Two for Three Farthings (6 page)

‘Not much,' said Orrice. ‘Well, a bit.'

‘A' right, I ain't splittin' on yer,' said Alfie generously, ‘I'll tell me mum a door come up and 'it me.' He and Eddie finished their oranges, peel and all. ‘Well, time we pushed orf. Where'd yer live, anyways, you two?'

‘Oh, round 'ere,' said Orrice.

‘A' right, see yer, then,' said Eddie. ‘No 'ard feelings, eh?'

‘D'yer know any empty 'ouses?' asked Orrice cautiously.

‘Empty 'ouses? Round 'ere?' Eddie looked puzzled. Walworth had a teeming population. ‘Ain't seen none. There's some down Bermondsey. You got swag, after all? You lookin' for a place to stow it?'

‘Cheek!' cried Effel again. ‘'It 'im, Orrice.'

‘A' right, a' right,' said Eddie, ‘didn't mean it. Just askin', that's all. Come on, Alfie.'

Alfie, Effel's hankie to his sore lip, said, ‘Well, so long.'

‘You still got me ‘ankie,' said Effel.

‘Ta for the loan,' said Alfie, and gave it back to her. It was a mess now, but Effel didn't take offence, she stuffed it back into her coat pocket. ‘So long,' he said again, and he and Eddie left on a cordial note.

‘Crikey,' said Orrice, ‘they told us Bermondsey for empty 'ouses. All that way, sis.'

‘Ain't goin',' said Effel.

‘Nor me. We don't want to run away as far as Bermondsey. Oh, well, s'pose we 'ave supper now, eh? It's a nice new loaf, an' cheese. I only bought two ounces of marge, we don't want to cart any leftover about, it'll get mucky.'

‘No, a' right,' said Effel.

The little park was not too warm in the grey light of the cloudy evening, but brother and sister had it all to themselves. Orrice felt they hadn't done too badly with food. They'd had nourishing dates, custard tart and an orange each. Now they sat on the bench and scoffed bread and marge and cheese. The bread was new and crusty, the cheese a golden yellow. They had another orange each afterwards, then finished up the few dates that were left.

‘Well, now we got some bread over for breakfast, and two oranges,' said Orrice.

‘But we ain't got nowhere to go,' said Effel. ‘Orrice, where we goin' to be tonight?'

Orrice was getting a little worried about that. His optimism had taken a knock. But he said, ‘Don't you worry, Effel, I didn't do much lookin' when I went for the bread an' cheese, so we still got plenty of streets for proper lookin'. We'll find somewhere, I betcher.'

Darkness had arrived an hour ago, and all their proper looking had proved fruitless. Orrice thought it a real sell that there wasn't a single empty house. It wasn't very obliging of people not to leave at least one empty house. The darkness was depressing and discouraging, and Effel's feet were dragging. So was her sack. And she was silent. He tried, but he couldn't cheer her up or get her to say anything. They kept walking, Orrice with his eyes open on the lookout for coppers on their beat. They sat on doorsteps now and again to rest. Orrice hung on as best as he could to some optimism as they walked and walked. They both felt that everyone who passed them was certain to be going home to a warm kitchen fireside.

They dodged a copper in Brandon Street when they were thinking of entering Peabody's Buildings and huddling up together on a landing. Their elusive tactics took them into Larcom Street and to St John's Church.

‘'Ere, we could go in there, Effel,' whispered Orrice.

Effel spoke for the first time in an hour. It was gone ten o'clock.

‘It don't 'ave no beds,' she said.

‘Well, it's a church, yer date.'

‘I know that, I ain't daft,' said Effel.

‘We could sleep on a pew,' said Orrice.

‘A'right,' said Effel tiredly.

They went in. The darkness of the church seemed to make it like a vast cavern of mystery, black with night. Effel clutched her brother's hand. Orrice made a decision.

‘Let's go 'ome, sis. There won't be no-one there now. We got the alarm clock, we can 'ave it go off at six and creep out before anyone sees us. Come on.'

