The Pearly Queen

by Mary Jane Staples

  Waiting for her off-stage was Joe Gosling, a resplendent pearly king.

  ‘Told yer, Edie, told yer,’ he said with a broad grin of delight. ‘Yer a born natural. Ain’t she that, Jimmy, a born natural?’

  ‘Yes, and she’s good too,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Well, I said that, didn’t I? A born natural, I said.’

  ‘Yes, and she can sing as well,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Eh?’ said Joe. ‘Course she can sing as well, I wasn’t excludin’ nothing. Yer Aunt Edie’s good all over.’

  ‘Keeps you guessin’, though, when she’s leg before wicket at cricket,’ said Jimmy.

  Aunt Edie burst into laughter. ‘I’ll give you leg before wicket,’ she said.

  ‘You’re the best, Aunt Edie, you are,’ said Jimmy, ‘and that’s a fact.’ And he gave her a kiss and a cuddle. Aunt Edie’s eyes suddenly went moist.

  ‘Take yer to the pub soon as the show’s finished, Edie me darling,’ said Joe.

  ‘Kind of yer, Joe, but no thanks.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, Mr Gosling,’ said Jimmy, ‘but she’s with me.’

  ‘Strike a light,’ said Joe, ‘done in me eye by a young cockalorum.’

  ‘I’ll go and get changed,’ said Aunt Edie.

  She went back to Walworth with the family. When they got off the tram at Manor Place, Jimmy said as he was flush from working for Mr Gibbs, he’d treat everyone to fish and chips. The shop was only a few yards away and was exuding an irresistible aroma. Aunt Edie walked on with the others while Jimmy went to the shop.

  ‘That boy,’ she said.

  ‘Our Jimmy?’ said Patsy.

  ‘I don’t know who’s goin’ to be able to say no to ’im when he’s older,’ said Aunt Edie.

  ‘Well, after that concert,’ said Dad, ‘I don’t know meself who can say no to you. Mind, it depends on what you ask for. What d’yer think, Betsy me pickle, an’ Patsy me love, now that you’ve seen your Aunt Edie bring the ’ouse down?’

  ‘Oh, she was so good, Dad, that I don’t know what to think,’ said Patsy. ‘Couldn’t you ask your old sergeant-major?’

  ‘Not a bad idea, that, Patsy,’ said Dad.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ said Aunt Edie, who still seemed to have a glow about her. ‘I’m only someone walkin’ with you.’

  ‘You’re our star turn, proud to ’ave you walkin’ with us,’ said Dad, ‘only Patsy reminded me of the time me old battalion reached Damascus an’ Johnny Turk was chuckin’ down his arms. The sergeant-major celebrated by showin’ he knew a bit about ’ow to treat a star turn. He got off with a female Syrian tummy wobbler—’

  ‘What’s one of them, Dad?’ asked Betsy.

  ‘They’re dancers,’ said Dad, ‘an’ when they’re dancin’ they wobble their tummies, they’re all star turns. Well, me old sergeant-major spoke this one some choice words that were ’ighly complimentary, and you know what she did? Filled his face full of Turkish Delight. Ruddy whole boxful landed in his cakehole.’

  They turned in at the house, with Betsy giggling. ‘Any more of that sergeant-major stuff,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘and a whole ’elping of fried cod and chips is goin’ to land on your head, Jack Andrews.’

  That brought the house down again.

  Father Peter was most impressed by the successful distribution of clothes and footwear, and of its mellowing effect on the people of Whitechapel. He expressed his admiration of the way it had been done. He and Father Luke were at dinner with the resident lady Repenters.

  ‘Softening ’em up, Father,’ said Mother Joan. ‘Best way, you know. They’re heathens, of course, but you can’t drill Christian ways into ’em until they’re receptive. But we can’t fit all the East End out with new clothes, the money wouldn’t run to it, not by a long chalk. Ye gods, those poor little devils running about in their bare feet. Now my idea is that we go collecting clothes and footwear, from districts more affluent than the East End. There’s a year’s work in that, the Lord’s practical work.’

  ‘Praise Him,’ said the Repenters.

  ‘That’s the stuff,’ said Mother Joan.

  ‘Your suggestion does you credit, sister,’ said Father Peter.

  ‘Very sound, Father, very sound,’ said Father Luke. ‘Mind you, there’s still ’ardly any salt in the potatoes. ’As anyone noticed Mrs Murphy still don’t seem to be bothering?’

  ‘A small thing, Father Luke,’ said Mother Ruth, an uncomplaining woman.

