The Pearly Queen

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘What’s goin’ on?’ asked Aunt Edie in a faint husky voice. She had her own emotions to cope with, as well as unsteady legs.

  Dad took a grip on himself. ‘You’re all right now, Edie,’ he said, ‘there’s your room.’ He took his arm away and opened the door to Betsy’s bedroom. Aunt Edie turned again and swayed again. A warm bosom brushed his arm. ‘In you go.’

  ‘All these years,’ she sighed, and Dad guided her through the door. He closed it and went downstairs. What a woman, he thought, I’m in the ruddy cart now. And wait till I see Joe Gosling again, he’ll get an earful and a bit for pouring drink into her. On the other hand, would it be the best thing that could happen if Joe and Edie got spliced?

  Oh, hell, I don’t like the sound of that.

  When Jimmy arrived at Anerley the next morning, Mr Hodges solemnly proffered a letter that lay on a silver tray.

  ‘For you, your young Lordship,’ he said.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Your name is J. Andrews Hesquire?’ said Mr Hodges.

  ‘Care of The Beeches, Anerley?’ said Ada. ‘And postmarked Salcombe in Devon?’

  ‘Well, who’d ’ave thought it?’ said Jimmy. He took the letter and opened it. Inside was a picture postcard of Salcombe, and on the reverse were pencilled lines from Sophy.

  Dear Blessed Boy,

  I hope you’re behaving yourself, we’re having a lovely time here, except I did knock a gate down, well it came off its hinges or something, and Mummy said I’ll turn her grey before her time. I’ve met some soppy girls and a boy who says he wants to marry me when I’m older. Ugh. It’s a relief you’re not like that.

  Hundreds of kisses, Sophy.

  ‘She’s barmy,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Why, what’s she said?’ asked Ada.

  ‘That she’s met a boy who wants to marry her, and that she’s glad I don’t.’

  ‘The young madam is in form,’ said Mr Hodges.

  ‘Young pickle, she is,’ said Ada, ‘talkin’ about marriage at her age.’

  ‘What a girl,’ said Jimmy with a grin.

  ‘Can’t ’elp laughin’, can you?’ said Ada.

  ‘How’s Mr Hunter?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘Who?’ said Ada.

  ‘Percy,’ said Jimmy, and Ada wrinkled her nice nose.

  ‘I have forbidden that young gentleman hentry into this ’ouse on account of his hinterfering ways concerning the duties of Miss Ridley,’ said Mr Hodges.

  ‘Who’s Miss Ridley?’ asked Jimmy.

  ‘Me,’ said Ada.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame, Mr Hodges,’ said Jimmy, ‘no wonder she’s not lookin’ very happy.’

  ‘You fibber,’ said Ada, ‘you’re tryin’ to say I’m lookin’ mis’rable. I’m not, am I, Mr ’Odges?’

  ‘I am glad to say, Ada,’ said Mr Hodges, who had a fatherly fondness for her, ‘that madam and I myself ’ave never known you suchlike. You are our singing nightingale.’

  ‘So there, Jimmy Andrews,’ said Ada.

  ‘Mind you, Mr Hodges,’ said Jimmy, ‘if Mr Percy Hunter has been chasin’ our singing nightingale around the house while Mr and Mrs Gibbs have been away, I can’t say I blame ’im, but I can see why you’ve had to put your foot down – oh, ’elp—’

  Ada had seized a rolling-pin and was after him. She chased him out of the kitchen, through the smaller kitchen, out of the side door and round to the terrace. Jimmy hurtled down the terrace steps. The rolling-pin hurtled after him, just missing. He stopped and turned. Ada was on the terrace, looking for something else to throw.

  ‘You wait!’ she called.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Jimmy, ‘but could you give us a song, me precious nightingale, instead of another rolling-pin?’

  Ada doubled up, and Jimmy went down to his work.

  When Dad got home from his Saturday morning stint with his delivery van, Aunt Edie steered him into the parlour for a stand-up.

