Two for Three Farthings (2 page)

‘We're goin' to see you don't 'ave to go to an orphanage,' said Aunt Glad, and Orrice wished she hadn't said that. It made him feel it was a way of saying an orphanage might have to be thought about.

‘I should say not,' declared Uncle Perce, raking embers from the stove fire. ‘An orphanage? Not bleedin' likely.'

‘You mind your tongue,' said Aunt Glad.

‘I been mindin' it pretty good these last fifteen years,' said Uncle Perce. ‘Listen, kids, I know we're a bit crowded, but don't get worried, yer can stay till we work something out.'

‘Oh, that reminds me,' said Aunt Glad, ‘one of your neighbours, that nice Mrs Davis, is thinkin' about offering you a 'ome, Orrice, she said she thinks she an' Mr Davis might be able—'

‘Orrice ain't goin' there,' said Effel in a little burst of alarm, ‘'e ain't goin' nowhere wivout me.'

‘Yes, we got to be together, Aunt Glad,' said Orrice, who was never going to let any grown-ups separate him from his sister.

‘Yes, course you 'ave, Orrice,' said Uncle Perce.

‘That's what I thought,' said Aunt Glad, ‘it's what I told Mrs Davis, I told 'er you and Effel like to be together. I just wish your Uncle Perce an' me had a bigger house, and a bit more comin' in. It don't seem right 'aving to look around for somewhere else where you can go.'

‘It's all right, Aunt Glad,' said Orrice, ‘me and Effel knows yer up against it.' He didn't feel keen, in any case, about him and Effel being surrounded by Aunt Glad's three girls and two boys. There'd be fights and ructions, especially as he'd had to punch eleven-year-old Johnny on the nose only a month ago. Johnny was blinking obstreperous, that's what he was.

Uncle Perce suddenly perked up.

‘'Ere, I just 'ad a thought,' he said. ‘Orrice, there's yer dad's brother, yer Uncle Ernie, out in Orstralia, with yer Aunt Amy. They don't 'ave no kids, yer know. Would yer like me and yer Aunt Glad to write to 'em about you? Would yer like to go to Orstralia, if they'd 'ave you? Yer Aunt Glad an' me don't want to push yer off, yer mustn't think that, only—' He stopped. It did sound like an attempt to get rid of them.

‘Orstralia?' said Orrice uncertainly.

‘Orstralia?' said Effel in tearful horror. ‘I ain't goin' there, it's upside-down, me teacher said so at school.' Her mouth quivered. ‘I want me mum an' dad.'

‘We like Walworth best, Uncle Perce,' said Orrice. Walworth and its homeliness, its fogs, markets and cheerful cockney spirit came a good first with Orrice.

‘Well, we could think about it,' said Aunt Glad, who thought Uncle Perce had come up with a bit of sense for once. A new life for two children in Australia might not be such a bad thing. She looked at her husband. ‘Australia's not upside-down, is it?' she said worriedly.

‘No, course not, it's just that England's on top and Orstralia's under. That's why they call it Down Under.' Uncle Perce was reassuring. ‘But we ain't goin' to send Orrice and Effel if they don't want to go. Wouldn't be right.'

‘Still, lovey,' said Aunt Glad to Effel, ‘at least you can believe yer Uncle Perce about it not bein' upside-down.'

‘Ain't goin' there,' said Effel. ‘Nor no orphanage.'

‘We wouldn't send you and Orrice to no orphanage, Effel,' said Uncle Perce, hiding his worry. He knew he couldn't expect his wife to take on the extra burden of their niece and nephew, she had more than enough to do as it was with their brood of five. ‘We'll think of something. There's always a silver linin' 'anging somewhere, yer know.'

Effel cried herself silently to sleep in the crowded bed that night. Orrice didn't have too good a time sharing Alfie and Johnny's bed. Seven and eleven respectively, Alfie and Johnny quickly collared most of the bedclothes. Orrice would normally have fought pugnaciously for his share, but he wasn't in the mood. He made do with the little he could get. Still, Johnny woke up, disturbed by there being three in the bed, thought about things, sat up and said, ‘'Ere, you Alfie, give Orrice a bit of them bedclothes or I'll kick yer out. That's it, come on. 'Ere y'ar, Orrice.'

‘Ta,' said Orrice.

‘Sorry about yer mum an' dad,' said Johnny.

Orrice managed some doleful sleep then.

