‘Oh, d’yer think so?’ Kitty looked pleased, for her new-found religiousness really was chronic, and she needed to be told she had some virtues. She only liked to oblige nice gentlemen, for instance.
‘Sensitivity is a virtue blessed by the Lord,’ said Father Peter and went on with his catechism concerning the necessity of self-denial, and how it could be overcome by a surfeit of that which was not self-denial.
‘What’s a surfeit, Father?’ asked Kitty.
‘An abundance, my child.’
‘Oh, d’yer mean too much of a good thing?’
‘Indeed. You have seen the light. Come, let us first pray together in the other room.’
The other room was his bedroom. There, he offered up a prayer for her sinful body, while Kitty lay, as instructed, on the bed, and delivered the required amen. Then he lay down with her. After a little while, Kitty groaned, ‘Oh, yer undoin’ me all over, Father.’
He explained reassuringly that the aforesaid surfeit must be undertaken with a man of Christian understanding, and that although it might trouble his soul a little, he was taking on the responsibility himself. Kitty said that was so good of him. The instruction proceeded.
After a further while, Kitty breathed, ‘Oh, yer gettin’ me terrible passionate, Father.’
The afternoon proved most satisfying. Kitty participated in an abundance of that which was not self-denial. Father Peter said although his soul was indeed troubled by his own participation, he would ask for the Lord’s blessing. ‘As for you, my child, I shall now take you down to the Chapel of Penitence, receive you into the League and anoint you as Mother Magda. You may then bring your belongings into the Temple and become a resident. My task in helping you to achieve full self-denial will continue.’
‘Oh, yer mean until I don’t enjoy it no more?’ asked Kitty, who had spent two hours intermittently groaning with pleasure.
‘Exactly, my child. Did I not say you have seen the light?’
Most of the lady Repenters had been out during the afternoon, going about the work of distributing pamphlets in and around the City. Only Father Luke was present at the anointing of Miss Kitty Drake, who emerged from the sprinkled drops of holified bay rum as Mother Magda, short, of course, for Mother Mary Magdalene.
Mother Verity had gone on a private visit to the City, to see an uncle of hers, a director of a firm dealing in exports and imports.
Uncle Harold was fond of his niece, exceptionally so, which was why she went to him. He received her with pleasure, and she explained the reason for her visit.
‘Good God,’ he said.
‘Praise Him.’
‘Yes, amen, I daresay, but Celia, my dear, all this damned devotion—’
‘Uncle Harold?’ she said in gentle protest.
‘Well, I said it and I meant it. Has there been a time when you haven’t devoted yourself to vicars and parsons and churches? I’ll never believe that God intended a sweet woman like you to become as good as a nun. I don’t hold with nuns, anyway. Not natural for a woman. Not natural for you.’
‘Was the war natural, Uncle Harold, in depriving women of millions of men? The alternative for me is devotion to the Lord through the medium of the League of Repenters, led by a man of dynamic vision.’
‘Poppycock,’ said Uncle Harold, a man of practical vision himself. ‘Sounds like a charlatan to me. People like that end up in the News of the World, but you never could resist a cause. What a waste. And now what, you’ve found some good-for-nothing who needs a job, and you’re asking me to find one for him?’
Mother Verity, used to frankness and bluntness from her favourite uncle, smiled gently and said, ‘Not a good-for-nothing, a man who fought in the war and who is bitter because his country has forgotten him.’
Uncle Harold mumbled and muttered at that, knowing thousands of needy ex-soldiers were receiving no help from the Government. ‘Are you sure he’s a deserving case, Celia?’
‘All men who spent years in the trenches are deserving cases, Uncle Harold, even those whose characters may be dubious. I want you to find a job for this one. Have I ever asked anything of you before?’
‘Never. I wish you had. You’re the only relative who’s never plagued me. But conditions are bad, Celia, there simply aren’t jobs to hand out.’
‘I know you’ll find him one,’ said Mother Verity.
‘Damn me, you mean it,’ said Uncle Harold. His sharp eyes searched her from beneath bushy brows. Her expression, serene, remained so. ‘Well, I can’t find him work in the docks, unless he has a docker’s card, which he obviously hasn’t. And the dockers will only work with their own kind. The only possibility is as a loader or checker in our Spitalfields warehouse, although I tell you frankly, my dear, that we don’t need extra men.’
