Two for Three Farthings

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘That’s Effel,’ said Jim, ‘and that’s Orrice.’

  ‘What’s they got?’

  ‘Dandelions,’ said Jim.

  ‘Been in they danged old war, I see.’

  ‘No, we ain’t, missus,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Bain’t talkin’ to you,’ said the little old lady, and Effel sidled to hide herself behind Jim. ‘What’s they want, soldier?’

  ‘Four ounces of bull’s-eyes twice, thanks very much,’ said Jim.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Those,’ said Jim, pointing to the large glass jar of bull’s-eyes on a shelf behind the counter.

  ‘They’s not lemon drops.’

  ‘Bull’s-eyes,’ said Jim.

  ‘I know, I know. Who they for?’

  ‘The children. Four ounces each.’

  ‘Yer a sport, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice, and watched the little old lady weigh the sweets on brass scales. Her bright button-eyes caught his look. She put one extra bull’s-eye in a twist of brown paper for luck. She did the same with the second four ounces, humming to herself.

  ‘Sixpence, they is,’ she said.

  ‘Each?’ said Jim, startled.

  ‘Pound. Same for foreigners as for folks. Thruppence, they be, this lot.’

  Jim handed the copper coins over, and gave the packets to Orrice and Effel.

  ‘Yer spiffin’, Uncle,’ said Orrice.

  Effel’s thanks were mumbled. Orrice had established a very easy relationship with Jim. Effel’s approach was still cautious and guarded.

  ‘They’s from up to London?’ asked the old lady, face brown and wrinkled.

  ‘So we are,’ said Jim. ‘I was wondering—’

  ‘Bain’t nothing here for London foreigners.’

  Jim, accepting an offering from Orrice’s twist, said, ‘Well, there’s your bull’s-eyes. They’re something. I wonder, are there any people called Miller living here?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Miller,’ said Jim, bull’s-eye in his mouth.

  ‘Bain’t none in my shop, nor my upstairs. Some up to Quarry Lane, though.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Elderfield.’

  ‘Isn’t this Elderfield?’

  ‘Bain’t ever been nothing else.’

  ‘You mean there’s more houses farther on?’

  ‘They’s catched on,’ said the little old lady, button-eyes twinkling. ‘Two cottages. First be where the Millers live. Got chickens.’

  ‘Are they old people?’

  ‘Eh? Bain’t no old people up by here, mister. Just people.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim. A grin appeared. The little old lady winked at Orrice. Orrice winked back.

  ‘They’s a saucy lad,’ she said. ‘Girls be kissin’ ’ee already, I’ll be bound.’

  Effel giggled. Orrice crushed a half-sucked bull’s-eye between grinding teeth.

  They left the shop and went through the tiny village and on for two hundred and fifty yards, when they reached the first of two cottages, old stone dwellings with small windows. The first had a neat front garden, and on the wall beside the door a rambler rose was bursting with shoots and leaf.

  Jim, halting, said, ‘Look, kids, this is where I have to see some people. Would you mind waiting here a while? I hope it won’t bore you.’

  ‘We don’t mind, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice.

  ‘No, a’ right,’ said Effel.

  ‘We’ll sit on the grass,’ said Orrice.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Jim, and walked up the path and knocked on the cottage door. It was nearly eleven o’clock. He had arranged to get back to Waterloo a little after three. Orrice and Effel were due for Sunday tea with Alice and her family.

  The door opened. Jim found himself looking at a slim, elderly woman with smooth silver hair, wearing a kitchen apron over blouse and skirt. If her hair was silver with age, her face was unlined except for a few little crow’s-feet around her grey eyes. Seeing him, a tall man with a resolute look, and a missing left arm, her hospitable smile was a little tentative.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Jim, ‘but are you Mrs Miller?’

  ‘That I am,’ she said, ‘I’ve been Mrs Jonas Miller these fifty years and more. Could I ask where you’ve come from, and why?’

  ‘I’m from London, and I’ve come hoping to talk to you and your husband.’

  ‘Ah?’ she said, regarding him in curiosity. ‘My husband’s at church with my daughter-in-law. My son, he’s up mending the chicken wire. I didn’t catch your name, Mr—?’

