Two for Three Farthings (11 page)

‘'Ello, ducks,' said one, ‘yer got kids, I see, so what yer lookin' for down 'ere, yer fairy godmother? Yer can 'ave me, if yer like, I got 'alf an hour to spare.' Her companion shrieked raucously.

‘I'm a bit busy at the moment,' said Jim, passing them by, ‘I'll drop in later.'

Effel gasped. ‘Oh, you ain't goin' to leave us, are yer, mister?'

‘It was just a joke, Effel,' said Jim.

‘Don't like it 'ere,' said Effel.

‘Good point, Effel. We'll give it a miss. Let's see.' He stopped to look at the list again, at the last address. The two women called, loudly encouraging him to make up his mind. ‘Right, off we go again, Effel. Dawes Street, Orrice. Other side of East Street. Wait.' He checked the time by his pocket watch. ‘Gone twelve, d'you know that? Shall we feed our faces first. What d'you say?'

‘I'm 'ungry, please,' said Effel.

‘Uncle Jim, I got to tell yer, I'm near faint,' said Orrice.

‘We'd better cure that,' said Jim, and walked on with them.

‘Effel 'ad stomach rumbles yesterday,' said Orrice.

‘Didn't,' protested Effel.

‘Yes, yer did, and in the market too. Sounded like a train was comin'.'

‘Didn't,' said Effel.

‘Yes, it did,' said Orrice, ‘and through a tunnel too. Still, she ain't bad for a girl, Uncle.'

‘No, you're not at all bad, are you, Effel?' said Jim.

Effel, thinking about that, said, ‘I'm 'ungry.'

‘How about eggs and bacon?' asked Jim.

‘Oh, crikey, not 'alf,' said Orrice. ‘Effel likes eggs an' bacon, don't yer, sis?'

‘Want a piggy-back,' said Effel.

‘Oh, all right,' said Orrice. They stopped. ‘Come on up, then.'

Effel, suddenly springy, leapt on to her brother's back. Orrice hoisted her, wound his arms around her legs, and carried her.

‘On to eggs and bacon, then,' said Jim.

‘Uncle Jim, we got money of our own, like I told yer,' said Orrice.

‘We'll save that,' said Jim, ‘for birthdays and Christmas.'

‘An' rainy days, like me dad used to say,' said Effel, jigging on her brother's back.

‘Crikey, she's talkin',' said Orrice.

Toni's Refreshments beckoned the hungry. It was half-full at the moment. It would be quite full by one, customers dining on eggs and bacon and a variety of sandwiches, the latter all made with new, crusty bread. Maria was busy slicing a loaf, Toni busy cooking on gas rings. He dished up bacon with two fried eggs, plus bread and butter, to a stallholder. Following which, his expressive eyes popped as they beheld a young boy and a small girl entering in company with Jim Cooper. Jim took them to a table, then came to the counter.

‘Kids,' said Toni, ‘I don't-a believe it, not again. What-a you doing with them, Jim?'

‘They're mine,' said Jim.

‘No, no,' said Toni, ‘not them kids. Look at that, would you believe?'

Orrice was waving to Maria. Maria smiled and waved back.

‘Orphans,' said Jim. ‘My niece and nephew.'

‘
Mama mia
,' said Toni, ‘them kids?'

‘They're all right,' said Jim. ‘Eggs and bacon three times, Toni, with bread and butter.'

‘Crazy country,' said Toni, putting rashers into the pan. ‘Just-a like Italy. Always kids. Good luck, eh?'

‘We all need a bit,' said Jim.

When the plates were set in front of Orrice and Effel, they stared at the food in delight. There was also a glass of fizzy lemonade each.

‘Fank yer,' said Orrice from his heart. Effel mumbled her gratitude. Jim returned to the counter.

‘Orrice,' whispered Effel, picking up her knife and fork, ‘d'you fink 'e might get grumpy wiv us sometimes?'

‘Well, he ain't got grumpy yet,' said Orrice, ‘and I like 'im.'

Jim came back with his own meal.

‘Right,' he said, ‘for what we are about to receive—?'

‘May the Lord make us truly fankful,' said Orrice.

‘You already started,' whispered Effel.

‘Everyone start,' said Jim.

Effel ate a mouthful of bread and butter and bacon, then took a rapturous swallow of the fizzy lemonade. Her stomach gurgled and a little burp arrived. She went fiery red.

‘Train's comin' through the tunnel again,' said Orrice. Effel's stomach gave another gurgle. ‘It's got stuck in the tunnel. That's what,' said Orrice.

