Two for Three Farthings (26 page)

‘Your husband?'

‘Our son.' She looked worried then. ‘He were so angry, so ashamed, hating the man who – who—'

‘My father?'

‘Not married to Betsy, not married.' She looked at the sunlit window through which the neat front garden could be seen, and the high hedge that hid the presence of Effel and Orrice, patiently waiting. Jim saw framed photographs on the mantelpiece. Family photographs, he thought. Was his mother's photograph among them? He could see none of a young woman or a girl. ‘Arthur didn't like the shame of it.'

‘I'm sorry. I understand. In a village like this, yes, I understand. But I thought – well, I've nothing of my mother's—'

‘Oh, you best go,' she breathed, and Jim heard the sound of footsteps on a tiled floor. A moment later a large burly man in shirt and breeches put his head round the door. His eyes alighted on Jim and on Mrs Miller's agitated expression. He came in, his large face red and beefy, his sandy hair slightly tousled, his blue eyes searching.

‘Who's this, Ma?' he asked, his voice gravelly.

‘He's just going,' said Mrs Miller palely, and Jim felt that here was a man large enough, powerful enough and strong-minded enough to play God to his family and his neighbours. It exuded from him, his belief in himself.

‘Where you from?' he asked.

‘I was looking for a country cottage where some children could spend a summer holiday,' said Jim.

‘Ask at farmhouses, man, not people's cottages. You're a townie, I reckon. Ask at farmhouses, but watch out for shotguns. Good day to you.'

‘Well, thank you for trying to be a help,' Jim said to Mrs Miller with an easy smile, and left. Neither of them saw him to the front door. And even before he opened it he heard the gravelly voice at work.

‘You weren't thinking of invitin' town kids here, Ma, were you? You can forget that. Should've sent that loon packing.'

Jim stepped out into the sunshine, closed the cottage door and stood on the step. The emotions he had guarded and hidden from the impossible Arthur surfaced so strongly that his teeth clenched. He had found his mother's family home and his grandmother, a simple but kind countrywoman, a woman who could tell him about his mother, and exactly what she was like. He had also found his mother's brother, a boor of a man and the fly in the ointment. But Jim meant to make the journey again, to get to know his silver-haired grandmother and perhaps his grandfather too. His teeth unclenched and he swallowed to get rid of the painful lump in his throat. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, walked up the path, turned right into the lane and found Effel and Orrice sitting on the grass verge counting dandelions. They had picked others, scores of them.

‘Here I am, kids,' he said.

Orrice looked up. His boyish grin appeared, and Jim understood why young Alice thought him spiffing. Effel cast her familiarly quick glance, then went on counting dandelions.

‘We goin' now, Uncle?' asked Orrice.

‘Yes, we'll go back to the station, pick up the picnic bag we left there, and have the picnic on the train home. I don't think we'll ramble about, it'll tire you and Ethel, and you've got Alice's tea party later.'

‘Oh, crikey, it ain't going to be a party, is it?' said Orrice. ‘Not a girl's tea party, it's only goin' to be Sunday tea, ain't it?'

‘I was thinking of Alice in Wonderland,' said Jim.

‘I don't want none of them larks,' said Orrice, ‘I got enough problems already.'

‘I don't mind,' said Effel.

‘Come on, troops, on your feet,' said Jim. ‘That's it. Right, chest out, Ethel. Cap straight, Horace. Good. Off we go, then.'

They went, Jim thinking about Mrs Miller and the large, domineering man who was obviously her son Arthur. And Arthur, it seemed, had been forceful enough, even as a young man, to coerce his family into rejecting his sister, who had conceived a child out of wedlock. In a tiny village like Elderfield, perhaps, that kind of rejection had always been on the cards. Jim, however, did not feel disposed to leave things stuck in mid-air.

There was a newcomer to the congregation in St John's Church at the morning service. She sat in a pew several rows from the front. She smiled from time to time at the people on either side of her. And more than once she picked out the figure of Rebecca Pilgrim in a front pew. At the end of the service she remained in her seat while the bulk of the congregation left. As Miss Pilgrim advanced along the aisle, Mrs Lockheart lifted her head and smiled at her. Miss Pilgrim did not return the smile. She did not acknowledge her in any way. She went on, out of the church and straight home, where she deafened herself in the event of a knock on her door.

