Dad, Patsy and Betsy all wanted to know how Jimmy’s first day at Peckham had gone. He told them all about the factory and the sawdust. Dad said shifting sawdust didn’t seem much of a job, and Betsy said Jimmy had brought some of it home, in his hair. Dad said well, don’t go shaking your head about, Jimmy, or we’ll get sawdust all over the floor and the kitchen will look like a pub.
‘Yes, we don’t want neighbours comin’ in askin’ for a pint of beer,’ said Patsy.
‘It’s not goin’ to be sawdust for ever,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’m goin’ to be taught carpentry and joinery. Dad, d’you know what an oggle box is?’
‘Oggle what?’ asked Dad.
‘Oggle box,’ said Jimmy.
‘I don’t even know what an oggle is,’ said Patsy.
‘I don’t eiver,’ said Betsy.
So Jimmy told them the story of the secret wartime oggle boxes, and how they were designed to go oggle, oggle when they sank. Dad roared with laughter. Betsy and Patsy looked at each other.
‘Jimmy can’t ’elp it, Betsy, he was born daft,’ said Patsy.
‘What’s Dad laughin’ at?’ asked Betsy.
‘Oggle, oggle,’ said Dad.
‘Is oggles funny, then?’ asked Betsy.
‘Screamin’,’ said Patsy.
Joe Gosling was round at Aunt Edie’s flat that evening, making himself comfortable. He hadn’t been invited. He’d knocked, and Aunt Edie had said she’d give him five minutes. After fifteen minutes he was still talking about the pearlies and how they were all looking forward to her being his concert partner. He himself, he said, was specially looking forward to something else, to him and her teaming up in a relationship highly recommendable to a widower like him and a lady like her.
‘I’m not keepin’ you, Joe, am I?’ said Aunt Edie.
‘Course you ain’t, Edie me love,’ said Joe, ‘my time’s your time, yer know.’
‘Well, my time’s busy this evenin’,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘so hop it.’
‘You’re a caution, you are, Edie. Always was, always will be. No wonder I got a soft spot for yer. ’Ow about if I come straight out with it an’ pop the question?’
‘Well, you’re a cheerful cuss, Joe, I’ll say that much,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘but don’t come straight out with it, just keep droppin’ hints.’
‘Ah, I got yer, Edie, give yer a bit more time, eh?’ said Joe. ‘Tell yer what, the pearlies are takin’ some kids to Southend for the day Sunday week. We’re givin’ ’em a taste of the old sea air an’ treatin’ ’em to some cockles an’ mussels. ’Ow would yer like to put yer pearly queen’s outfit on again an’ come with us? We’ve got the ’ire of a bus an’ driver, an’ we’ll get the kids singing all the way there an’ back. That’s where you an’ me come in, Edie, leadin’ the singsong, eh? Can I put yer name down?’
‘Nice of you, Joe, and sounds like a rousin’ day out for the kids,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘but I’ve got special duties at weekends.’
‘Blimey O’Reilly,’ said Joe, ‘yer cousin Maud’s still makin’ yer life ’ard for yer?’
‘It’s not hard for me,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘it’s just me duty.’
‘Still, it sounds a bit as if Jack Andrews is takin’ advantage of yer good nature, Edie, which I don’t favour meself. An’ yer neglectin’ the pearlies.’
‘Nothing to do with you,’ said Aunt Edie, rattled for once, ‘mind your own business.’
Joe grinned. ‘Sorry about me north-an’-south,’ he said. ‘Listen, was yer thinkin’ of puttin’ the kettle on?’
‘No, I was thinkin’ of doin’ some ironing,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘so be a good bloke and hop it.’
‘Well, I ain’t one to get in yer way, love, yer know that,’ said Joe, but it was another fifteen minutes before Aunt Edie was finally able to get rid of him.
It left her thinking again about her life and her need to change it.
The vicar at Bethnal Green was very co-operative. He liked the look of Mother Verity and Mother Ruth, and the sound of the work they were doing. The idea of making a distribution of clothes and footwear to his needier parishioners could not be resisted. He said they could use the church hall on Friday, and that he himself would make a list of the poorest families, and arrange for the relevant mothers to come to the hall at times convenient to them during the day. How would that do?
‘Splendidly, vicar,’ said Mother Verity. ‘We’ll bring everything early on Friday morning.’
‘Yes, how kind,’ said Mother Ruth.
‘We mean, if we can, to make regular distributions of the same kind,’ said Mother Verity.
