Jim, arriving at his work, stopped in the entrance hall of the club to say hello to Molly Keating, daughter of the manager. She was just coming out of her father’s office. A brunette of infectious vivacity, she looked flawless in a lace-necked cream blouse and a well-fitting brown skirt. She worked part-time for her father.
‘’Lo, Jim old thing,’ she said.
‘Hello to you too,’ said Jim.
‘I’m tickled pink you’re coming out of the kitchens into the book-keeping,’ said Molly. ‘Kitchen work, blow that for a lark, it’s not what you should be doing. Port in a storm, that’s all. I’ve just told Dad, as it happens, that you’ll change my image of book-keepers. I’ve always thought them owlish. Good on you, Jim.’
Jim had a suspicion then that he owed his promotion to the manager’s daughter. It did not deflate him or injure his pride. He simply thought, if it were true, that it was a typical gesture of help from a girl with a cheerful and generous nature.
‘I’m keeping my fingers crossed that my ignorance won’t show,’ he said, ‘and I’m doing what I can about that by studying this book-keeping manual.’
‘That’s what you’re carrying, is it?’
‘To get my nose into at break times. It doesn’t seem too mysterious.’
‘You’ve never done any book-keeping at all?’ asked Molly.
‘Keep it dark, Molly, or I’ll be out on my ears before I’ve started.’
‘No problem, lovey,’ said Molly, ‘I’ll give you a hand as soon as you start.’
‘You’re a good friend,’ said Jim.
‘Hope so,’ said Molly, ‘it might mean being asked out one time.’
‘And that,’ said Jim, ‘might mean I’ll get thumped by your steady.’ He had always kept his distance with Molly. He had had too many setbacks not to be wary in his relationships with women. These days he avoided getting himself into a situation where disclosure of his illegitimacy was inevitable.
‘I don’t have a steady,’ said Molly.
‘Well, you should,’ smiled Jim, ‘not all the young men around here can be that blind.’
‘What young men?’ asked Molly. She had a point. It was 1921 and the war had only been over two and a half years. The conflict had taken the lives of a million young men. Young women like Molly had to put up with a dearth of suitors.
‘There’ll always be one for a girl like you,’ said Jim.
‘Good-oh,’ said Molly, ‘send him along when you spot him, will you?’
‘Pleasure,’ said Jim, and went to the kitchen.
The following morning, having served up hot breakfast porridge, Jim sat down at the table in the bay window of the living-room. The kids spooned sugar over their porridge and stirred it in.
‘So, young Horace, you got into a fight, did you?’ said Jim.
‘Yes, but like I just told you, Uncle, I didn’t ’ardly know nuffink about it,’ said Orrice.
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ said Jim.
‘Well, yer can’t split,’ said Orrice.
‘I suppose a black eye’s honourable, and splitting isn’t. But they’re not going to like it at St John’s.’
‘No, well, we got to report to the ’eadmistress first thing,’ said Orrice.
‘Who’s we exactly?’
‘Oh, them and us,’ said Orrice casually.
‘Who’s us?’
‘Orrice ain’t telling,’ mumbled Effel through porridge.
‘He can tell me,’ said Jim.
‘Well,’ said Orrice cautiously, ‘it’s me first, then—’
‘Stop telling,’ breathed Effel.
‘We got to tell our uncle, sis.’
‘No, we ain’t.’ Effel grumbled over her porridge. ‘’E ain’t our uncle.’
‘I’ll wallop you,’ said Orrice.
‘No walloping,’ said Jim. ‘You were saying?’
‘Yes, Uncle, it’s me and Effel and that Alice. And some boys.’
‘Ethel,’ said Jim, ‘you and Alice were in the fight?’
‘Wasn’t,’ said Effel, head bent.
‘Is that a fib, Ethel?’
‘Ain’t telling,’ said Effel.
‘Well, you’ll all have to take your medicine,’ said Jim, ‘and I’ll have to talk to Miss Pilgrim after you’ve left for school. And remember you’re coming here for your midday meal.’
Effel whispered, ‘Is ’e grumpy wiv us, Orrice?’
‘Are yer, Uncle Jim?’ asked Orrice.
