Two for Three Farthings

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Some other time, Wivvers,’ said Higgs, and sauntered jauntily off with his pals.

  ‘Oh, you did talk to him heroic, Horace, and he’s ever such a show-off,’ said Alice. ‘Do come and skip, and I’ll ask my mum if you can come to tea.’

  Effel uttered a suppressed scream of fury.

  ‘Yes, well, if yer don’t mind, Alice, I’ve got me sandwiches to eat, and I’ve got to go to the cloakroom as well,’ said Orrice and left at the double. Effel ran after him. Alice sighed.

  But there she was, sitting next to him in the afternoon class. And there was Orrice, appalled at the prospect of being followed about not only by his sister, but by a girl with a skipping-rope that had pink handles. Pink. Even his big-shouldered dad would have wept for him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When classes were over for the day at four o’clock, Orrice noticed Alice lingering just outside the school doors. He dodged back into the boys’ cloakroom. He took two or three cautious looks, but she was still there. He heard her ask a boy, ‘Have you seen Horace?’

  ‘Never ’eard of him,’ said the boy.

  She disappeared a few minutes later, and Orrice made for the gates and for Effel, who’d be waiting there. Alice popped up, but there was no Effel.

  ‘Where’s Effel?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s gone after you,’ said Alice.

  ‘Now how could she ’ave?’ said Orrice. ‘I haven’t gone, you can see I’m still ’ere.’

  ‘Oh, I think she thought you’d gone, and she started running to catch you up,’ said Alice.

  ‘Crikey, what a carry-on,’ said Orrice, and made tracks for Turquand Street, which would take him to Browning Street and up to Morecambe Street, where they were living with their guardian.

  Effel ran about, looking. She didn’t know where she was. She was always with Orrice, and recently with both him and their guardian. She always left everything to Orrice, including the geography of new ground. Her knowledge of this area’s back streets, different from those around Deacon Street, was hazy. She was furious with her brother for going back to their lodgings without her, and she ran in a temper to catch him up, except that when she got to Browning Street she wasn’t sure where to go from there. She ran and darted all ways without seeing him, and she didn’t even know the name of the street in which they were living. She saw a policeman coming towards her. She turned and scampered round a corner, and she scampered on.

  A little later she asked a lady where Walworth Road was. She knew Walworth Road. She felt she could find familiar signs there. She was directed to it. Reaching it, she stood looking, this way and that. She was a little agitated now. The trams were something of a comfort to her, for they were very familiar. Perhaps Orrice was in this road, looking at shops. He liked wandering about. She walked, her feet hurrying her, towards the town hall. She reached Browning Street, very familiar. She and Orrice and their guardian had been in Browning Street lots. There was a turning they had taken lots. She hurried down Browning Street, came to King and Queen Street, hesitated, then turned into it. Had she gone on only a fairly short way, she would have reached Morecambe Street and recognized it. But she went running along King and Queen Street. She came to East Street, the market. That panicked her a little. She’d already been in the market twice during her running search. She again missed Morecambe Street by turning right instead of left. She reached Walworth Road again. She ran in and out of pavement crowds. Tired and very agitated, she sat down in a shop doorway, tears of distress beginning to spill. People passed by. A man stopped. He stopped in front of her, peering at her.

  ‘’Ere, what’s the trouble, girlie, what’s them tears for?’

  He had a large mouth, a large nose, and bushy black eyebrows. Effel did not see the genuine sympathy in his eyes. Cockneys had very warm hearts for little girls. Effel only saw the large nose and the bushy black eyebrows. She jumped to her feet and rushed away, and he lost sight of her among the pedestrians.

  Effel just ran and ran.

  Darkness had fallen over London when a hall porter put his head around the door of the main kitchen, sighted Jim and called to him.

  ‘Better come a minute, if you can, Jim, there’s a boy askin’ urgent for you. Say’s his name’s Horace.’

  Jim dried his hand, took his apron off, received a nod from the chef, and went to discover what had brought Orrice to the club. Orrice was in the hall, by the door, cap in his hand, fingers twisting it.

  ‘Orrice?’