Effel accompanied him gladly. She forced her weary legs to make the journey along the Walworth Road. Late trams ran by, and there were some lights in addition to street lamps. They both watched out for coppers, Orrice keeping to himself the worry that Aunt Glad might have locked the front door of the house. Much to his relief she hadn't. The latchcord was in place, and the door opened when he pulled it. They went in. Their home seemed cold and lifeless, as if no-one belonged to it any more. But their beds were rapturous to them. Orrice first found matches and a candle so that he could set the old alarm clock. Then he looked in on Effel by the light of the candle. She was fast asleep in her bed. She'd taken her boots off, and that was all. She'd slipped into bed with everything else on. Orrice went to his own bed and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

He was up the moment the alarm went off. He couldn't get Effel up. He woke her, but he couldn't get her to move. The warmth of the bed and its familiarity were something she was reluctant to give up. He went downstairs and put the kettle on. The gas ran out after a minute, and he put a penny in the meter. Then he made a pot of tea, and took a cup up to his sister. There was still a little milk and sugar in the larder. He woke Effel up again, and she greeted the hot tea with instant bliss. He managed to get her out of bed after that and made her wash at the scullery sink, using hot water from the kettle in a bowl, and he had a good wash himself.

They crept out of the house just before seven, after they'd eaten some of their bread. The morning light was growing, and they hastened up the street to the Walworth Road before anyone saw them.

They spent the day in and around East Street market. The market offered them scenes and sounds that were comforting and familiar, and it also offered them crowds in which to hide from bobbies. Orrice said they'd best start looking for an empty house in the streets on the other side of the Walworth Road when they'd had some hot Bovril and toast. Effel liked toast. The day was overcast, with a threat of rain and a slightly chilly breeze, and Effel was in need of something hot. Orrice took her to Toni's Refreshment Rooms at ten o'clock. Toni's dark eyebrows lifted ferociously when he saw them. Maria cast a smile.

‘You kids, what-a you want this time, eh?' asked Toni.

‘'Ow much is two 'ot Bovrils and two slices of toast?' asked Orrice.

‘Bovril? Bovril? What-a you think, I run a hospital? And what-a you two kids doing? You don't-a go to school?'

‘Effel's 'ad measles,' said Orrice, which she had, a year or so ago. ‘I've 'ad mumps.' Which he had, two years ago. ‘Effel's still poorly, mister. 'Ow much is the Bovril an' toast?'

‘Crazy kids, go away,' said Toni.

‘Shush, shush,' said Maria, and went through a door at the back of the counter. Orrice and Effel waited hopefully, Toni prowled about, served a customer, and prowled about again. Maria reappeared with a tray, on which stood two mugs of steaming Bovril and two slices of buttered toast, the toast created under the grill of her gas oven in the upstairs kitchen. Toni smacked himself on the forehead at his wife's weakness.

‘What-a you up to, eh? We don't-a serve Bovril or toast. You crazy too?'

‘Shush, shush,' said Maria again, placing the tray on the counter.

‘Cor, you ain't 'alf a sport, missus,' said Orrice. ‘'Ow much, if yer please?'

‘Penny each Bovril,' said Maria, ‘penny for two toasts. You like?'

‘You betcher,' said Orrice, fishing for three pennies.

Toni tore his hair.

‘I give up, I retire, I don't-a like going broke.'

Orrice paid Maria, and he and Effel carried the Bovril and the toast to a table. Orrice returned for the sacks. Toni watched out of dark, fiery eyes. Maria smiled and patted his arm. Toni grinned. New customers came in. Orrice and Effel devoured the toast and drank the Bovril. They lingered over it, savouring its heat and flavour.

When they were ready to go, Effel scuttled out with her sack and it was left to Orrice to smile and say thanks.

‘All right, all right,' said Toni, ‘but don't-a you come back again.'

‘Nice kids,' smiled Maria. ‘Come back when you like, eh?'

‘Women, what-a you think of women, eh?' growled Toni. ‘Barmy, eh?'

‘Nice, she is,' said Orrice, ‘like our mum.'

Maria's smile beamed.

Orrice and Effel went to the stallholder selling dates and oranges. His mound of dates was smaller, his mound of oranges glowed. He put on a straight face for the boy and girl. Orrice asked for half a pound of dates.

‘Yer sure that's all yer want, me young cock sparrer? Yer sure you don't want me stall and the shirt off me back?'

‘No fanks, mister, just a penn'orth of dates. The uvvers done Effel good yesterday, she's better today, ain't yer, sis?'

‘Ain't,' said Effel.

‘Gawd 'elp us,' said the stallholder, ‘you've come to cough 'ooping cough all over me dates, 'ave yer?' He bagged the fruit, weighed it, and handed it to Orrice. ‘You tell yer sister she's goin' to get me nicked for selling dates with 'ooping cough. Right, let's see yer copper coin, sunshine.'

