Orrice and Effel were still asleep at half-past eight the next morning. Jim, drinking his breakfast cup of tea, sat at the little table, regarding an empty shell, all that was left of his soft-boiled egg. He was not a man of ifs and buts. He gave necessary thought to a problem and came uncompromisingly to a decision. If it did not turn out to be the right one, he was always prepared to take the consequences. He had made an instant decision once, to turn right instead of left in a captured German trench on the Passchendaele Ridge. He had had to accept the consequences of that, an amputated left arm.
Now he came to a decision about Orrice and Effel. For the time being he must take care of them. His landlady, Mrs Palmer, would have to know about them, and he had to give her a story that would stand up. He could not bring himself to send these pathetic kids back to the streets to wander about in hope, dodging coppers, avoiding school, scraping pennies together for their sustenance, sleeping in doorways and looking for a miracle to happen. There were no miracles. Jesus had used them all up in Galilee. There were all sorts of kids in Walworth, rascals, ragamuffins and truants among them. Orrice and Effel, somehow, were not quite like most of them. Their attachment to each other was obvious and touching. He had to take care of them until a better alternative offered itself. But they had to attend school. Education, however elementary, was the most important thing in a child’s life, although few children realized it. Most would happily give it a miss, not knowing how bitterly they might regret it later on.
These two could stay away from school again today, perhaps. But they must go tomorrow. He must speak to Mrs Palmer, and he must go out to look for new lodgings, lodgings for Orrice and Effel as well as himself. What was his weekly income? Together his modest pension and his modest wage amounted to thirty-four shillings a week. He would need two bedrooms, one for Effel and one for Orrice and himself, plus a room for living in and with cooking facilities. He might accordingly have to find as much as ten bob for rent, leaving twenty-four shillings to keep the three of them.
He caught the smell of dates. He got up, looked in a crumpled paper bag and saw a small sticky mess of them. He put them on the fire. They fizzed and sizzled. He looked at the sleeping pair. Orrice’s tousled head was visible. Effel’s tangled hair spilled over the pillow. Their breathing was even. He went down to speak to Mrs Palmer, a woman of fifty-five, her husband a plumber. He advised her that his niece and nephew had come to stay with him for a while. Mrs Palmer knew nothing of the fact that he had no relatives, that he was illegitimate. She had never asked pointed questions or nosy ones, being a woman who took people as she found them.
‘They’ve come ’ere?’ she asked.
‘Unexpectedly, I’ll admit,’ said Jim easily. ‘Trouble in the family, I’m afraid. Not the sort of things friends or relatives want to talk about. You know how it is.’
‘That I do. But ’ere, Mr Cooper?’
‘I couldn’t say no. They were waiting for me when I got back from work last night. On the doorstep. Too shy to knock.’
‘They knew you had late workin’ hours?’ said Mrs Palmer, grey-haired and stout.
‘It gets around families,’ said Jim. ‘All that time in the rain, poor little devils. I told them you’d have made them welcome, that they could have waited in my room, but like most children they’re shy with strangers. They’ll be here only until I get new lodgings, which I will just as soon as I can.’
‘Well, you’re being downright kind to them, I must say,’ said Mrs Palmer, ‘but you do know me brother Wally’s comin’ tomorrow week, like I said? Now his wife’s gone, poor woman, he can’t manage ’is house by hisself, specially as he’s still working, and he fancies just a quiet little room on his own with us, and he gets on well with me husband. I’m sorry I’ve had to ask you to leave according, you’ve been a welcome lodger, but you see how it is, and you’ll need more space, anyways, if your niece and nephew are goin’ to be with you for a while.’
‘I can’t argue with that, Mrs Palmer. Don’t worry now, I’ll have moved out before your brother arrives. But you don’t mind them being in my room for the time being?’
‘But can you manage? A boy and girl and yourself?’ Mrs Palmer obviously wondered how old the girl was.
‘They’re only young,’ said Jim. ‘Ethel’s seven and Horace is ten.’