Jim regarded the boy’s black eye and slightly swollen cheek.
‘I don’t think it meets with our kind landlady’s approval,’ he said, ‘nor your headmistress’s, but what’s the enemy look like?’
Effel giggled then.
They stood before the headmistress, six of them. Orrice, Effel, Alice, Higgs, Stubbs and Cattermole. Orrice had his scars, Effel and Alice were unmarked, Higgs had a lumpy jaw and a black eye, Stubbs a bruised forehead and Cattermole a bruised cheek. Orrice had given a very good account of himself.
Mrs Wainwright, the headmistress, looked sorrowful. Mr Hill, also present, looked resigned. Boys were always boys. That was an unchangeable fact.
‘Explain yourselves,’ said the headmistress, looking at Higgs.
‘Me?’ said Higgs plaintively.
‘You to begin with, yes.’
‘I just fell over, mum—’
‘Ma’am, if you don’t mind.’
‘I just fell over, ma’am,’ said Higgs.
‘I fell on top of ’im,’ said Orrice.
‘I went an’ tripped,’ said Cattermole.
‘I dunno for sure what I did, ma’am,’ said Stubbs, ‘I think I must’ve gone an’ tripped too.’
‘Dear me,’ said Mrs Wainwright, ‘what have we here, Mr Hill? Four boys all clumsy enough to fall over at the same time?’
‘It’s food for thought,’ said Mr Hill.
‘And two girls, what did they do? Alice? Ethel? Kicking? Actually kicking? Is this true?’
‘Well, you see, ma’am,’ burst Alice, ‘Horace was only—’ She stopped as Orrice nudged her. The headmistress saw the nudge.
‘Continue, Alice,’ she said.
But Alice knew what the nudge had meant. She wasn’t to tell tales. So she said, ‘Please, ma’am, I don’t know, I only remember Ethel being awf’lly upset when they all fell over.’
‘Wasn’t,’ breathed Effel, scowling at her feet.
‘What was that, Ethel?’ asked Mrs Wainwright. Effel went deaf. ‘Alice, is that all you remember?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Alice, crossing her fingers behind her back.
‘Dear me. Well, you two girls will never disgrace yourselves again. Never, do you understand?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Alice.
‘Do you understand, Ethel?’
Effel went deafer.
‘She understands,’ said Mr Hill, who thought Orrice’s sister owned a lethal right foot.
‘You may go, you girls,’ said Mrs Wainwright.
The two girls left. In the corridor, Alice whispered, ‘Oh, poor Horace, he’ll get the cane.’
‘I’ll pull yer ’air out if ’e does,’ breathed Effel.
Mrs Wainwright addressed the four boys.
‘I will not have fighting or brawling at the school gates or anywhere else in the school. You will each receive a stroke of the cane.’ She produced the cane from the cupboard. Mr Hill hid a smile. That was always as much as the headmistress could bring herself to apply, a single stroke. ‘Do you understand your punishment and the reason for it? Do you also accept it?’
‘Yes’m,’ said Orrice.
‘Yes, a’ right, ma’am,’ said Higgs, and Stubbs and Cattermole nodded.
‘Horace Withers, put out your right hand,’ commanded the headmistress, and Orrice complied, turning his palm flatly upwards. The cane swished. It smote his hand, stinging it. Orrice grimaced. She liked his stoicism. She dealt similarly with the other boys, then she said to Orrice, ‘You haven’t made a very good start at this school, Master Withers.’
‘No, ma’am, sorry.’
Mr Hill said, ‘You’ve all had the minimum, you young terrors. Justice has been tempered with mercy. Thank your lucky stars.’
‘Yes, ta very much, sir,’ said Cattermole. They had all taken their medicine without fuss.
‘Go to your classes,’ said the headmistress, and they left. She gave Mr Hill a rueful look. ‘I do dislike this kind of thing.’
‘Sometimes you’re left with no option,’ said Mr Hill. ‘What a collection of muscle. Long time since I’ve seen a scrap like that. It looked to me as if Withers was taking them all on, with a little help from his sister and Alice. And what an excuse, they all fell over together. Let’s hope you’ve made them think twice about a return bout, mmm? Brave performance, headmistress.’
