‘Don’t bring ’im out here,’ said Dad, ‘or I’ll stuff ’im down a manhole.’
‘Well, I don’t know, what a coarse brute,’ said Mother Magda, and hurried away to search for Father Peter.
Dad looked Mother in the eye. ‘You came ’ome and pinched all our clothes,’ he said.
‘I’ll give you something you talk to me Christian friends like that,’ said Mother, and shook her umbrella in his face.
Dad pushed it aside. ‘It’s all in the van, is it?’ he said. ‘Right, tailboard down, Jimmy, and up you get.’
Jimmy let the tailboard down and swung himself into the van. There were a dozen large tea chests, all full of clothes or footwear.
‘Clothes for the five thousand here, Dad,’ he said.
‘Which is the one our stuff’s in?’ asked Dad of Mother.
‘Don’t you come it with me,’ said Mother, and set about him with her umbrella, much to the open-mouthed astonishment of passers-by. Dad did lose his temper then. He took the umbrella from her, smashed it over his knee, flung it into the gutter, picked her up and carried her into the hall of the Temple, Mother Ruth looking on in faint shock. Dad dumped Mother into a chair.
‘Oh, you sinful ’eathen,’ she gasped.
‘Stay there,’ said Dad, ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes to tie you up and carry you ’ome.’ He returned to the van. He climbed up and joined Jimmy. Jimmy had upended two chests, and there was a heap of spilled clothes. ‘That’s the ticket, Jimmy.’
Together they upended another. And another. And a fifth. Out spilled an overcoat and a jacket, and then the family’s clothes and footwear, a great mound of items.
‘Poor old Mum,’ said Jimmy.
‘Gone potty, Jimmy, poor old gel,’ said Dad. ‘Right, put all our stuff back in that chest. I’ll go an’ get her.’
‘You bringing her home, Dad?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Thing is, will she act up?’
‘Bound to, if she can do a thing like this,’ said Jimmy. ‘Like makin’ off with everything except what we’re standing up in, an’ that includes what Betsy and Patsy are standing up in as well. Betsy’s upset, and Patsy’s spittin’.’
A shadow fell across them. The tall, gaunt and wide-shouldered minister of the League of Repenters loomed at the open back of the van. ‘Vandals!’ he boomed.
‘Who are you?’ asked Dad.
‘The minister of the League of Repenters.’
‘Oh, you’re bloke in charge of the loony bin, are yer?’ said Dad. ‘Well, back off a bit, because I’m comin’ down to knock your bleedin’ ’ead off.’
‘Heathen!’ boomed Father Peter, and the thunder rumbled in his chest.
‘Watch out, mister,’ said Jimmy, ‘Dad’s had more boxin’ belts than hot dinners.’
‘Miserable young man, know ye not that enemies of the Lord shall fall like corn before His reapers?’
‘I fancy doin’ a bit of reapin’,’ said Dad, and jumped down. Father Peter at his height and in his rumbling thunder may have been awesome, but Dad shoved him aside and strode back into the Temple. The hall showed a group of women, all in prayer for his soul, but Mother wasn’t among them.
‘Where’s my wife?’ he asked.
‘She has gone, sir,’ said Mother Ruth.
‘Gone upstairs, you mean?’
‘She has gone from our Temple, sir, to pray elsewhere for you.’
‘Holy ruddy mackerel,’ said Dad, ‘tell ’er to do some praying for herself, and tell ’er the Lord’s waitin’ for her at ’ome, with an umbrella twice as big as her own.’
‘Repent, yer brute, repent,’ said Mother Magda.
Father Peter appeared, his hands crossed over his chest, his gait slow and reverent. Silently he entered the Chapel of Penitence.
‘Barmy,’ said Dad, ‘and if I don’t get out of ’ere quick, I’ll be off me ruddy chump meself.’ He went back to the van. Jimmy was out of it, guarding the tea chest and its contents. He looked at his son. Jimmy grinned. Dad grinned. ‘Jimmy lad,’ he said, ‘when you next go to church give thanks that you, Patsy, Betsy and me are all granted the privilege of bein’ sane. Up with that chest.’ They took hold of it together and walked away, carrying it between them. ‘It’s a funny thing, yer know, son, but we don’t realize how well off we are for bein’ sane till we bump into people all as barmy as one-eyed parrots with a twitch.’
‘And what about Mum?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Scarpered.’
‘Dodged you, did she, Dad? Didn’t want to come home?’