‘Oh, you can put the girl on me parlour sofa at night till you go,’ offered Mrs Palmer out of consideration for what she thought proper. Many people in Walworth set great store by being proper, never mind the difficulties posed by poverty.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Jim, ‘I’ll tell her.’
‘And I’ll be pleased to keep my eye on them for you when you go off to your work this afternoon.’
‘That’s even kinder,’ said Jim. His hours were from four in the afternoon until midnight, but he was always free to leave in advance if his work was finished. He did not mind the awkward hours. He had no real social commitments. He was wary about women. The closer a relationship with a woman became, the closer the inevitable problems came. He sometimes felt he was simply waiting, that somewhere, sometime, a woman would appear, a woman who did not mind in the least about a man being illegitimate, providing he did not wear devil’s horns. Meanwhile, the local lending library was open to him during the day, and he spent enjoyable hours there. He was also an avid book borrower. He thought public lending libraries constituted one of the finest privileges a civilized country could bestow on its citizens.
‘I’ll give ’em tea this evening, if you like,’ said Mrs Palmer, motherly generosity prompted by her lodger’s Christian outlook towards his troubled relatives. She could never think why some nice woman hadn’t taken him on as a husband. No nice women minded about a kind man only having one arm. ‘I’ll be pleased to make them tea.’
‘Bless you, Mrs Palmer,’ said Jim, who had an easy way of talking to people.
‘My pleasure, I’m sure,’ she said, pleased that Mr Cooper hadn’t made any fuss about accepting notice to quit.
He went back to his room. He made two mugs of hot Bovril, then woke Orrice and Effel. Effel, opening her eyes, gazed up at him in sleepy incomprehension. Orrice came to at once and sat up.
‘Rise and shine, my hearties,’ said Jim briskly, ‘it’s nine o’clock. There’s hot Bovril. That’ll make your noses shine. Then you can wash and dress, and I’ll give you a breakfast of boiled eggs. Effel, kindly state your preference, soft-boiled or hard-boiled?’
Effel pulled the sheet up over her face in a rush of shyness.
‘We both like soft-boiled,’ said Orrice. ‘Crikey, I dunno we ever met anyone more swell, mister.’ He slipped with boyish suppleness from the bed. Jim smiled at the hidden Effel, turned the sheet down and ruffled her hair. Effel blushed. ‘Come on, lazybones,’ he said.
The little clouds of sadness came back to darken her eyes. She and Orrice still didn’t have anyone, just this kind man for a little while. He was going to give them breakfast, and then they would have to start running away all over again, looking for somewhere that would keep the rain off them at night. Effel felt that to get out of the warm bed would bring comfort to an end all too soon. But she got out, the old dressing-gown still wrapped around her slim body. Orrice was gulping his Bovril. She sipped hers with her eyes darting little glances at Jim. The Bovril was flavoursome, the room warm from the fire.
‘Now, my beauties, kindly listen,’ said Jim. ‘Ears to the front, both of you. Stand to attention, Orrice. And you, Effel. That’s it, chests out.’ Effel winced. She didn’t like playing games when she felt sad. ‘Now, until things are properly sorted out, I’m going to look after you. That means—’
‘Eh?’ said Orrice in astonishment. ‘Wha’d’yer mean, mister?’
‘I mean you and Effel can’t be left to wander about,’ said Jim, a figure of adult authority in his trousers, shirt, tie and braces. ‘Can’t be allowed. Not good for you or your futures. Someone’s got to take charge of you. To start with, I’ll take charge. Hands up all those with objections.’
Neither put a hand up, but Effel whispered, ‘Orrice, what’s objections?’
‘It’s like arguin’,’ said Orrice. ‘Mister, yer really goin’ to look after us?’
‘Can’t have you wandering off into nowhere. And it’s back to school tomorrow. You’re excused today, Effel’s got a bone in her leg from too much wandering about yesterday. Now, kids, I want good behaviour, kindness to dogs and cats, no fighting with other kids, and washing behind your ears. Manor Place Public Baths on Fridays, and polished boots and clean hankies every day. No wiping noses on sleeves. Haircut for you sometime, Orrice. Tangles out of your hair today, Effel. Combs and brushes will be used daily. Got all that?’