Just before entering the classroom, Higgs said to Orrice, ‘I’ll get yer somewhere else some time, Wivvers.’
‘I’ll enjoy that,’ said Orrice, ‘but I don’t fink you will.’
Later, in class, Alice whispered, ‘Is it hurting?’
‘Is what hurting?’ asked Orrice.
‘The cane.’
‘Not much,’ said Orrice, ‘but I won’t be able to hold any skippin’-rope.’
‘Never mind,’ whispered Alice, ‘I brought apples for us playtime.’ When playtime came, she gave Effel one too. Effel took it, jumped on it and ground it to pulp. ‘Oh, Ethel, look what you’ve done,’ said Alice, ‘you can’t eat it now.’
‘Ain’t goin’ to, neither,’ hissed Effel.
‘Never mind,’ said Alice forgivingly, ‘here’s another one.’
Effel screamed in rageful frustration.
Jim knocked on Miss Pilgrim’s kitchen door.
‘Come in,’ she called, and he entered.
‘Good morning, Miss Pilgrim.’
‘Good morning, Mr Cooper,’ she said. She took her apron off and hung it up. In a white blouse crisp with starch, black skirt draping long legs in straight severity, she regarded her lodger a little accusingly.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Jim, wryly.
‘What do you know, Mr Cooper?’
‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘I doubt that, Mr Cooper.’
‘You’re not thinking Horace is a young hooligan?’
‘I am thinking, Mr Cooper, that as the boy’s guardian it was remiss of you not to ensure his good behaviour at his new school.’
‘Yes, black mark against me, Miss Pilgrim, but the fact is I’m treading a little gently at the moment. They still feel the loss of their parents, and I can’t yet bring myself to apply a heavy hand.’
‘Heavy hand?’ Miss Pilgrim’s blue eyes showed frosty disapproval. ‘I hope, Mr Cooper, you are not considering assault and battery in place of simple Christian discipline. A smart rap over the knuckles is as much as I’d permit in this house.’
‘Assault and battery?’ Jim laughed. The striking blue eyes turned even frostier. ‘Good grief, nothing of the kind, Miss Pilgrim. I don’t go in for that sort of thing. I suspect, in any case, that Horace was standing up for himself.’
‘I am relieved to hear you have a Christian attitude, Mr Cooper, although I have to say it was disgraceful of Horace to get into a fight during his first week at St John’s. I hope you’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again.’
‘I rather fancy the headmistress will have turned his ears pink by now,’ said Jim. ‘I must thank you for attending to his wounds and for giving him and Ethel such a fine supper last night. They were rapturous about it. You really are a splendid person.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘I’m going shopping now, I must buy for the midday dinner. I will charge you for everything at the end of the week.’
‘Can’t thank you enough,’ said Jim, who had book-keeping to study. ‘Oh, if it’s any help, I’ve discovered Ethel and Horace are partial to hot faggots and pease pudding from the shop in the market.’
‘Faggots and pease pudding?’ Miss Pilgrim positively quivered. ‘You aren’t serious, I trust?’
Jim rubbed his chin and said cautiously, ‘Hot faggots and pease pudding are considered a treat by Walworth people, aren’t they?’
‘They may be, Mr Cooper, but I should want to know what went into the faggots before I served them in this house, or before I carried them home in a basin. I shall bring back wholesome food that doesn’t have a question mark to it.’
‘Happy to leave it to you, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Jim cheerfully.
‘The boy needs a haircut,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Right, he does,’ said Jim, ‘I’ll see he goes to the barber’s on Saturday morning.’