Late that evening, after supper and after a long day collecting clothes from the affluent, Mother Magda was groaning, although not from weariness.
‘Oh, I don’t ’ardly know ’ow to say it, Father,’ she breathed, ‘but I still get terrible passionate – oh, lor’ – oh—’
‘Hush, my child,’ murmured Father Peter, ‘remember we are fighting Satan together.’
First thing after breakfast at the Temple on Friday morning, Mother Joan drove the horse and van to the church hall at Bethnal Green, and helped Mother Verity and Mother Ruth unload huge piles of clothing and footwear. The vicar was there, and had put up trestle tables in the hall.
From ten o’clock until four, the mothers of families in need came to the hall to collect the most suitable items. They came in ones or two’s, at regular intervals, and Mother Verity and Mother Ruth were touched by their gratitude, especially in the matter of children’s boots.
‘Oh, me boys Johnny an’ Charlie’ll be able to go to school now, I just ain’t ’ad the ’eart to send ’em with nothing on their feet. Bless yer, missus.’ That was the kind of thing that was said.
There was very little left by the time things died down at four o’clock. Mother Verity sent Mother Ruth home to the Temple then, saying she herself had a few other things to do. Mother Ruth left. A few moments later, two inquisitive little girls, on their way home from school, looked in.
‘Cor, what yer been’ doin’, missus?’ asked one.
‘Giving out clothes,’ said Mother Verity with a smile.
‘Oh,’ said the other little girl, ‘it’s you.’
‘Why, hullo, Lulu, imagine seeing you,’ said Mother Verity.
‘Who’s she?’ asked the first little girl of Lulu.
‘She’s a nice lady,’ said Lulu, ‘she give me a frock once, she knows me Uncle Will.’
‘You’re living with him now?’ said Mother Verity.
‘Yes, just round the corner,’ said Lulu shyly.
‘That’s good.’ Mother Verity’s smile masked her deeper feelings. Here was a child of no more than six or seven who had been sold by her father for half a crown. Was there redemption for such men? Yet perhaps that was unimportant when weighed against the probability that the day Will Fletcher took her away with him was the happiest of the child’s life. She looked happy, and she also looked neat and clean. There was no sign that she was suffering neglect, and her eyes were not big with hunger. Mother Verity felt very glad for her, and extraordinarily pleased with Mr Fletcher.
‘Me an’ Lily’s got to go ’ome now,’ said Lulu.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Goo’bye,’ said both little girls and disappeared.
Later, from behind the curtains of her room, Mother Verity saw Will Fletcher arrive at his lodgings. He was home from work, of course. He was carrying his jacket over his arm, and the sleeves of his jersey were rolled up. His cap was on the back of his head, a sign among cockneys, Mother Verity had found, that they were in good spirits. He opened the front door of the house by a pull on the latchcord. He stood on the doorstep for a few moments, and then Lulu appeared. He reached and took her up in his arms, and they laughed at each other. Then he carried her in, closing the door with his right heel.
Mother Verity noted the time. Ten past five. Underwood Road, Bethnal Green, was only a stone’s throw from Spitalfields, where he worked. His work
ing day was from eight till five.
In the upstairs back room of the house, Lulu, after some preliminary chatter, said, ‘I seen the nice lady today.’
‘What nice lady?’ asked Will, beginning the preparation of a meal.
Lulu’s little smile was knowing. ‘The one you kissed,’ she said.
‘That one? Lulu, now didn’t I tell you to forget that? Where’d you see ’er?’
‘In the ’all,’ said Lulu, ‘round the corner.’
‘The church hall?’
‘When me an’ Lily come out of school.’
‘Flamin’ arrows,’ said Will, ‘she was in the church hall?’
‘She said ’ullo, Uncle Will.’
‘Didn’t I say so, didn’t I tell ’er she was hauntin’ me? Gawd ’elp me, Lulu, she’ll be on our doorstep next, askin’ how me soul’s gettin’ on. Did you let on where we’re livin’?’
‘She didn’t ask,’ said Lulu.
‘I’ll lay a quid she didn’t need to,’ said Will, lighting a gas ring and putting thick rashers of bacon into a frying-pan. ‘I’ll lay a quid she’ll get the Lord to guide ’er to our door. Ruddy ’ell, then what?’
‘Could we ask ’er to come in and ’ave a cup of tea?’ suggested Lulu.