  ‘Just what ’appened last night, Jack Andrews?’ she asked. She felt embarrassed because she was foggy about last night, she could only remember Joe Gosling saying good night and Dad being on the landing with her. She was never going to touch drink again, not like that. It had been emotion and frustration that made her accept Joe’s invitation to the Camberwell Palace and give Dad something to think about. Blow the neighbours, that was what she’d felt, even though she knew Dad was right. ‘Come on, what ’appened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Dad, deciding not to look at her in case he had another attack of what wasn’t good for him. ‘Except you’d ’ad a drop too much, Edie.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ said Aunt Edie, proudly good-looking in a lacy white blouse and long navy blue skirt. ‘I’ve never ’ad a drop too much in me life, I’d lose me job if the manager thought I was a drinkin’ woman. I just ’ad a Guinness. What I want to know is did you lay your ’ands on me?’

  ‘I ’ad a good mind to,’ said Dad unthinkingly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Dad, suffering want and confusion.

  ‘What did you say?’ demanded Aunt Edie, who didn’t quite know where she was because of wishes, hopes and fogginess.

  ‘Me?’ said Dad, shifting his gaze from a chair to the pearl buttons of her blouse. They ran in a curving line from her neck to her waist, which hardly helped. His gaze wandered elsewhere, his feelings alarming him. Aunt Edie watched his wandering eyes in astonishment. She had never known him unable to look anyone straight in the eye.

  ‘Did you take liberties with me, Jack Andrews?’

  ‘Me?’ said Dad, fighting to get on an even keel.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ she asked. ‘You’re usin’ words like a ten-year-old ’aving a bad five minutes with ’is schoolteacher. I want to know, did you take liberties with me?’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Dad.

  ‘How do I know? I wouldn’t be askin’ if I knew, would I?’

  ‘Look, all I did was ’elp you up the stairs,’ said Dad, ‘you bein’ a bit sideways on.’

  ‘A bit what?’ said Aunt Edie. ‘Jack Andrews, I’ll box your ears for you. All I ’ad was a Guinness. It must’ve been a bit strong. Well, I might ’ave ’ad another, Joe Gosling keepin’ me lively company at the time.’

  Blow Joe Gosling, thought Dad, I suddenly don’t feel too keen on that bloke.

  ‘Just because I got a bit clouded up didn’t give you no right to take liberties.’ Out of the fog something came to her. ‘’Specially seein’ you’re so concerned about the neighbours.’ Yes, she’d had to say something like that last night, she remembered now.

  ‘It beats me you thinkin’ I’d take liberties with you, Edie,’ said Dad, now looking at the fireplace.

  ‘Look me in the face,’ said Aunt Edie.

  ‘That fireplace is ornamental, considerin’,’ said Dad. ‘It’s Victorian, y’know, and the Victorians liked bein’ ornamental.’

  ‘I’m on to you, Jack Andrews,’ said Aunt Edie. ‘Did you kiss me last night?’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re goin’ on, Edie old girl. I told you, I just gave you a bit of ’elp gettin’ up to the bedroom. Well, I ’ad a responsibility to see you didn’t fall elbow over bottom down the stairs.’

  Suddenly, Aunt Edie wanted to smile. She knew why he wouldn’t look her in the eye. Not because he’d taken liberties, but because of his feelings for her. That Maud, what a disgraceful ingrate of a woman, she didn’t deserve Jack, a lovely old soldier and all of a man. You wait, Maud, if I’m given only half a chance, I’ll be the kind of pleasure to him I bet you’ve never been. And I won’t be hypocritical enough to ask the Lord to forgive me. Falling elbow over bottom down the stairs? ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ she asked.

  ‘Funny?’ said Dad. ‘You can end up seriously hurt fallin’ down the stairs. You’re a lovely pearly queen, you are, Edie, and I don’t want you breakin’ a leg in my ’ouse. Not when you’ve got—’ Dad checked.

  ‘When I’ve got what?’ asked Aunt Edie.

  ‘Can’t remembe
r what I was goin’ to say.’

  ‘Were you goin’ to make remarks about my legs?’

  ‘Now how could I?’ said Dad. ‘I’ve never seen ’em. Well, I’ve seen your ankles, but I’ve never seen you do a knees-up. I’ll just ’ave to keep hopin’.’

  Aunt Edie laughed. ‘You silly old thing, Jack,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to admit, I do feel a bit half-and-half at the moment.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Well, due to certain circumstances,’ said Dad, ‘I don’t know if I’m comin’ or goin’.’

  Aunt Edie gave in to her own feelings then. She put her hands on his shoulders, lifted her face and kissed him, on the mouth. ‘There,’ she said softly. ‘It’s up to you, Jack. Anytime.’

  ‘Jesus, Edie, have a heart.’

