Orrice felt sick.
Effel quivered.
A woman stallholder yelled.
‘Oh, yer thievin’ bleeder! Come back ’ere with that! Stop ’im, mister!’
The looming figure of the awesome bobby vanished from the eyes of Effel and Orrice as he darted at speed between stalls to take up chase of the thief. Few sinners operated in the market. The many stallholders were a close-knit fraternity and much more of a collective threat to a sly lifter of goods than he was to them. But occasionally a bolder one surfaced.
Orrice sighed with relief amid shouts, cries and minor pandemonium. The thief, caught by a burly stallholder, was dealt a crafty wallop before being handed over to the bobby. The people and the stallholders of Walworth had no sympathy to spare for men who robbed their own kind.
‘Come on, Effel, let’s scarper,’ said Orrice.
They scarpered up to Walworth Road and turned left at the corner. Toni’s Refreshments, as the place was called, was only a little way along. They peered in through the glass-panelled door. Orrice hefted his sack, clutched the box of oranges, squared his shoulders and bravely entered, Effel as close behind him as she could get, her sack dragging again.
The refreshment room was fairly full, mostly of market characters. Two housewives in need of a sit-down and a nice hot mug of Toni’s tea were also present. Toni, an immigrant Italian, ran the place with his wife Maria. Toni was excitable, Maria plump and philosophical. From the marble-topped counter, with its glass food containers, Toni looked down at a large soft cap. It lifted. A boyish face showed itself.
‘Two penny cups of tea, if yer please, mister,’ said Orrice.
Toni stared as a little girl hid herself against the counter.
‘What-a you say?’ he asked Orrice. ‘Penny cups of tea? What-a you think, eh? I lose my shop selling tea for a penny?’
‘’Ow much, then?’ asked Orrice, eyes courageously challenging.
‘One fine mug of Toni’s tea, twopence, see? One fine china cup of Toni’s tea in a saucer, also twopence, see? Two mugs or two cups, four pennies, what-a you think? Isn’t it?’
The market characters grinned.
‘’Ere, we ain’t paying tuppence for no cup of tea,’ said Orrice. ‘Are we, Effel?’
‘I ain’t ’ere,’ gasped Effel muffledly, face burning with shyness.
‘You ain’t-a paying, you ain’t-a getting, see?’ said Toni, dark with five o’clock shadow.
‘We don’t mind paying a penny, but we ain’t paying tuppence,’ said Orrice. ‘Crikey, yer can buy a pound of tea for tenpence.’
Toni clutched his black, oily hair, then smacked his forehead. He appealed to his wife Maria.
‘You listen, eh? You hear that? Mama mia, I got to stand here and let-a this kid talk me crazy?’
‘Ah, crazy, eh?’ said Maria. ‘You crazy ten times a day.’
‘Tea I sell for a penny?’
‘We ain’t paying tuppence,’ said Orrice doggedly. ‘Except for two cups. Are we, Effel?’
‘Ain’t talkin’,’ gasped Effel.
‘Eh?’ said Toni.
‘Now see what yer done,’ said Orrice, ‘yer frightened me sister. An’ she ain’t strong, yer know.’
‘I should cry my eyes out and give-a you two mugs of tea for a penny each?’ Toni knew the smallest concession to a Walworth kid would bring all his friends round to ask for ice cream at half-price. ‘I should break my heart, eh?’
A broad-shouldered young man got up from a table and came to the counter.
‘Give ’em a mug each, Toni,’ he said, putting down fourpence.
‘Mister Adams,’ said Toni, ‘it don’t-a pay to give kids for nothing.’
‘Some kids, no,’ said Tommy Adams, who ran a glass and china stall in the market. ‘Some kids, yes.’ He gave Orrice’s cap a pat. ‘Good on yer, son.’
‘Mister, yer a sport,’ said Orrice. ‘Effel, speak yer fanks to the kind gent.’
‘Fank yer, mister,’ gasped Effel.
‘Mister, if yer want anything done so’s I can pay yer back for yer treat, you just say,’ said Orrice. He picked up two of the pennies. ‘Look, we got our own tuppence for the tea, so yer could take these back. It’s only fair, like.’