  ‘I’m Jim Cooper.’ His name was as much as he thought he should give at this stage. He felt he had to take a little time to lead up to the rest of it.

  ‘Cooper?’ Her smooth brow wrinkled, as if the name was making her search her memory.

  ‘Yes. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?’

  ‘I were just starting to prepare dinner, but come in a while, I don’t like keepin’ a visitor on my doorstep.’ She led him into a small parlour, cosy with old leather-upholstered furniture that gave the room a brown mellow look. ‘Sit you down, if you wish.’

  ‘It’s all right. Look, I heard about you years ago, from a friend of mine, when I was living in an orphanage.’ Existing was really the word.

  ‘Orphanage?’ The smooth brow wrinkled again, and she gave him a closer inspection. A little tremor touched her mouth. ‘You were an orphan?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Mrs Miller, I haven’t come to make myself a worry to you, believe me, but have you ever heard the name Cooper before?’

  Mrs Miller, aged but wearing her years finely, stood very still, and he knew he had struck a chord.

  ‘I be worried right now about answering that,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Jim, ‘there’s too much water under the bridge. My father’s name was Cooper. John James Cooper. He served in the Army.’

  ‘Oh, lord,’ breathed Mrs Miller.

  ‘Will it upset you to know my mother’s name was Betsy Miller?’

  Mrs Miller paled in shock and put a hand to her throat. Jim felt he had prepared her a little unfeelingly, that he had been too quick with his submission of the facts, after all. His mother’s mother must be seventy and more. Had he been unfair, springing the facts on her when she did not have the support of her husband?

  ‘I—’ Mrs Miller’s hand tightened on her throat.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come out with it like that,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘I thought one day perhaps – one day—’ She drew a breath. ‘Such a sadness. Poor dear Betsy. It be true, you’re her son?’

  ‘Yes, you can believe me.’

  ‘Yes.’ She seemed a little vague then. ‘But only one arm, more sadness.’

  ‘That was the war.’

  ‘So cruel,’ she said, and her eyes wandered. ‘We would have come, but Arthur—’ She stopped.

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘Our son.’ She looked worried then. ‘He were so angry, so ashamed, hating the man who – who—’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Not married to Betsy, not married.’ She looked at the sunlit window through which the neat front garden could be seen, and the high hedge that hid the presence of Effel and Orrice, patiently waiting. Jim saw framed photographs on the mantelpiece. Family photographs, he thought. Was his mother’s photograph among them? He could see none of a young woman or a girl. ‘Arthur didn’t like the shame of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I understand. In a village like this, yes, I understand. But I thought – well, I’ve nothing of my mother’s—’

  ‘Oh, you best go,’ she breathed, and Jim heard the sound of footsteps on a tiled floor. A moment later a large burly man in shirt and breeches put his head round the door. His eyes alighted on Jim and on Mrs Miller’s agitated expression. He came in, his large face red and beefy, his sandy hair slightly tousled, his blue eyes searching.

  ‘Who’s this, Ma?’ he asked, his voice gravelly.

  ‘He�
��s just going,’ said Mrs Miller palely, and Jim felt that here was a man large enough, powerful enough and strong-minded enough to play God to his family and his neighbours. It exuded from him, his belief in himself.

  ‘Where you from?’ he asked.

  ‘I was looking for a country cottage where some children could spend a summer holiday,’ said Jim.

  ‘Ask at farmhouses, man, not people’s cottages. You’re a townie, I reckon. Ask at farmhouses, but watch out for shotguns. Good day to you.’

  ‘Well, thank you for trying to be a help,’ Jim said to Mrs Miller with an easy smile, and left. Neither of them saw him to the front door. And even before he opened it he heard the gravelly voice at work.

  ‘You weren’t thinking of invitin’ town kids here, Ma, were you? You can forget that. Should’ve sent that loon packing.’

  Jim stepped out into the sunshine, closed the cottage door and stood on the step. The emotions he had guarded and hidden from the impossible Arthur surfaced so strongly that his teeth clenched. He had found his mother’s family home and his grandmother, a simple but kind countrywoman, a woman who could tell him about his mother, and exactly what she was like. He had also found his mother’s brother, a boor of a man and the fly in the ointment. But Jim meant to make the journey again, to get to know his silver-haired grandmother and perhaps his grandfather too. His teeth unclenched and he swallowed to get rid of the painful lump in his throat. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, walked up the path, turned right into the lane and found Effel and Orrice sitting on the grass verge counting dandelions. They had picked others, scores of them.

