Jim had some hopeful prospects for lodgings, at the addresses given to him by Mrs Palmer. He was committed to guardianship now. Not by law, by promise. When he reached Walworth Road, he did not offer to take Effel’s hand. Effel, he knew, was going to make up her own mind about what kind of relationship she wanted with him. But as he crossed the busy road with her and Orrice, he placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.
Reaching Browning Street, he said, ‘Anyone tired?’
‘Not me,’ said Orrice, thinking his mum and dad would be pleased for him and Effel because they’d found a new uncle. ‘You tired, sis?’
‘Course not,’ said Effel, who had followed her brother on foot all the way to Ruskin Park more than once.
‘Right,’ said Jim, ‘on we go then, footsloggers, to Rodney Road.’
Orrice went happily, Effel with her old boater bobbing. Today was a different day for them. Yesterday had been mournful, offset only by desperate little hopes. Today they had someone who was going to keep them out of an orphanage, someone who had a funny way of talking to them and a smile in his eyes. Orrice was responsive, Effel still shy and cautious. The images of their mum and dad were still with them, trapped in their grieving minds, but hopes for a life acceptable without their parents were no longer desperate. They did not have to be nervous of people looking nor of policemen stopping them and asking them questions. They could leave everything to the man who had only one arm and called himself their Uncle Jim.
‘Does it ’urt, please?’ It was a sudden impulsive question from Effel as they walked towards Brandon Street, where Samuel Peabody, American philanthropist, had erected a block of flats for poor people.
‘Does what hurt?’ asked Jim. ‘Looking for lodgings?’
‘I fink she means yer arm, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice.
‘Oh, that.’ Jim smiled. ‘It hurt at the time, it doesn’t hurt now.’
‘Why?’ asked Effel.
‘Well, because it’s better than it was,’ said Jim.
‘Is it nice being better?’ asked Effel.
‘Course it is, yer daft lump,’ said Orrice. ‘I dunno, the questions she asks. We’re best off, Uncle, when she ain’t talkin’.’
‘Why?’ asked Effel.
‘Why d’yer keep askin’ why?’ asked Orrice.
‘’Cos I do, that’s why,’ said Effel.
They crossed Brandon Street into Stead Street. This was the poorer quarter of Walworth, where people were hard put to rise above the breadline. Parish relief was an indispensable part of existence for many families here. Lucky was any family that had a steady and stalwart breadwinner. And such families moved as soon as they could to the neater, better-looking streets, such as those near the town hall like Wansey Street, Ethel Street and Larcom Street. Jim knew, however, that the cockneys never wholly lost their earthy humour or their spirit of defiance. There were exceptions, of course, there were those who descended to drinking cheap methylated spirits. That took them fast to delirium and the grave.
Reaching Rodney Road, with its mixture of dwellings, some good in stolid Victorian fashion and some indifferent, Jim continued on with his foundlings. He thought of them as his foundlings, having discovered them when they were newly orphaned.
‘Head up, Effel. Step smartly there, Orrice. Eyes open for number twenty-one, in which resides Mrs Tompkins, according to Mrs Palmer.’
‘Yer comical, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice.
‘Hope not,’ said Jim. ‘Won’t do for your guardian to be comical.’
‘Why?’ asked Effel.
‘Oh, lor’, she’s off,’ said Orrice.
‘I likes comical,’ said Effel.
‘All right, I’ll do comical faces for you at Christmas,’ said Jim. ‘Here we are, number twenty-one. Face still clean, Effel? Good. Cap on straight, Orrice? Good. But where’s your face?’
‘Under me cap,’ said Orrice.
‘Thought you’d lost it,’ said Jim. Effel actually giggled. ‘Knock, Orrice,’ said Jim.
Orrice reached for the knocker and thumped it. The door opened almost at once. A long-limbed, gawky-looking woman, calico apron over her black skirt and grey blouse, regarded Orrice severely.