Tommy Adams, liking the spirit in which the offer was made, took the two pennies. He felt that was what the boy honestly wanted.
‘Enjoy yer tea, son,’ he said, and left.
Orrice produced two pennies from his own pocket.
‘Mugs is larger than cups, Effel,’ he said. ‘Two mugs,’ he said to Toni, ‘if yer please, mister.’
‘Kids,’ said Toni, but a moment later two steaming mugs of hot tea appeared on the counter. Maria had poured.
‘Fank yer,’ said Orrice.
‘You want-a some sugar?’ asked Toni, reaching for the bowl.
‘Me sister likes two spoonfuls,’ said Orrice. ‘I likes one.’
Toni sugared the teas accordingly.
‘For free,’ he said.
‘No, it ain’t,’ protested Orrice, ‘not when yer charged us fourpence.’
Customers roared with laughter.
‘Got yer there, Toni!’ yelled a man.
‘Crazy kids,’ said Toni, and shook his head as Effel showed her face. She blushed crimson.
‘Nice crazy kids,’ said Maria, and cut two slices of custard tart, put them on plates and placed them on the counter in front of Orrice, who was holding the mugs of tea.
‘What-a you doing?’ cried Toni. ‘You give-a them that for free?’
‘Shush, shush,’ said Maria.
Orrice took the mugs to a table, came back for his sack and the box of oranges, and then returned for the custard tart slices. Effel was still hiding herself and her sack against the counter.
‘Me sister and me’s fanking yer kindly, missus,’ he said to Maria.
‘Me, I go barmy,’ said Toni.
‘Come on, Effel,’ said Orrice. ‘Look, we got tea an’ custard tart. Come on.’
Effel rushed herself and her sack to the table, sat down and ducked her head until the brim of her boater shaded her mug of tea.
‘Funny, eh, them kids?’ said Toni to Maria. Maria smiled.
Effel recovered after gulping some mouthfuls of the hot sweet tea. She and Orrice ate their custard tart in huge enjoyment. Then Orrice brought the box of oranges up on the table. He took the fruit out. Toni, serving a customer, saw ten oranges appear. Market men were grinning. Orrice slipped from his chair and dived into his sack. He groped around, found a knife and brought it out. Sitting down again, he began to cut out deteriorating skin and flesh, putting the pieces on his plate, now devoid of custard tart.
‘Hey, you kids, now what-a you think you’re doing, eh?’ called Toni.
‘Orrice, what’s ’e keep shoutin’ for?’ whispered Effel.
‘I dunno, I’m sure,’ said Orrice.
‘Now what-a you see?’ said Toni to Maria. ‘Look, oranges. I don’t-a believe it.’
‘Listen, Effel,’ whispered Orrice, ‘shall we give ’im one?’
‘Will ’e stop shoutin’ an’ lookin’, then?’ asked Effel.
‘Well, ’e ought to if ’e likes oranges. Give ’im this one, Effel, I’ve only ’ad to cut a small bit off it.’
‘A’ right,’ said Effel, the hot tea having given her Dutch courage. She took the orange to the counter, her long coat scurfing around her boots. She looked up at Toni, who wasn’t sure if it wasn’t all a dream. ‘Mister,’ she said shyly, ‘’ere’s an orange for yer. It didn’t ’ardly ’ave no bad bit.’ She placed the fruit on the counter, going on tiptoe to do so. The customers watched in huge amusement.
‘I’m crazy for oranges, now?’ said Toni, and Effel’s lashes dropped over her hazel eyes.
‘Would yer lady like one?’ called Orrice, never as shy as Effel.
‘For me, yes?’ said Maria, smiling in delight. Children like these two appealed to her warm Italian heart.
Effel went and took another trimmed orange from Orrice, carrying it to Maria.
‘Me bruvver’s done it up nice wiv ’is knife,’ she said, and sighed because the plump lady looked so kind and motherly. Maria, no more in need of any kind of an orange than Toni was, beamed at the little girl. A market runabout boy came in and asked for two mugs of tea.
