How brave Sister Verity had been, for a tall man, laughing at her, had actually seized her and kissed her. It was hardly believable. Mother Verity flushed deeply at the outrage, but withstood the shock bravely. Then even more bravely she offered the other cheek, suffering another dreadful kiss on her lips. And the Devil’s laughing disciple said to her, ‘Well, I’ll say this much, you’re not a complainin’ woman, and that’s a welcome change in these parts.’ Oh, poor Mother Verity, she suffered a third wicked assault on her lips, and she such a ladylike Repenter too. But she fled when a second outrageous man attempted to seize her. Mother Mary, escaping other clawing hands, fled with her. Father Peter boomed with wrath on being told what had befallen them. God’s thunder rolled and lightning flashed. It was most awe-inspiring. He vowed he himself would lead a return to Whitechapel on the morrow. He asked for volunteers, and was full of reverent admiration for Mother Mary and Mother Verity when they declared themselves ready to face up to iniquity again.
There he was, a figure of vengefulness but also of compassion, combining the wrath of God with God’s willingness to forgive. Mother Verity, steeling herself, hoped she would be afforded the opportunity of persuading her assailant to repent, if he appeared.
Behind them, Father Luke was wheeling a barrow, on which was a huge gleaming urn full of hot soup. Mountains of bread rolls surrounded the urn. The food had been Mother Joan’s idea. She was a frank, hearty and practical Repenter.
‘Give ’em vittles,’ she’d said, ‘give ’em fodder. They won’t jump the Lord’s fences if we don’t feed ’em their oats. Can’t help a lame dog over a stile without giving it a lift up, you know. Can’t chuck it over willy-nilly, it won’t like that, it’ll bite your hand off. Judging by what happened to Mary and Verity—’
‘Mother Mary, Mother Verity,’ corrected Father Peter, rolling his r’s.
‘Oh, deepest apologies, naturally,’ said Mother Joan, ‘but judging by what happened to them, I’d say that if we don’t profit by example, we could all get it in the neck. So could the Lord. In a manner of speaking, of course. So give ’em vittles, Father, give ’em fodder.’
‘How compassionate,’ said Father Peter.
‘Yes, bleedin’ good idea,’ said Father Luke. Not surprisingly, Father Peter frowned on the comment. ‘Beg yer pardon, Father, for me ’Ackney French, but I get carried away sometimes. Will yer grant me penitence?’
‘It is done,’ said Father Peter, making a forgiving gesture. ‘And in penitence, Father, see to the provision of suitable food.’
So Father Luke, in penitence, took up the labour of making the soup, buying the bread rolls and wheeling the barrow.
In Christian Street, the gossiping women turned their heads. Kids at play stopped their play. Seated kids stared. A tousle-haired urchin darted into his parents’ house and bawled.
‘Dad, they’re ’ere again!’
‘Eh? What? ’Oo’s ’ere?’ asked Henry Mullins.
‘Them barmy old gels wiv banners, only there’s more this time.’
‘What, on a Saturday afternoon an’ me with me feet up? I’ll bleedin’ show ’em. Where’s me chopper? ’Ere, Nobby, wait. Get the kids, an’ see that yer keep yer mince pies skinned for the rozzers, we don’t want no flat-feet spoilin’ the party. Where’s yer mum? Tell ’er I’ll ’elp get ’er a new dress or costume if it’s our lucky day. All right, scarper, me lad.’
The urchin scarpered. He collected kids. Some ran to one end of the street, some to the other, to watch for coppers. Father Peter, advancing on long dignified legs, came to a halt midway down the street. His followers halted with him, their banners a gentle flutter of blue and gold against the grimy background. A window went up. A woman’s voice was heard.
‘Oh, gawd blimey, look ’oo’s ’ere if it ain’t old black Nick hisself and ’is fancy doxies. ’Ere, what’s in that barrer? ’Ere, Mrs Burns down there, they got bleedin’ bread in that barrer!’
Women in shabby blouses and skirts for the most part began to converge on the Repenters and the barrow from both sides of the street, kids on their heels.
‘Peace be with you,’ boomed Father Peter, holding up a restraining hand. ‘We are here to comfort you, to guide you, and to bring you to salvation by way of repentance. As for all those who are hungered, let them come forth.’
‘With soup bowls!’ cried Mother Ruth, gentle voice ringing bravely.
‘Eat and repent!’ cried Mother Mary.