‘Young man, you after bashin’ me door down?’ she asked, and Effel hid herself behind Jim.
‘I only knocked, missus, honest,’ said Orrice, ‘but yer get some knockers that’s a bit ’ard on a door. Course, yer don’t always know, if it’s yer first time of knockin’.’
‘Don’t give me no lip,’ said the woman. ‘Like a roll of thunder, it was, and near shook the roof orf me ’ouse.’ She eyed Jim in curiosity.
‘Mrs Tompkins?’ he said.
‘I’m her.’
‘I understand you’ve got rooms to let.’
‘So I have. Who might you be enquiring on account of, may I ask?’
‘Self and the children,’ said Jim.
‘No children,’ said Mrs Tompkins, ‘got enough of me own. There’s two rooms for a single gent. No children, specially not the kind that go bashin’ doors in.’
‘Well, sorry you’ve been troubled,’ said Jim.
‘It’s no trouble, mister, it’s just how it is.’
‘Good morning,’ said Jim.
‘Pity you’re not a single gent,’ said the woman. ‘You got nice looks.’
‘You’re not bad yourself,’ said Jim. ‘Come on, kids.’ He led them away.
Effel said, ‘Is Orrice a basher?’
‘Well, he was to Mrs Tompkins.’
‘’E better not bash me,’ said Effel, ‘I’ll kick ’im if ’e does.’
‘No bashing or kicking,’ said Jim, and consulted Mrs Palmer’s little list. ‘Right, Chatham Street next. That’s where a few Billingsgate porters hang out. Orrice, if you’ve got some cotton wool on you, fill Effel’s ears with it.’
‘What’s cotton wool?’ asked Effel.
‘Wadding, yer date,’ said Orrice.
‘I ain’t got earache,’ said Effel.
‘You might have, if any of the porters are home from their work,’ said Jim. ‘We’ll chance it.’
They walked the short distance to Chatham Street, the day crisply bright. Some women were gossiping at open doors. A man was sitting on a doorstep smoking a clay pipe. He watched Jim’s approach.
‘I got one like that, mate,’ he said, pointing his pipe at Jim’s empty sleeve.
‘If you want a pair, you can have mine,’ said Jim, ‘I never use it.’
The sitting man, one-armed, bellowed with laughter and roared a few boisterous words after Jim and the kids. Orrice whistled in amazement.
‘Cor, I ain’t ’eard many like that,’ he said.
Two gossiping women eyed the trio. Jim was in search of number fifteen.
‘’Ello, ducks,’ said one, ‘yer got kids, I see, so what yer lookin’ for down ’ere, yer fairy godmother? Yer can ’ave me, if yer like, I got ’alf an hour to spare.’ Her companion shrieked raucously.
‘I’m a bit busy at the moment,’ said Jim, passing them by, ‘I’ll drop in later.’
Effel gasped. ‘Oh, you ain’t goin’ to leave us, are yer, mister?’
‘It was just a joke, Effel,’ said Jim.
‘Don’t like it ’ere,’ said Effel.
‘Good point, Effel. We’ll give it a miss. Let’s see.’ He stopped to look at the list again, at the last address. The two women called, loudly encouraging him to make up his mind. ‘Right, off we go again, Effel. Dawes Street, Orrice. Other side of East Street. Wait.’ He checked the time by his pocket watch. ‘Gone twelve, d’you know that? Shall we feed our faces first. What d’you say?’
‘I’m ’ungry, please,’ said Effel.
‘Uncle Jim, I got to tell yer, I’m near faint,’ said Orrice.
‘We’d better cure that,’ said Jim, and walked on with them.
‘Effel ’ad stomach rumbles yesterday,’ said Orrice.
‘Didn’t,’ protested Effel.
‘Yes, yer did, and in the market too. Sounded like a train was comin’.’
‘Didn’t,’ said Effel.