‘Ah, you want-a for free, maybe?’ said Toni in heavy sarcasm.
‘Eh?’ said the boy. ‘You ain’t givin’ ’em away, are yer, Toni?’
‘How do I know, eh? Kids come in, send-a me crazy, how do I know what-a I’m doing? All right, all right, two mugs of tea. Fourpence I want, you got that, eh?’
‘I ain’t deaf,’ said the market lad. ‘What’s that orange for?’
‘Me,’ said Toni, and put it under the counter instead of throwing it into his waste bin. Maria noted the gesture and smiled. Effel went back to finish her tea, leaving every customer highly tickled. Orrice, having reduced the oranges to an eatable condition, put them back in the box. His plate and Effel’s plate were heaped with sections of cut-out fruit.
‘Best go now, sis,’ he said, and they took up the sacks again, and the box, and made for the door.
‘Hey, you kids,’ called Toni, ‘you come back again and I go barmy again.’ He took a look at the table and saw the heaped plates. He hit himself on the head. ‘Mama mia, you see that, Maria? You kids—’
But Orrice and Effel had escaped.
Maria laughed. Toni grinned.
‘We just got to find somewhere,’ said Orrice an hour later. It was gone five, and the breezy April day was now cloudy and cool. They had walked and walked, carrying their possesions and the box of oranges. They’d eaten one each, while traversing streets all around the market. They had looked and searched and investigated, but hadn’t seen an empty house anywhere.
‘I fink I’m all wore out,’ said Effel. She was actually more dispirited than fatigued. Lack of success in finding a place to shelter had brought back forlorn thoughts of their home in Deacon Street, and what it had meant to them with their mum and dad there. ‘Orrice, couldn’t we go back ’ome?’
‘We best not, sis, unless yer don’t mind goin’ to an orphanage,’ said Orrice. ‘Uncle Perce and Aunt Glad’ll be lookin’ in to take us. ’ere, let’s go to Browning Park. You can sit there and I’ll do more lookin’, and come back with the bread an’ cheese. That’s best, Effel, you ’aving a sit-down and mindin’ the sacks.’
‘A’ right,’ said Effel.
The place they called Browning Park was actually. Browning Gardens, a little oasis of flowering shrubs and bushes, including mulberry bushes. There were a few bench seats, and old people liked to sit there in the summertime. Two were there at the moment, an elderly couple gazing raptly at shrubs beginning to bud. Orrice saw to it that Effel had a bench all to herself, with the sacks and box placed underneath it.
‘I won’t be long, sis.’
‘I’ll scream if you are,’ said Effel.
‘Now yer shouldn’t do fings like screamin’,’ said Orrice, ‘yer gettin’ a big girl these days.’
‘No, I ain’t.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘I ain’t. I’m a little girl, I am. And I’ll scream.’
‘I’ll only buy the bread an’ cheese, and do some more lookin’ on me way,’ said Orrice.
‘A’ right,’ said Effel trustingly.
When Orrice returned half an hour later, carrying a crusty loaf, with some margarine and cheese, Effel was in trouble. The little park was empty of grown-ups, and two boys were worrying the sacks like terriers. The sacks were on the path, and Effel was on the sacks. She was hugging them fiercely. She looked as if she had thrown herself down on top of them to prevent the boys running off with them. Their hands were pulling, jerking and tugging. Effel’s teeth were clenched, her own hands gripping the sacks. Orrice broke into a run. He dropped the loaf, marge and cheese on the bench, and he went for the boys, both a year older than himself.
‘’Ere, ’old orf,’ said one boy, and delivered a swipe that knocked Orrice’s cap off. Orrice straightaway punched him in his breadbasket, and the boy, staggered, expelled a noisy gust of breath. The second boy leapt at Orrice’s back, wound wiry arms around him and wrestled him to the ground. Effel sprang up like a fury. With the ferocity of a sister who had no-one else but her brother, she delivered a succession of rageful kicks. The boy yelled with pain, letting go of Orrice as the first boy re-entered the fray. Orrice was up on his feet in a flash. His dad had taught him the very effective value of a straight right arm. Orrice stuck his out rigidly straight. The first boy ran into the balled fist. It split his lip and dropped him on his bottom.