In the morning, Aunt Glad let the orphaned pair stay in bed for a bit while she got four of her offspring off to school. She said she thought Orrice and Effel needn't go to school themselves, not when the funeral had only been yesterday.

When they were up and eating breakfast porridge, Orrice asked if he and Effel could go home and collect some of their belongings. They hadn't brought much with them yesterday. Aunt Glad was pleased to let them go. It was best for them to be out and doing something. Orrice said he and Effel would spend the day at home and come back in the evening. Aunt Glad said all right, be back by six and she'd have a meal ready for them. She made them sandwiches that they could eat at midday.

On their way home, Orrice said to his forlorn sister, ‘We got to do some finkin', sis. Well, yer see, I betcher it's goin' to be Orstralia or an orphanage. Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce ain't goin' to be able to 'ave us for long. Mind, it ain't their fault, it's just that they're 'ard-up, an' poor as well, yer see.'

‘Ain't goin' to sleep in that bed no more,' said Effel. ‘Want me own bed.'

‘We'll 'ave to run away,' said Orrice, ‘it's the best fing, Effel. We'll find somewhere. I'll do errands for people, an' I bet I could 'elp stall'olders down the market. I bet Mum an' Dad ‘ud like it better if we run away an' did fings for ourselves, I bet they'd like it better than if we went to Orstralia or in an orphanage. If we was in an orphanage an' Dad was alive, 'e'd come round an' break the door down.'

‘'E ain't alive no more,' said Effel, and tears welled.

‘Don't cry, sis,' said Orrice, putting an arm around her, ‘we'll run away, that's best, don't yer fink?'

‘A' right,' said Effel.

When they reached their house, they entered by pulling on the latchcord. The emptiness of the house was a melancholy thing to them. Without their brawny, outgoing mum, it was never going to be a home again.

‘We best take some of Mum an' Dad's nice fings,' said Orrice. ‘I mean, I betcher they're ours, I betcher that's what the law says.'

‘What's the law?' asked Effel, as they stood in the kitchen.

‘I dunno exactly, not exactly,' said Orrice, ‘except it's what the King says. An' I betcher the King says Mum an' Dad's fings are ours. We'll run away this afternoon, sis, and we'll take the nicest fings wiv us. I'll get a sack. We'll take the alarm clock, Dad's razor for when I grow up, Mum's brooch for you, if it ain't in pawn, the knives an' forks wiv bone 'andles—'

‘Knives an' forks?' said Effel, her interest mournful.

‘Course knives an' forks,' said Orrice. ‘When we find somewhere, we got to eat, we got to cut some fings up, like bread. Yer got to fink about it, Effel, and about what yer want to put in the sack, and I best get another one for our clothes.'

‘Ain't got no clothes,' said Effel.

‘Course you 'ave, soppy.'

‘Ain't got nuffink much good,' said Effel.

‘Effel, anyfink you got is some good, you can't walk about gettin' all worn an' ragged.'

‘A' right,' said Effel. A little dry sob coughed itself into a sigh. ‘Orrice, is Mum an' Dad up in 'eaven?'

‘You bet,' said Orrice loyally.

‘Is Jesus lookin' after them?'

‘Course 'E is, that's what 'E's up there for.'

‘I wish I was wiv 'em,' said Effel.

‘Don't cry, sis,' said Orrice, and put an arm around her again. His little sister could be a terror sometimes, but she was all he had now. And he was all she had. ‘Tell yer what, let's eat Aunt Glad's sandwiches.'

‘It's only eleven o'clock,' said Effel.

‘Well, I fink there's a tin of sardines we could 'ave a bit later,' said Orrice, ‘an' some bread as well. I fink I'm a bit 'ungry now.'

They ate the paste sandwiches.

They wandered about the house afterwards, looking at everything. There wasn't really very much they could take, not without burdening themselves with heavily laden sacks. And it didn't do their spirits much good, going round a house that wasn't really a home any more.

Just after noon there was a knock on the front door. Effel quivered.

‘Orrice, is it someone come to take us to Dr Banano's?' she whispered.

‘Well, I shouldn't fink so, Effel.'

‘Don't let's answer in case,' begged Effel.

‘We best see,' said Orrice, and faced up to whatever challenge awaited them on the doorstep. It was a policeman. They recognized him as a local bobby. He fingered his chinstrap and smiled at them.

‘Morning, Effel. Morning, Orrice.' He was briskly kind. ‘You all right?'