‘Yes, it did,’ said Orrice, ‘and through a tunnel too. Still, she ain’t bad for a girl, Uncle.’
‘No, you’re not at all bad, are you, Effel?’ said Jim.
Effel, thinking about that, said, ‘I’m ’ungry.’
‘How about eggs and bacon?’ asked Jim.
‘Oh, crikey, not ’alf,’ said Orrice. ‘Effel likes eggs an’ bacon, don’t yer, sis?’
‘Want a piggy-back,’ said Effel.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Orrice. They stopped. ‘Come on up, then.’
Effel, suddenly springy, leapt on to her brother’s back. Orrice hoisted her, wound his arms around her legs, and carried her.
‘On to eggs and bacon, then,’ said Jim.
‘Uncle Jim, we got money of our own, like I told yer,’ said Orrice.
‘We’ll save that,’ said Jim, ‘for birthdays and Christmas.’
‘An’ rainy days, like me dad used to say,’ said Effel, jigging on her brother’s back.
‘Crikey, she’s talkin’,’ said Orrice.
Toni’s Refreshments beckoned the hungry. It was half-full at the moment. It would be quite full by one, customers dining on eggs and bacon and a variety of sandwiches, the latter all made with new, crusty bread. Maria was busy slicing a loaf, Toni busy cooking on gas rings. He dished up bacon with two fried eggs, plus bread and butter, to a stallholder. Following which, his expressive eyes popped as they beheld a young boy and a small girl entering in company with Jim Cooper. Jim took them to a table, then came to the counter.
‘Kids,’ said Toni, ‘I don’t-a believe it, not again. What-a you doing with them, Jim?’
‘They’re mine,’ said Jim.
‘No, no,’ said Toni, ‘not them kids. Look at that, would you believe?’
Orrice was waving to Maria. Maria smiled and waved back.
‘Orphans,’ said Jim. ‘My niece and nephew.’
‘Mama mia,’ said Toni, ‘them kids?’
‘They’re all right,’ said Jim. ‘Eggs and bacon three times, Toni, with bread and butter.’
‘Crazy country,’ said Toni, putting rashers into the pan. ‘Just-a like Italy. Always kids. Good luck, eh?’
‘We all need a bit,’ said Jim.
When the plates were set in front of Orrice and Effel, they stared at the food in delight. There was also a glass of fizzy lemonade each.
‘Fank yer,’ said Orrice from his heart. Effel mumbled her gratitude. Jim returned to the counter.
‘Orrice,’ whispered Effel, picking up her knife and fork, ‘d’you fink ’e might get grumpy wiv us sometimes?’
‘Well, he ain’t got grumpy yet,’ said Orrice, ‘and I like ’im.’
Jim came back with his own meal.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘for what we are about to receive—?’
‘May the Lord make us truly fankful,’ said Orrice.
‘You already started,’ whispered Effel.
‘Everyone start,’ said Jim.
Effel ate a mouthful of bread and butter and bacon, then took a rapturous swallow of the fizzy lemonade. Her stomach gurgled and a little burp arrived. She went fiery red.
‘Train’s comin’ through the tunnel again,’ said Orrice. Effel’s stomach gave another gurgle. ‘It’s got stuck in the tunnel. That’s what,’ said Orrice.
‘It ain’t, it ain’t,’ said Effel, and cast an embarrassed glance at Jim. He winked.
Effel ducked her head.
The homely-looking woman at the door of her house in Dawes Street said apologetically, ‘I’m that sorry, but it’s only one room. It’s got a gas ring and a fireplace, but it’s just the one room, and we had a single gentleman in mind.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Jim, Orrice beside him, and Effel behind Orrice. Out of curiosity, he asked, ‘Don’t you sometimes have single ladies in mind?’ There were thousands of single ladies, robbed by the huge casualties of the war.
‘Oh, single gents don’t get as fussy as single ladies.’
‘I see,’ said Jim. ‘Well, thank you. Come on, kids.’