  ‘We shall concentrate on clothes collections,’ said Father Peter.

  ‘I was prayin’ last night,’ said Mother Mary, ‘and I think the Lord said something to me about it wasn’t right for the poor to wear only sackcloth.’

  ‘His word is our command,’ said Father Peter, ‘and I concur with Mother Joan in that to supply the poor with necessities is to begin the process of making them receptive to the ways of Christianity. While their state is wholly parlous, they will remain heathens. Their hardened souls must be softened. I fear that in going among them with anger I have lacked understanding, but with the Lord’s help I shall redeem myself.’

  ‘Amen,’ said the Repenters.

  ‘It was Mother Verity, I believe, who softened the soul of the man who outraged her in the beginning and whom we all thought past redemption,’ said Father Peter, gaunt face benign of expression.

  ‘Even in the beginning, Father, I did not think him quite past redemption,’ said Mother Verity.

  ‘Praise ’er faith,’ said Father Luke.

  ‘And her forgivingness,’ said Mother Mary. ‘I don’t know I could ever ’ave forgive ’im myself.’

  ‘Her lips,’ said Father Peter, shaking a sad head, ‘to take her lips so brutally.’

  Colour touched Mother Verity’s cheeks.

  ‘’Orrible,’ said Mother Mary.

  ‘We must all be forgiving, sister,’ said Mother Ruth.

  ‘Still, the Lord’s fire an’ brimstone can’t be for nothing,’ said Mother Mary.

  ‘True, my child,’ said Father Peter, ‘that is for those who have sold their souls to Satan. For them the Lord has neither forgiveness nor mercy. For others, for people who have misguidedly sinned, there is always forgiveness.’

  ‘Well spoken, Father,’ said Mother Joan.

  ‘I have seen the light,’ said Father Peter.

  ‘So have I, by George,’ said Mother Joan, ‘damn nearly blinded me.’

  ‘Jimmy . . . lunch . . . slice of veal and ham pie, oh—’ Ada blinked. There was Jimmy in the sunshine, sawing up a large branch, clearing it of smaller branches. He was wearing just shoes and an old pair of Scout shorts. His chest was bare and browning. Perspiration bedewed his forehead and glistened in his hair. Ada blinked again. After all, a girl didn’t often see a boy half undressed, specially a boy with such a firm body. ‘Oh,’ she said again.

  ‘What’s all this ohing?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘Hoeing?’

  ‘No, ohing.’

  ‘Where’s your shirt and apron?’ asked Ada.

  ‘Don’t need ’em for this work,’ said Jimmy. ‘Crikey, is all that for me, Ada?’ It was a large slice of pie, and there were slices of tomato and some lettuce with it. And a pint mug of lemonade, home-made by Mrs Redfern. A whole pint. ‘Ada, you’re all doin’ me proud, I don’t know I’ve met kinder people, nor a nicer girl.’ He put the saw down, came up to her and took the tray from her. Ada gulped a little. ‘It’s all right, is it, me not havin’ me shirt on?’

  ‘Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know, I suppose so,’ said Ada. It was all right, of course it was. The landscape gardeners were working in their vests. It was just that she felt startled, and a little bit funny. ‘There’s a pickled onion hidin’ under the lettuce, if you like pickled onions,’ she said, by way of returning to normal.

  ‘What a treat,’ said Jimmy, ‘it’ll help me to keep cheerful. Me broken heart needs a pickled onion or two and some veal and ham pie. I was pleased to meet Percy the other mornin’ – well, perhaps not pleased, seein’ what a lucky
bloke he is, but I was interested, of course.’

  ‘You’re goin’ dotty,’ said Ada, ‘you’re havin’ me on, I know you, Jimmy Andrews. And look, I’m not engaged or anything, my dad wouldn’t let me get engaged to anyone when I’m only just sixteen.’

  ‘No, you’ll ’ave to wait a bit,’ said Jimmy, seating himself on a log and placing the tray on his knees. ‘Percy’s a handsome feller, I noticed.’

  ‘Handsome?’ said Ada, who had begun to feel Percy was a bit ordinary except for his non-stop tongue.

  ‘I’m hopin’ to be handsome meself when I’m older,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ve heard it’s better than lookin’ like the back end of a horse and cart.’

  ‘Yes, keep tryin’,’ said Ada, ‘you don’t want to look like that all your life. Oh, I’ve got to go or Mr ’Odges will be after me.’

  ‘What, at his age?’ said Jimmy. ‘Saucy old devil. Still, can’t blame him, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, ’elp, you’ll be me death, you will, Jimmy,’ said Ada, and rushed off. She had laughing hysterics on the way.