‘Oh, lummy,’ said Orrice, ‘yer kiddin’ us, mister.’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Jim. ‘Anything wrong with your Bovril, Effel?’
Effel, her mouth open, mug clasped in her hands, was staring up at him with a mixture of awe and disbelief. He was a grown-up of a kind new to her, his soldierly speech commanding, his eyes very direct. She saw the left sleeve of his shirt pinned up. She gulped.
‘Effel don’t always go in for talkin’, mister,’ said Orrice, ‘except when she does yer can’t ’ardly stop her and it don’t ’alf hurt yer ears. Don’t mind ’er now, mister, she likes ’er Bovril all right, don’t yer, Effel?’
‘Ain’t talkin’,’ gulped Effel, and hid her face by ducking her head and drinking her Bovril.
‘See, I told yer, mister,’ said Orrice. ‘Mister, are yer really goin’ to look after us?’ He could not help asking the question again. He was fascinated but cautious. A boy of sense, he knew it was his responsibility to protect his little sister. His mum had liked to settle down with the News of the World on Sunday afternoons, and would say things like, ‘Well, yer’ll never believe this,’ to his dad. Sometimes what she couldn’t believe seemed to Orrice to have something to do with girls disappearing and ending up in a Turkish slave market where sultans bought them. Orrice didn’t want Effel being bought by any sultan.
Jim noted the boy’s serious expression.
‘Yes, I really am going to look after the pair of you, Orrice. Can’t have you spending your nights on rainy doorsteps. Can’t have you taken off to an orphanage unless there’s no alternative. I think you’re asking if you can trust me.’ Jim smiled. ‘Good question, Orrice. Well, cross my heart, if I can trust you and Effel to keep your boots polished, your hair combed and your ears washed, you can trust me to look after you. Hold on, we’d better have your opinions. How d’you feel, the two of you, about living with me until your ship comes home? You’re entitled to your say.’
Orrice looked at Effel. Effel darted an upward glance at Jim. She edged up on Orrice and nodded vigorously.
‘She likes yer, mister,’ said Orrice. In his straightforward way, he added, ‘I likes yer too.’
‘Good,’ said Jim briskly. ‘Right, then, that’s settled. I’ll be obliged if you’ll be a credit to your mum and dad.’ Effel gulped again. ‘That hurts a little, Effel? But you’ll want to talk about them sometime soon, when it doesn’t hurt so much, and you can always talk to me. Now, between us and other people, I’m your uncle and you’re my niece and nephew. That’s going to save people asking questions. My landlady knows you’re here. I’ve told her you’re staying with me for a while. Understand?’
‘Yes, mister,’ said Orrice, quick on the uptake.
‘Not mister, Orrice. Uncle. Uncle Jim. Right? Right, Effel?’
Effel looked at the dressing-gown heaped around her feet and whispered, ‘Yes.’
‘I’ll boil your eggs now, and you can wash and dress afterwards.’ Jim lit the gas ring, poured water into a little tin saucepan and put it on. ‘You can take your time, and don’t forget to comb and brush your hair. I’ll be going out. I have to call on your Aunt Gladys and let her know what’s happening.’
‘Oh, cripes,’ said Orrice, ‘she’ll want to take us to the orphanage.’
‘Well, she’ll have found you and Effel are missing, but I don’t think she’ll have gone to the police yet. I think she’ll call at your home again sometime today before she does that. She’ll feel it’s her duty to go to the police eventually. I shall have to comb and brush my own hair, put my best suit on and be nice to her. Wait a moment, you’ll both have to come with me, of course.’
‘Ain’t goin’,’ breathed Effel.
‘Who said that?’ asked Jim, popping the eggs gently in.
‘Effel said it,’ answered up Orrice. ‘Effel, we got to do what ’e says.’
‘Ain’t goin’,’ said Effel.
‘Well, when she’s washed and dressed, Orrice, put her in one of those sacks and we’ll carry her,’ said Jim.
‘All right,’ said Orrice.