‘'Ere y'ar, mister.' Orrice paid his penny. ‘Mister, we gotter go callin', could we leave our sacks under the stall till we come back?' Orrice had realized that carrying the sacks around all day was a bit daft.

‘I knew you'd come for more'n dates,' said the stallholder. ‘What's in the sacks? Bombs?'

‘Course not, we ain't Bolshies,' said Orrice. ‘It's just fings we've collected.'

‘All right, shove 'em under.'

It was a relief to unburden themselves and to go freely in search of a roof for the forthcoming night. They covered streets on the other side of the Walworth Road. Orrice showed revived optimism, but Effel soon became morose. They did see one place, but its windows were boarded up and so was the door. After two hours they went back to the market, where they ate hot faggots and pease pudding in a shop that specialized in providing this favouite cockney repast. The succulent meal cost Orrice and Effel sixpence. Orrice said living was expensive when you were running away, they'd best just have bread and marge for their tea later on. He thought he ought to look for a job. Wearing long trousers, people might think he was fourteen. Effel didn't think it was much good getting a job when they hadn't got nowhere to live yet. Orrice said they'd do some more looking, and if they still couldn't find nowhere they could sleep at the house again, they could creep back in when it was dark.

It rained for a while during the afternoon. That brought Effel's spirits low. Orrice tried to cheer her up, but secretly he was feeling discouraged, not only because they hadn't got a roof, but also because there was nothing to do except walk about. Normally he liked walking about, he liked shops and markets and lots of people, but it wasn't the same when he didn't have a mum and dad to go home to. And he hadn't been able to find anyone who wanted him to run errands.

The rain finally stopped, they retrieved their sacks before the market closed down, and went to Browning Gardens to eat bread and marge. They sat on a bench and Orrice cut slices from what was left of yesterday's loaf.

‘Yer cut it all fick,' complained Effel.

‘But we got to eat well, sis. Fin slices ain't goin' to do us much good. There y'ar, look, I put lots of marge on that slice. An' we can have some dates after.'

‘A' right,' said Effel.

Later, when it was dark, they entered their old street again. Much to Orrice's bitter disappointment, this time the door was locked. Effel gave a muffled wail of anguish. Orrice supposed Aunt Glad had been round again to look for them and had removed the latchcord when she left.

They decided to go to St John's Church again. Effel was worn out, Orrice carrying on in determined fashion. They'd be all right in the church. It might be a bit awesome, but it would provide shelter. And they'd be out of the way of grown-ups. Grown-ups would ask questions. So would bobbies.

It began to rain again on their way. They hurried. A glimpse of a bobby in Larcom Street sent them scurrying on to Browning Street, Orrice carrying both sacks at this stage, and Effel nearly falling over in her weariness.

At midnight it was raining hard, and the rain was chill. They were huddled together in the doorway of a house in Morecambe Street. With the rain was an April wind, and the wind blew the rain into their faces. They were wet, cold and very tired, and every so often a sob shook Effel. Orrice cuddled her and she put her cold face in his shoulder. Orrice was uncomfortably sure he'd let his sister down by not providing her with a roof.

They thought, of course, of their home and their mum and dad. They thought of the warmth of the kitchen fire, and the blissful comfort of their beds. They thought of the sounds of their dad getting up at five in the morning to go to his work in Covent Garden, and of snuggling rapturously down knowing they could go back to sleep and not get up themselves till eight, when their mum would have hot porridge ready for them. Orrice thought of his dad's hearty, manly strength, and Effel thought of her mum's warm, capacious bosom whenever she needed a comforting cuddle.

Orrice knew they couldn't stay where they were. The rain kept gusting at them inside the shelter of the shallow doorway. The street was silent, every house in darkness. Rain skittered over the street surface in the light of a lamp-post.

‘Orrice.' Effel gulped back a sob. ‘We got to go somewhere.'

‘Yes, we best go to the church, even if we do get wetter on the way,' whispered Orrice, ‘we could—' He stopped as they heard slow and deliberate footsteps. Effel, shivering, clung tightly to her brother. Orrice watched. In the light of the lamp he saw a figure on the other side of the street, a figure in a cape and helmet, and the cape was wet and shiny with rain. The local bobby was on his midnight beat, making measured progress, his police lamp in his hand. Because of the street lamp, Orrice was sure he and Effel would be seen, even from the other side. But the bobby passed by. Orrice waited before whispering again. ‘Effel, let's go to the church, we could get dry and put uvver clothes on.'