The Pearly Queen

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Me?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘It’s an order from Mr ’Odges,’ said Ada. ‘He’s in charge of the young madam while Mrs Gibbs is out. Of course, if she’s down there with ’er father, you don’t have to worry, but if she’s not, well, Mr ’Odges said tell that young boy Jimmy to bring her back to the house.’

  Jimmy eyed her gravely. Ada put on a demure look.

  ‘Supposin’ she won’t come?’ said Jimmy, ignoring the little arrow.

  ‘Throw her over your horse,’ said Ada.

  ‘I’ll have to find one first. D’you live here, Ada?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ada, perkily proud, ‘we’re not common dailies, we’re proper staff. ’Ope you enjoy the sandwiches, cook did them for you. You’re a nice young boy, she said.’

  ‘I’m really goin’ to have to see to you, Ada.’

  ‘Percy will dot you one in the eye if you do,’ said Ada.

  ‘Who’s Percy?’

  ‘My young gentleman.’

  ‘What a sickenin’ blow,’ said Jimmy. ‘I might as well go and let something ’eavy fall on me now.’

  Ada laughed and Jimmy took the tray down to his work area. He sat down on a tree trunk, took a swig of the ginger beer and began to make healthy inroads into the sandwiches. The ham had been sliced off the bone and mustard applied. Jimmy ate with relish. Mr Gibbs insisted he took thirty minutes break at midday.

  A voice reached his ears the moment he’d finished his snack. ‘Jimmy!’

  ‘Oh, help,’ he muttered.

  ‘Jimmy!’

  ‘Yes?’ he called.

  ‘Come down here.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just come, will you?’ Sophy’s voice emanated from the jungle below.

  ‘I’m busy, and you’ve got to go back to the house.’

  ‘I’ll kick you if you don’t come when you’re called!’

  Resignedly, Jimmy went. He crossed the clearing and entered the jungle by way of a trampled path between high grasses and rampant ferns. It sloped downwards. Sophy appeared. Holy Moses, thought Jimmy, she’ll catch it. She was bare-legged and her feet were black with wet mud. Her white blouse was spotted with mud and her blue skirt was tucked up high above her knees. A blue hair ribbon was loose and dangling, and her eyes were accusing.

  ‘You’re for it,’ he said.

  ‘I called you six times—’

  ‘Twice.’

  ‘Don’t argue,’ said Sophy, ‘just turn around.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘So I can kick you.’

  ‘Excuse me, but I’m not keen on bein’ kicked by girls,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s not good for me self-respect, and what d’you want to go around kickin’ people for, anyway?’

  ‘Not people,’ said Sophy, ‘you. You didn’t come when I called you and you’re a cheeky beast as well.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jimmy, ‘let’s get it over with, then, or you’ll stand there hollerin’ at me. It beats me, the way girls holler if you don’t do what they want. But I’m not turnin’ round. Just kick me this way.’

  ‘I will too,’ said Sophy, and kicked at him with a muddy right foot. She missed. Jimmy wasn’t there any more. It unbalanced her completely, and she fell over. A little shriek escaped her. ‘Oh, you rotten boy!’

  ‘Not rotten,’ said Jimmy, ‘just a bit of quick footwork on my part, and if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you’re not much good at kickin’. I’d give it up if I was you. I mean, if you like goin’ around kickin’ people, what’s the good of it if it only makes you fall over?’

  Sophy, coming to her knees in trampled ferns, stared up at him. Jimmy looked as grave as an undertaker, but she didn’t see him as that, she saw him as a kindred spirit. Suddenly, she was bubbling with giggles. ‘Oh, I like you,’ she said, and came to her feet. ‘But I’ve still a good mind to push your face in.’ She laughed. ‘But I won’t this time. Come down here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the pond. I’ve lost Ferdy. You can help me find him.’

  ‘Who’s Ferdy?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘My frog. Didn’t you know there was a pond down here?’

  ‘No, and I didn’t know there were any frogs, either. Ada says you’ve got to go back to the house.’

  ‘Oh, not yet, Mummy’s out till one o’clock. I’ll go up then and have lunch with her, honest. Come on, it’s your break time.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve only got about ten minutes left. Then you’ve got to go back.’

  ‘Jimmy, don’t fuss, just come on.’