‘Didn’t seem like it, Jimmy.’
‘Best thing, really,’ said Jimmy. ‘I don’t think she’s ready to come back yet. And besides—’
‘Besides what?’ asked Dad.
‘She wasn’t dressed for it, you ruined ’er umbrella.’
Dad laughed.
They took the tea chest on to a bus, and the bus carried them home.
‘’Oo wants to know?’ asked Bert Rogers, chin unshaven, braces dangling, a bottle of beer in his hand, and addiction to drink making a bleary man of him.
‘A friend,’ said Mother Verity. She was by herself, the evening was cloudy, the street dull and dingy, urchins roaming the gutters. The basic picture never altered. Even when the sun shone, its light only accentuated the dinginess, and the raggedness of the urchins.
‘A friend?’ Bert Rogers looked her over. ‘That’s you, is it, missus? Comin’ up in the world, is ’e?’ Two men passed by, glanced at her handbag and then at him. A sly bleary grin distorted his red face for a fleeting second. ‘Posh, are yer, lady?’ The men went on, turning into Ellen Street.
‘Has Mr Fletcher moved or not?’ asked Mother Verity. ‘If so, could you give me his new address?’
‘E’s down there.’ Bert Rogers jerked a thumb. ‘Ellen Street. Talkin’ to ’is mates.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mother Verity, although that was not what she wanted. What she wanted was to know Will Fletcher’s new address without having to ask him herself. Nevertheless, she walked down to Ellen Street. Turning into it, she was at once confronted by the two men, their caps now pulled low down over their foreheads. Women at open doors turned their backs immediately.
Will Fletcher, striding up Christian Street from Commercial Road, saw a woman emerge in haste from Ellen Street, only to be pulled back by long arms. He had sight of her only for a second, but he recognized her. He heard a cry that was instantly shut off.
‘Christ,’ he breathed, ‘is she as daft as that?’ He ran. Turning into Ellen Street, he pulled up, for there she was, one man behind her, left arm around her waist, one hand clapped over her mouth. No-one was looking, every back was turned. Even the kids showed their backs. That was the way of it in this area. No-one bore witness. A second man was trying to prise her handbag from her. Will reached and spun him aside.
‘What the bleedin’ ’ell—’
‘Give over, yer silly buggers,’ said Will, ‘that’s a sister of charity you’re manhandling, not a condescendin’ female with ’er nose in the air. Let go of her, Lenny. If you’ve not recognized ’er, then shift the mud out of yer mince pies.’
The man, Lenny, released her. Quite calmly, Mother Verity straightened the jacket of her grey costume and righted her partly dislodged hat.
‘Is it our fault she come lookin’ like a bleedin’ duchess?’ said Lenny, growling the question.
‘Don’t get me riled,’ said Will, ‘just shove off.’
‘I got an appointment, anyways,’ said the other man, and the two of them left.
Will regarded Mother Verity sternly. ‘You’re hauntin’ me,’ he said.
‘Thank you for your kind help, Mr Fletcher.’
‘That’s no answer.’
‘Did you ask a question, then? I didn’t think so. You made a comment, I thought.’
‘Now listen,’ said Will, ‘I’m not takin’ another lickin’ from that tongue of yours. If you want a question, I’ll ask one. What d’you mean by bein’ daft enoug
h to come round ’ere all by yourself? And what d’you mean by bringing your ’andbag with you?’
‘That’s two questions,’ said Mother Verity with a gentle smile.
‘Gawd give me strength,’ said Will. Everyone was looking now, of course. ‘Can’t I get it into that crazy ’ead of yours that you’re a sittin’ duck in these streets?’
‘I thought the people in this place had begun to recognize me as a friend, Mr Fletcher.’
‘That’s goin’ to take a lot longer than a few weeks, Sister Charity.’
‘That’s your name for me?’ she asked.
‘Am I talkin’ to meself?’ said Will. ‘Are you listenin’ or not?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then next time you come, bring a copper with you, not your ’andbag.’
‘There’s very little in my handbag, Mr Fletcher.’
Will took his cap off and ran an exasperated hand over his thick, wiry hair. ‘It makes no difference if you’re only carryin’ a few bob. A few bob is enough. An’ don’t ever come by yourself again, not for any ruddy reason. What made you come this evenin’, anyway?’
‘I was passing and thought it only polite to come and say hullo.’
