The little house in Deacon Street, Walworth, had been enduring sombre days, and today was the most sombre of all. But at least the funeral itself was over, the deceased couple laid to rest. Back from the cemetery, Aunt Glad had done what she could to comfort the two orphaned children, speaking gently to them in their kitchen before tactfully leaving them to themselves for a few minutes while she went to join the grown-ups and her husband, Uncle Perce, in the parlour. There, the talk was solemn and sympathetic, although everyone was relieved to cast aside the subdued and awkward whispering that had prevailed in the mournful church and at the even more mournful cemetery. Still, at least it had been a good Christian burial. There’d been just enough money from the insurance man to pay for the hearse, four black horses and two coffins. Life was hard for people these days, and not too good to them even when they were dead.
The dreadful flu epidemic, having arrived, had swept Mr and Mrs Withers away as if they had never existed. They had taken to their bed on a Thursday and passed away on the Sunday. Miraculously, their two children, a boy and a girl, had been spared. But how much of a miracle was it, a neighbour asked of Uncle Perce, when it left them orphaned in times as hard as they were now? It was rainy April, 1921. The country was still suffering the impoverishment brought about by the Great War, and unemployed ex-servicemen were still tramping the streets of London looking for jobs, any jobs.
It was best to leave the children in the kitchen for the moment. Pitying talk couldn’t take place in front of them, especially as it was needful to discuss what was to happen to them. Aunt Glad, with the help of a kind neighbour of the deceased, had supplied a funeral breakfast of sandwiches, biscuits and tea.
Ten-year-old Horace and his sister Ethel, just seven, sat at the kitchen table eyeing the food without much appetite. They called each other Orrice and Effel, as did everyone else, except their schoolteachers. Effel wore an old blue frock dyed black for the funeral day, and given to her by a neighbour. She also wore grey socks and black boots, the boots shiningly polished for her by Orrice out of respect for their mum and dad. An old boater with a black band sat on her dark brown hair, which hung down her back. Her little face was tear-stained. She had taken just a single bite out of a paste sandwich, and had hardly been able to swallow that small mouthful.
Orrice, a huge old dark blue cloth cap with a soft peak on his head, wore a navy blue jersey and black serge trousers, the latter also gifted by a sympathetic neighbour. It hadn’t seemed right, expecting the boy to go to his parents’ funeral in his patched grey shorts.
He put an arm around his woebegone sister.
‘Don’t cry no more, Effel,’ he said.
‘We ain’t got no-one now, no-one,’ said Effel, a dry sob shuddering through her slender body. She couldn’t understand it, she couldn’t believe her solid, beefy mum and sturdy dad had gone, that she’d never see them any more. And she and Orrice had no grandparents. All four had passed away years ago.
‘We got each other,’ said Orrice. ‘I’ll look after yer, Effel, don’t worry.’ He felt like a good cry himself, but he couldn’t, not in front of his unhappy sister. New tears welled in her hazel eyes and rolled down her smudged cheeks. ‘Don’t cry, sis, we got to be brave.’
They had been good parents, his mum and dad. They’d never had much, but there’d always been something to eat, and Dad had regularly brought fruit home from his job in the Covent Garden market. And there’d always been a fire in the kitchen in winter. And if he and Effel had seldom had new clothes, their mum always got them good second-hand stuff. Orrice wasn’t quite sure where any kind of clothes were to come from now. He felt very sad about the day and troubled by what lay ahead.
‘We just ain’t got nobody,’ said Effel bleakly.
‘Well, we ’ave really,’ said Orrice, ‘we got Uncle Perce and Aunt Glad.’
‘Ain’t goin’ to live wiv their kids,’ said Effel. ‘Don’t like ’em.’
‘Effel, it ain’t no good not likin’ them,’ said Orrice, who could only see help coming from his aunt and uncle. Aunt Glad was their mum’s sister. The only other relative they knew was their dad’s brother, but he had gone to Australia years ago. ‘We got to put up with some fings, sis.’