‘Oh, just a minute, mister,’ said the homely woman. ‘I just remembered, I heard tell from a friend of mine that an acquaintance of hers has got rooms goin’ in Wansey Street. That’s up by the town hall. You could try there. It’s number nineteen, name of Pilgrim.’
‘Pilgrim?’
‘That’s right. Good luck.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jim, and because the matter of suitable lodgings was important and pressing, he set off with Effel and Orrice for one more call. ‘Anyone tired yet?’
‘I ain’t,’ said Orrice.
‘I’m a bit,’ said Effel.
‘All right,’ said Jim, ‘we’ll go back home and Effel can have forty winks. You can keep an eye on her, Orrice, while I go to Wansey Street.’
‘I s’pose that’s best,’ said Orrice, who would have preferred to keep going the rounds.
‘Ain’t goin’,’ muttered Effel.
‘Ain’t goin’ where?’ asked Orrice.
‘Ain’t goin’ where ’e said,’ muttered Effel.
‘Oh, dearie me, oh, bless me soul,’ said Orrice pityingly, ‘where are yer goin’, then?’
‘Wansey Street,’ said Effel.
‘I dunno we’re ever goin’ to make anyfing of Effel, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice, as they crossed the market into Orb Street. ‘First she says she ain’t goin’, then she says she is. Women, I dunno.’
‘Changed me mind,’ mumbled Effel.
‘Women,’ said Jim, and laughed. He had a purpose in all this walking. It kept these two active, it kept them from sitting and grieving. He knew their sadness was still present. It showed in Effel’s little moments of quietness, and in Orrice sometimes saying, ‘Me dad—’ and then stopping. Being out and about was, thought Jim, the best thing for them at the moment.
Wansey Street, next to the town hall, had a distinctly superior look, the terraced houses well-kept, stone window sills a clean light brown, polished windows dancing with light in the April sunshine.
‘Well, I dunno, Uncle, do you?’ said Orrice. ‘I dunno it ain’t a bit too respectable.’
‘You’re respectable, Orrice. So is Effel.’ Jim smiled. ‘Neither of you have been nicked for pinching or disturbing the peace, have you?’
‘What, me and Effel?’ said Orrice.
‘You haven’t. Good,’ said Jim. ‘And you’ve both been kind to old ladies, I’m sure.’
‘What old ladies?’ asked Orrice, looking at a middle-aged lady crossing the street. Her respectability was very evident. She was carrying a rolled umbrella, and had a crisp feather in her hat. Crikey, he thought, if they came to live here, would Effel have to wear a feather in her boater? It wouldn’t last long, she’d tease cats with it.
‘I think we’ll all pass with a push,’ said Jim. Number nineteen had iron railings and two steps. He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He tried a third knock in hope. There was no response.
‘They’re out, that’s what,’ said Orrice.
‘Why?’ asked Effel, who thought they ought to be in.
‘Now ’ow do I know?’ said Orrice. ‘They got to be out or they’d come and answer.’
‘We’ll call again,’ said Jim. ‘But back home now. I have to leave at half-past three for my work. Mrs Palmer’s going to treat you to tea later, and then I want you early to bed, my beauties. Have you got toothbrushes?’
‘We don’t ’ave none of them,’ said Orrice, ‘we got socks and uvver fings, we ain’t got no toothbrushes.’
‘That’s got to be put right,’ said Jim, walking them home, ‘or all Effel’s teeth will drop out before she’s ten. So will yours, before you’re twelve.’
‘All of ’em?’ said Orrice.
‘Every one,’ said Jim.
‘Crikey, Effel,’ said Orrice, ‘yer’ll be a toothless ’ag like old Ma Ricket when yer ten.’
‘Course I won’t,’ said Effel. ‘Will I?’ she asked Jim.
‘We’ll save you from that, Effel. Which school do you two go to?’