‘Oh, yer bleedin’ ’ooligan!’ he bawled, as his blood ran.
‘Like it, did yer?’ said Orrice. ‘Yer’ll get two more for luck if yer don’t ’oppit. Effel, leave off kickin’.’
Effel was still applying the toe of her right boot to the grounded boy, who was suffering the indignity of having been put out of action. A kick from Effel had wounded his stomach. Orrice pulled his tigerish sister away.
‘Lemme go!’ she yelled. Her blood was up. Orrice calmed her down. Both boys sat up, one with a sore stomach, the other with a split lip.
‘Oh, yer bleedin’ terror,’ said sore stomach to Effel, ‘yer been an’ near kicked me to death.’
‘Serve yer right,’ said Orrice.
‘An’ look what yer done to Alfie, ’e’s all over blood.’
‘I’m bleedin’ as well,’ groaned split lip.
‘Well, yer shouldn’t hit girls,’ said Orrice, ‘specially not me sister.’
‘Some sister.’ Sore stomach rubbed his bruised middle. ‘She’s a flaming walloper, more like.’
‘Lemme go,’ hissed Effel, ‘I want to kick ’im some more.’
‘Now, sis, you already done ’im in,’ said Orrice.
‘And you done Alfie in,’ said sore stomach.
Alfie had a hand to his mouth. Blood was smearing his chin. Effel, relenting, dug into her coat pocket and produced a grubby handkerchief.
‘’Ere y’ar,’ she said to Alfie, ‘you can use me ’ankie to wipe it wiv, I don’t mind.’
‘I’m honoured, I am, I don’t think,’ said Alfie, but he took the hankie and wiped blood away. ‘Oh, me gawd, me mum’s goin’ to knock me ’ead off when she sees me like this.’
‘All right, ’ave an orange,’ said Orrice. The box was still under the bench. He pulled it out and gave an orange to each boy. A scrap was a scrap in Walworth, and afterwards, in most cases, you shook hands.
‘It ain’t all there,’ said Alfie. ‘Is yourn all there, Eddie?’
‘Mine’s got a lump out,’ said Eddie.
‘I ’ad to cut bad bits off, that’s all,’ said Orrice.
‘A’ right, I got yer,’ said Eddie, and dug his teeth into his fruit. Alfie ate his gingerly, the juice making his split lip smart.
‘Listen,’ said Orrice, ‘wha’d’yer ’it my sister for?’
‘Never touched ’er,’ said Alfie, ‘just wanted a look in them sacks.’
‘You was goin’ to pinch ’em,’ accused Effel.
‘Only goin’ to look,’ said Eddie. ‘They ain’t swag, is they? You doin’ liftin’?’
‘Cheek!’ cried Effel, knowing what lifting meant.
‘Me dad done some liftin’ once,’ said Eddie, ‘up by Norwood, in some posh ’ouse. Only when ’e got the swag ’ome me mum went for ’im with our frying-pan. Laid ’im out, she did. Then she took the swag round to the police station. In a sack it was, just like yourn, an’ she dumped it outside the police station door when no-one was lookin’. Me dad wasn’t hisself for a week. ’E didn’t ’ave no broken bones, but ’e ’ad everything else. Frying-pans don’t ’alf cop yer. It don’t do no good to do any liftin’ in our fam’ly. Is Alfie’s lip goin’ puffy?’
‘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.’
Effel, at the mention of the church, said with all the pathos of a mourning heart, ‘Oh, I wish I was in ’eaven wiv our mum and dad.’
‘Sis, yer shouldn’t say that, Mum an’ Dad wouldn’t want yer to, they wouldn’t want yer to die yet, and you ’ave to die before you can go to ’eaven. Come on, let’s go now. It ain’t far, it’s—’ He stopped again, hearing other footsteps, different in their rhythm. They were the quick footsteps of someone hurrying to get out of the rain.
It was a man. He came out of the gusting rain, and he caught them before they could move as he turned in at the doorway.
‘Good God, what’s this? Who are you, and what’re you doing here?’
Their hearts sank.