‘It ain't, it ain't,' said Effel, and cast an embarrassed glance at Jim. He winked.

Effel ducked her head.

The homely-looking woman at the door of her house in Dawes Street said apologetically, ‘I'm that sorry, but it's only one room. It's got a gas ring and a fireplace, but it's just the one room, and we had a single gentleman in mind.'

‘Can't be helped,' said Jim, Orrice beside him, and Effel behind Orrice. Out of curiosity, he asked, ‘Don't you sometimes have single ladies in mind?' There were thousands of single ladies, robbed by the huge casualties of the war.

‘Oh, single gents don't get as fussy as single ladies.'

‘I see,' said Jim. ‘Well, thank you. Come on, kids.'

‘Oh, just a minute, mister,' said the homely woman. ‘I just remembered, I heard tell from a friend of mine that an acquaintance of hers has got rooms goin' in Wansey Street. That's up by the town hall. You could try there. It's number nineteen, name of Pilgrim.'

‘Pilgrim?'

‘That's right. Good luck.'

‘Thanks,' said Jim, and because the matter of suitable lodgings was important and pressing, he set off with Effel and Orrice for one more call. ‘Anyone tired yet?'

‘I ain't,' said Orrice.

‘I'm a bit,' said Effel.

‘All right,' said Jim, ‘we'll go back home and Effel can have forty winks. You can keep an eye on her, Orrice, while I go to Wansey Street.'

‘I s'pose that's best,' said Orrice, who would have preferred to keep going the rounds.

‘Ain't goin',' muttered Effel.

‘Ain't goin' where?' asked Orrice.

‘Ain't goin' where 'e said,' muttered Effel.

‘Oh, dearie me, oh, bless me soul,' said Orrice pityingly, ‘where are yer goin', then?'

‘Wansey Street,' said Effel.

‘I dunno we're ever goin' to make anyfing of Effel, Uncle Jim,' said Orrice, as they crossed the market into Orb Street. ‘First she says she ain't goin', then she says she is. Women, I dunno.'

‘Changed me mind,' mumbled Effel.

‘Women,' said Jim, and laughed. He had a purpose in all this walking. It kept these two active, it kept them from sitting and grieving. He knew their sadness was still present. It showed in Effel's little moments of quietness, and in Orrice sometimes saying, ‘Me dad—' and then stopping. Being out and about was, thought Jim, the best thing for them at the moment.

Wansey Street, next to the town hall, had a distinctly superior look, the terraced houses well-kept, stone window sills a clean light brown, polished windows dancing with light in the April sunshine.

‘Well, I dunno, Uncle, do you?' said Orrice. ‘I dunno it ain't a bit too respectable.'

‘You're respectable, Orrice. So is Effel.' Jim smiled. ‘Neither of you have been nicked for pinching or disturbing the peace, have you?'

‘What, me and Effel?' said Orrice.

‘You haven't. Good,' said Jim. ‘And you've both been kind to old ladies, I'm sure.'

‘What old ladies?' asked Orrice, looking at a middle-aged lady crossing the street. Her respectability was very evident. She was carrying a rolled umbrella, and had a crisp feather in her hat. Crikey, he thought, if they came to live here, would Effel have to wear a feather in her boater? It wouldn't last long, she'd tease cats with it.

‘I think we'll all pass with a push,' said Jim. Number nineteen had iron railings and two steps. He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He tried a third knock in hope. There was no response.

‘They're out, that's what,' said Orrice.

‘Why?' asked Effel, who thought they ought to be in.

‘Now 'ow do I know?' said Orrice. ‘They got to be out or they'd come and answer.'

‘We'll call again,' said Jim. ‘But back home now. I have to leave at half-past three for my work. Mrs Palmer's going to treat you to tea later, and then I want you early to bed, my beauties. Have you got toothbrushes?'

‘We don't 'ave none of them,' said Orrice, ‘we got socks and uvver fings, we ain't got no toothbrushes.'

‘That's got to be put right,' said Jim, walking them home, ‘or all Effel's teeth will drop out before she's ten. So will yours, before you're twelve.'

‘All of 'em?' said Orrice.

‘Every one,' said Jim.

‘Crikey, Effel,' said Orrice, ‘yer'll be a toothless 'ag like old Ma Ricket when yer ten.'

‘Course I won't,' said Effel. ‘Will I?' she asked Jim.

‘We'll save you from that, Effel. Which school do you two go to?'

‘Sayer Street,' said Orrice.