‘Give over, sweet’eart, I’m not goin’ to be haunted over a cup of tea. I’ll let you into a secret. When a lady like ’er knocks at yer door, you don’t answer it. Otherwise she’ll ’ave us down on our knees sayin’ the Lord’s prayer. Let’s hope it was just a coincidence, her bein’ in the church hall. Did she ask about me?’
‘No,’ said Lulu.
‘That’s something,’ said Will, and ruffled the girl’s hair. ‘I don’t fancy gettin’ another lickin’, me pet.’
Lulu giggled.
Mother Verity was on her way back to the Temple of Christian Endeavour, very happy about things. At the Temple, Mother Mary was threatening to give Father Luke a taste of her umbrella. He’d bumped into a chair and exclaimed, ‘Oh, me bleedin’ knee.’ Disgusting, she said.
Aunt Edie had arrived at Manor Place to spend another helpful weekend with the family. Over supper, Jimmy told her the story of the oggle boxes. Aunt Edie fell about. She laughed so much that hilarity reigned, although Betsy still couldn’t work out what was funny about it, and said so.
‘Well, you need to be a sailor to see that it’s comic,’ said Jimmy.
‘You ain’t a sailor,’ protested Betsy.
‘No, but I know one,’ said Jimmy.
‘I fink me bruvver’s goin’ potty, Aunt Edie,’ said Betsy.
‘Goin’? He’s gone,’ said Patsy, keeping quiet about a boy and girl in her class at school, who’d made rotten remarks about her dad and Aunt Edie.
‘Did I ever mention the time when Private Walker of me old battalion went potty?’ said Dad. ‘The desert heat got at ’im. Well, it nearly cooked blokes sometimes, nearly melted us down to gravy. There he was, poor old Andy Walker, dancin’ about in just ’is shirt tails. Up came the sergeant-major.’
‘Here we go,’ said Aunt Edie.
‘Gospel truth,’ said Dad, enjoying his supper. ‘“What’s that man doin’?” bawled the sergeant-major. Private Walker was actu’lly doin’ the dance of the fairies. “Private Walker, what you up to?” roared the sergeant-major. “You’re dressed unbecomin’,” he shouted. “Hullo, sergeant-major,” said Private Walker, “d’yer like me new frock, and would yer like to ’ave the last waltz with me?”’
Patsy shrieked. Aunt Edie choked on cauliflower. Jimmy grinned, and Betsy’s giggles interfered with her mouthful of mashed potato.
‘I’m dyin’,’ gasped Aunt Edie, ‘I knew that sergeant-major of yours was goin’ to be the death of me, Jack Andrews.’
‘Funny you should say that,’ said Dad, ‘the whole battalion only just got out alive themselves.’
‘Patsy, hit your dad for me,’ said Aunt Edie.
‘Dad’s funnier than oggle boxes,’ said Betsy.
When Jimmy got home from his Saturday morning’s work amid the sawdust, there was a letter for him. It had a Sussex postmark. He opened it, Patsy watching him. It was headed, Hurstfield Boarding-School for Young Ladies, Hurstfield, Sussex.
Dear Blessed Boy,
Look, it’s actually happened, I’ve been sent here by Mummy, isn’t it awful what mothers can do to their daughters, I bet your mother’s not like that, I bet she wouldn’t send you to a boarding-school, specially one full of soppy girls. Some of them talk so posh they sound like plum pie and custard. It was all your fault for letting your head come up and bang against that tray I was holding last Saturday. I’ve been here since Tuesday, and everything I want to do is against the rules. I notice you haven’t written to me, I suppose you’ll say you didn’t know my address, but Daddy could have given it to you. You’d better write soon or I’ll escape from here and saw your legs off.
Your best friend, Sophy.
Jimmy grinned.
‘Who’s it from?’ asked Patsy, keen to know.
‘Sophy Gibbs. She’s at boardin’-school now.’
‘Crikey, fancy her writin’ to you,’ said Patsy, ‘’as she got it bad?’
‘Got what bad?’ asked Jimmy.
‘You,’ said Patsy.
‘I suppose she must have,’ said Jimmy, ‘she’s always tryin’ to half-kill me. No, she’s just a bit barmy. And she’s too posh, anyway, Patsy.’
But he decided he ought to send Sophy an answer, so he did.
Dear Sophy,
I got your letter, your mum told me you were going to a boarding-school, I think she thought that was better than letting you stay at home in case you set fire to the house. I couldn’t go to a boarding-school myself as my dad’s not rich enough, and I’ve got to start my career, anyway. I’m working at your dad’s factory, I’m a sawdust apprentice. Do you know about oggle boxes?