  ‘Effel’s run off,’ said Orrice. He looked worried and weary. He had been searching for hours, walking and running, asking and looking. Mrs Palmer, the landlady, and her husband were out on the steets of Walworth now, conducting a search, and Mr Palmer had talked about riding up to King’s College Hospital to see if Effel had had an accident and been taken there. Orrice poured out his worries.

  ‘You haven’t seen her since the end of classes?’ said Jim.

  ‘Well, no.’ Orrice was kicking himself for hanging back on account of Alice. ‘One of the girls said she’d gone off after me. Effel thought I’d gone when I ’adn’t, and I wouldn’t ’ave gone without ’er, honest. She ought to ’ave known that. I’m real worried, Uncle Jim.’

  ‘Well, I’d say she hasn’t run off, Orrice,’ said Jim gently, ‘I’d say she simply got herslf lost. It’s a maze of streets, our part of Walworth, and she probably still can’t pinpoint our lodgings. She’s a very young girl, and it’s a new walk for both of you, from the school to Morecambe Street.’

  ‘But it’s an easy one,’ said Orrice, a bit desperate.

  ‘To you perhaps.’

  ‘But could yer come, could yer ’elp me look for her?’

  ‘Of course. Hold on a moment.’ Jim went to see the chef. He was back in less than a couple of minutes. ‘Come on, Orrice, let’s cut through and get a tram in Blackfriars Road.’

  His calm approach reassured Orrice a little, but on the tram the boy was still restless. Jim knew that brother and sister were inseparable. They argued with each other, quarrelled with each other, and made fun of each other. But they were still a united pair. More so since the death of their parents. Jim wondered if a policeman had picked up a wandering Effel, or if Effel herself had gone to a police station. He doubted she had, she was still at the stage of associating policemen with orphanages. In her way she was a determined little girl, but still wholly reliant on Orrice. Almost certainly she’d got herself lost, even though the school wasn’t all that far from Morecambe Street.

  Once off the tram, they hurried to Morecambe Street, to their lodgings, in hope. The Palmers were out, obviously still looking, proving themselves friends in a crisis. And there was no sign of Effel.

  Jim did not want to go to the police for help, not yet at least. His relationship with the children was a tenuous one. There was always the possibility that authority would not approve him as a guardian.

  Orrice said, ‘We got to find ’er, we got to.’

  ‘Yes, we have,’ said Jim.

  ‘I just thought.’ Hope brightened Orrice. ‘D’you fink she might’ve gone to me Aunt Glad’s? She knows where Aunt Glad lives all right. If she got lost but found Walworth Road, she’d know ’ow to get to Aunt Glad’s from there.’

  Something occurred to Jim. Effel had confessed she had drawn a wreath for her mum and dad. If lost, if unable to find Morecambe Street and her brother, to what would her lonely and frightened mind point her? The home of her mum and dad?

  ‘Orrice, does she know how to reach Deacon Street?’

  ‘She would from Walworth Road,’ said Orrice.

  ‘And she could get into your parents’ house?’

  ‘She’d just pull the latchcord, except last time we went it wasn’t ’anging.’

  ‘Orrice, let’s go there.’

  ‘I think you’ve got sense, Uncle Jim.’

  Very odd, thought Jim. Orrice had said think instead of fink. They hurried to Deacon Street. The latchcord was hanging. Uncle Perce had been picking up
things.

  There she was, upstairs, curled up on her parents’ bed, worn out and crying quietly in the darkness. Jim struck a match and lit the gas mantle. Orrice rushed to the bed.

  ‘Effel, oh, yer monkey,’ he said, ‘yer nearly been me death. Wha’d’yer go an’ get lost for?’

  Effel uncurled herself, came to her knees on the bed, and flung her arms around her brother’s neck. She sobbed wetly into his shoulder.

  ‘All over, Effel,’ said Jim, ‘don’t worry now.’

  ‘Orrice run orf, ’e left me,’ wept Effel.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ protested the highly relieved Orrice, ‘you went off wivout waitin’ for me. Now yer don’t need to cry any more, sis. Come on.’

  Effel unwound herself and got off the bed. Her nose was wet and pink. Jim took his handkerchief out. He put it to her nose.

  ‘Blow, Effel,’ he said, and Effel blew. He gave her little nose a good wipe. ‘Better?’ he said.