‘Ain’t puttin’ up wiv that soppy Nellie, nor wiv that Alfie and ’is runny nose,’ said Effel, referring to two of Aunt Glad’s five children.
‘Alfie’s just got ad’noids, that’s all,’ said Orrice. ‘Well, I fink that’s what ’e’s got. Effel, we got to ’ave a home.’
‘We got this one,’ said Effel, ‘we just ain’t got a mum and dad no more, that’s all.’ Her eyes brimmed.
‘Effel, where we goin’ to get money to pay the rent?’
‘We can ’ide when the rent man comes,’ said Effel in mournful hope.
‘Not all the time, we can’t,’ said Orrice. He put down a half-eaten sandwich. ‘Come on, let’s go an’ see what they’re saying. We got to see, we got to talk to Aunt Glad.’
Reluctantly, Effel went with him. They stopped before they reached the open door of the parlour. They stopped because of what they heard.
‘Orphanage? I wouldn’t let no kids of mine be put in any orphanage.’
‘I s’pose Dr Barnado’s? D’you s’pose Dr Barnado’s, Mrs Figg?’
‘That’s a sort of orphanage too, ain’t it?’
‘Let’s talk sense.’ That was Uncle Perce’s voice.
‘I was only sayin’ to Mrs Davis—’
‘No, you was to me, Mrs Figg.’
‘Don’t let’s talk like this.’ That was Aunt Glad. ‘It’s all up to me and me ’usband, anyway.’
Orrice and Effel went back to the kitchen. They sat down at the table in silence. Effel began to cry again.
‘I ain’t goin’ to no orphanage,’ she sobbed.
‘Course you ain’t, sis,’ said Orrice. ‘Nor me. Mum an’ Dad wouldn’t want us in no orphanage, I betcher. Don’t you worry.’
Effel wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her frock.
‘Or Dr Banano’s?’ she said with a gulp.
‘Nor ’im, neither,’ said Orrice stoutly.
Uncle Perce came in. He was a street cleaner who kept bitter company with muck, litter and horse manure, but if he disliked what he had to tidy up daily, it hadn’t affected his inherent tendency to be philosophical about what life could throw at people. He was like most cockneys, resilient. He gave Orrice a pat on his shoulder, and he gave Effel a little smile.
‘We’ll sort things out for yer, Effel, an’ you, Orrice. We’ll take yer ’ome with us in a bit—’
‘Ain’t goin’,’ muttered Effel.
‘What’s that, Effel?’
‘It’s all right, Uncle Perce,’ said Orrice, ‘except Effel don’t feel too good just yet.’ Manfully, he blinked away a traitorous tear. ‘Nor me,’ he admitted.
‘Well, course yer don’t, Orrice,’ said Uncle Perce. ‘Well, none of us is too ’appy, yer know, yer mum an’ dad were friends of mine, good friends. Your Aunt Glad an’ me, we’ll fix things for yer some’ow. ’Ere she is.’
Aunt Glad entered the kitchen. A bosomy woman of thirty-seven, with a hard-working husband and five children to look after, she had much to endure and not a little to complain about. She directed her complaints mostly at Uncle Perce, off whom they bounced as if they had never been spoken, which made her tell him he was getting very aggravating. On the other hand, she wouldn’t hear a word against him, which was entirely typical of a cockney housewife.
‘There you are, poor loves,’ she said. ‘Perce, what you been sayin’ to them?’
‘Just tellin’ em—’
‘Don’t you go upsettin’ them, they been upset enough. Orrice, yer kind neighbours is goin’ now, an’ soon as me and Uncle Perce ’ave tidied up, you can come ’ome with us.’
‘Won’t,’ muttered Effel.
‘Now, Effel love—’
‘Stayin’ ’ere,’ said Effel.
‘Ain’t she a pickle?’ said Uncle Perce.
‘Now, don’t say things like that,’ said Aunt Glad, respectfully dressed in black, including her straw hat, ‘that won’t do Effel no good. Effel love, you got to come ’ome with us, don’t yer see? And while you’re with us, me and Uncle Perce will see what’s to be done for you and Orrice.’