‘No, I ain’t goin’ in that,’ said Effel, ‘I’ll be squeezed to me death, I will. Ain’t right, puttin’ little girls in sacks.’
‘I fink we got a problem with Effel, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice solemnly.
‘Ain’t goin’ in no sacks,’ said Effel.
‘More comfortable on two legs,’ said Jim, timing the eggs.
‘A’ right,’ said Effel.
That settled, Jim served them a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs with slices of bread and margarine. Effel and Orrice sat down at the little table and ate with the healthy appetites of a girl and boy relieved of the worst consequences of their bereavement. Afterwards, Jim left them to wash at the handbasin that Mr Palmer, a plumber, had installed in the upstairs lavatory, while he went out to do a little shopping.
‘Effel, yer got to.’
‘Ain’t got to,’ said Effel. ‘Won’t.’
‘I’ll punch yer,’ said Orrice.
‘I’ll kick yer,’ said Effel.
‘’E won’t be yer uncle if yer don’t get yer ’air combed.’
‘Yes, ’e will, ’e said so.’
‘Only if yer got them tangles out.’
‘Won’t,’ said Effel, ‘it ’urts.’
‘Well, mine ’urt, but I still combed it.’
‘You got a boy’s ’ead,’ said Effel.
‘What’s the difference, yer soppy date?’ asked Orrice.
‘Made of wood, that’s what,’ said Effel. ‘Wood don’t ’urt like a girl’s ’ead does.’
‘Effel, yer playing up,’ said Orrice, ‘I betcher ’e ain’t goin’ to like it.’
‘Oh, a’ right,’ said Effel, ‘you do it for me.’
‘Me? Comb yer ’air?’
‘Do it,’ said Effel, and sat down on a chair.
‘Women,’ said Orrice disgustedly, but he picked up the comb and went to work. Effel gave tight little yells. The comb tugged and pulled. ‘Crikey, what yer got on yer ’ead, anyway?’ asked Orrice. ‘Barbed wire? I’ll do me ’and an injury, I will.’
‘Yer pulling me ’ead off,’ gasped Effel.
‘Yer won’t miss it,’ said Orrice, ‘it ain’t been no good to yer. Girl’s don’t need to ’ave ’eads really. There’s nuffink in ’em.’
‘Hate yer,’ said Effel. ‘Want me mum, I do.’
‘Don’t say fings like that, sis.’ Orrice dragged the comb through a tangled strand. ‘It don’t do no good.’
‘No, a’ right,’ said Effel, and sighed. The comb wrestled with the strand. She gritted her teeth, then said, ‘Orrice, where’s ’e got to? Ain’t ’e comin’ back?’
‘Our new uncle?’
‘Yes, ’im. Oh, yer pullin’ me ’air out—’ Effel stopped as the door opened and Jim came in, a brown paper carrier bag in his hand.
‘A little food for meals,’ he said. He looked at Effel. She blushed and dropped her head, the comb standing stiffly in her thick hair. Jim thought that in her dyed black frock, with her hair disordered, she looked a quaint little thing. ‘Orrice, what’s happened to Effel’s hair?’
‘I been trying to comb it,’ said Orrice.
‘Looks like a haystack,’ said Jim.
‘There y’ar, told yer, Effel,’ said Orrice.
‘Didn’t,’ said Effel, eyeing Jim uncertainly.
‘We’ll see to it,’ said Jim. ‘First, let’s tidy up. Orrice, fill the water jug from the tap in the lav. Effel, put all the breakfast things in that bowl next to the gas ring.’
Effel, about to say she wasn’t going to, said instead, ‘Me?’
‘There’s a good girl,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll make the bed. What’s that?’ He pointed to a shapeless heap on the floor.
‘It’s Effel’s coat,’ said Orrice, on his way out with the pitcher.
‘Effel?’ said Jim, turning the pillows and shaking them.
‘Fell orf the chair,’ said Effel.
‘It’s that kind of coat, is it? Pick it up and hand it to me.’ Effel picked the coat up and held it out. He took it from her and addressed it. ‘Pay attention, coat. Whenever Effel hangs you up or folds you over a chair, kindly don’t fall off and look untidy, or you’ll be shot at dawn.’