‘No, not yet, sister,’ said Mother Verity. ‘Father Peter first wishes to address them, to beg them to deliver themselves from the wickedness of Satan.’
‘Oh, yes, he’s such a good man of God and addresses people so dignified,’ said Mother Mary, while Mother Verity glanced bravely around to see if that outrageous sinner of yesterday was daring to show himself. Father Peter was beckoning with both hands, encouraging all the people of Christian Street to come and listen to the word of God.
Mother Joan, noting the poverty-stricken look of the women and kids, said briskly, ‘I’d say let ’em get to the fodder to start with. Stomachs first, souls after. It always worked splendidly with my husband George.’
The crowd was thickening, men joining it, and every hungry eye was on the barrow. Father Peter, his tall figure and ascetic features impressive, addressed the multitude. ‘Welcome, children of God,’ he boomed. ‘Hear His word and know that in His mercy the wickedness shown here yesterday shall be forgiven. His word surpasses all others, as does His wrath, yet all who ask forgiveness of Him shall receive it. Who among ye desire to repent of yesterday’s deeds?’
‘Excuse me, guv,’ said the man called Henry Mullins, standing forward in his shirt, trousers and braces, ‘but ’oo the bleedin’ ’ell are you?’
Father Peter replied, ‘I am the minister of the League of—’
‘Mum, Mum, look at all them bread rolls!’ yelled a girl.
The hungry, setting aside restraint, began to push and surge. Father Luke, in charge of dispensing the soup and bread, looked concerned. ‘’Ere, ’old up now,’ he said, ‘run an’ fetch yer soup bowls first, then line up and I’ll be pleased to serve yer some of the Lord’s bounty. Blessed are the poor, remember, as long as they don’t kick me barrer over.’
‘Drop dead, yer silly old bugger,’ said a woman. ‘Go on, kids, ’elp yerselves.’
Kids pushed, kicked, shoved, reached and snatched.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Mother Ruth.
‘Such nasty language,’ said Mother Mary.
‘Oh, heavens,’ said Mother Verity faintly, for the tall laughing man had appeared. He was on the edge of the crowd, and not hiding his amusement.
Father Peter raised both hands, his arms spreading his cloak. ‘Behold the hungered, Lord,’ he boomed. ‘Place thy hand upon them that they may come peacefully to sustenance.’
‘It’s just a bit o’ bread, guv,’ said Henry Mullins. ‘There y’ar, look, it couldn’t ’ave been much, it’s all gorn now.’ The mountains of rolls had vanished, much to Father Luke’s consternation. The soup urn had a lonely look. Kids were sinking their teeth into the crusty rolls. Mother Mary didn’t know whether to be sympathetic or disapproving. She elected for just a little disapproval.
‘I wouldn’t like to think gluttony’s spreadin’,’ she said.
Father Luke said in a forlorn way, ‘Eatin’ all that bread up when they ain’t ’ad no soup yet.’
The crowd was derisive, waiting for the real palaver to begin, for Henry Mullins to give the word. Henry Mullins was top dog in Christian Street. His fists and his boots had put him there.
‘All right, stand back,’ he said, his trousers slack, his braces dangling and his shirt sleeves rolled up. ‘Stand back, I said.’ People still pushed a bit. Every woman wanted to be the first to help herself to the clothes of the female Repenters. ‘Now, guv,’ said Henry Mullins, ‘could yer confide exactly what yer offerin’?’
‘Salvation, sir, and with it the Lord’s promise that ye shall enter the ki
ngdom of heaven,’ said Father Peter sonorously.
‘Kind of yer, guv, but we’ve ’ad some of that. But did I ’ear someone mention soup?’
‘You did, sir.’
‘Well, we’ll be gratified to ’ave that, guv.’
‘That’s better,’ said Mother Mary, more confident today because Father Peter was with them. ‘I don’t like to ’ear you talkin’ unpleasant. I said to my ’usband several times, I said we’re all sinners, but we’ve all got ’ope if we repent.’
‘Praise the Lord,’ said Mother Joan heartily.
‘Praise Him,’ said Mother Verity fervently, half an eye on the smiling man while she wondered how she should begin to chastise him. Perhaps Father Peter would give her a lead.
‘Yus, and praise yer reverences,’ said Henry Mullins, ‘we’ll ’ave the soup. Cop ’old, Barney, an’ you give ’im an ’and, Bill.’
Two men shouldered their way through to the barrow and lifted the heavy urn from it.
‘’Ere now, wait a minute,’ said Father Luke, plump frame quivering. ‘Not the urn, you can’t take the urn.’