‘I’m sure you need one, Uncle.’
‘Is there something special about this man, Celia?’
‘Only the Lord knows that, Uncle Harold.’
‘Not necessarily. I’ve known one or two special people in my time, including you. Well, what’s the fellow’s name, and how am I expected to get in touch with him?’
Mother Verity said on no account should the offer of a job to Will Fletcher of Christian Street, Whitechapel, come from her uncle or any of his managers. If it did, Mr Fletcher would know someone had spoken for him, and she did not want him to find out it was her.
‘I see. You’re to remain an anonymous Christian well-wisher, are you?’
‘You can put it like that if you like, Uncle,’ she said, and went on to suggest that a constable from the local police station, one who possibly knew Mr Fletcher, should casually advise him of a job that was going. Did her uncle know anyone of authority in the police, someone who could contact the Whitechapel station and ask for this to be done?
‘That won’t be a problem,’ said Uncle Harold. ‘You’ve thought this all out, haven’t you? I fancy there’s more to it than your devotion to – what was it?’
‘The League of Repenters and its work among the poor.’
‘Damned if I can understand how an intelligent woman like you, Celia, can attach yourself to something that’s for cranks and eccentrics.’
‘The Lord works in many different ways,’ said Mother Verity.
‘Well, I can’t say no to you, I’ll do what you want in respect of this fellow, Will Fletcher. Right away.’
‘Bless you, Uncle Harold.’
Friday was a busy day for some Repenters. The new incumbent, Mother Magda, in need of activity of a Christian kind, willingly volunteered to help distribute boxfuls of food among the poor of Whitechapel. A horse and van had been hired, and was driven by Mother Joan to the grocer with Father Luke and Mother Mary ensconced in the van. To Father Luke’s suggestion that he should drive, Mother Joan said, in her straightforward way, not bloody likely, Father. Good of you to offer and all that, but if there’s a horse around that has to be handled, permit me. I’ve been handling them since the day I left my cradle.
Father Peter and Mother Magda went on ahead to Christian Street in a hansom cab, preferable to a taxi. Father Peter, not unreasonably, considered motor vehicles and internal combustion the work of the Devil.
Mother Verity had decided not to go to Christian Street on this occasion, and accompanied Mother Ruth to Soho to distribute pamphlets.
The Whitechapel grocer had the boxes of food ready, as promised. It had been a lot of work, he said, a bit like a shipping order, but wouldn’t deny it was a welcome slice of business for a struggling Christian shopkeeper like him. He almost bowed to Mother Joan in his gratitude when she settled with him, after checking the contents of one box at random. He’d been sorely grieved, he said, when he’d heard she’d been jumped by some thieving coves from Shoreditch after she’d placed the order with him, but when he also heard they’d been sent packing he was, he said, overcome with relief. The geezers had to be from Shoreditch, he said, as there hadn’t been any flash Harries like them in Whitechapel since Dick Turpin had last ro
de in. You can ask me son Charlie, he said, and his son nodded in vigorous confirmation.
He and Charlie helped Father Luke and the ladies to load the boxes on to the van. It was strenuous work, but heartening and satisfying to know they were bringing manna to the desert. Then they set off for Christian Street where Father Peter, as mighty as Goliath but not a worshipper of false idols, was waiting with Mother Magda, the latter in a palpitating state of religious fervour in her desire to help feed the starving poor and so begin atonement. Father Peter was going to hear confession from her after dinner in the evening, although she didn’t know what she was going to confess when she’d already told him so much of her sins.
When Mother Joan brought the van to a stop, the street kids swarmed around it, rather as if the Lord had already brought them news of what it contained. Mother Mary, clutching her umbrella, joined Father Luke in the glad business of knocking on doors to announce there was a box of food for every house. Out came the slatterns and the hopeful wives and mothers, and out came some men.
Father Peter lifted his hands in blessing. ‘My friends, rejoice in the Lord’s bounty we bring you.’
‘Oh, don’t ’e talk lovely?’ said Mother Magda to Mother Joan.
‘A splendid leader and minister, a reincarnation of John the Baptist himself, by George,’ said Mother Joan heartily. The adults were advancing to join the swarming urchins. ‘One box of food for each house!’ she declared in a ringing voice.