  ‘Here I am, kids,’ he said.

  Orrice looked up. His boyish grin appeared, and Jim understood why young Alice thought him spiffing. Effel cast her familiarly quick glance, then went on counting dandelions.

  ‘We goin’ now, Uncle?’ asked Orrice.

  ‘Yes, we’ll go back to the station, pick up the picnic bag we left there, and have the picnic on the train home. I don’t think we’ll ramble about, it’ll tire you and Ethel, and you’ve got Alice’s tea party later.’

  ‘Oh, crikey, it ain’t going to be a party, is it?’ said Orrice. ‘Not a girl’s tea party, it’s only goin’ to be Sunday tea, ain’t it?’

  ‘I was thinking of Alice in Wonderland,’ said Jim.

  ‘I don’t want none of them larks,’ said Orrice, ‘I got enough problems already.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Effel.

  ‘Come on, troops, on your feet,’ said Jim. ‘That’s it. Right, chest out, Ethel. Cap straight, Horace. Good. Off we go, then.’

  They went, Jim thinking about Mrs Miller and the large, domineering man who was obviously her son Arthur. And Arthur, it seemed, had been forceful enough, even as a young man, to coerce his family into rejecting his sister, who had conceived a child out of wedlock. In a tiny village like Elderfield, perhaps, that kind of rejection had always been on the cards. Jim, however, did not feel disposed to leave things stuck in mid-air.

  There was a newcomer to the congregation in St John’s Church at the morning service. She sat in a pew several rows from the front. She smiled from time to time at the people on either side of her. And more than once she picked out the figure of Rebecca Pilgrim in a front pew. At the end of the service she remained in her seat while the bulk of the congregation left. As Miss Pilgrim advanced along the aisle, Mrs Lockheart lifted her head and smiled at her. Miss Pilgrim did not return the smile. She did not acknowledge her in any way. She went on, out of the church and straight home, where she deafened herself in the event of a knock on her door.

  Mrs Lockheart, however, did not follow. She lingered outside the church, introducing herself to a group of gossiping women. And having introduced herself, she took the lead in the conversation. The women began to listen, first in puzzlement, then in curiosity, and finally with a mixture of reactions.

  Jim, Effel and Orrice picnicked on the train back to Waterloo, again having a compartment to themselves. Effel and Orrice thought everything was more spiffing than a Bank Holiday on Peckham Rye. Orrice remembered that tomorrow was Whitsun Bank Holiday, and he asked Jim if he and Effel could go off to Peckham Rye on a tram.

  ‘I been there,’ said Effel, eating her way through a peeled boiled egg.

  ‘But they got a fair on Bank Holidays,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Been there,’ said Effel.

  ‘What about Hampstead Heath?’ asked Jim. ‘Have you been there on a Bank Holiday?’

  Hampstead Heath on a Bank Holiday was a rousing playground for cockneys.

  ‘Cor, no, we ain’t ever been there, Uncle,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Well, I’m off all day until seven in the evening,’ said Jim, ‘so I’ll take you both there. I think we can dig into our pockets and find a few pennies for the swings and roundabouts.’

  ‘Yer really a sport, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice, ‘an’ yer a swell too, ain’t ’e, Effel.’

  ‘Yes, a’ right,’ said Effel grudgingly, and through the last mouthful of boiled egg.

  When they arrived back at their lodgings, Jim made the kids wash themselves and freshen up. Then he sent them off to their Sunday tea with the French family in Crampton Street. Orrice went with gloom on his face, Effel with a new approach. Seven years and three months old, she already had a mind of her own and the developing instincts of a female born to outwit the male. Her plan of action was fixed in her mind. Every time Orrice looked as if he was going to be won over to Alice, Effel was going to say what a lovely boy he was, that he was getting ever so pretty. She and her brother were received hospitably by Mr and Mrs French. Alice glowed to see how healthy Orrice looked from his day out in the country. With a ribbon in her hair and a sash around her frock, Alice did the honours as the hostess’s daughter by embracing her guest. Orrice’s face, brown from sunshine, turned pale.