  He took his workman’s apron off and followed her down the beaten track to the edge of what she called a pond but looked like a bog to him. A large wet surface was thick and green amid sprouting water grass. Trees surrounded it.

  ‘Some pond,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, look, there’s Ferdy, get him for me!’

  A frog’s head was above the green slimy surface, a head with two round heavy-lidded eyes. Jimmy, further resigned, took his shoes and socks off.

  ‘How d’you know that’s Ferdy?’ he asked, rolling his trousers up.

  ‘Of course I know. Get him for me.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jimmy. The fact was, young Sophy’s high spirits and sense of adventure were infectious. He moved forward, his feet sinking a little. He had frog-hunted in London ponds with friends in his younger days.

  Sophy darted, bare feet entering the morass, and her hand reaching. The frog vanished. ‘Oh, bother,’ she said.

  ‘That’s no way to catch a frog,’ said Jimmy. ‘You wouldn’t even catch an elephant like that.’

  ‘Oh, you daft boy, who wants to catch an elephant? Jimmy, look, he’s there again.’

  The frog’s head had made a reappearance, and was closer. Jimmy silently stooped. The bulbous eyes of the frog were unblinking. He trailed his hand across the surface of the green slime, dipped it and scooped the frog up. It came alive in his hand. Sophy shrieked with joy as he held it firmly.

  ‘There you are,’ said Jimmy, and transferred the creature to her hands. ‘Now you’d better go back.’

  Sophy laughed, held the frog in one hand and gave him a playful push with the other. With his feet slightly sunk in the boggy ground, Jimmy fell backward, landing on his bottom. He felt the wetness of the earth transfer itself immediately to the seat of his trousers.

  ‘Crikey, what’re you sitting down for?’ asked Sophy and burst into laughter.

  ‘That’s done it,’ said Jimmy. He got up, shifted his feet to firmer ground and said, ‘You goin’ back, Miss Gibbs, or not?’

  ‘Miss Gibbs?’ Sophy, frog still in her hand, her feet muddier, her skirt still tucked up into the legs of her short drawers, stared at him like a girl delighted that he really was a kindred spirit. ‘Oh, aren’t you funny? And I’m not going back, I’m going to climb trees with you. There’s apple trees up on the other side of the pond – oh, you beast, you rotten rotten boy!’

  She was off her feet and over his right shoulder. Jimmy, supple and strong, had her in a fireman’s lift. Her head hung down over his shoulder, his arm was around her skirted thighs, and her bare legs were kicking. She’d lost the frog, and her fists were pummelling his back.

  ‘This way,’ said Jimmy, and began to carry her back over the trampled path to the clearing. He carried her across the clearing, Sophy shrieking.

  ‘Oh, you wait, you horrendous boy, you wait! I’ll never speak to you again, never, never, never! I’ll ask Daddy to throw you in the pond, I’ll kick you till you’re dead! Beast, beast, beast!’

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ said Jimmy, who had learned at school that you could only talk for so long, and then you had to take action. That is, if you wanted to settle an argument. ‘I’ve got to hand you over to Ada before your mum gets back.’

  Too late: as he carried her over towards the terrace steps, Mrs Gibbs came out on to the terrace from the conservatory. In a full-skirted dress that floated lightly around her ankles, and a summery white hat, she stood to o
bserve the spectacle, her face a study in astonishment.

  Oh, gawd, thought Jimmy, that’s done it, I’ll get the chopper for sure. He released Sophie, setting her down on the edge of the terrace as carefully as he could. She straightened up, face flushed, eyes alight. She had never enjoyed herself so much in all the harum-scarum years of her young life. About to launch herself at Jimmy, she saw her mother out of the corner of her eye. She turned. Her mother looked at her, then at Jimmy, and then at her daughter again. She was almost lost for words.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. Her daughter’s feet were wet with black mud, her bare legs splashed with it, her crumpled skirt partly tucked-up, partly hanging, her hair a mess and her blouse marked. ‘Is this possible?’

  ‘Yes, would you believe it, Mummy, this blessed boy carting me like that?’ said Sophy.

  ‘Is it my own daughter I see?’ asked Mrs Gibbs. ‘Is it you?’

  ‘Mummy, of course it’s me.’

  ‘Is it? I see only a frightful object. Look at you.’