Effel looked at him, trying to make him out, trying to understand how he could be an uncle to her and Orrice, and if he would be a bit grumpy with them. She watched him hang the coat up, then in a slightly reluctant way she began to collect the breakfast things for washing-up. Her mum and dad had never asked her to do things like that. Orrice came back with the pitcher, filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring.
‘I’ll do the washin’-up, if yer like, Uncle Jim,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Jim, the bed made. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘morning inspection. Let’s have a look at the two of you.’ He inspected their faces. ‘Good.’ He inspected their ears. ‘Fairly good. Now for Effel’s haystack.’ He contemplated the problem of her hair. He was totally a beginner at this sort of thing, and he had no real idea of what Effel and Orrice wanted of him in the way of guardianship. Kindness, naturally. What else? He knew that as a young boy he himself had often longed for simple fun. Simple fun didn’t happen too often at orphanages. He knew what he wanted from Effel and Orrice. Cleanliness, a reasonable amount of obedience, and a commendable amount of self-respect. He couldn’t let them run wild, however engaging they might be. ‘Right, you do the washing-up, Orrice, and I’ll mount an attack on Effel’s haystack.’
Effel gritted her teeth as he began work with the comb. He drew it through the ends of tangled strands, and the tangles gave way. The comb moved further up. Effel bore it mutinously but bravely. Her hair began to feel soft to the comb, to run through the teeth with faint whispers. The strands eventually hung tidily over her neck. Jim thought about the necessity of new lodgings. He had made two calls while he was out, but neither had opened up the possibility of three rooms. It was not going to be as easy as renting one room or two. Not many households had three rooms to offer. Three rooms meant the whole of the upstairs in most cases. He had better get a move on.
Effel’s hair shone. It ran freely and took the comb freely. Its natural little waves rippled. It was, however, in need of a wash. So, probably, was Orrice’s. It was difficult for any kids to keep clean in Walworth, and the sooty atmosphere was no respecter of hair. But there were advantages in living in the area. There were a large number of streets in which the compact terraced houses, built while Queen Victoria was still alive, offered homely accommodation to people able to afford the very reasonable rents. Also, living was cheap, the East Street market a boon. A seasonal glut of vegetables or fruit could mean giveaway prices. Lastly, the people, with few exceptions, had hearts of gold. So one put up with the dust of summer and the soot of winter.
Orrice, washing-up done, took a look at his sister’s hair.
‘Crikey,’ he said, ‘yer got proper hair, Effel, yer look like a girl.’
‘I’ll kick you,’ muttered Effel.
‘No kicking,’ said Jim, ‘it’s a punishable offence.’
‘Cor, a wallopin’, I bet,’ said Orrice.
‘I ain’t goin’ to be walloped,’ said Effel.
‘Probably no sugar in your tea,’ said Jim.
Effel, looking down at her feet, said, ‘What’s me ’air like?’
Jim moved behind her, placed his hand on her ribs and lifted her until she could see herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. He was aware of her young body stiffening in his hold. He set her down.
‘How’s that?’ he asked lightly.
‘It’s a’ right,’ said Effel. The look of her hair had actually been a surprise to her, but she was guarded this morning in her attitude towards him. He took some new yellow ribbon from the carrier bag, cut a length with scissors and tied it round her hair, Orrice in wonder that he did it with only one hand, even making a bow.
‘Right,’ said Jim, ‘now we’re going out to call on your Aunt Gladys, and then invite prospective landladies to see what my niece and nephew look like with clean faces, clean ears and combed hair. Hats on. No coats. It’s a nice day. Good grief, that’s a hat, Effel?’ He regarded the battered boater with a smile. In the morning light it was his first real look at it. It sat a little tiredly on Effel’s head. ‘Yes, very nice, Effel, but what’s that on your mop, Orrice?’ Orrice looked all huge cap and no eyes.
‘It’s me cap,’ he said, ‘me dad give it me last year, ’e didn’t want it no more.’