  ‘You know where I live,’ said Aunt Edie

  ‘Lord give me strength,’ said Dad.

  Jimmy, Patsy and Betsy thought Aunt Edie a really warm and lovely woman that weekend. She went about singing, she did the washing, she did the cooking and she fussed everyone, including Dad. And when they all went strolling around Ruskin Park on Sunday afternoon she looked the handsomest and most mellow woman there, her hat sailing serenely along with her. The funny thing was, Dad kept frowning a lot, as if he didn’t approve of Aunt Edie looking a real picture.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was remarkable how Father Peter’s darkly gaunt face could express the kind of reassuring benevolence that induced so much faith and devotion in his lady followers. It was a smiling benevolence he bestowed on Mother Verity one morning when she said she would like to go about her charitable work independently some days.

  ‘Sister, you are entirely free to come and go,’ he said. ‘Just as you have been doing of late.’

  ‘My own personal endeavours accord with the work of the League,’ said Mother Verity, whose doubts about the organization were not directed at the minister’s followers. ‘They concern redemption.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Father Peter. ‘Go your way, sister, whenever you feel the need to. I hope, however, you will be among us when we make our distribution of clothing and footwear. It will be on a grand scale. Our collections are bearing magnificent fruit.’

  ‘I know, and am happy about it,’ said Mother Verity, and made her way out of the Temple, leaving Father Peter sighing over her charming nature.

  ‘Well, I tell you what, missus,’ said the Bethnal Green newsagent, ‘if there’s nothing on any of the window cards with a suitable address, you might try Mrs Hitchins. I believe she’s thinkin’ about lettin’ a couple of rooms.’

  ‘Do you know this lady’s address?’ asked Mother Verity.

  ‘Fifteen Underwood Road.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mother Verity, elated at such good fortune.

  Mrs Hitchins was a jolly person, whose only real grumble was about the fact that winning the war hadn’t done the country much good, or the people, either. ‘I mean, when you think about it,’ she said, leading the way up the stairs of her house. Only a few minutes conversation with the lady caller had helped her to make up her mind to let the two rooms that weren’t being used. Such a nice lady. ‘All that money and all them soldiers’ lives spent on beatin’ that German Kaiser, an’ look where it’s got us. Goin’ backwards, me ’usband says. We was thankful we only ’ad daughters and no sons, specially as our daughters ’as all been married since the Armistice. We’re grandparents now, which we wouldn’t ’ave been if they’d all been sons and all been killed in the war. Well, that’s the bedroom I’m able to offer, it’s at the back, and the room you can use for livin’ in, it’s at the front.’

  Both rooms were clean and well-kept. Mother Verity had an aversion to anything that spoke of dirt and spiders, although she could face up bravely to the task of eliminating same.

  ‘How very nice, Mrs Hitchins,’ she said, glancing around the furnished bedroom.

  ‘Well, I hope so, Miss Stokes, you bein’ a lady, as I can see.’

  As for the living room, which at present had a bed in it in addition to suitable furniture, its position could not have been better. Through its window it looked directly on to the house opposite, number fourteen.

  ‘May I take the rooms, Mrs Hitchins?’

  ‘A pleasure, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Hitchins, ‘you don’t mind seven an’ six a week for the two? Me an’ me ’usband won’t disturb you, we sleep downstairs, so we won’t be comin’ up and down. It’s only our youngest daughter that comes and stays sometimes, with ’er ’usband. Well, they live up in Essex, so they stay the night when they come at weekends, usin’ the third room up here. When would you like to move in?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Mother Verity, ‘but I must be fair, I’ll start renting the rooms from tomorrow and perhaps use them occasionally before I move in permanently.’ She had a small independent income that would easily take care of the rent.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know as I should charge you if you’re not here,’ said Mrs Hitchins.

  ‘But you must, that’s only fair.’

  ‘You’re a lady all right, Miss Stokes, and I’m that pleased to ’ave been able to oblige you.’

  Mother Verity was extremely pleased to have found such suitably located rooms and to discover the landlady such an agreeable person. They settled the matter very amicably, and Mother Verity paid the first week’s rent in advance, as was customary.

  And Bethnal Green itself really was an improvement on Whitechapel.

  ‘She’s home,’ said Ada when she opened the door to Jimmy on Thursday morning.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Jimmy cautiously.