‘Sayer Street,’ said Orrice.
‘Ain’t goin’ there no more,’ said Effel.
‘Who said that?’ asked Jim, walking between them along Walworth Road.
‘Effel did,’ said Orrice.
‘Didn’t,’ said Effel.
‘Well, it wasn’t old Mother Riley,’ said Orrice.
‘Ain’t goin’,’ said Effel.
‘Don’t either of you like Sayer Street School?’ asked Jim.
‘Not much,’ said Orrice.
Jim thought. St John’s Church School in Larcom Street would be a good option. Nobody knew them there. Nobody would ask them too many questions. And if they could get lodgings in Wansey Street, St John’s School would be only a stone’s throw away.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll call in at St John’s now and see the headmistress. We’ve got time.’
Mrs Wainwright, headmistress at St John’s, looked the two children up and down. Effel exhibited nervous fidgets. Orrice, cap off, was respectful but not overawed. Jim was quite equal to the atmosphere in the study.
‘Their guardian, Mr Cooper?’ enquired Mrs Wainwright politely, a slender lady of fifty.
‘With the agreement of their next-of-kin, their aunt and uncle, Mr and Mrs Williams of thirty-one Penton Place, Kennington,’ said Jim, with all the easy conviction of a man who believed that what made sense was preferable to what was fiddlingly exact. Besides, it was as good as true, never mind that his role hadn’t been legalized. Further, he had taken to the kids, and he knew it. They represented a challenge to his set ways as a bachelor. ‘I did myself the compliment of telling myself it would work out better for them than life in an orphanage. I’m a close friend, of course.’ He did not say to whom he was close.
‘Dear me, such responsibility for a man,’ said the headmistress.
‘For a woman too, I should think,’ said Jim.
‘A woman is a more natural guardian.’ The headmistress, slightly severe of manner, nevertheless offered that comment with a smile. Jim responded with a nod of agreement. ‘I have to admire your gesture, Mr Cooper, it’s very Christian. But is it necessary to take the children away from their present school?’
‘Not necessary, no, but St John’s will be nearer, and I prefer church schools. Also, Ethel and Horace favour the change.’
‘Well.’ Mrs Wainwright did some thoughtful musing. ‘How old did you say they were?’
‘Ethel’s seven, Horace is ten.’
‘Your birthday, Ethel?’ enquired the headmistress kindly.
Effel looked for a moment as if she was going to say she wasn’t telling. Jim’s hand fell lightly on her shoulder, and she said, ‘Feb’ry fourf.’
‘Fourth,’ said Mrs Wainwright who, with her teachers, spent many hours trying to get cockney children to sound their aitches and distinguish between ‘f’ and ‘th’. ‘And yours, Horace?’
‘Jan’ry ten, missus,’ said Orrice.
‘Ma’am,’ said Mrs Wainwright.
‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice, and she looked at him. His fresh face was almost angelic, hiding the pugnacity of his spirit. She made a note on her desk pad, then said, ‘Long trousers when he’s only ten, Mr Cooper?’
Knowing Orrice liked his long trousers, Jim said, ‘Well, shorts and brittle knees don’t go too well together.’
‘Horace has brittle knees?’
‘Long trousers do give them some protection,’ said Jim.
‘He may get laughed at,’ said the headmistress. Few boys went into long trousers before the age of fourteen.
‘He’ll speak up for himself,’ said Jim.
‘Yes’m, I got a tongue,’ said Orrice. ‘Me dad always said—’ He stopped.
‘It’s all right, Horace,’ said Mrs Wainwright, a kind heart beneath her starched white blouse. ‘Very well, Mr Cooper, they may begin on Monday.’
‘Not tomorrow?’
‘Give them until Monday,’ said Mrs Wainwright understandingly. Children bereaved needed a little time to face up to school.
‘I’m very obliged,’ said Jim.
Surprisingly, Effel spoke up.
