The Pearly Queen

by Mary Jane Staples

  Adults and kids began to gather. Will Fletcher put himself at the back of the van and told the adults to line up, then they’d get clothes and boots for their families. A woman said young Eddie Mullins had gone to fetch his dad. The urchin boy came out of the house, followed by the brawny figure of his father, Mr Henry Mullins, who came sauntering up to the van.

  ‘Watcher, Will old cock, what they brought this time?’ he said.

  ‘Clothes and boots,’ said Will.

  ‘’Ello, Porky,’ said Henry Mullins to Father Luke, ‘yer come with more offerings, ’ave yer? Well, I tell yer what, you buzz orf while yer still in one piece an’ take yer funny old gels with yer, and I’ll look after the offerings an’ the ’orse an’ cart as well. Looks like a nice bit of ’orsemeat, that nag does, once we get it to the knackers’ yard.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Father Luke, ‘but—’

  ‘’Oppit,’ said Henry Mullins.

  ‘It’s not your evenin’, Henry,’ said Will Fletcher. ‘I’m in charge this time.’

  ‘Yer what?’

  ‘Not your evenin’, I said. Everyone’s goin’ to line up, and these ladies will hand out clobber for every fam’ly. No arguments, it’ll only get untidy.’

  ‘Oh, yer got a job, so yer chuckin’ yer weight around, are yer?’ said Henry Mullins. ‘Well, I still ain’t got no bleedin’ job meself, so it’s my weight that counts.’

  There were men around the van now, as well as women and kids.

  ‘Not this time, Henry,’ said Will Fletcher, and Mother Verity, watching and listening, stiffened at the sudden tension. Henry Mullins was not a man to back off. His word was law in Christian Street.

  ‘More over, Will,’ he said, his fists bunching.

  ‘Get in line, Henry, you or yer missus,’ said Will.

  Henry Mullins swung a fast fist. Will, knowing it was bound to come, blocked it with an upraised arm.

  ‘The blighters,’ said Mother Joan, ‘there’s going to be blood, by George.’ Mother Joan was in fine fettle. The cheques hadn’t bounced, they’d been debited to her husband’s account and she had her ring back, much to the sorrow of Solly Rubenstein.

  ‘Give over, Henry,’ said Will. ‘I told you, it’s not your evenin’.’

  The hard fist swung again. Will put up another block with his left arm and delivered a straight right. It put Henry Mullins on his back in the gutter. ‘Oh, yer bleedin’ dummy,’ Henry roared, ‘yer signed for yer own funeral!’ Up he came, tearing in, and down he went again.

  Will caught the eye of his barmy lady. There was a flush on her face, even a little excitement in her expression. ‘Oh, Mr Fletcher,’ she breathed.

  Henry Mullins staggered to his feet, drew several breaths, squared his shoulders, put up his fists and bored in. He had to. He was cock of the walk round here. He closed fast with the challenger, but parted from him even faster as Will delivered an uppercut. His head jerked up, his eyes rolled, and down he went for a third time. No-one interfered. No-one would.

  ‘Jolly bruising,’ said Mother Joan, who understood this man-to-man stuff.

  ‘’Ow disgustin’,’ said Mother Mary, who had a good mind to give both men a taste of her umbrella.

  ‘How magnificent,’ breathed Mother Verity, and Mother Ruth looked at her in astonishment. How flushed she was, how strangely excited she seemed. Oh, dear, whatever was happening?

  Henry Mullins rolled over and stared dizzily at the gutter. ‘Bleedin’ done me,’ he groaned.

  ‘’Ard luck, Henry,’ said Will. ‘Help ’im up, Sid, give ’im a hand to get home.’

  And that was it. Will Fletcher took charge, making one person from each family line up, then watching while Father Luke and the ladies handed out clothes and footwear to these people and to other family representatives from adjoining streets. It took some time, but Will stayed to see that there was no trouble, little Lulu beside him. Once only, he said to the queueing people, ‘Never mind it’s not the Salvation Army, it’s the right kind of charity.’

  At the end, when the van had been emptied, Mother Joan strode briskly up to him and clapped him heartily on his shoulder. ‘Good man, well done,’ she said, ‘the Lord bless you.’

  ‘Praise ’Im,’ said Mother Mary.

  ‘Hear that, Lulu? It’s praise the Lord,’ said Will, hand on the child’s thin shoulder.

  ‘An’ yer give Mister Mullins an ’eadache,’ said Lulu proudly.