‘I see, off we go, then,’ said Jim: He led the way out, Orrice closing the door behind them. They went down the stairs. Mrs Palmer appeared in the little passage.
‘Morning, Mr Cooper, these children’s your niece and nephew?’ she enquired.
‘This is Ethel, and that’s Horace,’ said Jim.
‘My, I never seen cleaner faces,’ smiled Mrs Palmer. But she thought their parents must be very poor, because their clothes were pitifully shabby. Still, clean faces could count for more than clothes. ‘They look sweet, Mr Cooper.’
Orrice turned pink under his cap. Fancy being called sweet. And when he was a growing boy and all.
‘Fairly tolerable handfuls, Mrs Palmer,’ said Jim, ‘and I’m taking them out to help me search for new lodgings.’
‘Oh, yes, and I got some names and addresses for you,’ she said. ‘They’re people that’s got rooms to let.’ She pulled a piece of paper from her apron pocket and gave it to Jim.
‘Much obliged,’ he said. ‘Thanks. Come on, kids.’
They left the house, with Orrice muttering, ‘I’m a boy, I am. I ‘ope she don’t go tellin’ everyone I’m sweet, ’cos I ain’t. And I dunno you could say Effel is.’
‘Oh, Effel will pass with a push,’ said Jim. He offered the little girl his hand as they were about to cross Walworth Road. Effel made instinctively to take it, then drew back. She still wasn’t sure of things, nor of him. He wasn’t her dad, nor like her dad.
He took them to Kennington, Orrice directing him to Aunt Glad’s house. Brother and sister walked down the street a little way and awaited the outcome of the interview.
Aunt Glad, just about to make another trip to Deacon Street in the hope of finding the missing orphans there, answered a knock on her door. A gentleman of kindness smiled at her and lifted his hat. She noted his lost arm.
‘Good morning,’ said Jim, ‘are you Mrs Williams, Mrs Gladys Williams?’
‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Aunt Glad, taken with his politeness. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr—?’
‘Cooper, Jim Cooper. I’ve come about your niece and nephew, Ethel and Horace Withers.’
‘Oh, lor’ – oh, they’re all right, ain’t they?’ Aunt Glad’s worry over them leapt into apprenhension. She associated Jim’s civility with authority. Something had happened to Orrice and Effel. ‘They’ve not ’ad an accident, ’ave they?’
‘No, nothing like that, Mrs Williams, nothing at all to worry about.’ Jim was reassuring.
‘But I am worried, I been thinkin’ about goin’ to the police, you’ve got to tell me if they’re all right.’
‘They are. Could I talk to you? Have you got time? The children spoke well of you.’
‘Oh, come in, come in,’ said Aunt Glad. She took him into her parlour, traditionally crowded with furniture, and the windows hung with old lace curtains. ‘I was just goin’ to Deacon Street to look for them. Me and me ‘ubby went the other night when they didn’t come back ’ere for the supper I ’ad ready for them. We couldn’t ’ardly believe the note Orrice left, sayin’ they were goin’ to Southend and ’oping to get a boat to Australia. Oh, them poor loves, thinkin’ Uncle Perce an’ me only wanted to get rid of them.’
‘No, they didn’t think that, Mrs Williams,’ said Jim, ‘they simply didn’t want to be a trouble to you.’
‘Do sit down, I’m sure,’ said Aunt Glad, uncertain about him, but liking his open and friendly look. Authority didn’t usually look friendly, nor have a missing arm. ‘How did you know about them, ’ave you got them at a police station somewhere?’
Jim, seated, carefully explained the position, and gave her details of what had befallen her niece and nephew.
‘They’re fine now, Mrs Williams.’
Astonished, Aunt Glad said, ‘You took them in, Mr Cooper?’
‘It seemed the best thing to do,’ said Jim. ‘Orrice thought, of course, that his little note to you would relieve you of worry. Kids think in simple terms, I suppose. He thought running away would be a very simple solution. Mrs Williams, I’ll come to the point. I’ve no family myself, I’m a bachelor relying on kind landladies to put me up, and as I’ll soon be moving to new lodgings, with room for the children, I’m quite willing to look after them until such time as things might be better for you and your husband, when you might want to look after them yourselves.’
