought by a firm that sold them for four times the price they paid her. These earnings just about paid the rent of the house, fifteen shillings. All other expenditu
re had to be found from her weekly investment income of ten shillings. She was, she realized, as poor as a church mouse, and would remain so unless she elected to go into lodgings. She disliked intensely the prospect of an existence in an upstairs back room and a poky bedroom. She was not by nature cut out for that. The alternative was to let her three rooms upstairs and live downstairs. She could reconcile herself to that. She would retain her privacy, and twelve shillings rent from her lodgers would constitute a weekly windfall and allow her to live fairly comfortably.

  Other applicants arrived to interrupt her reflections. They were two female persons. She could not, in all conscience, call them other than that. They had bright avaricious eyes, powdered faces, painted lips and wore beady-eyed fox furs around their necks. They exuded an aroma of cheap scent and addressed her as ‘Ducky’. She froze at what she suspected them to be, told them the rooms were taken and closed the door on them.

  ‘Here we are again, kids,’ said Jim at five minutes to eleven. ‘You keep your fingers crossed and I’ll summon our good fairy.’ He knocked. ‘Well, I hope it’s our good fairy.’

  The door opened. Jim saw a woman clad in a black velvet dress that reached to her ankles. It was a well-preserved garment, the waist and bodice still trim, but the best of its nap had long since gone. Age had worn away its original glossiness and given it a matt finish. It accordingly gave her a stiff look. Her abundant black hair was brushed back from her forehead, parted down the middle, and dressed in a large bun at the back. Her face was handsome but a little severe, her untouched mouth as firm as a man’s. Her eyes were startingly blue and framed by long stiff black lashes. Her expression was discouraging.

  She regarded Jim and the boy and girl forbiddingly. She saw the pinned-up sleeve of the man’s jacket. Her look slightly softened, and she perused him more acutely. One could often distinguish men who had been in the trenches, whether or not they had lost limbs. They had a different look.

  ‘Good morning, madam,’ said Jim. Silently, she examined the children, a girl in a blue frock and a boater with a blue band, and a boy in a brown jersey and dark brown trousers. On his head was a ridiculously large cap with a soft peak. Jim had been to a second-hand clothes shop in the market to fit out Effel and Orrice as economically as possible for the time being. But he had not been able to persuade Orrice to give up his huge cap for a smaller one. The cap had belonged to Orrice’s dad, and Orrice was proud of it. Because of the woman’s silence, Jim again said, ‘Good morning, madam.’