  Mother Verity came up with a frock, socks, vests, coat and a small pair of boots. ‘Mr Fletcher, I think these will all fit the girl,’ she said.

  ‘Special for Lulu, are they?’

  ‘Her brothers and sisters all have something, but yes, perhaps there should be one special child, Mr Fletcher,’ said Mother Verity, and handed the items to him. ‘Oh, I took the liberty of telling my sisters in charity that you were to have nothing. No overcoat, I mean.’

  ‘Kind of yer,’ said Will drily.

  ‘You are a man able to stand on your own feet, Mr Fletcher. I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Knock it off, Sister Charity.’

  ‘Also, you have a job. I’m so pleased. But I will see you again, I hope.’

  ‘Now listen,’ said Will, ‘I’m not ’aving it, I’ll look after me conscience, I don’t want it comin’ after me. You’re a nice woman, and I ain’t too pleased with meself for what I did, but—’

  ‘You kissed ’er,’ said Lulu, ‘I saw yer, Uncle Will.’

  ‘Well, so I did, sweet’eart, so I did, but sometimes a woman’s there, and sometimes you’ve got to kiss ’er. It might not make much of a man of you, but some women rouse the old Adam in some of us. It didn’t please Sister Charity too much, because she’s a nice woman, but there it is, it was done and it can’t be undone. Only we don’t want ’er hauntin’ me, do we, Lulu?’

  ‘I’m not given to haunting people, Mr Fletcher,’ said Mother Verity, ‘but our work is here in the East End, so I’m sure we’ll see each other again.’

  ‘I’m movin’,’ said Will.

  The air was heavier, the clouds dark and brooding.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mother Verity.

  ‘Well, the job’s come with a fair wage, and I don’t aim to stay around ’ere much longer, not now I can afford some decent lodgings. One of the other loaders knows of some.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Mother Verity.

  ‘’E’ll let me know. Bethnal Green, I think he said. I want a couple of rooms, I’m takin’ Lulu with me. She’s all I’ve got—’

  ‘But she’s not yours, Mr Fletcher.’

  ‘She’s me little mate, me little pal, and ’er dad couldn’t care less about her. I’ve told him I’m takin’ ’er. It’ll cost yer half a crown, he said, and he’s got it, and I’ve got Lulu.’

  ‘Mr Fletcher, I thought you didn’t believe in God.’

  ‘Give over,’ said Will.

  ‘But God has touched you.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Will laughed. ‘He’ll come to tea with me and Lulu next?’

  ‘If you take the child into your care, Mr Fletcher, the Lord will always be present.’

  ‘I can’t make you out,’ said Will. ‘I thought you were barmy, then I thought you weren’t, now I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘We’re ready for the off, sister,’ sang out Mother Joan.

  ‘Yes, come on,’ called Mother Mary, ‘we’re all goin’ back in the van.’

  ‘Good night, Mr Fletcher, thank you for all your help,’ said Mother Verity, ‘you were magnificent.’

  ‘Would yer mind leavin’ off, Sister Charity?’ said Will.

  ‘You’re a man, Mr Fletcher. Good night.’

  Will, holding Lulu’s new clothes and boots, watched the van move off, Lulu still beside him. ‘Well, she’s a funny one, Lulu, and no error, eh?’

  ‘Is she a lady?’ asked Lulu.

  ‘A lady? Yes, I reckon she is, sweet’eart. A lady. Come on, let’s see what you look like in yer new togs.’

  In the pocket of the lit
tle winter coat they found a shining new florin.

  The thunderstorm broke. The sky roared and bellowed, the lightning flashed, and the rain sheeted down to swamp the streets and to pierce the waters of the Thames like glittering stair rods.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On Friday evening, Lily Shaw’s mother just happened to accidentally come out through her open front door and bump into Dad on his way home from work.

  ‘Oh, ’ullo, Jack,’ she said, ‘fancy it bein’ you.’

  ‘Yes, what a coincidence, Ivy,’ said Dad, ‘seein’ it’s you.’

  ‘Yes, I just come out. I must say yer lookin’ real fit an’ manly, considerin’ all them years of yourn away at the war. Yer a credit to yer fam’ly – oh, we ’eard Maud’s cousin Edie’s come for the weekend again. My, ain’t she a kind, obligin’ woman with Maud bein’ away? I can’t say ’ow sorry I am about Maud ’aving to go away, it must be something really chronic, is it?’

