‘Oh, lor’,’ said Aunt Edie, but took the bat and stood at the wicket. Her hat was off, her piled hair shining in the light. She walloped the first ball from Patsy and laughed in triumph.
‘Run, Auntie, run!’ cried Betsy, and scampered after the ball.
‘All right,’ said Aunt Edie. Hitching her dress with one hand and carrying the bat with her other, she ran to the bowler’s mark. Dad grinned, so did Jimmy. Aunt Edie running, skirts tossing, was a cracking Sunday afternoon sight. She missed the next ball from Patsy and it struck the skirt of her dress.
‘Was that lbw?’ asked Dad.
‘What’s lbw?’ asked Aunt Edie. ‘Some of your French?’
‘Leg before wicket,’ said Jimmy.
‘Yes, was it?’ asked Patsy.
‘Told you we’d have problems,’ said Jimmy. ‘I mean, where’s her legs? Can you see ’em, Dad?’
‘Not from ’ere,’ said Dad.
‘The ball hit her just there,’ said Patsy pointing.
‘Is that where ’er right leg is?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Could we ’ave a look, Edie?’ asked Dad.
‘Yes, could we, Aunt Edie?’ asked Patsy, one with her dad and brother when larks were on. ‘It’s only fair.’
‘Think I’m daft, do you?’ said Aunt Edie. ‘That’s it, gather round, the lot of you, but you’ll be lucky, young Jimmy, an’ you Jack Andrews, if you think I’m goin’ to show my legs to the whole of Peckham.’ The Rye was the playground this afternoon of scores of families.
‘Not fair, yer know, keepin’ yer hidden talents covered up at cricket,’ said Dad.
Aunt Edie went for him. Amid Betsy’s shrieks of joy, she lifted the bat and rushed. Dad turned tail and ran. Aunt Edie chased after him. A frisky dog joined in. Dad fell over it. Aunt Edie caught him. Patsy yelled with laughter as her dad took a thump from the bat on his backside.
‘Ruddy sergeant-majors,’ said Dad.
‘I’ll give you sergeant-majors,’ said Aunt Edie, and gave him another thump.
‘That’s done it,’ said Dad, and with a quick supple movement of his long wiry body he was up. Aunt Edie dropped the bat, picked up her skirts and fled, putting herself behind Jimmy.
‘Stop ’im, Jimmy!’ she gasped.
‘Go it, Dad, go it!’ cried Patsy.
‘Patsy, oh, yer demon!’ gasped Aunt Edie, and ran round and round Jimmy, with Dad at her back, a huge grin on his face. He didn’t catch her, of course. It was the threat that governed the spirit of the moment.
‘Keep goin’, Aunt Edie,’ said Jimmy, ‘good game of cricket you’re playin’.’
It was all part of the best Sunday afternoon the family could remember. And everyone told Aunt Edie what a good sport she was. Dad boiled a kettle of water on the primus stove, and they made tea to have with the picnic. Jimmy and Patsy noted that Aunt Edie hardly told Dad off at all. She wanted to know how long Jimmy’s work at Anerley would last. Jimmy said until sometime in November, according to Mr Gibbs. Aunt Edie said she’d keep an eye open in Camberwell for a job for him.
‘Bless yer, Aunt Edie,’ said Jimmy. ‘I wouldn’t mind givin’ you a kiss and a cuddle for that.’
‘’Elp yerself, Jimmy,’ said Dad, ‘it’s a nice afternoon.’
‘Who’s laughin’?’ asked Aunt Edie.
‘Me,’ said Patsy.
Later, on the way to the tram home, Patsy spoke to Jimmy.
‘Has that girl give you a kiss and a cuddle yet?’
‘What girl?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Sophy Gibbs,’ said Patsy, her best Sunday frock lightly rippling around her legs.
‘Oh, only when I arrive and when I go, and in between,’ said Jimmy. ‘She’s a bit reserved, yer know.’
‘Hark the ’erald angels sing,’ said Patsy.
At Speakers Corner in Hyde Park, Father Peter was declaiming to a crowd, his voice booming above the heckling. Lady Repenters handed out pamphlets, while Mother Mary guarded herself and her sisters with her umbrella, and Mother Magda quivered a little sinfully to the rolling thunder that rose up from the minister’s deep chest whenever a heckler derided the word of the Lord. The policeman on duty kept his ear open, as usual, for any incitement that would lead to a riot, but intervened only once, and that was to advise Mother Mary she was disturbing the peace a bit.
