On Sunday morning Miss Pilgrim departed early for church, but not before she had made it clear she expected her lodger to take his wards to the service. Church and God’s Commandments, she said, shaped the minds of children and taught them the difference between self-indulgence and self-discipline.
Effel, discovering she was about to be taken to church, said, ‘Ain’t goin’.’
‘Untrue,’ said Jim.
‘Ain’t,’ said Effel.
‘Is,’ said Jim. ‘We’re all going. That’s why you’re wearing your Sunday frock. Now put your boater on.’
‘Don’t like you,’ muttered Effel.
‘Well, you’re stuck with me at the moment,’ said Jim.
‘Ain’t goin’ to no church,’ said Effel.
‘You’re askin’ for it, you are, sis,’ said Orrice, who wore a new Sunday cap. It was against his will, but Jim had advised him his old cap wasn’t a church-going one.
‘Well, never mind,’ said Jim, ‘you and I will go, Orrice. Come on.’ He and Orrice left the house. Effel stamped around, ran down the stairs and opened the front door. She saw them walking up the street. By the time they reached St John’s Church she was close behind Orrice. Orrice turned and saw her. People were crowding in.
Effel aimed another arrow. Loudly, she said, ‘Oh, ain’t you pretty in yer Sunday suit, Orrice?’
The fates were against Orrice that morning.
The service opened with a hymn. In a front pew, with some ladies of her acquaintance, Miss Pilgrim stood to sing in a clear, fearless soprano. Effel mouthed inaudibly over the hymn book Jim had placed in her hands. Across the aisle, she saw Alice French with her mother and father. Effel scowled. Alice smiled.
The service got under way. Effel didn’t mind the hymns too much, but everything else reminded her of Scripture lessons at school, which were boring. Orrice took it all in his stride. Orrice was adaptable. Effel was cast in a more rigid mould.
Alice sought to catch Orrice’s eye.
‘’Aunting me, that’s what she is,’ growled Orrice during a hymn, but he put a penny in the collecting plate as a sign that he recognized his mum and dad had gone to a Christian heaven.
The sermon was all about Fight The Good Fight. The vicar, mellow of voice, spoke mostly of the fight against hardship. He was not too concerned about the antics of the devil, implying that his parishioners could recognize that dark gentleman when he knocked on their doors, and could, with a few exceptions, send him packing. Hardship was the greater menace to the people of Walworth.
Effel fidgeted. Jim thought about his dead mother, and the fact that he didn’t even have a photograph of her. She must have had some possessions when she died. Where had they got to?
Orrice kept his eyes off Alice and on the pulpit. But there was no escape. She was waiting for him when he came out of the church, her mum and dad with her. Alice whispered to her mum, a plump lady with a stalwart-looking husband.
‘So you’re Horace Withers,’ said Mrs French.
‘Who, me?’ said Orrice in alarm. Effel, close by, began to grind her teeth.
‘I’m Alice’s dad,’ said Mr French, ‘and Alice ’ud like you to come to tea one Sunday.’ Mr French eyed the boy with an amused smile. This was the one Alice had gone potty about. He could see why. There wasn’t a healthier-looking boy in Walworth, nor a better-looking one. Kids were fun, especially nine-year-old daughters potty on a boy. ‘Any Sunday you like, ’Orace.’
‘Me?’ gasped Orrice, wondering why life was dealing him blow after blow. Only his new uncle represented a decent bit of luck. ‘Me?’ he gasped again.
‘Do say when, Horace,’ begged Alice, stunningly pretty in a yellow frock and little bonnet.
‘Take your time, young ’un,’ said Mr French with a little grin. He could sympathize with the boy. He caught the eye of a tall one-armed man, who winked at him. Jim and Mr French both understood Orrice’s problem.
‘I dunno when I can say when,’ said Orrice desperately.
‘Next Sunday?’ suggested Alice.
‘Next Sunday?’ queried Orrice, and received a kick in the back of his right leg from Effel. People, pouring out of the church, stopped to speak to friends or neighbours, and the churchyard, bright with April sunshine, became a hubbub of voices. In the distance could be heard the strains of a marching Salvation Army band. Orrice searched for escape words. ‘I’m busy next Sunday.’
‘Oh, you’re not,’ protested Alice.
‘I’m busy most Sundays. Well, I will be, like. It’s Miss Pilgrim’s garden, yer see. She’s our landlady. I got to ’elp wiv ’er garden on Sundays.’
‘Yes, we heard she’d took in lodgers,’ said Mrs French.
‘Yes, well,’ said Orrice, and stopped. Cool blue eyes were looking straight into his. ‘Oh, cripes,’ he muttered, ‘now I done it.’