  ‘Fairly chronic,’ said Dad.

  ‘She’s gorn to a home for the chronic, I suppose?’

  ‘I suppose you could say so,’ said Dad, cheerfulness covering up his reticence.

  ‘Don’t that seem ’ard luck when she’s been such a good religious woman all these years?’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘Makes yer think, don’t it? Mrs Johnson said she ’opes it wasn’t religion that took Maud orf.’ She paused, waiting for a response, but Dad just smiled. ‘It must be ’ard on you an’ yer fam’ly, Jack. Still, with Maud’s cousin Edie comin’ reg’lar to look after yer, what a blessin’. Ain’t she an ’andsome woman, an’ still single too. I said to me old man, I said what a blessin’ Jack’s got cousin Edie with ’im at weekends, a kind woman like that. It makes up for Maud ’aving to be away, I said. And Mrs Johnson was sayin’ just the same thing to me only yesterday.’

  ‘Well, I’ll let you all know if there’s any other news,’ said Dad.

  ‘What other news?’ asked Mrs Shaw with interest.

  ‘No idea,’ said Dad, ‘not till it ’appens, Ivy. So long.’

  Aunt Edie had arrived. She was with Betsy and Patsy, and they were all chattering. Dad said nothing about Mrs Shaw and the gossip. If things got troublesome, however, he’d have to do something. As it was, Aunt Edie seemed so determined that Betsy and Patsy shouldn’t miss their mother at the weekends, that at the moment it was their feelings that counted far more than gossip. His conscience was clear. So was Aunt Edie’s.

  And when Jimmy arrived home from Anerley, his pleasure at seeing Aunt Edie again was so obvious that there was no question of disturbing the present order of things.

  On Saturday, Mr Gibbs left his business at twelve-thirty to get home in time for lunch. His wife was her usual pleasant self. His daughter, however, was mutinously inclined.

  ‘Sophy’s going to leave home,’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘Are you, monkey?’ asked Mr Gibbs. ‘Where you off to?’

  ‘Beachy Head,’ said Sophy.

  ‘Well, take care. Beachy Head’s dangerous. You can fall off it.’

  ‘Fall off? I’m going to jump off,’ said Sophy. ‘Daddy, it’s Saturday, but all I’ve been allowed to do is help Jimmy for just a measly half-hour and take him some sandwiches for his lunch. All that work he’s got to do, there’s tons of it, and I said to Mummy supposing he breaks his back? You won’t like it, because you’ll be the one to have to tell his parents. And d’you know what Mummy’s done? She’s invited some girls over for this afternoon and I’ve got to entertain them. Girls, would you believe, they’ll just talk about boys and frocks.’

  ‘Frocks for boys?’ said Mr Gibbs, admiring the oak panelling of the handsome dining room.

  ‘No, you silly, just frocks. And boys. I don’t know why I’ve got to spend a Saturday afternoon in agony.’

  ‘It’s to help you to become a little more ladylike than you are,’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘Ugh,’ said Sophy.

  ‘They’re all nice girls,’ said her mother.

  ‘I hate girls. Except me. I like me.’

  ‘Yes, I like you too, darling,’ said Mrs Gibbs, ‘and so does Daddy.’

  ‘Oh, jolly good,’ said Sophy, ‘can Jimmy come to Devon with us?’ She and her parents were due to go to a rented cottage in Devon for ten days, commencing the last week in August.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘I’ll ask him after lunch, shall I, Mummy?’ said Sophy. ‘He ought to have a holiday before he dies doing all that horrific work for Daddy.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, pet,’ said Mr Gibbs.

  Mr Hodges looked in. ‘Everything to your satisfaction, sir?’ he enquired.

  ‘Fine,’ said Mr Gibbs.

  ‘Then staff will proceed with their own lunch, and by your leave, madam.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Hodges,’ said Mrs Gibbs, who had a polite and friendly relationship with the servants.

  Mr Hodges retired. Sophy said, ‘What’s wrong with us asking Jimmy to Devon?’

  ‘Because there’ll still be work for him to do here,’ said Mr Gibbs.

  ‘Oh, you’re mean, Daddy. If those agonizing girls ask me this afternoon about you, I don’t know how I’m going to face up to having to tell them you’re mean.’

  ‘Well, tell ’em I’m perfect.’

  ‘They won’t believe me,’ said Sophy, ‘they’ll see the twisted look on my face.’

  ‘I’d like to see that myself,’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  Sophy did her best.