‘Yes, don’t fret now, little ’un,’ said Uncle Perce.
Effel, head bent, closed her eyes and squeezed back tears. Aunt Glad sighed, and Uncle Perce grimaced. It was so difficult. They had five children of their own, the youngest being four and the eldest thirteen. Their little house in Kennington, rented, felt crowded out at times. Uncle Perce’s wage just kept them going and no more. Two extra children to house and to feed would be a daily strain. But for a while, at least, until a solution was found, they had to take Orrice and Effel in, they had to give their orphaned niece and nephew a roof and a place to sleep, and they had to feed them as best they could.
‘Effel, we got to go with Aunt Glad,’ said Orrice.
‘Ain’t,’ muttered Effel.
‘She’ll come, Aunt Glad,’ said Orrice. ‘Soon as I go out the door with you, she’ll foller me. I can’t go nowhere without she don’t foller me.’
‘Well, I’ve ’eard that’s true,’ said Uncle Perce. ‘Now, if there’s stuff you want to bring with yer, Orrice, you can collect it up. Me an’ yer Aunt Glad won’t be goin’ for another fifteen minutes or so.’
‘Yes, all right, Uncle Perce,’ said Orrice, but he didn’t really feel like taking anything with him except his sister. He had to look after his sister, his mum and dad would expect him to.
At the home of her uncle and aunt, Effel gritted her teeth when she found she was going to have to sleep in a bed with her three cousins, Nellie, Edie and Cissie. She hated the idea, she’d always had her own bed. And Orrice was going to have to share a bed with Alfie and Johnny. Orrice already felt sort of squeezed in this little house in which there were seven people living as well as him and Effel. Meanwhile, in the evening, with their cousins sent out of the way, Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce gave them some cocoa and biscuits, and talked to them in the kitchen.
‘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.’
As well as the tin of sardines and half a loaf, they also found some Quaker Oats. To stop Effel just sitting and pining, Orrice let her make some porridge. It turned out a bit lumpy, but they put milk and sugar in it and stirred it in their bowls. The resultant concoction was white, glutinous and irregular, and not too much like the porridge their mum put on the breakfast table each morning.
‘We best ’ave a good wash before we go,’ said Orrice, ‘we got lots of time.’
‘’Ad me wash,’ said Effel, which meant a lick and a promise at Aunt Glad’s. She spooned the porridge into her mouth. She grimaced and cast a covert look at her brother. Orrice was getting on manfully with his lumpy helping. ‘Is it a’ right?’ she asked.
‘You betcher,’ said Orrice gallantly. ‘Yer goin’ to be a nice cook, Effel, when yer growed up a bit. Listen, we best have a proper good wash, in case, like. Yes, we best do that.’ He was thinking of an empty house that would give them shelter but might have the water turned off. He was a clean boy, and his face, cheerful and earnest by turn normally, always had a fresh look. Effel, however, never minded a smudged face. She was far from the stage of worrying about what she looked like. Her favourite book, which her dad had often read to her, was called Ragamuffin Jack. Ragamuffin Jack was her idea of fun. He was always falling into things like duckponds or coal-holes. ‘Effel, you listening?’ asked Orrice.
‘Don’t want to,’ said Effel.
‘You got to ’ave a good wash before we leave.’
‘Ain’t,’ said Effel.
‘Yes, you ’ave,’ said Orrice sternly, ‘we ain’t goin’ to go out lookin’ like orphans. We’ll ’ave old ladies comin’ up and saying you poor dirty orphans, you best come to a police station. I’ll wash yer, if yer like.’
‘You ain’t combed yer ‘air,’ said Effel by way of a riposte. If Orrice always had a clean-looking face, his hair, dark brown like hers, always had a tousled look. He hid it under his cap.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll comb it before we leave. Eat yer porridge up, Effel.’
‘Don’t want it,’ said Effel, ‘it’s—’ She made a face, not wanting to admit it was lumpy. ‘I ain’t ’ungry.’