‘Fank you, miss,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ said the headmistress with a slightly pained smile. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Yes, fank you,’ said Effel.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Mrs Wainwright.
‘It’ll come right in the end,’ said Jim, and his warm and cheerful goodbye left her feeling pleased to have obliged him.
‘Right,’ said Jim at twenty-five past three, ‘I’m off in five minutes. That leaves you in charge, Orrice.’
‘I gotcher, Uncle Jim,’ said Orrice. They had just had a nice cup of tea, and a currant bun each, bought from the baker’s by Jim first thing this morning.
‘’Oo you in charge of?’ whispered Effel.
‘You,’ said Orrice.
‘Crumbs,’ said Effel, feeling that made her valuable.
‘Stand guard over Effel, and all our worldly goods, Orrice,’ said Jim, ‘and make sure you’re both in bed by nine o’clock. At five, Mrs Palmer will call you down and treat you to a rattling good tea. Best behaviour, don’t forget, and clean hands. Tomorrow morning we’ll see about buying clothes and toothbrushes for you.’
‘We got clothes, we brought some,’ said Orrice.
‘Yes, I’ve seen them,’ said Jim. ‘Very nice. But you’ll both need more, especially for school. After that, we’ll call again at that house in Wansey Street. Well, that’s all for now. So long. Be good now.’
When he had gone, Effel said uncertainly, ‘’E’s comin’ back, Orrice, ain’t ’e?’
‘Course ’e is, sis, ’e lives ’ere. If ’e didn’t come back, ’e wouldn’t ’ave nowhere to live.’
‘I just asked,’ said Effel, ‘that’s all. I just asked.’
‘All right,’ said Orrice.
‘Orrice, d’you like ’im?’
‘Course I do, soppy, don’t you?’
‘Ain’t saying,’ said Effel.
When Jim reached the club, the manager intercepted him.
‘A word, Jim. We’re losing Bob Edwards, he’s going to Australia with his family next month. Look here, you’re too good for kitchen work. How would you like to take Edwards’s place and help us keep the books?’
Jim had never done book-keeping in his life, but he gave the offer instantly favourable thought.
‘Well,’ he said, brain ticking over.
‘It pays thirty bob a week, you know.’
‘I’m a bit rusty,’ said Jim.
‘You’ve got three weeks to brush it up.’
‘Fine,’ said Jim, making a mental note to borrow relevant reference books from the library. The extra shillings a week would be a great help. Especially now. ‘I’m grateful for the opportunity.’
‘Better than kitchen work for a man like you, Jim. Better hours too, eight-thirty to five-thirty.’
That, thought Jim, was a clincher. He decided something of a very pleasant kind was happening to his life.
Library, here I come. Lodgings, show yourselves.
Later that evening, Uncle Perce called at the club. The manager gave Jim fifteen minutes to talk to his visitor. It didn’t take Uncle Perce more than ten minutes to sum up this man. Aunt Glad had been right. He was a bit of a real gent, and an old soldier, and what’s more, a bloke you could talk to and listen to.
‘Good on yer, mate,’ said Uncle Perce in the end. ‘I tell yer, I’m grateful the kids bumped into you. I got trust in you. Put it there.’ He shook hands heartily with Jim. ‘They’re good kids.’
‘Yes, I like them,’ said Jim.
‘Good on yer,’ said Uncle Perce again, and it was settled.
Back in the house a little after midnight, he found Effel and Orrice deep in slumber. By the light of the candle he looked down at them. Effel lay with all her childish woes in limbo. In her modesty, she was wearing the old dressing-gown again, the collar tucked up around her neck. She was lying on her side, her open mouth touching the pillow. Little burbles of sound travelled muffledly over the pillow. Orrice lay on his stomach, face quite buried, his breathing deep and relaxed.
With healthy sleep claiming them, they were out of their forlorn little world for the moment. They had endured bravely. They had not walked the streets weeping. They were lovely kids.