‘It’s that there brolly of yours, madam. Once you start trying to poke people’s eyes with it, you’re making an unlawful weapon of it, which means you’ll have to come along to the station with me.’
‘What impertinence,’ said Mother Mary, ‘I’ve met your kind before. I’ll ’ave you know it’s the Lord’s ’and that guides me umbrella, and I don’t know what I’d do without it when there’s all them disgustin’ blasphemers interruptin’ our minister something shockin’.’
‘I’ll see to them,’ said the constable, ‘you see you just use your brolly for keeping off the rain.’
‘Well, all right,’ said Mother Mary, ‘but I’ll give them something if they don’t pay no attention to you.’
On Sunday evening, Aunt Edie entertained the family by playing the piano again. It was not the only parlour piano that was being used in Walworth. Relations like uncles and aunts and grandmothers and grandfathers visited on Sundays, and such days finished with songs around family pianos. Even some of the poorest families owned a piano that dated from Victorian times.
Aunt Edie was a gem at a keyboard. Astonishingly, many cockney men and women had a natural gift for understanding a keyboard without ever having had a single lesson. Aunt Edie loved music and song, and she and Jimmy practised their duets again. After which, she said yes, he could sing with her at the concert next Saturday.
‘’Ooray,’ said Patsy.
‘We’ll all be there,’ said Dad.
‘You don’t have to be,’ said Aunt Edie.
‘All right,’ said Dad, ‘just me an’ Patsy and me little pickle. We won’t ask old Mother Huggins.’
‘Who’s she?’ asked Patsy.
‘Never ’eard of her,’ said Dad, ‘so we can’t ask her, can we?’
Patsy yelled with laughter, Betsy giggled and Jimmy grinned. Aunt Edie kept a straight face.
‘Life an’ soul of the party, you are, Jack Andrews,’ she said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Will Fletcher was up in his room, cleaning his boots for Monday morning, when ragged little Lulu put her head round his door.
‘Hullo, fatty,’ he said. It was a joke between them. Peaky Lulu was far from fat. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s ’er,’ said Lulu.
‘Who’s her?’
‘The lady,’ said Lulu.
‘Not her, not that barmy one.’
‘She wants yer,’ said Lulu.
‘Come to stick ’er finger in the eye of me conscience, ’as she, Lulu?’
‘She said only if yer don’t ’ave comp’ny.’
‘Gawd save Ireland, and I tell yer, it needs savin’,’ said Will, smiling. It was a natural smile, it was a smile for Lulu, the youngest and most neglected child of Bert Rogers, the man whose wife had hopped it. ‘Fine place I’ve got ’ere for entertainin’ company, don’t yer think, me little sweet’eart? All right for you an’ me an’ snakes an’ ladders – well, you’re me best company, ain’t you? All right, I’ll come down and face me conscience.’
‘She’s nice,’ said Lulu, as he picked her up and carried her down the narrow stairs.
‘Barmy, Lulu, that’s what she is,’ said Will Fletcher.
Outside, Mother Verity was waiting, Mother Ruth beside her.
‘Good evening, Mr Fletcher,’ said Mother Verity, noting his unbuttoned shirt, his strong throat and his old Army trousers.
‘Evenin’. Is this another conversion job?’
‘Conversion?’ she said, and he wondered what it was about religion that could turn a woman good-looking and intelligent into a case for a loony bin.
‘Have you come to have another go at savin’ me soul?’
> ‘I can only pray, Mr Fletcher,’ said Mother Verity with a faint smile, while Mother Ruth quivered at all the hard, cutting edges to the man who held a thin-looking waif in his arms. ‘No, I’ve come to ask for your help. You are the only one I really know around here. You see, we wish to—’ Mother Verity faltered a little because of his very direct blue eyes and because she felt he was already thinking she was here to be graciously kind and holy. ‘Mr Fletcher, boxes of food were brought a few days ago.’
‘So I heard. And they pinched the lot. What else did you expect? They don’t mind the Salvation Army, they do mind preachers, even preachers who bring food.’
‘We don’t wish to preach, Mr Fletcher, only to help. If we have the means to help, should we stand aside? I will admit that in bringing help, we also hope to bring recognition of a different kind of help, that which only the Lord can give.’
‘You’re an odd woman,’ said Will Fletcher.
‘So you’ve said. Mr Fletcher, we know these people are terribly in need of clothing. Will you tell us the best way of distributing garments without risking a riot? Of giving them out so that everyone has something? They are new clothes and durable. Overcoats, frocks, jerseys, blouses, boots. Can you tell me how we can be certain that the child in your arms will receive a frock and boots, Mr Fletcher?’