I expect you’ll get to like the school soon, just sit up and pay attention in class and don’t get your frocks torn. It was nice meeting you and coming to your house to work, but I suppose I’d better say goodbye to you now. I don’t know if you’ll have a peaceful life, but I hope you enjoy it.
Yours sincerely, Jimmy.
On Sunday morning, Aunt Edie gave Dad a real talking-to. He went out into the yard after breakfast to clean the kitchen windows, taking an old step-ladder with him to get at the top of the glass panes. Aunt Edie said the step-ladder looked as if it needed to be chopped up into firewood. Dad said it had got a few years left.
‘Well, just mind how you go with it,’ said Aunt Edie.
Dad said, ‘Funny you should say that, I remember—’
‘Is this about your old sergeant-major?’ asked Aunt Edie.
‘Well, as a matter of fact, it does ’appen to be about him. We—’
‘We’ve heard it,’ said Aunt Edie, ‘just get on with cleanin’ the windows, and see that that wonky step-ladder doesn’t chop you in ’alf.’
Of course, as soon as Dad reached the third step of the ladder, it collapsed and he fell off. Jimmy reckoned it wouldn’t have happened if Aunt Edie hadn’t said anything. The noise made everyone rush out into the yard, and there was Dad lying on his back. Aunt Edie visibly paled in shock.
‘Oh, Lord above,’ she breathed.
‘Dad, you hurt?’ gasped Patsy.
‘You all right, Dad?’ asked Jimmy, fearing the worst.
‘What ’appened?’ asked Dad.
‘Oh, crikey,’ breathed Betsy, ‘can’t yer get up, Dad?’
‘Stone the crows,’ said Dad, ‘that perishin’ step-ladder, why didn’t someone tell me about it?’
‘That’s not funny, Jack Andrews,’ said Aunt Edie. ‘You’d better be able to get up or your life won’t be worth livin’.’
Dad got up and brushed himself down. ‘All over,’ he said.
Aunt Edie was so relieved that her sparks began to fly. ‘Call yourself clever, I suppose?’ she said. ‘I told you that step-ladder was only good for firewood, but no, you wo
uldn’t listen, you didn’t mind killin’ yourself, I suppose, or givin’ your girls the fright of their lives.’
Jimmy thought she was all sparks, and that her handsomeness didn’t half look proud and fiery. Dad didn’t seem to want to know, he wasn’t even looking at her. He was gazing at the collapsed step-ladder.
‘I don’t know a feller can kill ’imself fallin’ six inches off a ladder, Edie,’ he said.
‘Oh, you think that’s funny as well, do you?’ said Aunt Edie. ‘Well, I don’t. I should’ve thought you’d had enough of riskin’ your life all those years at the war—’
‘’Ere, what’s goin’ on?’ The voice came from the other side of the yard wall, from the open back door of the adjacent house. ‘Crashin’, banging an’ wallopin’, and now a carry-on.’
‘Please, Mr Deakins,’ called Betsy, ‘Dad fell orf a ladder.’
‘What, on a Sunday mornin’?’ Mr Deakins couldn’t be seen, the brick wall was six feet high, but he could be heard. ‘That don’t make sense, not on a Sunday mornin’. Is ’e all right, shall I come round?’
‘He’s all right, thanks,’ said Jimmy, and Aunt Edie marched stiffly back into the house.
‘No bones broke?’ called Mr Deakins.
‘Me pride’s been injured, that’s all, Bill,’ said Dad.
‘Makes a bloke feel sore, that does, when ’is pride’s injured,’ said Mr Deakins.
A little later, Patsy said to Jimmy, ‘Lor’, didn’t Aunt Edie give Dad a talkin’ to?’
‘That’s because he gave her the fright of her life as well as us,’ said Jimmy, who was beginning to wonder exactly what Aunt Edie’s real feelings were towards his dad.
‘It turned out a bit of a laugh, really,’ said Patsy, ‘but not to Aunt Edie.’
‘No, not to her,’ said Jimmy.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Monday turned out to be the worst day of Dad’s life.
When he got back to the depot from his morning round, his foreman asked him to go to the manager’s office. The manager, Mr Edwards, was patently unhappy. With him in his office were two uniformed policemen, a sergeant and a constable.
The Pearly Queen Page 29