  Jimmy coughed and said, ‘Well, I’ll get back to my work, Mrs Gibbs.’

  ‘Stay where you are, young man.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Gibbs,’ said Jimmy, and stood there on the terrace steps resigning himself to the chopper.

  Mrs Gibbs regarded her daughter again. Sophy would be fourteen in November. Most other girls with her background would now be pictures of sweet, growing charm. Not Sophy. Sophy the Dreadful, her brothers called her.

  ‘I accept that you must be Sophy. I shudder, but I accept it. Where are your shoes and socks?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ said Sophy. ‘I put them down somewhere, but—’

  ‘What is your skirt doing most of the way up your legs?’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right, Mummy, it’s tucked into my you-knows. Well, some of it is. I had to get into the pond to look for Ferdy.’

  ‘That’s all too obvious, and am I to understand you were going to bring that hideous frog into the house again?’

  ‘I could put him in a cardboard box, if you like, Mummy, and keep him in my wardrobe.’

  ‘Not while I’m still drawing breath, you won’t.’

  ‘I can’t think why you don’t like him, Mummy,’ said Sophy, eyes innocent beyond belief. ‘Oh, Jimmy found him for me—’

  ‘May God forgive him,’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘Then we lost him again,’ said Sophy, ‘and then that blessed boy had the cheek to pick me up and throw me over his shoulder. Don’t boys show off? Did you see what a bundle he made of me?’

  ‘So, young man, you helped my daughter find that repulsive frog and also helped her to cover herself in mud,’ said Mrs Gibbs. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’

  ‘Yes, I know I’m done for, Mrs Gibbs, I can see that,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ll just go off home, shall I?’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘I should say not, I owe him one first, Mummy,’ said Sophy.

  ‘Hold your tongue, you horror,’ said Mrs Gibbs, and neither Jimmy nor Sophy knew how she was struggling to contain herself. The sight of her demon daughter meeting her match at last, yelling and kicking over the boy’s shoulder, had been astonishing but utterly laughable. Yet she dare not laugh. ‘Young man, explain yourself.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Gibbs,’ said Jimmy. ‘Well, I was havin’ my break, so I went down to the pond with Sophy. Mrs Gibbs, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, it’s more like a swamp than a pond, and Sophy shouldn’t go down there in case she gets sucked under. I read a Sherlock Holmes story once in which a feller disappeared in a Dartmoor swamp, he was sucked all the way under. I wouldn’t like Sophy to get sucked tinder down there, Mrs Gibbs. Where was I?’

  Mrs Gibbs quivered. ‘Yes, where were you?’ she asked with an effort.

  ‘Oh, yes, about goin’ down there with Sophy in my break time,’ said Jimmy, grave as an owl as usual. ‘Well, she was potty about findin’ this frog, so I scooped it up and gave it to her and said she’d got to go back to the house. Unfortunately—’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Mrs Gibbs, wondering how much longer she could preserve a calm front.

  ‘Yes, unfortunately, Mrs Gibbs, I ’ad to carry her. I didn’t have a horse, so I carried her over me shoulder, I couldn’t think of any other way.’

  ‘A horse?’ Mrs Gibbs’s pleasant voice had a slightly strangled sound.

  ‘Yes, I was told to throw her over my horse if I had to, and bring her back that way, but not havin’ a horse—’ Jimmy stopped. Sophy was shrieking with laughter, and her mother looked as if she didn’t know exactly what was happening.

  Drawing breath, Mrs Gibbs said, ‘Who told you to throw my daughter over your horse?’

  ‘Well, now you come to ask, Mrs Gibbs, I think I forget.’

  ‘Was it her father?’

  ‘I just can’t think who it was, Mrs Gibbs.’

  ‘I bet it wasn’t Daddy,’ said Sophy. ‘Daddy wouldn’t stand for me being thrown over any horse, nor over anyone’s shoulder. You can see what an impossible boy he is, Mummy. I should think he’s going to turn out to be a problem, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, one problem can recognize another, can it?’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Gibbs,’ said Jimmy. ‘I know I’ve done it in, I didn’t stop to think, I just chucked her over my shoulder. You can give me my marchin’ orders.’

  ‘It’s the sack for you from this work, is it?’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘Mummy, you can’t,’ protested Sophy, ‘you can’t sack him just because he showed off. I can see to him, Daddy often says a good punch in the eye does wonders for some people.’