‘Place a pamphlet in each box, sister,’ said Father Peter to Mother Magda.
‘Be a pleasure,’ said Mother Magda who, at his behest, had taken a vow of silence concerning that which was the opposite of self-denial. ‘’Ere, give over, you lot, stop pushin’.’
The van, its tailboard down, the mountain of food boxes visible, was under siege, and so were the Repenters. The swarm of kids and adults turned into a swarm of locusts.
‘Stand back,’ boomed Father Peter, ‘let the servants of the Lord deliver the boxes, one each into the hands of the head of every household. I command you.’
‘Knock it orf, guv,’ said one man, ‘we’ll do our own deliv’ry,’ and he climbed up into the van, followed by a second man. The swarming locusts went to work. Mother Mary began to take umbrage. Mother Joan tried to put her buxom firmness in the way of the locusts. Father Peter’s thunder began to roll. Mother Magda quivered at its sound. Father Luke put in his own protest.
‘’Ere, turn it up, ladies an’ gents,’ he said, ‘we’ve come to serve yer an’ redeem yer from ’unger. Turn it up.’
‘Aincher a dear?’ said a woman, and kissed his plump cheek.
‘Oh, ’elp,’ groaned Father Luke, ‘get thee from me, yer wickedness.’
Mother Mary, furious at such sinful divestment of the van and its contents, set to work with her umbrella.
‘Take that! An’ that! I’ll give you ’elp yourselves!’
‘Stand back, you bounders!’ cried Mother Joan.
Boxes of food were disappearing, the men in the van pushing them forward. Scores of hands were pillaging and plundering.
‘Stone the crows,’ breathed Father Luke, ‘it’s bleedin’ robbery.’
Mother Magda was doing her best to hand out pamphlets. Someone pinched her bottom. ‘Oh, they ain’t no gentlemen ’ereabouts,’ she gasped.
‘I’ll give them gentlemen!’ cried Mother Mary. Her own bottom was pinched. She yelped in outrage and swung round. She saw a man’s back. ‘Take that, you disgustin’ creature!’ She thumped his shoulders.
The Repenters, hemmed in, were hustled and bustled. Father Peter loomed above all. He swung his arms and gathered Mother Mary and Mother Magda to the protective shield of his chest, enfolding them. Their religious fervour summited within his devoted guardianship. He boomed warnings to the looting sinners of God’s vengeance. It made no difference. The locusts picked the van clean and melted away, and the van stood empty. The only evidence of its former contents lay in the sight of half a dozen cardboard boxes, crumpled and trampled in the gutter.
‘Shall the Lord forgive this?’ boomed Father Peter.
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Mother Joan in practical fashion, ‘we brought ’em fodder and they’ve got fodder.’
‘But some was for the next street,’ gloomed Father Luke. ‘It don’t ’ardly bear thinkin’ of, the need these people ’ave got for Christian ways.’
‘Cheer up, Father Luke,’ said Mother Joan, ‘they’re not yet past redemption. They’re learning. Didn’t you notice they made no attempt to pinch our clothes? That’s a little light of hope, what? Well done, Father Peter, in plucking our sisters from the mob. What bounders. I’ve been nipped in places I can’t mention.’
‘We shall return,’ said Father Peter, gauntly stern as he released Mothers Mary and Magda. ‘Even here, in Satan’s own kitchen, mine eyes have seen the glory of the Lord.’
‘Magnificent,’ said Mother Joan, ‘I saw it too, when my horse threw me. Yes, we shall return, Father, we shall return yet again.’
‘You’re goin’ to bring ’em the clothes?’ said Father Luke.
‘Of course.’
‘I am ’umble in the sight of such forgiveness and perseverance,’ said Father Luke.
‘I’ll give them something next time,’ said Mother Mary. ‘I’ll give them more than shoes an’ boots.’
‘I commend your spirit, sister,’ said Father Peter.
‘They wasn’t no gentlemen,’ said Mother Magda. ‘I’m used to only meetin’ gentlemen. Still, it’s me serious wish to go among the poor with you, Father, and do me penitence by ’elping them.’
‘Bless you, my child,’ said Father Peter.