  Sophy appeared at two o’clock, a summery enchantment in a frock of azure blue. ‘Gosh, look at you,’ she said, ‘you’re hardly dressed.’

  ‘Hullo, Mr Thorpe,’ said Jimmy. Mr George Thorpe was the landscape gardeners’ foreman who’d talked to him about how to tame and shape nature’s tendency to run wild.

  ‘How can anyone be soppy enough to think I’m Mr Thorpe?’ said Sophy in disgust.

  ‘Me, I suppose,’ said Jimmy, ‘when the sun’s in my eyes. Oh, it’s you, Sophy.’

  ‘Yes, and I can’t stay and help you,’ she said.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘But I can stay long enough to kick you.’

  ‘Long enough to fall over, you mean, like you did before. That won’t do your frock any good, there’s some thorny bits and pieces lyin’ about round here.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I can’t stay and help you,’ said Sophy, ‘it’s a new frock and Mummy says she’ll pack me off to a boarding school if I ruin it. D’you like it?’

  ‘Looks nice,’ said Jimmy guardedly. The girl herself looked corking.

  ‘Would you like to come to tea on Sunday?’ asked Sophy.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Jimmy, picking up the saw.

  ‘I’ll tell Mummy you’re coming,’ said Sophy, ‘then she won’t be able to say no.’

  ‘You can’t invite me to tea without askin’ your mum first,’ said Jimmy. Commonsense surfacing, he added, ‘And I can’t come, anyway.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘Because your mum ’asn’t asked me, that’s why, and because you’re posh and rich as well, and I’m not.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be soppy,’ said Sophy. ‘I’m not rich, I only get a few shillings pocket money a week from Daddy.’

  ‘I mean your fam’ly’s rich,’ said Jimmy, going to work with the saw.

  ‘Oh, you rotter,’ said Sophy. ‘Daddy was born poor, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘But he’s not poor now, he’s got all this and servants. Besides, my Aunt Edie will be with us.’

  ‘Well, the Sunday after, then,’ said Sophy.

  ‘No, my Aunt Edie’s comin’ for the weekend as well, and the next.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think much of any aunt who’s as inconvenient as that,’ said Sophy. ‘Jimmy, stop sawing. You can kiss me, if you like.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘I don’t let every boy kiss me, I—’ Sophy stopped. Her mother was calling her, and from not far away. ‘Coming, Mummy.’ She went off at a hasty run. Jimmy grinned. Saved by the gong, he thought.

  That day, Patsy and Betsy were in Ruskin Park with two street friends, having enjoyed a little picnic of bread and marge, bits of cheese and a juicy red tomato each. Then they had afters of roast peanuts. Along came a park-keeper to cast his eyes over the four girls seated on a bench.

  ‘’Ullo, ’ullo, what’ve we got ’ere, then?’ he asked.

  ‘We ain’t got nothing, mister,’ said Lucy Lee, Patsy’s friend, ‘we’ve ate it all.’

  ‘Except we got two monkey nuts left,’ said Betsy.

  ‘D’yer want one, mister?’ asked Harriet Jones, Betsy’s friend.

  ‘I’m not desperate,’ said the park-keeper, looking very official in his brown uniform, ‘and you sure that’s all you got left? What’s that on me clean floor, might I ask?’

  ‘Oh, they’re just the shells,’ said Patsy.

  ‘What, on me clean floor?’

  ‘Oh, crumbs,’ said Harriet.

  ‘You’re right, crumbs as well, I see,’ said the park-keeper. ‘Crumbs an’ peanut shells on me clean floor is against the law.’

  ‘Oh, ’elp,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Now who’s going to clear ’em up before I fall down in a faint, eh, me young girlies?’

  ‘We all will,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Will yer now?’

  ‘Honest,’ said Patsy, and the park-keeper smiled. Who wouldn’t when eye to eye with a girl whose hair was the colour of August gold and whose face looked as clean as a primrose washed by April showers?

  ‘On yer school holidays, are yer?’

  ‘Yes, mister,’ said Betsy.

  ‘All right, don’t you worry,’ said the park-keeper. ‘I’ll get me brush an’ pan an’ clear up when you’ve all kindly vacated the bench.’

  ‘We don’t mind doin’ it,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Don’t you worry, only watch me clean floor next time, eh?’

  ‘Yes, mister,’ said Lucy, and the park-keeper strolled away smiling. After all the years of horrible war, four girls happily eating roast monkey nuts on a park bench were worth a smile or two.