‘Good morning, Mrs French, good morning, Mr French.’ Miss Pilgrim’s crisp voice cut in. ‘Alice? Good morning. The sermon was encouraging, wasn’t it?’
‘Something like with our backs to the wall let’s advance,’ said Mr French, a man of thirty-four who had seen service with the Army in France and who considered himself lucky in stepping straight into a job as a railway ganger after being demobbed.
‘We are all in service to God, we are all fighting His battles in our own way,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Some more so, some less so. Alice, how pretty you look.’
Young Alice blushed a little.
‘We’re just asking Horace to Sunday tea, Miss Pilgrim,’ she said.
‘That is a kind Christian hand to a newcomer,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and caught Jim’s eye. Because Orrice was being trapped, Jim gave his handsome landlady a smile and a little wink. Miss Pilgrim stiffened in the way of a woman to whom a wink was more heathen than Christian. She said, ‘I don’t think Horace will be too busy in my garden, Alice.’
‘Oh, thanks ever so,’ said Alice, who had a natural way of doing justice to the King’s English, her mum coming of a respectable family in Brighton. ‘Horace can come next Sunday, then?’
‘If his guardian gives permission,’ said Miss Pilgrim. It was all over the neighbourhood by now, the fact that two new pupils at St John’s School were in the care of a guardian, a Mr Cooper, and that they were lodging with Miss Pilgrim.
‘You’ve my permission, Horace,’ said Jim, and Orrice gave him a look of soulful reproach. ‘But of course, if you really are busy—?’
‘Well, I might—’ Another kick arrived in the back of Orrice’s leg.
‘Come about half-four, Horace,’ said Mrs French kindly, ‘and we’ll have shrimps and winkles.’
Effel, behind Orrice, uttered a suppressed gurgle of rage. Her boater and face suddenly materialized. She was pink with jealous fury. But before she could deliver herself of anything shocking, Jim interposed.
‘This is Ethel, by the way. Horace’s little sister. Say hello, Ethel.’
‘Ugh,’ said Effel under her breath. Out loud she said, ‘Orrice don’t go nowhere wivout me.’
‘Well, love, you come to tea too,’ said Mrs French.
‘Oh, yes, d’you want to, Ethel?’ asked Alice.
‘’E can’t go wivout me,’ said Ethel, hotly jealous. Fiendishly, she added, ‘’E’ll get lost if I don’t go wiv ’im.’
‘Me?’ said Orrice faintly. That was Pelion piled on Ossa. ‘Me get lost, me?’
‘It’s only Crampton Street,’ said Mrs French, ‘number fourteen. Next Sunday, then, Horace. And Ethel too.’
Orrice felt sick. He knew it would soon get out at school, that he was going to Sunday tea with Alice French. That Higgs, he’d smirk all over his clock.
Mr French caught Jim’s eye again. Jim smiled. It struck Mr French that a man with one arm had taken on a packet of problems with these two kids. But he must be a bit out of the ordinary in getting lodgings with Rebecca Pilgrim. Regular particular, Miss Pilgrim was, and an old maid before she was forty. Some said before she’d even come of age. Might have had something to do with a bit of a scandal in China when she was twenty. Her mother, Mrs Pilgrim, a lovely old girl but a bit faded, had told Mrs French during the war that there’d been a man out there in China, that he’d died from the bite of a poisonous snake just before the Pilgrim family left the mission and came back to England. Mr French couldn’t see that as a bit of a scandal, or that it could turn a girl of twenty into an old maid. Oh, well, a girl of twenty and a man, said Mrs French. Yes, what about it, asked Mr French. Well, you wouldn’t understand, you’ve never been a girl of twenty, said Mrs French.
Still, there it was. Rebecca Pilgrim was an old maid. The last woman to take a man in as a lodger. And two kids as well, and her as fussy and pernickety as an old hen, demanding upright Christian behaviour of everyone. Everyone said she’d got a mission, which was to turn Walworth into the most upright Christian place in England. Be a job, that would. Bet she’d have a go at turning Jim Cooper into a missionary.
‘Well, come on, kids,’ said Jim, ‘let’s walk home with Miss Pilgrim.’
‘A’ right,’ said Effel, but cautiously.
‘Goodbye till school tomorrow, Horace dear,’ said Alice.
Orrice almost died on the spot. Effel ground her teeth. Jim said goodbye to the French family. Orrice recovered with an effort, but as he began the walk home with Effel, Jim and Miss Pilgrim, he expressed his feelings bitterly.
‘I dunno, I been called some names in my time, I ’ave,’ he said, ‘but I ain’t never been called Orrice dear. Nor ain’t I ever ’ad to go to Sunday tea wiv a girl. I been done down an’ jumped on, I ’ave. I dunno what the blokes at school’s goin’ to say, I betcher they won’t believe it. I dunno I believe it meself. Bleedin’ ’ell—’
‘Boy!’ Miss Pilgrim, shocked, cut him off.