  ‘Your father needs speaking to, you deplorable girl. So do you, and in no uncertain terms. Jimmy, go back to your work.’

  ‘You’re not goin’ to give me the push, Mrs Gibbs?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Not this time,’ she said.

  ‘You’re a sport, Mrs Gibbs,’ said Jimmy, and went gratefully back to his work.

  Mrs Gibbs eyed her daughter. Her daughter offered a sweet smile. ‘You were supposed to spend the morning reading Oliver Twist,’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘Oh, I did,’ said Sophy. ‘I got up to where he asked for more, then I thought about Ferdy being lost and starving.’

  ‘No, you didn’t, you thought about roping Jimmy in for larks during his break time. Aren’t you an utterly disgraceful girl?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Sophy.

  ‘I wonder, could you try improving yourself?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll read some more of Oliver Twist, shall I, after lunch?’

  ‘Get Ivy to bring you a bowl of water. Wash your feet before you come into the house.’

  ‘Yes, Mummy, and it’s ever so good of you to put up with me.’

  Mrs Gibbs made an abrupt departure. Entering the house through the conservatory, she picked up her skirts and flew up to her bedroom in a desperate attempt to reach it before her control cracked. She failed.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Ivy in the kitchen.

  ‘Lordy,’ said the cook, ‘it sounds like madam ’aving hysterics.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After lunch in the Temple on Thursday, Father Peter received, by appointment, a prospective Repenter in his private sitting room. The ladies were in hope for him, because the young woman’s entry into the League would represent a very Christian triumph for him. Miss Kitty Drake, alas, was a fallen woman. She lived in Soho, and entertained men there in the unmentionable way. Recently, however, she had been to a church to see a friend of hers married to a dear old gentleman of wealth. It was a love match. He loved her saucy prettiness and she loved his money.

  The church and the service affected Kitty in the most unexpected way, making her silently groan and worry about the life she was leading. She came across the pamphlet issued by the League of Repenters, which in no uncertain terms told her she was heading for fire and brimstone. She had a terrible attack of religion, and went to see Father Peter. He was so kind and und
erstanding that she promised to think seriously about giving up sin and becoming a Repenter. She admitted she was sinning twice over. In the first place she was fornicating, and in the second place she was enjoying it.

  ‘It’s me body, yer see, Father, it gets terrible passionate.’

  ‘Ah, the lusts of the flesh are indeed troublesome, Miss Drake. Rest assured we here will do our utmost to help you achieve self-denial and redemption so that you may work with us for the Lord.’

  ‘But I won’t earn no money.’

  ‘You will receive free board and lodging, my child, and I will see to it that there is always a little money in your purse.’

  ‘Oh, it’s terrible temptin’ to give up me life of shame an’ come an’ join you. I’ll let yer know tomorrer afternoon, will that be all right?’

  ‘I hope I shall have the pleasure of receiving you into the fold, my child.’

  So on Thursday afternoon, Kitty was in dialogue again with Father Peter in his private sitting room. She informed him that she just couldn’t stop feeling chronically needful of repenting, that she wanted to reform and to join the League. Father Peter, impressive in his majestic understanding, said he would commence at once to instruct her in the first essentials of self-denial, that when today’s catechism was over he would receive her into the Temple as a resident Repenter, and continue instructing her until full self-denial had been achieved. Undoubtedly, she was indeed in need of redemption. After all, he said, there was a third sin. The sin of fornication and the sin of enjoying it had been spoken of. But there was also the sin of being paid for it.

  ‘Prostitution, my child, is very wrong.’

  ‘Oh, I never call meself one of them, Father Peter, I call meself obligin’. I know it’s still sinning to oblige gentlemen, but I don’t like to think I’m common, like all them others are.’

  ‘My child, that shows admirable sensitivity.’ Father Peter’s deep voice was murmurously understanding, his dark eyes gentle in their regard of the obliging young woman. Her white blouse was doing its best to cope with her fulsome bosom, her black skirt encircling the lacy frills of a red petticoat. The skirt, calf-length, revealed her long lace-up black boots, shining with polish. It was a pleasure to see she had pride in her appearance, and that she was attractive in her looks, even if her lips were a little too moistly bright with carmine. ‘Sensitivity is a virtue.’