‘Ain't goin' there no more,' said Effel.

‘Who said that?' asked Jim, walking between them along Walworth Road.

‘Effel did,' said Orrice.

‘Didn't,' said Effel.

‘Well, it wasn't old Mother Riley,' said Orrice.

‘Ain't goin',' said Effel.

‘Don't either of you like Sayer Street School?' asked Jim.

‘Not much,' said Orrice.

Jim thought. St John's Church School in Larcom Street would be a good option. Nobody knew them there. Nobody would ask them too many questions. And if they could get lodgings in Wansey Street, St John's School would be only a stone's throw away.

‘All right,' he said, ‘we'll call in at St John's now and see the headmistress. We've got time.'

Mrs Wainwright, headmistress at St John's, looked the two children up and down. Effel exhibited nervous fidgets. Orrice, cap off, was respectful but not overawed. Jim was quite equal to the atmosphere in the study.

‘Their guardian, Mr Cooper?' enquired Mrs Wainwright politely, a slender lady of fifty.

‘With the agreement of their next-of-kin, their aunt and uncle, Mr and Mrs Williams of thirty-one Penton Place, Kennington,' said Jim, with all the easy conviction of a man who believed that what made sense was preferable to what was fiddlingly exact. Besides, it was as good as true, never mind that his role hadn't been legalized. Further, he had taken to the kids, and he knew it. They represented a challenge to his set ways as a bachelor. ‘I did myself the compliment of telling myself it would work out better for them than life in an orphanage. I'm a close friend, of course.' He did not say to whom he was close.

‘Dear me, such responsibility for a man,' said the headmistress.

‘For a woman too, I should think,' said Jim.

‘A woman is a more natural guardian.' The headmistress, slightly severe of manner, nevertheless offered that comment with a smile. Jim responded with a nod of agreement. ‘I have to admire your gesture, Mr Cooper, it's very Christian. But is it necessary to take the children away from their present school?'

‘Not necessary, no, but St John's will be nearer, and I prefer church schools. Also, Ethel and Horace favour the change.'

‘Well.' Mrs Wainwright did some thoughtful musing. ‘How old did you say they were?'

‘Ethel's seven, Horace is ten.'

‘Your birthday, Ethel?' enquired the headmistress kindly.

Effel looked for a moment as if she was going to say she wasn't telling. Jim's hand fell lightly on her shoulder, and she said, ‘Feb'ry fourf.'

‘Fourth,' said Mrs Wainwright who, with her teachers, spent many hours trying to get cockney children to sound their aitches and distinguish between ‘f' and ‘th'. ‘And yours, Horace?'

‘Jan'ry ten, missus,' said Orrice.

‘Ma'am,' said Mrs Wainwright.

‘Yes'm,' said Orrice, and she looked at him. His fresh face was almost angelic, hiding the pugnacity of his spirit. She made a note on her desk pad, then said, ‘Long trousers when he's only ten, Mr Cooper?'

Knowing Orrice liked his long trousers, Jim said, ‘Well, shorts and brittle knees don't go too well together.'

‘Horace has brittle knees?'

‘Long trousers do give them some protection,' said Jim.

‘He may get laughed at,' said the headmistress. Few boys went into long trousers before the age of fourteen.

‘He'll speak up for himself,' said Jim.

‘Yes'm, I got a tongue,' said Orrice. ‘Me dad always said—' He stopped.

‘It's all right, Horace,' said Mrs Wainwright, a kind heart beneath her starched white blouse. ‘Very well, Mr Cooper, they may begin on Monday.'

‘Not tomorrow?'

‘Give them until Monday,' said Mrs Wainwright understandingly. Children bereaved needed a little time to face up to school.

‘I'm very obliged,' said Jim.

Surprisingly, Effel spoke up.

‘Fank you, miss,' she said.

‘
Thank
you,' said the headmistress with a slightly pained smile. ‘Thank you, ma'am.'

‘Yes, fank you,' said Effel.

‘Oh, dear,' said Mrs Wainwright.

‘It'll come right in the end,' said Jim, and his warm and cheerful goodbye left her feeling pleased to have obliged him.

‘Right,' said Jim at twenty-five past three, ‘I'm off in five minutes. That leaves you in charge, Orrice.'

‘I gotcher, Uncle Jim,' said Orrice. They had just had a nice cup of tea, and a currant bun each, bought from the baker's by Jim first thing this morning.

‘'Oo you in charge of?' whispered Effel.

‘You,' said Orrice.