  ‘Want to go ’ome,’ said Effel, nose dry but eyes wet.

  Touched, Jim said, ‘Come on, then.’ He reached. Effel held her arms out and he took her up. She held on to him. Orrice retrieved her boater from the foot of the bed. Jim carried Effel down the stairs. Orrice put the gas out and followed. The front door was still open. A figure appeared, a policeman’s lantern switched on, and its light illuminated the man and the child.

  ‘What’s all this, then?’ asked Constable Brownlaw, who had seen a light in the bedroom of a house still awaiting new tenants.

  ‘So that’s it,’ said Jim a little later. He was in the parlour with Orrice and Effel, and the constable.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Constable Brownlaw. ‘By rights, you should all come to the station. By rights you should. But it’s late for the kids, and Effel’s had a bit of a long day. You all right now, Effel?’

  ‘Yes please,’ whispered Effel.

  ‘You all right, Orrice?’

  ‘You bet,’ said Orrice. ‘You ain’t goin’ to take us to no orphanage, are you, mister?’

  ‘You like living with Mr Cooper?’

  ‘We like it lots, don’t we, Effel?’

  ‘Want to go ’ome,’ said Effel.

  ‘Home?’ said Constable Brownlaw.

  ‘Wiv me bruvver,’ said Effel. ‘And ’im,’ she said, with a look at Jim.

  ‘Well, Mr Cooper, I’ll just have a word tomorrow with their aunt and uncle. See what they say, y’know, before I think about a report. But I’d like your address first.’ Jim gave him the Wansey Street address. ‘Ah, that’s where you said you’re moving tomorrow. Very good, sir. Well, you’d best get Effel back to your present lodgings now, and give her a nice mug of hot cocoa.’

  ‘I couldn’t see Soupy,’ said Effel.

  ‘Oh, the cat,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Ah, a neighbour’s taken your cat in,’ said Constable Brownlaw. ‘All right, off you go, then, Mr Cooper, I’ll turn the gas lamp out.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Jim, ‘thanks for everything.’

  ‘Good night, sir. Good night, kids.’

  He watched them go down the lamplit street, the one-armed man carrying the tired little girl. Well, he thought, there’s some men with two arms who couldn’t do a better carrying job than that.

  The door of nineteen Wansey Street opened. Miss Rebecca Pilgrim presented herself in a crisp white plain blouse and long black skirt. She wore no jewellery of any kind, not even a brooch, but she did have a black armband around the left sleeve of her blouse. Jim supposed she was still in mourning for her dead parents. Miss Pilgrim could have told him she was mostly in mourning for her withered illusions.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Pilgrim.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Cooper.’ Her handsomeness wore its severe look. ‘It is nearly fifteen minutes past ten.’

  ‘Yes, I said ten, didn’t I?’

  ‘Ten o’clock was when I expected you.’

  ‘It was a little difficult to detach myself from Mrs Palmer, my landlady, and I also couldn’t find my collar studs. So sorry.’ Jim smiled. Miss Pilgrim’s eyebrow went up, as if a smile and an apology had no right to be offered together. ‘I left them in the end. My collar studs. But I do have the one I’m wearing. Men and their collar studs, is that what you’re thinking?’ Jim could not help being easy and communicative with people, but Miss Pilgrim seemed to believe that informal dialogue should not take place until an acceptable acquaintance had been established, for her startlingly blue eyes stared coolly at him from between the long stiff lashes.

  ‘I have never concerned myself with men’s collar studs, Mr Cooper. My father was perfectly capable of looking after his and knowing where they were. Please come in.’

  Jim hefted his luggage case and entered. The case contained his and the children’s clothes, and a few other things. He had not had to worry about furniture, and his possessions were few. He was not a collector of things, except books, for he had never been able to afford anything of real value. He had to go back to Morecambe Street for the books and other items, such as toilet articles.

  ‘It’s a lovely morning,’ he said in the little hall.

  ‘Yes.’ Miss Pilgrim was not given to discussing the weather. She thought such discussions trivial and useless. Nowhere in the New Testament was it on record that Jesus had discussed the weather with his disciples. ‘I will lead the way, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim. The luggage case was heavy, but his one arm had developed extra strength and muscularity. He followed her up the stairs. The hem of her hitched skirt swayed, and the starched lace of a long white petticoat crisply peeped. The garment rustled in Victorian fashion. She led the way to the front bedroom.