‘Oh, you thought I’d be sittin’ in Bert Rogers’s drawin’-room with me velvet smokin’ jacket on and admirin’ ’is silver candlesticks, did yer? And all ready to make you a polite pot of tea, I suppose?’
Mother Verity, losing none of her ladylike calmness, said, ‘I simply thought you might consider it unfriendly of me not to have stopped to ask how you were, or to find out if you had moved and taken that little girl with you.’
‘I’ll start swearin’ in a minute,’ said Will, relieved that at least the people in the street were keeping themselves at a respectful distance. ‘I’ll go off bang and swear me ’ead off. All right, yes, I’ve made me move to new lodgings, I made it when I got back from me job early this evenin’. I’m ’ere now because I came back to get something Lulu forgot. She was a bit excited an’ forgot ’er rag doll, which she always takes to bed with ’er. Me new landlady’s lookin’ after her at the moment.’
‘So she is with you, Mr Fletcher, you’re going to take care of her?’
‘Lulu’s goin’ to be me life’s work, Sister Charity.’
‘Would you like me to—’
‘Keep off,’ said Will. ‘If you come knockin’ at my door in Bethnal Green to see if me Christianity is improvin’, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.’
‘I only have a Christian wish to—’
‘Well, I won’t ’ave any wishes like that meself,’ said Will, ‘all I’ll have if I see you on me doorstep will be an improper attack of the old Adam.’
‘Whatever do you mean, Mr Fletcher?’
‘I mean you shouldn’t ruddy well look the way you do look, should you?’ Will thought her looks, especially her fine mouth, near to criminally provoking. ‘Now listen, I’m goin’ to get Lulu’s rag doll, then see you safely out of ’ere. I’m goin’ to take you to a tram and throw you aboard. You got that, Sister Charity?’
‘Thank you, Mr Fletcher, that’s very kind of you, I’ve felt all along you’re essentially a good man.’
Will laughed. A little smile touched Mother Verity’s mouth.
He saw her aboard a tram. She was still standing on the platform when it moved off, looking back at him, he with a battered old rag doll in his hand.
She wondered in bed that night how she could find out his new address and why Mother Magda found it necessary to go to confession so often with Father Peter. Father Peter was impressive in the strength and character of his faith, but even he must be feeling embarrassed. Poor Mother Magda, her sordid past lay heavily on her conscience, perhaps.
A gentle knock on the bedroom door made Mother Verity call, ‘Who is it?’
The door opened. ‘Good night, my sisters, and may the blessing of God be upon you.’
‘Good night, Father,’ said Mother Verity. In the other bed, Mother Ruth was already asleep.
The door closed and the minister went on his way. It occurred to Mother Verity then that this custom of bestowing a good night blessing wasn’t really necessary. It even had a little impropriety to it. One might not be in bed, one might be undressing.
One could only suppose that in his Christian goodness the minister simply did not think of that.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On her way to the Andrews house in Manor Place on Friday evening, it was Aunt Edie’s turn to be accidentally bumped into by Mrs Shaw.
‘Oh, it’s you, Miss ’Arper, well, I never,’ said the friendly neighbourhood gossip, glancing at Aunt Edie’s weekend suitcase. ‘I expect you’ve come to be a kind ’elp again.’
‘Hullo, Mrs Shaw, yes, it does ’appen to be me,’ said Aunt Edie.
‘I must say, yer a good soul in Jack Andrews’s hour of trial,’ said Mrs Shaw.
‘Oh, he can stand on his own feet, Mrs Shaw, it’s his children who need a bit of care and fussin’.’
‘I was sayin’ to me old man, I was sayin’ you’ve got an ’eart of gold, Miss ’Arper, and ’e said ’e was very admirin’ of yer. It’s a shame yer cousin Maud’s not ’erself. I expect it’s all them years of Jack bein’ away at the war and ’er ’aving to care for Jimmy and ’is sisters all by ’erself, I expect it’s give ’er a breakdown. Mind, we did ’ear she come ’ome in a van the other day, but only for about ’alf an hour, so I suppose she’s improved a bit. Is she in one of them ’omes where they look after people ’aving breakdowns? Only we ’aven’t ’eard if she is or where it is.’
‘I expect Mr Andrews doesn’t want friends an’ neighbours goin’ to visit,’ said Aunt Edie, no more disposed than Dad himself to let anyone know his wife had gone chronically religious. ‘You know how kind friends an’ neighbours can be, and I expect Mr Andrews thinks it’s best for her not to ’ave visitors.’