‘Now leave orf, mate,’ said the man Bill, ‘’ow can we take the soup what’s just been offered by ’is worship if we don’t take the urn as well? Soup slips through yer fingers, yer know. Right, orf we go, Barney.’
‘Worth a packet, the urn,’ said Barney.
‘Nickel-plated, I reckon,’ said Bill, ‘might fetch a quid or two from Solly. Orf we go, then.’
They carried the urn away, with kids running in their wake and Father Peter intoning denunciation of the sin of thievery.
‘Damned daylight robbery,’ said Mother Joan. ‘Still, can’t be helped, and it’s a good cause. Shall we now pray with you, Father Peter, for the Lord to bring these people to righteousness?’
Father Peter raised his hands again, becoming a dark figure of towering majesty. ‘My friends,’ he boomed, ‘lest ye fall for ever into the ways of Satan, join with us in prayer that ye may be delivered from him. Our Father, which art in heaven—’
‘Excuse me, guv, but we’ve ’ad some of that as well,’ said Henry Mullins. ‘’Ow about that watch an’ chain of yourn, could yer consider offerin’ us that, say, an’ some of the ladies’ duds?’
‘Duds?’ said Father Peter.
‘Clobber, guv.’
‘I fail—’
‘Togs, guv.’
‘Clothes?’ Father Peter’s long gaunt body, sombrely clad, seemed to lengthen and widen and to become a protective shield. ‘I believe, sir, that yesterday you made a deplorable attempt to divest Mother Mary of hers, did you not?’
‘Not me, guv, I ain’t divested no lady in all me life. Female clobber’s a mystery to me, always ’as been, always will be. ’Ere, did yer say Mother Mary, guv?’
‘This lady is Mother Mary,’ said Father Peter, reverently pointing her out. ‘She is an anointed sister of the League of Repenters.’
Old women cackled. Men grinned. The tall man, still on the outside edge of the crowd, smiled, his eyes on Mother Verity. Mother Verity trembled.
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said Henry Mullins, ‘Mother Mary, eh? Well, she’s got to be charitable, ain’t she? It’s like this, guv, me old woman’s got ’er poor aunt’s funeral comin’ orf on Tuesday, an’ she ain’t got a bit of decent black to wear. Could Mother Mary offer? That costume she’s wearin’ would fit me old woman a treat.’
‘Oh, what a digustin’ man,’ said Mother Mary, moving closer to Father Peter, her guiding light and shield.
Within Father Peter the thunder was beginning to roll. ‘Shall that which belongs to another be taken from her except by her consent?’ he asked.
‘Just ’er clobber, yer lordship,’ said Henry Mullins, ‘that’s all I’m askin’.’
Women were beginning to flex covetous fingers. The grins on men’s faces grew broader. Mother Verity trembled again, for the tall man had edged nearer to her. Courageously, she drew herself up, and her banner grew rigid and unwavering. Mother Ruth emitted a sudden little scream. An urchin’s fingers were in her handbag. Mother Joan boxed his ears. He yelped and his fingers came out, clutching a handkerchief. Mother Joan took it from him.
‘’Ere, you ‘it me,’ he said. ‘Mum – Mum – she ‘it me.’
‘You were smitten by the hand of the Lord, my boy,’ boomed Father Peter. Again he addressed himself to the multitude. The multitude wore a collective look of happy anticipation. The pickpockets were blowing on their fingers. ‘My good people, what shall it profit parents if they—’
‘Excuse me again, guv,’ said Henry Mullins, ‘but could yer kindly ask Mother Mary there if she’d consent to donatin’ ’er costume immediate? Only we ain’t got all day, and it’s ‘ot out ’ere.’
‘Here, you keep away from me, you sinful brute,’ said Mother Mary. ‘Oh, where’s me umbrella?’ She had left it at the Bloomsbury headquarters, having decided not to carry that and her banner and handbag as well.
‘’Ere, ’Enry,’ shouted a woman, ‘can I ’ave that other lady’s outfit?’ She pointed at Mother Joan, who was wearing a stylish grey silk blouse and long dark grey skirt, with a black-banded straw boater.
‘Bloody cheek,’ said Mother Joan.
‘I’ll ’ave ’ers,’ said another woman, pointing at Mother Ruth’s sombre grey dress.
‘And I ain’t goin’ to say no to what she’s got,’ said one more woman, eyes on Mother Verity’s dark grey costume.