‘Back to the Temple, everyone,’ said Mother Joan.
‘I just remembered, I’ve got to go ’ome for a bit,’ said Mother Mary, frowning vaguely. ‘I’ll come back later.’
The man Will Fletcher had not appeared, nor had the small girl Lulu. Will Fletcher had gone to Spitalfields, to enquire after a job that a local bobby had mentioned to him earlier in the day. He had taken Lulu with him. She was one of five children. Her mother had hopped it with a sailor five years ago. Lulu clung to the affection the lodger, Will Fletcher, gave her.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Patsy and Betsy had been home for half an hour, and Patsy had news for Jimmy when he came home himself. A factory in Bermondsey wanted a boy as a workshop runabout and to make tea for the men. For seven and six a week. Patsy didn’t think much of a job like that for her brother, but it was a start.
‘Will Jimmy give us anuvver tanner each?’ asked Betsy. Patsy was peeling potatoes.
‘Course he will,’ said Patsy.
‘Lily Shaw likes our Jimmy,’ said Betsy.
‘I know she does,’ said Patsy, ‘but she’s not goin’ to have ’im. I like that other girl best.’
‘What uvver one?’ asked Betsy.
‘The one he met in Hyde Park,’ said Patsy. ‘I liked ’er mum an’ dad as well.’
‘She looked a nice mum,’ said Betsy, sorrowful that her own mum didn’t seem a proper one any more. ‘But they’re awful rich, I fink.’
‘Yes, but you can’t blame them for that,’ said Patsy, ‘people get left money, but it don’t mean they’re not nice – who’s that?’ The sound of the front door opening and closing was followed by the sound of footsteps. Mother entered the kitchen and gazed at her daughters at the scullery sink.
‘Mum!’ cried Betsy.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Mother.
‘It’s me an’ Patsy.’ Betsy and her sister entered the kitchen. Mother regarded them vaguely.
‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ she asked.
‘It’s summer ’olidays,’ said Patsy. ‘Don’t you want to give us a kiss?’
Mother pecked at their cheeks.
‘’Ave you come ’ome, Mum?’ asked Betsy.
‘Mother, if you don’t mind. I’ve come to get some more things. Where’s your father?’
‘He’s at
work,’ said Patsy.
‘That’s just like ’im,’ said Mother. ‘He’s never ’ere when he’s wanted.’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Patsy, ‘Dad’s here when we want ’im.’
‘Don’t you have a brother?’ asked Mother.
Patsy, rebellious, said, ‘What a daft question.’
‘What impertinence,’ said Mother.
‘Jimmy’s workin’ for rich people,’ said Betsy, watching her mum cautiously.
‘He’s always doin’ something he shouldn’t,’ said Mother.
‘No, ’e’s not,’ said Patsy.
‘I don’t want no answering back,’ said Mother. ‘Now I’ve got to get more things.’ She went to the downstairs bedroom, leaving Patsy in a temper and Betsy uncomfortable.
‘Mum’s gone all funny, ain’t she?’ said Betsy sadly.
‘Well, she’d better get over it,’ said Patsy, ‘or I’ll ask Aunt Edie to come an’ live with us for good.’
‘But Dad likes our mum, don’t ’e?’ said Betsy.
‘He puts up with ’er, you mean,’ said Patsy, and went back to the potatoes. Betsy followed. She felt more secure staying close to her spirited sister.
‘D’you like Aunt Edie, Patsy?’
‘Yes, lots,’ said Patsy.
‘Patsy, I fink I like ’er lots too.’
‘She’ll be ’ere this evening, for the weekend,’ said Patsy.
‘Will it be nice, like it was last weekend?’ asked Betsy.
‘I bet Dad’ll be lots of laughs, like last weekend,’ said Patsy, potato peel dropping into the bowl. ‘And I bet Aunt Edie’ll tell ’im off again.’
‘Why’s she tell our Dad off?’
‘So’s he won’t know she likes ’im.’
‘Why?’ asked Betsy.
‘Well, ladies like Aunt Edie mustn’t let married men like Dad know they like them.’
‘Crikey, mustn’t they?’
‘Course they mustn’t. So they tell them off.’
‘Our mum ain’t goin’ to stay the weekend, is she?’ said Betsy.
The Pearly Queen Page 17