‘Steady, Horace,’ said Jim pacifically.
‘I ain’t said nuffink,’ said Orrice aggrievedly. ‘It’s all right for you, Uncle Jim, you ain’t been called Orrice dear, nor sorely tried like I been.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Pilgrim, starch crisply rustling, long legs taking her firmly along. Smoke was rising from chimneys on this bright May day. Sunday dinners were cooking, and not every family was solely using gas ovens. ‘I’ve never heard such a fuss. You’ve been invited to tea with a very nice family. That is a compliment.’
‘Ugh,’ said Effel indistinctly.
‘What did you say, child?’
‘Wasn’t me,’ said Effel.
‘Mr Cooper,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘do your parents know you are now the guardian of these two children?’
Jim grimaced. New people in his life inevitably asked quite natural questions. Mrs Palmer, a woman who minded her own business, was among the few exceptions.
‘My parents are dead, Miss Pilgrim. They died when I was young. I was brought up in an orphanage.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘that is a hard cross for any child to bear.’ They turned into Walworth Road. ‘However, you seem to have overcome misfortune and disability remarkably well. That is to be admired. It’s possible that in accepting guardianship of this boy and girl, you were remembering your time in an orphanage. Ethel, pull your socks up.’ Ethel, walking ahead with Orrice, muttered to him.
‘Ain’t goin’ to, she ain’t our mum.’
‘Ethel,’ called Jim, ‘pull your socks up.’
Effel grumbled, stopped, stooped, and pulled them up. Going on again with Orrice, she let her grumble be known.
‘Ragamuffin Jack don’t ’ave to pull his socks up.’
‘Ragamuffin Jack?’ said Jim. ‘I’ve heard of him.’ He quoted, with Miss Pilgrim sailing crisply along beside him.
‘Ragamuffin Jack wore a very ragged hat
And two very old odd socks,
His socks fell down on his way to town
And his dog ran away with a fox.’
Effel, turning her head, looked at him with new eyes.
‘Oh, yer know Ragamuffin Jack, mister?’ she said.
‘Needs his socks pulling up,’ said Jim.
Effel giggled, and Orrice said, ‘Yer funny sometimes, Uncle Jim, ain’t he, Miss Pilgrim?’
‘I could not say,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘I have no sense of humour.’
‘Oh, you’re young yet,’ murmured Jim cheerfully, ‘you’ll acquire one.’
‘I’m afraid, Mr Cooper, you are sometimes given to nonsense of a kind unsuitable to your age.’
‘Good morning, Miss Pilgrim.’ Elderly Mrs Hardiman appeared as they turned into Wansey Street. ‘Out with yer lodgers, I see.’
‘I am merely returning from church with them,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Good morning, Mrs Hardiman.’ And she sailed on.
She was ready to serve dinner at two. Jim made sure he and the kids arrived punctually at her kitchen table. A joint of roast beef appeared. Orrice and Effel gazed at it in mouth-watering awe. Awe was their constant companion at Miss Pilgrim’s table. Everything was so posh. To start with there was always a crisp, ironed tablecloth, something their mum had never bothered with much, unless Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce were present. And Miss Pilgrim’s cutlery and china shone. A glass water jug, full, sparkled with light. Jim’s own impression of their landlady’s kitchen in general was that she was such an immaculate champion of cleanliness that the soot and grime of Walworth had long given up laying siege to her house and possessions.
Picking up her carving knife and fork, she glanced at him.
‘Do you wish to carve, Mr Cooper?’ she asked, and he thought the question carried an implication of her willingness to believe him capable of slicing a joint.
‘No, you carry on, Miss Pilgrim,’ he said. ‘I’m able to, but only on a meat dish with a central holding spike.’
‘Very well.’ She carved efficiently and quickly, and the slices of beef fell softly, tenderly and lusciously from the joint. She cut Jim’s slices into small pieces. She served the meat with batter pudding, light and crisp, rather than thick and solid Yorkshire pudding. The roast potatoes were perfect, the horseradish hot. Effel said she didn’t want no cabbage.
‘She must have green vegetables, Mr Cooper.’
‘Yes, make an effort, Ethel,’ said Jim.
‘Don’t want to,’ muttered Ethel. Miss Pilgrim gave her a stern look. Effel gulped. ‘A’ right,’ she said, and received a modest helping.
With everyone served, Miss Pilgrim suggested Jim should say grace.
Jim said, ‘For what we are about to receive let us be truly thankful, not only to the Lord but to Miss Pilgrim, whose Christian kindness is a blessing to us.’