‘Yes, ’e’s a nice man,’ said Mrs Shaw, ‘and ’e’s come out of the war still lookin’ fit and ’andsome. It’s a shame—’
‘Not half,’ said Aunt Edie briskly. ‘Well, it’s been nice talkin’ to you, Mrs Shaw, I’ll go an’ see if the girls are in.’
They were, and they’d done something towards preparing the supper. Patsy had peeled the potatoes and Betsy had done the broad beans. They greeted Aunt Edie happily, and she gave them a hug and a kiss. She asked if they’d seen their mum during the week. Patsy said no. Her mum had been, she said, while she and Betsy were out, and Mum had taken everyone’s clothes away.
‘What?’ said Aunt Edie, and Patsy put her in the picture. Aunt Edie looked as if her sparks were going to fly. Patsy said Dad was nearly spitting blood for once. ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Aunt Edie, controlling her anger to make a careful comment. ‘Your mum’s not very well, we’ve all got to be a bit understandin’, loveys.’
‘But all me clothes, Auntie,’ said Betsy. ‘I didn’t ’ave anyfink.’
‘Never mind, your dad brought them back,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘and we’ll all ’ave another nice weekend, you’ll see. ’Ow’s my young man?’
‘That boy,’ said Patsy, and Aunt Edie smiled. Jimmy was getting to be quite a character these days. ‘He comes home lookin’ as if he goes on holiday to Southend every day, or as if he’s been hop-pickin’ down in Kent.’
‘’E’s disgustin’ brown,’ said Betsy.
‘Pardon?’ said Aunt Edie.
‘That’s what Patsy told ’im ’e was,’ said Betsy.
‘Well, I’ll ’ave a good look at him when he comes in,’ said Aunt Edie. ‘Now I think I’d better help with the supper.’
Dad arrived home. Aunt Edie was frying plaice fillets, bought fresh from the market fishmonger by Patsy earlier in the day.
‘’Ullo, ’ullo, ’ow’s our pearly queen?’ he asked.
‘Leave off,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘I’m nobody’s pearly queen.’
‘Well, watch out for Joe Gosling,’ said Dad, ‘he’s got both ’is eyes on you.
’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ said Aunt Edie.
‘Nothing funny about it,’ said Dad. ‘He told me after the concert last Saturday that ’e was inclined very serious towards you.’
‘D’you mind gettin’ your dad out of this scullery, Patsy?’ called Aunt Edie. ‘I’ll ’it him with this fish fork if you don’t.’
‘That plaice looks good, Edie,’ said Dad.
‘Hoppit,’ said Aunt Edie brusquely.
Jimmy came in, looking as brown as a berry. ‘Watcher, fam’ly. Watcher, Aunt Edie. How’s me pearly queen?’
‘Don’t you start, young Jimmy,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘or you an’ your dad’ll both get your ears boxed.’
‘Crumbs,’ whispered Betsy to Patsy in the kitchen, ‘d’you fink Aunt Edie’s got the rats?’
‘No, course she ’asn’t,’ whispered Patsy. ‘She likes it.’
‘Why does she sound as if she’s got the rats, then?’
‘She’s a grown-up, and all grown-ups act a bit silly.’
‘I ain’t goin’ to be a grown-up, then,’ whispered Betsy, ‘are you?’
‘I’ll ’ave to be when I’m married.’
‘But will yer ’usband like yer bein’ silly?’
‘He won’t know, ’e’ll be silly himself. Well, more silly, seeing ’e’ll be a man.’
There was another dialogue between Dad and Aunt Edie in the parlour after supper. Aunt Edie wanted to know exactly how he’d handled his wife when he’d gone to get the family’s clothes back. He told her.
‘You did what?’ asked Aunt Edie.
‘Broke ’er ruddy umbrella,’ said Dad.
‘You actually stood up to ’er?’ said Aunt Edie.
‘Well, she needs a new umbrella, if that’s what you mean,’ said Dad, ‘but I wouldn’t say it’s a question of standin’ up to her, Edie, more like tryin’ to make her see the fam’ly’s only goin’ to put up with so much.’
‘Not good enough,’ said Aunt Edie, who was getting a little edgy with Dad lately. ‘Bring ’er back ’ome and show ’er who’s boss. Sometimes a man’s got to be the boss. Maud’s got to be cured before it’s too late. Comin’ here and cartin’ off all ’er fam’ly’s clothes to give to the poor, that’s tellin’ me she’s nearly over the top.’
The Pearly Queen Page 23