  A horse-drawn van turned into the Walworth Road from Manor Place, Father Luke at the reins, Mother Mary and Mother Magda sitting in the back. As it entered the traffic, four girls turned into Manor Place from the opposite corner, having just got off a tram. They walked home, Lucy and Harriet separating from Patsy and Betsy.

  When they were indoors, Patsy said, ‘Shall we ’ave a cup of tea, Betsy?’

  ‘I’m faintin’ wiv thirst,’ said Betsy, and went upstairs while Patsy filled the kettle. When Betsy came down she was a dumbfounded little girl.

  ‘Patsy, Patsy, we ain’t got no clothes left, they’re all gorn.’

  ‘Oh, you daft ha’porth,’ said Patsy.

  ‘Patsy, we ain’t, I been in your room as well. They’re all gorn. I fink we been burgled.’

  Patsy rushed upstairs. Her chest of drawers was empty of clothes and underwear, and her little wardrobe was as empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. It was the same in Betsy’s bedroom, and Jimmy’s. Footwear as well had gone. She came pell-mell down the stairs and ran into her parents’ bedroom. All her dad’s clothes were missing, although there were a few things of her mother’s still around.

  Aghast, Patsy said, ‘Someone’s pinched everything, Betsy, everything.’

  ‘Yes, I fink burglars ’ave been in,’ said Betsy. Tears began to spill from her eyes.

  ‘Don’t cry, Betsy, we don’t ’ave burglars round here, it’s someone else,’ said Patsy.

  They found the answer in the form of a note on the kitchen mantelshelf. It was from Mother.

  I’ve taken everyone’s things to give to the poor, don’t forget that from them that hath shall be taken all of it. I hope you’re all going to church and that your Aunt Edie is doing her duty and looking after you.

  Mother

  ‘Told you it was mortal,’ said Dad, home from his work and looking into Betsy’s woebegone face and Patsy’s angry eyes. ‘Your mum could be the death of me, but I’m strictly against that. And I’m even more strictly against ’er upsettin’ you two. You’re me own angels. I’m goin’ after her, I know where that place in Bloomsbury is. ’Ullo, that’s Jimmy comin’ in. I’ll take ’im with me. Can you manage to get a bit of supper goin’ while we’re gone, Patsy?’

  ‘Yes, course I can, Dad. You’ll get our thin
gs back, won’t you?’

  ‘If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be able to look me old sergeant-major in the eye, would I?’

  It didn’t take Dad and Jimmy long to get to Bloomsbury. They rode on an open bus operated by the London General Omnibus Company. It took them over Waterloo Bridge and up through Kingsway and Southampton Row to land them in the heart of Bloomsbury. Dad was silent as he walked fast to Bedford Way, and Jimmy knew that for once he was ready to lose his temper. Arriving at the large house now named the Temple of Endeavour, Dad thundered on the huge iron knocker. Half a minute elapsed before someone opened it. It was Mother Ruth, the gentle and uncomplaining Repenter.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m Jack Andrews,’ said Dad. ‘Where’s my wife?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘My wife, Maud Andrews, where is she?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mother Mary. I’m so sorry, but she’s out at the moment. She’s been out all day, collecting clothes for the poor.’

  ‘That’s a fact, is it?’ said Dad. ‘Well, when will she be back?’

  ‘We’re expecting her and Father Luke and Mother Magda any moment – oh, I think this may be them.’

  The horse-drawn van, ambling down the street, pulled up. Father Luke descended, put a nosebag on the horse, then went round to the back of the van to help Mother Mary and Mother Magda alight.

  Dad and Jimmy were there in a flash.

  ‘You silly woman,’ said Dad.

  Mother stared at him. ‘What’re you doin’ here?’ she asked. ‘And who’s that boy with you? Don’t I know him?’

  ‘I’m not ’ere to answer daft questions,’ said Dad. ‘Who are you?’ he asked Father Luke.

  ‘’Umbly, sir, I announce myself as Father Luke of—’

  ‘Hoppit,’ said Dad.

  ‘’Ere, I say—’

  ‘Push off,’ said Dad, and Father Luke took a look into glinting grey eyes and retired into the Temple with a portly dignity and an air of injury. ‘And who are you?’ asked Dad of Mother Magda.

  ‘’Ere, I don’t like the sound of you,’ said Mother Magda, ‘you ain’t a nice gentleman.’

  ‘Right first time,’ said Dad. ‘Hoppit.’

  ‘It’s me bounden duty to talk to Father Peter about you,’ said Mother Magda.