Mrs Lockheart, however, did not follow. She lingered outside the church, introducing herself to a group of gossiping women. And having introduced herself, she took the lead in the conversation. The women began to listen, first in puzzlement, then in curiosity, and finally with a mixture of reactions.

Jim, Effel and Orrice picnicked on the train back to Waterloo, again having a compartment to themselves. Effel and Orrice thought everything was more spiffing than a Bank Holiday on Peckham Rye. Orrice remembered that tomorrow was Whitsun Bank Holiday, and he asked Jim if he and Effel could go off to Peckham Rye on a tram.

‘I been there,' said Effel, eating her way through a peeled boiled egg.

‘But they got a fair on Bank Holidays,' said Orrice.

‘Been there,' said Effel.

‘What about Hampstead Heath?' asked Jim. ‘Have you been there on a Bank Holiday?'

Hampstead Heath on a Bank Holiday was a rousing playground for cockneys.

‘Cor, no, we ain't ever been there, Uncle,' said Orrice.

‘Well, I'm off all day until seven in the evening,' said Jim, ‘so I'll take you both there. I think we can dig into our pockets and find a few pennies for the swings and roundabouts.'

‘Yer really a sport, Uncle Jim,' said Orrice, ‘an' yer a swell too, ain't 'e, Effel.'

‘Yes, a' right,' said Effel grudgingly, and through the last mouthful of boiled egg.

When they arrived back at their lodgings, Jim made the kids wash themselves and freshen up. Then he sent them off to their Sunday tea with the French family in Crampton Street. Orrice went with gloom on his face, Effel with a new approach. Seven years and three months old, she already had a mind of her own and the developing instincts of a female born to outwit the male. Her plan of action was fixed in her mind. Every time Orrice looked as if he was going to be won over to Alice, Effel was going to say what a lovely boy he was, that he was getting ever so pretty. She and her brother were received hospitably by Mr and Mrs French. Alice glowed to see how healthy Orrice looked from his day out in the country. With a ribbon in her hair and a sash around her frock, Alice did the honours as the hostess's daughter by embracing her guest. Orrice's face, brown from sunshine, turned pale.

‘It's ever so nice you've come,' said Alice.

‘Me bruvver's a lovely boy,' said Effel, and made the Sunday tea purgatory for Orrice from start to finish.

Jim, on his way out to post a letter to a wartime comrade of the trenches, was detained at the door by Miss Pilgrim. He thought her severely handsome in a mid-grey blouse and dark grey skirt.

‘Forgive me, Mr Cooper, but I cannot help wishing to know if you enjoyed your visit to your grandparents. It must be a consolation to have grandparents.'

‘Yes, my maternal grandparents are all I've got,' said Jim. ‘The visit was all I expected, and the kids enjoyed the train ride. The countryside had them in fits.'

‘Fits?'

‘Of wonder. And joy, I think.'

‘I see. Yes. Most children in Walworth are sadly deprived of wonders and joys. I am in approval of the care you are giving Ethel and Horace, Mr Cooper.' Miss Pilgrim's severity became less forbidding. ‘I hope to remark a gradual improvement in their speech under your guidance. It is difficult for many cockney children to make the most of their talents, to climb the ladder of life any higher than their parents, simply because they are held back by their slipshod use of the English language. It's a mistake to suppose genius is confined to the well-educated. Unfortunately, in cockney children it can be smothered by their environment and their own people.'

‘You have to remember cockneys don't like sounding posh,' said Jim.

‘That's exactly what I mean,' said Miss Pilgrim earnestly. ‘They address themselves very sarcastically to those who try to improve their speech and better their lot. It's most discouraging. I've a feeling Horace is a bright boy, that he may have something to offer the world when he's older, but he'll find many doors closed to him unless he can express himself acceptably. It doesn't mean he has to sound posh, as you put it.'

‘I agree with all you say, Miss Pilgrim,' said Jim, noting her earnestness, ‘and I'll bear it in mind. By the way, I'm taking Ethel and Horace to Hampstead Heath tomorrow for the Bank Holiday fair. Why don't you come with us?'

‘I beg your pardon?' Miss Pilgrim, taken aback, stared in astonishment.