‘Well, bless me soul,’ said Aunt Glad in new astonishment, and eyed him searchingly. She couldn’t see anything about his looks or his appearance that made her feel he was a dubious piece of work. And she was sensible enough to realize that if he had anything shifty or underhand in mind, then he wouldn’t have come to see her. ‘Well, I don’t know as I could rightly say, Mr Cooper, I can’t think at the moment what to say at all.’ She gave him another look. ‘You been in the war, Mr Cooper?’
‘In the infantry,’ said Jim.
‘It cost you yer arm,’ said Aunt Glad.
‘It wouldn’t have been any good to me the way it was at the time.’
Out of a mixture of worry, relief and uncertainty, came a little smile from Aunt Glad. Perce had a bit of a sense of humour himself, he didn’t let things get him down any more than this man with the nice kind eyes did.
‘’Ave you got a decent job?’ she asked.
‘With the United Kingdom Club,’ said Jim, although he didn’t know if she would think kitchen work decent for a man.
‘I don’t know if it would be all right, a man by hisself lookin’ after a boy an’ girl, I just don’t know. I just know me and me ’usband couldn’t be sure we could bring them up proper ’ere, we got five of our own. If we ’ad more room and a bit more money comin’ in – well, I don’t want anyone to think we don’t care for Orrice and Effel—’
‘It’s impossible for you, Mrs Williams,’ said Jim, ‘but it’s not for me. I’d like to give it a go.’ He wondered if he wasn’t being daft. Perhaps he was. But it wasn’t such a bad thing, living for a couple of kids instead of just for himself. ‘I’ll leave it to you and your husband, I’ll understand whatever decision you make.’
‘Yes, I’ll ’ave to talk to ’im,’ said Aunt Glad. ‘Mr Cooper, it’ll be ’ard for you, won’t it, tryin’ to manage two children, an’ you sore disabled?’
‘Oh, I’m luckier than some,’ said Jim, ‘and I think I could manage. Besides, it’s not good for any of us to live too long on our own. You get set in your ways, and selfish. I’ll be a crochety old hermit by the time I’m forty, unless I change my ways. Looking after Ethel and Horace would be a great help.’ His smile made him look as if he was mildly laughing at himself. He had, in fact, escaped the gloom and misery of becoming a soured man. His inherent equability enabled him to dwell more on the good things of life than the bad.
‘Well, I got to say that though I’ve only just met you, I’m sure you won’t ever get crochety, Mr Cooper,’ said Aunt Glad with a surprisingly nice smile. ‘You’ve got to be a good man to offer a home to Orrice and Effel, and if it turned out all right, me an’ me ’usband would ’ave cause to be thankful to yer. Yes, I’ll speak to ’im, but I’d ’ave to know a bit more about you first.’
‘You’re entitled to know,’ said Jim. ‘My parents are dead, unfortunately, but I’ve grandparents still alive down in Hampshire.’ That was pure wishful thinking, of course, born of the thought of a hopeful journey to his mother’s birthplace one day. ‘My job at the United Kingdom Club is steady—’
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ said Aunt Glad.
‘It makes for steady living,’ said Jim. ‘And I’m lodging with Mr and Mrs Palmer at sixteen Morecambe Street in Walworth. Until I move, that is. I’ll let you know my new address. I’d make sure, of course, that the children get their schooling and behave themselves.’
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ said Aunt Glad again. She liked him, and she liked the possibility that Orrice and Effel would have someone who’d care for them and be kind to them. ‘Effel’s a bit funny at times, when she won’t talk to no-one except ’er brother. She follers ’im about like ’is own shadow.’
‘Engaging,’ smiled Jim.
‘Mind, as well as ’aving to speak to me ’usband, I’d best ’ave a talk with Orrice and Effel too. Are they at your lodgings, Mr Cooper?’ Impressed though she was by his looks and manner, Aunt Glad knew the matter could go no further unless Orrice and Effel were both in favour. And Effel was quite likely to want a mother, not a father.