  ‘I like it,’ said Mr Gibbs. ‘D’you like it, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Sweet,’ said Mrs Gibbs.

  ‘What a life,’ said Sophy the Dreadful.

  The concert at St Mark’s Hall in Camberwell that evening went with a swing before an audience of parents and their children. It started at six-thirty and finished at eight-thirty. The pearlies were in their element with their turns. The audience rocked and little girls giggled themselves into fits.

  Aunt Edie appeared in a white pearly queen dress and hat, and she sparkled from head to foot. Dad thought her a figure of animated colour, with a smile as brilliant as a shining star on her face as she addressed the audience.

  ‘Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf, kiddies?’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘I ain’t!’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘Well, not to worry, my little loves, because the big bad wolf won’t be appearin’ this evenin’, he had a crocodile for ’is dinner and don’t feel very well.’

  Shrieks.

  ‘Crumbs, our Aunt Edie,’ whispered Betsy proudly.

  ‘Don’t she look a real pearly queen, Dad?’ said Patsy.

  When the laughter had died down, Aunt Edie said from the stage, ‘As the big bad wolf can’t come, I’m here instead, I’m Red Ridin’ Hood’s big sister.’

  ‘Oh, d’yer get ate up sometimes?’ called a boy.

  ‘Not often,’ said Aunt Edie, giving her pearly dress a saucy little twirl. ‘I’ve got me own ways of dealin’ with big bad wolves. I caught one in the thunderstorm the other night, and ’e’s still out in me back yard, hanging up to dry. Who’s that laughin’?’

  ‘We all are, missus!’

  ‘That’s enough of that, we don’t want all that laughin’, you’ll all choke on yer acid drops.’

  Patsy was near to hysterics. Dad was wondering why Maud’s cousin hadn’t ever taken up with a decent bloke and got herself married. Losing her fiancé years ago had been tragic, but she’d got over it, she’d come up smiling. Why wasn’t she married, a lovely-looking woman like her?

  ‘Oh, Dad, ain’t she funny?’ gasped Patsy.

  ‘Now how about what I’m here for,’ called Aunt Edie, a glittering pearly flamboyance, ‘how about a song? What would you like as a start?’

  ‘“Pack up yer troubles!”’ The request was from a man.

  Standing in the wings, Jimmy thought his aunt hesitated for a moment, as if she didn’t want to be reminded of the war, and a little picture flashed into his mind of her walking
in a stiff and vexed way from the hospital in which his dad had been recuperating from a serious wound. She hadn’t liked what the war was doing to soldiers.

  ‘All right, old soldier,’ she called in response to the request, and sat down at the piano. ‘I’ll sing it first, then all join in, an’ that includes the lady with toffee-apples in her hat. Here we go, then.’

  And she played and sang ‘Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kitbag’. And then the audience joined in. Except Dad. Dad was thinking of Johnny Turk, and the flies and the heat, and of blood that turned black inside a minute. The audience was carried along by Aunt Edie’s infectious performance especially when, after two more numbers, she played and sang ‘I’ve Got A Lovely Bunch Of Coconuts’.

  Then she introduced Jimmy. ‘Mums, dads and kids,’ she said, ‘it’s me great honour an’ privilege to present me young man to you, name of Jimmy Andrews, who comes from down the road in Walworth, where the gels follow him about – only I saw ’im first. Come on, Jimmy.’

  Jimmy showed himself. The audience clapped and the kids cheered.

  ‘Cor, aincher luvverly!’ called a girl.

  ‘Not all the time,’ said Jimmy, ‘sometimes I’m just ordinary. But not often.’

  Patsy curled herself up into a shrieking ball.

  ‘Crikey, our Jimmy,’ said Betsy.

  Dad was grinning.

  ‘Jimmy and me’s got a romance goin’,’ called Aunt Edie from the piano, ‘so we’re going to sing romantic together. Off we go, Jimmy love.’

  They sang the duet, ‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World’. Jimmy had no stage fright, he took it all in his stride and he had a very pleasant voice. In any case, Aunt Edie took him along in the song in a way to ensure he didn’t fail her. They followed with ‘Let’s All Sing Like The Birdies Sing’, and Jimmy’s tweet-tweets brought the house down.

  Aunt Edie finished her turn with a request from the audience, ‘Any Old Iron’. The audience joined in and stamped their feet as well, and Aunt Edie departed from the stage, arm in arm with Jimmy, to a standing ovation.