Will Fletcher stared at her. She met his eyes, she stood up to his intimidating masculinity. His tight mouth broke apart. He smiled.
‘You win, lady,’ he said. ‘Bring the stuff one evenin’. Knock me up. I’ll see there’s no shovin’ and grabbin’.’
‘Thank you, Mr Fletcher.’
‘I’m licked,’ he said, ‘by charity.’
‘You despise charity, Mr Fletcher?’
He laughed, but good-naturedly. ‘Charity keeps some people alive round ’ere,’ he said.
‘But you despise those who bring it?’
‘Give over, lady, am I sayin’ that? I’m not. I’m sayin’ I’m up to my ears with not likin’ conditions that mean the people in these streets can’t do without charity.’
Mother Verity hesitated before asking, ‘Mr Fletcher, are you in need yourself?’
‘I was,’ he said bluntly, ‘I’m not now. I’ve just landed a job, as a loader in a Spitalfields warehouse.’
‘I’m glad for you, Mr Fletcher,’ said Mother Verity.
‘I’m licked again,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Go on, Lulu, tell the lady what we mean,’ he said, smiling at the girl.
‘Yer nice,’ said Lulu, ‘yer nice, missus.’
‘That’s it,’ he said. He laughed, ‘That’s a real lickin’, don’t yer think, Lulu, findin’ out that Sister Charity’s nice?’
Mother Verity showed faint colour.
‘It don’t ’urt,’ said Lulu.
‘Well, we can take that kind of a lickin’, can’t we, me sweet’eart?’ said Will Fletcher.
‘We’ll bring the clothes and boots one evening, then,’ said Mother Verity.
‘Right. But give me a knock first, before Henry Mullins sets ’is harpies on the goods. Durin’ the day I’ll be conspicuous by me absence, due to the job, d’y’see?’
‘Yes, Mr Fletcher. Thank you for being so kind and helpful.’
‘Barmy,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Beats me,’ said Will Fletcher.
‘Good night, Mr Fletcher, good night, child,’ said Mother Verity.
He and Lulu watched the two ladies go. ‘Well, what d’yer think, Lulu,’ he said, ‘are we barmy too? Come on, come up and put some spit on me boots and we’ll give ’em a real shine, eh?’
Aunt Edie was up very early on Monday morning, and when Dad came down he found there was a breakfast of fried bacon and egg ready for him.
‘Edie—’
‘Sit down and get on with it.’
‘Well, I don’t know when I last ’ad egg and bacon to start me arduous week,’ said Dad. ‘Where’d it come from?’
‘Out of the frying pan.’
‘I mean—’
‘I like to contribute something while I’m ’ere,’ said Aunt Edie, and poured him a cup of steaming tea.
‘God bless yer, Edie.’
‘Don’t go mad,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘and don’t you chase me again, Jack Andrews, in front of the kids an’ the public like you did yesterday.’
‘Didn’t catch you, though,’ said Dad, ‘not like you caught me.’
‘You asked for that. You and your ’idden talents.’
‘Not mine, yours,’ said Dad.
‘I don’t want any of that from you, you’re a married man.’
‘Can’t ’elp that,’ said Dad. ‘Next time we play cricket, it’s got to be fair do’s, legs before wicket without skirts in the way.’ He looked up as Aunt Edie rushed into the scullery. ‘What’s up, Edie?’
‘Nothing.’ Her voice was muffled. ‘I’m startin’ the kids’ breakfast, that’s all.’
She was having a terrible job holding back laughter.
Jimmy began a new week at Anerley. Mr Gibbs was back at his business, leaving the landscape gardeners’ foreman in full charge of the men. The jungle was gradually thinning, the brush and undergrowth collapsing square yard by square yard, the sawn or axed saplings falling.
Mrs Gibbs saw to Jimmy and to paying him at the end of each day. She liked the boy and his attitude, he went willingly about his work. She made sure Ada took refreshments to him mid-morning and midday, and she had him come up to the terrace each afternoon to share a pot of tea with her. But she kept Sophy away from him as much as she could. She knew her precocious daughter and how forward she was. She was quite capable, even at thirteen, of enslaving Jimmy and then making a huge joke of his infatuation.
Restriction on her activities put Sophy in a fiendish mood, so that she played up on the few occasions when she was able to be with Jimmy.
‘I’m goin’ to have to wallop you,’ he said one afternoon.
‘Some hopes,’ said Sophy, ‘bet you couldn’t even lick a stamp.’