‘Yes, mister, fanks,' said Orrice, and Effel put herself behind him, as she always did whenever she was a little shy or fearful.

‘That's good.' Constable Brownlaw's expression was sympathetic, his manner fatherly. Go round and see those kids, his sergeant had said, it's your beat, you know them best. ‘It's been—' He checked. He did not want to say anything that would make Effel cry. ‘Well, it's good you're both up and about. But you're not at school, I see. Thought you might not be. Tomorrow maybe, eh? Thought I'd just come round and see if you're both all right. You sure you are? D'you want any help with anything?'

‘No, we're all right, mister, honest,' said Orrice, and Effel quivered nervously behind him.

‘Gone into long trousers, Orrice, have you?' asked the policeman.

‘Mrs Lucas give 'em to me for the funeral,' said Orrice.

‘Who's going to take care of you?'

‘We got our Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce in Kennington,' said Orrice.

‘That's the ticket,' said Constable Brownlaw. ‘You're going to live with them?'

‘Well, for a bit,' said Orrice, ‘but they don't 'ave room for us for always. I expect we'll 'ave to go in an orphanage later.'

Constable Brownlaw sighed inwardly. He knew these kids, he knew Effel for her little tantrums and her little shynesses, and he knew Orrice for his boyish pranks and sturdy character. And everybody knew them as an indivisible pair, for wherever Orrice went, Effel was sure to go. They were lovable kids in their attachment to each other. Fate had dealt a scurvy blow in making orphans of them.

‘Well, you'll be together,' he said, although he knew that in most orphanages boys and girls were kept strictly segregated for the most part. ‘You sure you don't need any help? Are you managing to pack what you want to take with you to your aunt and uncle's?'

‘Yes, fanks, mister,' said Orrice, then added bravely, ‘we're goin' to take some of our mum an' dad's nice fings, like Mum's brooch an' Dad's pocket watch. And 'is razor for when I get older.' He thought that if the policeman said it was all right to, then it was.

And the policeman said, ‘Good, so you should, Orrice, it's something to remember them by. Take everything you most like.'

‘Course, we ain't takin' no furniture,' said Orrice, ‘just small fings.'

‘Very sensible, Orrice. Be a job, wouldn't it, taking tables and chairs.' Constable Brownlaw smiled again. ‘Look, round at the station – well, there's this.' He slipped a hand into his tunic pocket and extracted a stiff brown envelope. Orrice and Effel looked at it, Effel from behind her brother. ‘It's a little collection we made at the station, just to give you a bit of cheer. If your aunt and uncle do take you to an orphanage – you sure they would?'

‘Well, yer see, mister, they're 'ard-up and they already got two boys an' three girls, and only a little 'ouse. An orphanage ain't what they want, only they ain't got room for me and Effel as well as their own kids, like. It ain't their fault—'

‘I see, Orrice. Well, if you do land up in an orphanage, they'll ask you what money you've got, and they'll want to look after it for you, and maybe give you a penny each from it now and again. But if you want to spend some of it before you get there, say on a little treat for yourselves, you go ahead. Here.' He handed the envelope to Orrice, who took it in wide-eyed astonishment. He could feel it was heavy with coins.

‘Mister—' He had a lump in his throat. ‘Mister, did yer like our mum an' dad?'

‘Bless yer, Orrice, salt of the earth your mum and dad were. That's from the station, from all of us. It's rough luck that's come your way, young 'un, but you're good kids, and you'll grow up fine, you and Effel, and don't let anyone discourage you. You keep your chins up all the way. Good luck, kids.' Constable Brownlaw gave them both a pat and a smile, and departed.

Orrice called his thanks, then closed the door and went into the kitchen with Effel. He opened the envelope. Out came the money, pennies, three-penny bits, and even tanners. They counted it. It came to nineteen shillings and sevenpence.

‘Cor lummy,' breathed Orrice, ‘we're nearly rich, Effel.'

‘Can we buy the 'ouse?' asked Effel.

‘Well, I dunno about that,' said Orrice cautiously, ‘I should fink the 'ouse might cost a bit more than nineteen bob. No, we best keep it for buyin' food. Effel, we got twenty-five bob an' sevenpence in all, would yer believe.' They had found three shillings and eightpence in their mum's purse, and two and fourpence on the chest of drawers in their parents' bedroom, which was where their dad had always put his money at night. ‘Well, we best 'ave our dinner now, and run away afterwards.'