‘You all askin’ for their titfers as well?’ enquired Henry Mullins, and a ripple surged through pressing bodies.
‘Not ’arf, ’Enry,’ said his wife, ‘be bleedin’ posh on Sundays, they would.’
‘Smite them, Father Peter, smite them with the word of God,’ said Mother Mary.
Father Peter thundered at the multitude, ‘Shall ye speak of sin and not know the wrath of God?’
‘Course not, guv, course we know ’Is wrath,’ said Henry Mullins, ‘all our bleedin’ ’ouses are near to fallin’ down, an’ we got an old soldier with a wooden peg on account of God smitin’ ’is leg orf on the Somme. Now I’m askin’ yer nice, will yer ladies offer their togs or not?’
‘Ye gods,’ breathed Mother Joan, ‘it’s war. Chests out, sisters, straighten your backs, prepare to repel boarders, the Lord is with us.’
‘And I’m right be’ind yer, ladies,’ declared Father Luke.
‘Let us pray,’ intoned Father Peter. ‘Lord, look down on these thy servants and on these suffering and misguided sinners. Give us strength that we may stand against them, and give us wisdom that we may teach them how to deliver themselves from Satan.’
‘Yer playin’ about, guv, that’s what you’re doin’,’ said Henry Mullins, shaking his head, ‘an’ yer time’s up. All right, gels, in yer go and start ’elping yerselves to what these ladies is refusin’ to give yer. But don’t tear nothing, an’ leave ’em their petticoats, we don’t want ’em ’aving to walk ’ome embarrassed. Yus, all right, Effie, you can ’ave the plump gent’s trousers for yer old man, if yer want. Right, in yer go.’
Yelling, and eager with a desire to dispossess, women rushed in on the Repenters.
‘Father Peter!’ cried Mother Mary, aghast as the minister sank to his knees and prayed, leaving her unshielded. The other ladies shrieked. Father Luke pedalled backwards in the direction of Whitechapel’s parish church and fell over the barrow. Clawing hands reached for his trousers. Mother Joan struck out with her banner. Mother Ruth dropped hers and did all she could to protect her hat and dress. Mother Verity blushed crimson as covetous hands lifted her skirt and pulled on it.
‘Oh, help!’ she gasped.
‘Oh, what ’eathens!’ cried Mother Mary, and smote with her banner.
‘Bloody female hooligans, I call ’em,’ declared Mother Joan. ‘Forgive me, Lord,’ she added, and knocked two slatterns off their feet with her banner.
Strong hands delivered Mother Verity from her tormentors, pulling her free from the mêlée and swingin
g her off her feet to safety. The tall man, in a cap, blue jersey and khaki trousers, gave her a chuckling smile of pleasure. ‘Well, if you ain’t me sweetheart of yesterday,’ he said.
‘Help!’ gasped Mother Verity.
‘Lord, hear thy servant,’ intoned Father Peter.
‘Hear me, Lord,’ gasped Mother Verity, for her deliverer had his eyes on her lips.
‘Come back for more, is that a fact?’ said the tall man, his rugged masculinity dreadfully menacing. ‘Well, you’re a sweet surprise and a pretty one.’ He wrapped his arms around her. Her banner was gone, her purity defenceless. He kissed her, unmercifully. She flushed and shuddered.
Mother Mary’s umbrage was total. She was surrounded by harridans, all of them intent on wresting her costume from her.
‘Oh, you wicked women, I’ll give you something – oh, if I only ’ad me umbrella. Leave go, d’you ’ear? Oh, I never did know more disgustin’ sinning – take that – leave go – oh, dear Lord, I can’t ’ardly believe this.’
Mother Verity, dreadfully beset, nevertheless offered the other cheek, and the laughing man kissed her again, such was his indifference to the Lord and his affinity with Satan. She tried to swoon, feeling she must, but nothing happened, except another kiss, and strange dreadful weakness.
Mother Joan was dealing blow after blow. Mother Ruth was clinging on to everything she was wearing. The clawing, pulling and milling were accompanied by shrieks of fiendish laughter. Father Luke had lost his trousers. Father Peter, losing his top hat to a whisking hand, leapt up from his knees and raised both arms to the heavens. His black cloak lifted and spread, and he looked like a dark avenging bird of prey, his great mane of black hair peppered with grey. Thunder rolled up from his chest, and lightning flashes glittered in his eyes. With a roar, he turned on the harridans and flew at them, and the harridans were beset with physical chastisement.
The Pearly Queen Page 7