  ‘For you and the boy, of course,’ she said, ‘although I cannot yet afford to replace the double bed with singles. You would prefer singles, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, Horace and I will manage with the double,’ said Jim, placing the case on the bed. ‘I need to unpack right away, I’ve to take the case back for other things, including my books.’

  ‘I approve of books, serious books,’ she said, hands crossed over her stomach rather in the manner of a stern workhouse matron.

  ‘I like all kinds myself,’ said Jim, opening up the case. ‘Any book improves one’s knowledge, even if only a little, don’t you think so?’

  ‘It does not necessarily improve one’s mind,’ said Miss Pilgrim.

  ‘That’s a point,’ said Jim, removing clothes and placing them on the bed, ‘but not one that’s ever occurred to me.’

  Miss Pilgrim, watching his one hand at work, said, ‘I should hope, as the children’s guardian, you would endeavour to improve their minds by selecting their reading.’

  ‘Treat me lightly,’ said Jim with another smile, ‘I’ve only just taken the job on.’

  Again she seemed to find his light approach out of place.

  ‘You must take your responsibilities seriously,’ she said. ‘By the way, there are hangers in the wardrobes, Mr Cooper. If you will give me the girl’s things, I will take them to her room and hang them for you.’

  ‘You’re a paragon, Miss Pilgrim, do you know that?’

  Miss Pilgrim looked startled, even shocked.

  ‘I am a weak creature before God, Mr Cooper, as most of us are.’

  ‘Most of us certainly are,’ said Jim, ‘but you are certainly not. You’re very exceptional. My word, a forest of hangers,’ he said, as he opened the wardrobe. ‘Would you like to take Ethel’s clothes and shoes, then? I’d be much obliged.’

  ‘Very well.’ Miss Pilgrim lifted a heap of folded clothes and underwear from the bottom of the case. Jim placed Effel’s spare pair of new shoes on top of the heap, and offered a grateful smile. Her stiff lashes remained stiff. ‘Do not make the beds on Mondays,’ she said. ‘That is when the bed linen will be changed. And please make sure all rubbish is placed in the dustbin outside the back door.’

  ‘I’ve got you,’ said Jim.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘We�
��ll do that. I really appreciate having you take care of our bed linen.’

  ‘My bed linen, I think, Mr Cooper,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Jim, pleasant and agreeable of manner. ‘We’ll all do our best not to make too much work for you.’

  ‘I consider housework a small but worthwhile occupation, Mr Cooper,’ said Miss Pilgrim, the armful of clothes resting against her bosom. ‘We cannot all be great painters or great musicians. God in His infinite wisdom bestows a variety of talents, and even those of us with only small talents have the gift of a pair of hands.’

  ‘It all comes down to that at times, perhaps, a pair of hands,’ smiled Jim.

  ‘Which we possibly take for granted until we lose one,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘I am sorry about your loss.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Jim, ‘I’m used to it now. Oh, Ethel’s socks.’ He picked up two pairs from the bottom of the case and placed them on top of the shoes. Miss Pilgrim received the small extra burden without fuss, and she carried the heap to the smaller bedroom. Jim hung clothes in the wardrobe and placed other items in the chest of drawers. Miss Pilgrim made short work of putting Effel’s clothes away. She returned.

  ‘When do you commence civilized day duties?’ she asked.

  ‘Monday fortnight,’ said Jim.

  ‘Monday fortnight? That is almost three weeks. I was under the impression it was two weeks.’

  ‘I must have been too approximate,’ said Jim. ‘So sorry. Which reminds me, here’s the first week’s rent.’ He handed her twelve shillings. She at once went downstairs to enter the payment in a rent book. She returned and gave him the book.

  ‘It is not a good thing for a boy and girl to be left alone in the evenings,’ she said.

  ‘They’ve been very good up to now,’ said Jim. ‘Orrice—’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Horace. He’s a sensible boy. I don’t think they’ll break your furniture up.’

  Her frosty look arrived.

  ‘Is that a joke, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘More of a reassurance, I hope,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll go and get my books and other things now.’