  ‘It’s ever so nice you’ve come,’ said Alice.

  ‘Me bruvver’s a lovely boy,’ said Effel, and made the Sunday tea purgatory for Orrice from start to finish.

  Jim, on his way out to post a letter to a wartime comrade of the trenches, was detained at the door by Miss Pilgrim. He thought her severely handsome in a mid-grey blouse and dark grey skirt.

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Cooper, but I cannot help wishing to know if you enjoyed your visit to your grandparents. It must be a consolation to have grandparents.’

  ‘Yes, my maternal grandparents are all I’ve got,’ said Jim. ‘The visit was all I expected, and the kids enjoyed the train ride. The countryside had them in fits.’

  ‘Fits?’

  ‘Of wonder. And joy, I think.’

  ‘I see. Yes. Most children in Walworth are sadly deprived of wonders and joys. I am in approval of the care you are giving Ethel and Horace, Mr Cooper.’ Miss Pilgrim’s severity became less forbidding. ‘I hope to remark a gradual improvement in their speech under your guidance. It is difficult for many cockney children to make the most of their talents, to climb the ladder of life any higher than their parents, simply because they are held back by their slipshod use of the English language. It’s a mistake to suppose genius is confined to the well-educated. Unfortunately, in cockney children it can be smothered by their environment and their own people.’

  ‘You have to remember cockneys don’t like sounding posh,’ said Jim.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ said Miss Pilgrim earnestly. ‘They address themselves very sarcastically to those who try to improve their speech and better their lot. It’s most discouraging. I’ve a feeling Horace is a bright boy, that he may have something to offer the world when he’s older, but he’ll find many doors closed to him unless he can express himself acceptably. It doesn’t mean he has to sound posh, as you put it.’

  ‘I agree with all you say, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Jim, noting her earnestness, ‘and I’ll bear it in mind. By the way, I’m taking Ethel and Horace to Hampstead Heath tomorrow for the Bank Holiday fair. Why don’t you come with us?’

  ‘I beg your pa
rdon?’ Miss Pilgrim, taken aback, stared in astonishment.

  ‘Yes, good idea, I think,’ said Jim briskly. ‘We’ll leave at ten. I’ll do another picnic. We had one on the train today, we’ll have another on Hampstead Heath tomorrow. I don’t have to get to work until seven in the evening, it’s a short shift on Bank Holidays. Put a couple of hatpins in your hat, or it might blow off when we’re riding the roundabout. Well, I’m just going to stroll down to the pillar-box, I’ve a letter to post—’

  ‘Mr Cooper! Really.’ Miss Pilgrim was at her frostiest. ‘I am not in the habit of being taken for granted, and certainly not in respect of a Hampstead Heath fairground. It is not the kind of thing that appeals to me in the least.’

  ‘Oh, all the fun of the fair can be exhilarating,’ said Jim. ‘Don’t decide now, Miss Pilgrim, think about it. You deserve an outing, especially on a Bank Holiday. I won’t do boiled eggs again—’

  ‘Boiled eggs?’ Miss Pilgrim’s composure was showing little cracks. ‘Boiled eggs?’

  ‘I’ve some ham—’

  ‘Mr Cooper, go and post your letter,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and disappeared into her sitting-room. Jim strolled down to the pillar-box, posted his letter and strolled back. He put his kettle on to make himself some tea. He heard Miss Pilgrim ascending the stairs, and the rustle of her arrival at his door. She knocked. He pulled the door open. She regarded him in her cool way, a few degrees warmer than her frosty air. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘but I will provide the picnic. Some simple food and a good crisp lettuce. With a vacuum flask of hot tea. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning, I think you said. Yes, very well, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘Good,’ said Jim, who had a growing feeling that underneath all her starchiness a woman was trying to get out.

  ‘I frankly feel your wards will be safer if we are both there to keep an eye on them,’ she said in serious vein. ‘There is a dubious element present in crowded fairgrounds, as well as what you call an exhilarating one.’

  Jim, keeping his face straight, supposed she was referring to the gypsy element. As a disciplined Christian, she probably regarded the undisciplined ways of gypsies as a throwback to the paganism of their roving ancestors.