‘Yes, good idea, I think,' said Jim briskly. ‘We'll leave at ten. I'll do another picnic. We had one on the train today, we'll have another on Hampstead Heath tomorrow. I don't have to get to work until seven in the evening, it's a short shift on Bank Holidays. Put a couple of hatpins in your hat, or it might blow off when we're riding the roundabout. Well, I'm just going to stroll down to the pillar-box, I've a letter to post—'

‘Mr Cooper! Really.' Miss Pilgrim was at her frostiest. ‘I am not in the habit of being taken for granted, and certainly not in respect of a Hampstead Heath fairground. It is not the kind of thing that appeals to me in the least.'

‘Oh, all the fun of the fair can be exhilarating,' said Jim. ‘Don't decide now, Miss Pilgrim, think about it. You deserve an outing, especially on a Bank Holiday. I won't do boiled eggs again—'

‘Boiled eggs?' Miss Pilgrim's composure was showing little cracks. ‘Boiled eggs?'

‘I've some ham—'

‘Mr Cooper, go and post your letter,' said Miss Pilgrim, and disappeared into her sitting-room. Jim strolled down to the pillar-box, posted his letter and strolled back. He put his kettle on to make himself some tea. He heard Miss Pilgrim ascending the stairs, and the rustle of her arrival at his door. She knocked. He pulled the door open. She regarded him in her cool way, a few degrees warmer than her frosty air. ‘Very well,' she said, ‘but I will provide the picnic. Some simple food and a good crisp lettuce. With a vacuum flask of hot tea. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning, I think you said. Yes, very well, Mr Cooper.'

‘Good,' said Jim, who had a growing feeling that underneath all her starchiness a woman was trying to get out.

‘I frankly feel your wards will be safer if we are both there to keep an eye on them,' she said in serious vein. ‘There is a dubious element present in crowded fairgrounds, as well as what you call an exhilarating one.'

Jim, keeping his face straight, supposed she was referring to the gypsy element. As a disciplined Christian, she probably regarded the undisciplined ways of gypsies as a throwback to the paganism of their roving ancestors.

‘Well, I'm glad you'll be coming, Miss Pilgrim,' he said. ‘Between us, we'll see to it that Horace and Effel don't get carried off.'

Miss Pilgrim gave him a pitying look.

‘Really, how absurd, Mr Cooper. I am merely thinking Horace might be robbed of his pocket money. He informs me he has a few shillings in his pocket. However, I—' She was interrupted by a knock on her front door. ‘I'll answer it.'

She made her way downstairs. In the little hall, she hesitated, as if suddenly reluctant to answer the knock, after all. Then her mouth set firmly, and she opened the door. Orrice and Effel, back from Sunday tea with Alice and her parents, looked up at their tall, commanding landlady. Orrice did not seem as if he had enjoyed himself, although Effel appeared very pleased with things. She wiped her feet quickly and darted in. She scurried up the stairs. Orrice went rushing revengefully after her, caught his foot on the first stair and fell. He got up, looking disgusted.

‘I just got to wallop 'er, Miss Pilgrim,' he said.

‘What has your sister done now, young man?' asked Miss Pilgrim.

‘It don't bear tellin' no-one,' said Orrice, grinding his teeth. ‘Except, well, when we was leavin' she told Mrs French not many sisters 'ad bruvvers prettier than I was.'

The ghost of a smile actually touched Miss Pilgrim's firm lips.

‘I think, Master Horace, you had better address your complaints to your guardian,' she said.

Orrice addressed several complaints to Jim, all concerning Effel's behaviour over the Sunday tea. Effel, he said, kept going on about what he looked like in his Sunday suit, and Mr French kept falling about laughing. And that Alice, she kept agreeing with Effel.

‘It's no good, Uncle Jim, you just got to let me wallop me sister.'

‘No walloping, Horace.'

‘But I promised meself I'd bash 'er silly when I got 'er home,' said Orrice.

‘Hard luck, old chap, can't be allowed. Still, what've you got to say for yourself, Ethel?'

‘Nuffink,' said Effel.

‘Nothing, Ethel, nothing.'

‘A' right,' said Effel.

The day was fine. Miss Pilgrim wore a plain white blouse, flowing dark brown skirt and brown hat. Jim carried the bag containing the picnic she had prepared. They took a tram to the north side of the river, then an omnibus to Hampstead Heath. Miss Pilgrim sat with Ethel, and Jim with Horace. In that way she avoided informal contact with the children's guardian. But she came up against the assumption of the cheerful bus conductor, who clipped four tickets with a flourish and said, ‘Well, yer got a couple of bright kids to keep yer 'appy, missus.'