‘Well, let’s find out,’ said Jimmy. ‘Bend over.’
‘What for?’
‘Don’t know, do I? Not until I find something to wallop you with.’
Sophy shrieked with laughter.
Ada did not miss the fact that the young madam was prettying herself up every day. Little minx, thought Ada. At her age and all.
Jimmy was a welcome guest in the kitchen when he arrived each morning. There was always a cup of tea and a slice of toast for him. Mr Hodges always said good morning, my boy, Ivy always said he was lasting out something miraculous, Mrs Redfern always said he was a real young gent, and he and Ada always teased each other. It was a game they’d developed.
One morning a young man came in by way of the side door and the smaller kitchen. A black cap sat on his thatch of fair, curly hair, and he wore a blue striped white shirt, a black waistcoat with shining metal buttons and black trousers. It was a manservant’s uniform. He had freckles, blue eyes and a happy grin.
‘Watcher, sports,’ he said, ‘lordin’ it, are yer, as usual? Takin’ yer time over yer porridge? Dunno as that ’ud do in our place. My, yer on a cushy number ’ere, Mr ’Odges. ’Ullo, Ada me sweetie – ’ere, ’ullo again, who’s this? Yer new bootboy?’
‘This is Jimmy, he’s helpin’ the gardeners,’ said cook.
‘That is correct,’ said Mr Hodges, ‘and might I hask you, young Mr Hunter, to kindly hobserve your manners by knocking before you enter?’
‘Righty-oh, Mr ’Odges, ’ow’s this?’ Percy Hunter, eighteen years old, knocked on the table with his knuckles. ‘There y’ar, me manners is observed. ’Ere,’ he said to Jimmy, ‘what yer sittin’ next to Ada for? That’s my chair.’
Ada let a little annoyance show, and Jimmy said, ‘Well, I suppose I’m just keepin’ it warm for you. Could I ’ave the pleasure of knowin’ who you are?’
‘’Ullo, ’ullo, we got a young lordship ’e
re, ’ave we?’ said Percy.
‘That’s Percy ’Unter, Jimmy, ’e’s Ada’s young man,’ said Ivy.
‘I ’ave that honour,’ said Percy, ‘and Ada ’as the pleasure.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Jimmy.
‘Yer still sittin’ in me chair,’ said Percy, grinning, and Ada wrinkled her nose. Suddenly, she didn’t feel very keen about him. Suddenly, he seemed a bit loud and brash. He was in service with the Wheeler family on the other side of Anerley, and he hoped to save enough money to open a shop by the time he was thirty. He had lots of dash and go, and was always ready to treat her when they went out together on their Sundays off. When they visited her parents’ home in Peckham, he’d take her mum a bunch of flowers and buy her a bunch too, and they’d have Sunday dinner and tea with her family. Mind, her dad had said she didn’t have to be serious about a feller at her age. Ada thought now that perhaps her dad meant don’t get serious about Percy, even if he did treat her and her mum to flowers. Ada found it uncomfortable to suddenly realize there was someone else she liked a lot better, than Percy.
‘Have you called special?’ she asked him.
‘’Appening to be in this ’appy locality,’ said Percy, ‘I find I got time for one of yer refreshin’ cups of tea.’
Mrs Redfern lifted the pot. ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ she said, ‘it’s empty.’
‘And I have to hinform everyone it’s back to their duties,’ said Mr Hodges.
‘I been diddled,’ said Percy, ‘this ’ere young lordship’s collared me custom’ry chair and ’e’s ’ad me cup of tea.’
‘Well, I’d better get on,’ said Jimmy, ‘thanks for me extra breakfast, Mr Hodges, thanks, Mrs Redfern.’ He got up. ‘You can have your chair now,’ he said to Percy.
‘It ain’t ’is chair, it’s just where ’e puts ’is bottom when ’e pops in,’ said Ivy. Jimmy gave her a wink, smiled at Ada and went out to his work.
The evening was heavy. An August thunderstorm seemed to be brewing. Unemployed men sat on their doorsteps watching the street kids. A horse-drawn van appeared. Mother Verity, in company with Mother Mary and Mother Ruth, was talking to Will Fletcher, a mellower man now that he had a job. He beckoned, and the van came on, Mother Joan pulling up alongside the group. Father Luke descended from the back of the van. Father Peter had put him in charge, for the minister was hearing confession this evening from Mother Magda. Father Luke thought she’d got the Lord in her soul all right, this was her third time of confessing.
The Pearly Queen Page 20