Things, thought Jim, went quite well that first week. Over the midday meals, always perfectly cooked and served, Miss Pilgrim’s attitude towards the children was firm but not unkind. She did not ask him to correct their little faults, she took it upon herself to do so. Jim liked that. He could not see it as interference, he saw it as typical of her straightforwardness. The other way would have made her sound a complaining woman. She would not permit slouching or slipshod table manners, but she saw to it that they ate well, and she did not suggest at any time that they should be discouraged from making conversation. She dealt coolly with Effel’s little mutterings and little sulks, and as an intellectual woman took a keen interest in her progress at school. Effel was not very forthcoming about that, either to Jim or Miss Pilgrim, viewing them both with the mutinous look of a child who wasn’t going to believe anyone could think school was interesting. It was Effel’s private opinion that schools ought to be for grown-ups only, as grown-ups were the ones who went on about them. Orrice’s reactions were different. He found lessons easy, and accordingly school wasn’t a trial to him. He answered up brightly in his replies to Miss Pilgrim’s enquiries. He had only one complaint, and it was a complaint Effel shared with him. He couldn’t get rid of that Alice French, he said.
‘Boy,’ said Miss Pilgrim sternly, ‘must you speak of that sweet girl in such a deplorable way? Get rid of her indeed.’
‘But, Miss Pilgrim,’ protested Orrice through a lump of hot potato, ‘she’s ’aunting me.’
Miss Pilgrim eyed him aloofly. Jim coughed.
‘You should not speak with your mouth full, Master Horace,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘What do you mean, haunting you?’
‘I can’t get rid of ’er, honest, m’m. It don’t matter where I sit in class, she’s always gettin’ next to me. And I got two of ’em follering me about in the playground, ’er and Effel. I’m sorely tried, I am, Miss Pilgrim, I ain’t got no life of me own. And that Alice, she’s goin’ to get me to go to Sunday tea even if it kills ’er.’
‘Your sister’s name is Ethel, boy. Ethel.’
‘Yes’m, Effel.’
‘You must help these children with their pronunciation, Mr Cooper,’ said Miss Pilgrim severely.
‘Give you my word,’ said Jim who, with one arm missing, ate in the American fashion.
‘Master Horace,’ she said, ‘if Alice has invited you to Sunday tea, you must accept.’
‘Eh?’ said Orrice, stricken.
‘Of course you must.’
‘’E ain’t goin’ wivout me,’ breathed Effel.
‘Sit up, child, and lift your head when you speak,’ admonished Miss Pilgrim. ‘What was it you just said?’
‘Nuffink,’ grumbled Effel.
That was one of many similar pieces of dialogue.
Each afternoon before he left for his work, Jim prepared tea for the kids. When they came home from school, all they had to do was take it out of the little cupboard used as a larder. It was to be eaten at six o’clock, but they could help themselves to a slice of bread-and-butter beforehand if they wanted to. And at six o’clock, Miss Pilgrim took them up a pot of tea to have with their meal. This was because she did not like unsupervised children dealing with a kettle of boiling water. She always asked them if their hands were clean. If they weren’t, she reminded them that cleanliness was next to godliness, and insisted they washed them immediately. Orrice didn’t mind. Effel minded a lot. Her mum had never made her do things like that, nor had her dad. Miss Pilgrim wasn’t her mum, and the man who was looking after her and Orrice wasn’t her dad. He was in league with Miss Pilgrim, because he made her wash herself everywhere she showed. Her face, her ears, her neck and her knees.
Jim took them both to Manor Place Baths on Saturday morning. He placed Effel in charge of a beefy woman attendant in the women’s section, and Effel nearly died when she saw the size of the bath and the huge amount of hot water in it. She yelled.
‘I ain’t, I won’t, I’ll get drownded!’
‘Come on, me little ducks, let’s get yer in,’ said the woman, and whipped the small girl’s clothes off. Effel screamed as she was lifted and dumped. Hot water swallowed her, swamped her, surged around her and brought sensations of bodily bliss.
‘Oh, crikey,’ she breathed, ‘ain’t it good?’
‘Like it, do yer?’ said the beefy attendant. ‘Thought yer would, once you was in. ’Ere y’ar, little lady, ’ere’s yer soap.’ She handed Effel a large yellow cake of Sunlight. ‘An’ there’s yer back scrubber. Give yer ten minutes. We’re busy Saturdays. Soap yerself all over now, make the most of yer sixpenn’orth.’
When Effle emerged from the Victorian building in company with Orrice and Jim, she was pink and shining.
‘Nearly drownded, I did,’ she complained.