  ‘The young madam. The roof’s not fallen in yet, but it won’t be long. Madam and sir arrived back with her last night, and it’s sounded ever since as if there’s a train engine in the house.’

  ‘I’d better keep out of its way, then,’ said Jimmy, following Ada through to the kitchen. ‘I’m not ready at my age to be run over. You can die from bein’ run over, Ada.’

  ‘I bet it hurts too,’ said Ada. ‘Here’s our young lordship, Mr ’Odges, all ready to be eaten alive.’

  ‘Nice and early, I see,’ said Mr Hodges.

  ‘Mornin’, everyone,’ said Jimmy. ‘Hullo, Mrs Redfern, hullo, Ivy, did you have a good time in Devon?’

  ‘Heavenly, for about five minutes a day,’ said Mrs Redfern, and laughed. ‘And how’s our toast and marmalade boy? Give him a slice, Ivy, and I’ll pour him a cup of tea.’

  ‘’E’ll need more than a cup of tea,’ said Ivy, ‘’e’ll need the last meal of the condemned. Up at six she was this mornin’, the young madam. Six, would yer believe, and I ’ad to get up and do a breakfast for ’er. Ate it in ’ere, she did, talkin’ all the time, and jumpin’ up an’ down till the kitchen looked like the wreck of the ’Esperus. I dunno that that girl’s ever goin’ to grow up.’

  The servants’ bell buzzed. Mr Hodges looked at the indicator. ‘Young madam’s bedroom,’ he said. ‘Kindly proceed at the double, Ada.’

  ‘Help,’ said Ada, ‘she hasn’t gone back to bed, has she?’ She went to answer the summons.

  ‘P’raps she’s broke a leg,’ said Ivy hopefully.

  ‘You been gettin’ on all right, Jimmy?’ asked cook.

  ‘Fine,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘My, you’re browner than the family is, choppin’ trees up suits you.’

  ‘Poor young feller,’ said Ivy.

  ‘Now, Ivy, you’ve been saying things like that ever since Jimmy started to work here,’ said Mrs Redfern. ‘Time you looked on the bright side.’

  Ada returned.

  ‘What did Miss Sophy want?’ asked Mr Hodges.

  Ada smiled. ‘To ask if Jimmy had arrived.’

  ‘Oh, gawd,’ said Ivy.

  ‘What was she doing?’ asked Mr Hodges.

  ‘Loadin’ a pistol,’ said Ada.

  ‘Now, Ada, don’t give Jimmy frights like that,’ said cook.

  ‘What’ve I done?’
asked Jimmy.

  ‘Yes, you may well ask,’ said Ada accusingly.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ said Ivy. ‘Well, there she was, turnin’ the kitchen upside-down and me ’aving to get ’er a breakfast. She asked if I knew ’ow you’d been gettin’ on, Jimmy. So I told ’er you’d been gettin’ on fine, ’specially with the girl next door, accordin’ to what Ada said when we got back last evenin’.’

  ‘Next door? What next door?’ asked Jimmy. Next door to him was only a dividing brick wall away. There was no real next door here. The houses on either side of The Beeches were the distance of a street away.

  ‘Now then, Jimmy, you did get on well with Clarissa March,’ said Ada.

  ‘Oh, that girl,’ said Jimmy. On Tuesday afternoon, a girl had emerged from the jungle on the far left of the property. She had a chat to nearby workmen, then made her way up to Jimmy. She was quite nice, even if she talked posh, and was just fourteen. She was interested in what was going on, her name was Clarissa March from Willow Lodge, next to The Beeches. Jimmy had a very friendly chat with her, and she said all boys ought to be doing his kind of work, because it gave them a healthy look instead of pimples. Farmers’ sons didn’t have pimples, she said. Pimply boys were ugh. Jimmy said if he ever got pimples he’d swop faces with a farmer’s son, and Clarissa though that screamingly funny. She turned up again the following afternoon with a bag of apples, which she shared with Jimmy. She didn’t mind a bit that he wasn’t posh like she was.

  ‘You should’ve seen the young madam’s face,’ said Ivy gloomily, with Ada restraining giggles. ‘She asked me if I meant Clarissa March, and I said Ada ’ad told me it was. I feel awful that today’s goin’ to see you carried off to yer funeral, Jimmy. You better ’ave another piece of toast, it might be yer last.’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’m nobody, except me dad and mum’s one and only son.’