‘They’re only down the road, Mrs Williams,’ said Jim. ‘They’re waiting. I thought it best for you and me to have this little chat before bringing them to your door.’ He did not need to put on an act. He was a friendly man of naturally friendly conversation. He spoke easily to the children’s aunt, and naturally. ‘I’ll call them.’ He got up and went to the front door, opened it and stepped outside. There they were, waiting a little way down the street. He signalled to them. Orrice began to run. Effel yelled in a tantrum and stayed where she was. Orrice stopped, turned and went back to her. She aimed a kick at him. Orrice, quite used to that, dodged it, took her by the hand and brought her.
‘Effel’s playing up,’ he said.
‘You run orf wivout me,’ said Effel.
‘Come on,’ said Jim, ‘your aunt’s waiting to find out if you want to live with me.’
Aunt Glad very much wanted to find that out. Orrice made no bones about being affirmative, and accepted his aunt’s reproach for running away and giving her and Uncle Perce more worry. Effel stood on one leg, plucked at her frock, stood on two legs, darted uncertain glances and finally said, ‘Ain’t saying.’
‘Effel?’ said Aunt Glad.
‘Effel, you got to say,’ complained Orrice.
‘No, I ain’t,’ said Effel, looking at her feet.
‘Well, this don’t look very ’appy, Mr Cooper,’ sighed Aunt Glad. She knew she simply couldn’t let Orrice and Effel live with a man who was really a stranger unless they were both happy about it.
‘Oh, come on, Effel, yer daft date,’ said Orrice fretfully.
‘Effel, you only need to say yes or no, love,’ said Aunt Glad kindly, ‘yer Uncle Perce an’ me will understand.’
‘Want to go wiv Orrice,’ muttered Effel.
‘I’m goin’ wiv Mr Cooper,’ said Orrice determinedly.
‘A’ right,’ said Effel, still looking at her feet.
‘Effel, d’you mean you’d like to ’ave Mr Cooper look after you?’ asked Aunt Glad.
‘A’ right,’ said Effel.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Jim gently.
‘Yes, a’ right,’ said Effel, and in shyness stood on one leg again.
‘Well, Mr Cooper, I best speak to me ’usband, and I expect he’ll come round an’ see you this evening,’ said Aunt Glad.
‘D’you think he’d call at the United Kingdom Club?’ asked Jim. ‘I’ll be at work there this evening. My landlady will be keeping an eye on the children.’
‘Me ’usband won’t mind seein’ you there,’ said Aunt Glad. A smile flickered. She looked at Orrice and Effel. ‘There, lovies, p’raps it’s goin’ to turn out all right for you. We’ll see what yer Uncle Perce says.’
‘Fanks ever so much, Aunt Glad,’ said Orrice. He thought. ‘We likes Mr Cooper. Don’t we, sis?’
‘Ain’t saying,’ said Effel.
‘Aunt Glad, I’m goin’ to ’ave to belt Effel if she don’t stop playing up,’ said Orrice.
‘No belting, Orrice,’ said Jim.
Aunt Glad smiled.
After they had gone, she put on her hat and coat, and went to call on Mrs Palmer of sixteen Morecambe Street, Walworth. What she was told by Mrs Palmer about Mr Cooper put her mind completely at rest, and she fully understood why he had referred to the children as his niece and nephew. She felt she could be recommendable when speaking to her husband.
Uncle Perce received the news with interest and optimism. Still, he’d better go and see the bloke. Aunt Glad said Mr Cooper wasn’t a bloke, he was a gent and a soldier of the war who’d lost his left arm. Don’t you go throwing your weight about when you see him, all you got to do is talk to him sensible, and man to man, and see if you think we’d be right to let him have Orrice and Effel. Have you got that, Percy Williams? Uncle Perce said he’d got it all right, in his earhole. Aunt Glad said I’ll give you earhole. Her eldest boy Johnny cut in to say his dad was a barmy comic. Aunt Glad, rounding on her son, said don’t you talk about your father like that or I’ll box your ears.
Acceptable family ructions prevailed.