‘No, I s’pose not,’ said Orrice. They both had aching hearts, and food didn’t have its usual appeal. But Orrice thought he ought to do something to cheer his sister up a bit. He didn’t think they ought to go out into the world feeling too miserable. ‘I’ll eat yourn up for you, if yer like, sis.’
‘Me porridge?’ said Effel disbelievingly.
‘Well, we don’t want to waste it, it’s nice,’ said Orrice, and he tucked into her helping as if it was the best porridge ever made. Effel brightened up. Courageously, Orrice ate it all.
Then they had the sardines, with some bread and margarine. Effel ate dolefully, her spirits low again. The thought of leaving home for ever wasn’t something she could easily take in.
‘I ain’t goin’,’ she said suddenly.
‘Course you are, we got to,’ said Orrice, ‘we don’t want to be a trouble to Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce. I’ll look after yer, sis. I betcher we’ll meet some nice ’elpful people.’
Effel, again brightening up, said, ‘D’you want me last sardine?’
‘No, you eat it up, sardines is good for yer,’ said Orrice.
‘Don’t want it. You ’ave it.’
Courageous again, Orrice ate it for her.
They were putting things in sacks. Effel couldn’t hold back her tears when they went into their parents’ bedroom to look for nice things to take. It seemed a sort of awfully sad room now, all quiet and lifeless. Orrice suffered another lump in his throat. Effel went out, leaving him to look through the room. When they met again on the tiny landing, Orrice’s sack a quarter full, Effel had a pile of old dog-eared story books in her arms.
‘Effel, yer can’t take all them.’
‘Goin’ to,’ said Effel.
‘Effel, yer can’t, they’re too ’eavy.’
‘No, they ain’t,’ said Effel, wanly obstinate.
‘Course they are.’ Orrice knew he had to be firm. ‘Look at ’em, they’re nearly makin’ yer fall over frontwards. Come on, I’ll take ’em back in yer room for yer.’
‘I’ll kick yer,’ said Effel.
‘Effel, you know it ain’t nice talkin’ about kickin’,’ said Orrice in reproach, ‘not now it ain’t.’
Effel compromised. She settled for two volumes of Ragamuffin Jack. She also agreed to let Orrice give her a good wash, which he did, her legs and knees as well, although she was quaintly offended at being made to lift her frock and petticoat up. Her petticoat, which had seen its best days, made Orrice think.
‘Effel, you got clean ones on?’
‘Ain’t sayin’.’
‘Effel—’
‘Mind yer business,’ said Effel.
They were finally ready to leave at a quarter to three. Orrice said Effel had best take her coat for when winter came, and that she could wear it to save carrying it in the clothes sack. Effel had charge of this sack. It contained the best of their clobber. Her old brown coat, a rescued cast-off, reached to her boots, covering her dyed mourning frock, and on her head she wore the ancient boater with a black band. Orrice wore his cap, jersey, trousers and boots. His sack bulged at the bottom with the things he’d decided to take, including the old tin alarm clock, his dad’s razor, his mum’s brooch, a brush and comb, knives, forks and spoons, two enamel mugs, two enamel plates, two wrapped pieces of crest china from Southend, a little sepia photograph of his parents taken on Southend Pier and framed in cheap metal, Effel’s rag doll, her two Ragamuffin Jack books, and his dad’s battered but still working gun-metal pocket watch.
He took a look from the front door to see if any neighbours were about, then called to his sister.
‘All clear, Effel, come on.’
There were new tears in Effel’s eyes as she left the only home she had known, the home of her mum and dad. Before Orrice closed the door, she said, ‘We ain’t never comin’ back again?’
‘D’yer fink we ought to say goodbye to ’em, sis?’
They stepped back into the little passage.
‘Goodbye, Mum, goodbye, Dad.’
Orrice felt he had to close the door very quietly then, and did so.
They walked up the street in the direction of Walworth Road, Orrice carrying his sack over his shoulder, Effel clasping hers to her chest, the tears running down her cheeks. Orrice put his arm around her and they walked on.
He had left a note for Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce, telling them that he and Effel hoped to go to Southend and get a boat to Australia. He thought that would stop them worrying.