‘Course yer didn’t,’ said Orrice, fresh-faced and newly clean.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Effel, casting an accusing glance at Jim. ‘Well, I nearly did.’
‘We all did,’ said Jim. ‘Well, nearly. What d’you think of Effel’s after-bath look, Orrice?’
‘Can’t ’ardly believe it,’ said Orrice. ‘Lummy, don’t a bath make yer feel good all over, Uncle Jim?’
Effel let go an arrow. ‘’Oo’s a pretty boy all over, then?’ she said. With street kids about, Orrice turned pale. Imagine any kids hearing a thing like that.
‘Uncle Jim, can I chuck Effel off a bridge?’ he asked.
‘No chucking off bridges, Orrice,’ said Jim, and sent the boy off to the barber’s. When the lad arrived back in their lodgings, Effel took a sly look at him and mimicked Alice.
‘Oh, you’re awf’lly lovely, Orrice.’
Orrice went for her. Effel ran, out of the living-room and down the stairs, shrieking. Orrice caught her at the foot of the stairs, and they both fell to the floor of the little hall. Miss Pilgrim appeared.
‘Disgraceful! Get up, both of you.’ Effel and Orrice scrambled to their feet. Jim showed himself at the top of the stairs. Miss Pilgrim looked up at him. ‘Mr Cooper, my house is not a boxing ring or a fairground. Kindly inform your wards of that.’ She rustled stiffly back to her kitchen.
‘Come up here,’ said Jim. They went up. He read them a minor riot act and sent them out to the market. When they returned, he despatched them downstairs to make their peace with Miss Pilgrim. Orrice knocked on the kitchen door.
‘Come in.’
They went in, Orrice bearing a wrapped sheaf of bright-headed daffodils, bought in the market. Effel hid herself behind him. An aroma of cooking food assailed their noses.
‘If yer please’m,’ said Orrice, ‘we’re sorry and would yer kindly accept these daffs, if yer please’m.’
Miss Pilgrim regarded the flowers in surprise. Orrice gazed in hope at her. Her clear searching eyes sought Effel. Effel gulped and hid herself deeper at her brother’s back.
‘Thank you, Master Horace,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and took the sheaf. ‘What is the matter with your sister?’
‘She don’t like showing ’erself when she’s got worries, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice. ‘She finks yer goin’ to throw ’er out.’
‘Thinks,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Yes’m.’ Orrice untied his tongue. ‘Thinks,’ he said.
‘Good. Ethel, show yourself.’
Effel emerged, head hanging.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘Well, I’m sure it won’t happen again,’ said Miss Pilgrim graciously. ‘I am quite used to children through my mission work, but not to thumping, bumping and rolling ones. Also, I don’t wish either of you to break your legs. I will see you all at midday dinner. Thank you for the flowers, both of you. But such extravagance. However, off you go.’
‘Thumping, bumping and rolling,’ said Jim, over a stomach-filling meal of steak-and-kidney pie.
‘Pardon, Mr Cooper?’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Can’t have that,’ said Jim. ‘Told ’em so. Can’t have racketing about, or thumps and bumps.’
The severe blue eyes regarded him suspiciously.
‘We agreed, Mr Cooper, on good behaviour.’
‘Do you hear that, kids?’ said Jim.
‘I won’t fump Effel indoors again, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice, ‘only in the street.’
‘Incorrigible boy, I hope your guardian will see to it you don’t thump your little sister in this house or out of it.’
‘Yes,’ said Jim, ‘and it’s thump, young man, not fump.’
‘I ain’t—’
‘Aren’t,’ said Jim.
Puzzled, Orrice said, ‘I aren’t sure—’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Jim.
‘Crikey,’ said Orrice, ‘now I dunno where I am.’
Miss Pilgrim coughed. Jim hid a smile.
‘I’ll serve the rice pudding,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Rice puddin’?’ said Orrice, eyes glowing. ‘Cor, yer a swell, Miss Pilgrim.’
‘That is an absurdity, boy. However, the daffodils were not. I think, Mr Cooper, you will be able to turn these children into children of the Lord.’
‘Don’t want no Lord,’ mumbled Effel, ‘just me mum an’ dad.’
‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Miss Pilgrim.