‘Amen,’ said Orrice and Effel, and began to tuck in.
‘Amen,’ said Miss Pilgrim in reserved fashion, and cast a look at Jim. He smiled. ‘Really,’ she said. She was not receptive to compliments, and regarded them with suspicion. And from a man, a smile as well as a compliment made her inwardly wince.
The Sunday dinner was consumed with relish by her lodgers. She wondered what she was about in permitting her privacy to be invaded at certain meal times, especially as the children’s table manners were little short of atrocious. Mr Cooper spoke to them at intervals, but in far too indulgent a way. The boy needed to be cured of his habit of reaching across the table for salt or pepper, and the girl of wiping her nose either on her sleeve or her napkin.
For afters, there was date pudding and piping hot custard, ambrosia to Orrice and Effel. Orrice remarked that Miss Pilgrim was spiffing.
‘Angelic,’ said Jim.
‘I am not in the least angelic, Mr Cooper,’ she said. ‘I am a practical Christian, having discovered a bowl of rice to be of far more value to a starving child than a hundred angelic smiles or well-meaning sermons.’
‘Yes, that makes sense,’ said Jim affably, ‘but this date pudding is still angelic.’
‘Could I ’ave some more?’ asked Orrice, having scoffed his in quick time.
‘More?’ said Miss Pilgrim, much as if Oliver Twist had arrived at her table. ‘More?’
‘If yer please’m,’ said Orrice. ‘It ain’t ’alf good, and it’s ’elping me forget the ’orrors of me life.’
‘What horrors?’
‘I told yer, Miss Pilgrim, you know, that Alice French, callin’ me Orrice dear an’ makin’ me go to—’
‘Enough, boy,’ said Miss Pilgrim with awesome severity. But she gave him a second helping of the pudding. ‘I should hope, Mr Cooper, since you’re a well-read man, it won’t be beyond you to teach this boy a few social graces. It really is quite painful to have him refer to sweet Alice French and her kindnesses as the horrors.’
‘Black mark, Horace,’ said Jim. Orrice grimaced, Effel muttered.
‘Mr Cooper,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘you said your parents were dead. Do you have grandparents still alive?’
Did he? Maternal or paternal? They’d be old, in their seventies at least.
‘My mother’s parents live in Hampshire,’ he said. It was wishful thinking, it implied they were still alive.
‘You must take your wards to see them one Sunday, I’m sure they would like the train ride. Train rides open up a little of the world to Walworth children.’
Orrice and Effel looked up eagerly, and Jim said he’d take them one day.
‘When’s one day?’ asked Effel.
Making up his mind, Jim said, ‘Next Sunday morning. And when we’ve done the washing-up for Miss Pilgrim, how about a bus ride this afternoon to Hyde Park?’
‘’Yde Park?’ said Orrice. ‘Crikey, we’d like that, wouldn’t we, Effel?’
Effel said yes, at which Miss Pilgrim informed Jim she did not require anyone to do her washing-up, and that he could take the children out as soon as he liked.
‘Can’t be done,’ said Jim, ‘not until we’ve shown our appreciation of our splendid dinner. We’ll do it, Miss Pilgrim, dishes, pots, pans, everything. Leave it to us while you put your feet up.’
‘I am not so old, Mr Cooper, that I need to put my feet up,’ said Miss Pilgrim with a touch of acidity, ‘and nor am I used to having my domestic routine rearranged for me.’
‘Oh, rearrangements are sometimes good for all of us,’ said Jim, ‘especially for women, who are always on the go. You take a rest.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘We’ll vote on it,’ said Jim. ‘Hands up on our side all those who can’t wait to get at the washing-up.’ He put his own hand up. Orrice followed suit. Effel sat on both her hands. ‘Carried unanimously,’ said Jim, ‘Ethel’s voting with a smile.’
‘Ain’t,’ said Effel mutinously.
‘But you meant to,’ said Jim, ‘so it counts. Off you go to your sitting-room, Miss Pilgrim.’
‘Certainly not,’ she said again. She had no intention of leaving her precious china at the mercy of two careless children and a man with one arm. But Jim, insistent, had Orrice and Effel organized in no time. He washed every item himself, using his one hand with dexterity. Normally, at the club, he rinsed everything under a hot tap, and everything was placed in racks to dry. Now, Orrice and Effel did the drying, with tea towels, Effel in a slightly petulant way. She mumbled that her mum and dad hadn’t ever made her do things.
‘Well, I’m different,’ said Jim, ‘I like kids to give a hand, and I like it that you’re volunteering, Ethel.’
‘I don’t fink I like you,’ grumbled Effel.
‘Ungracious child,’ said Miss Pilgrim, who was bustling about and taking things from Effel and Orrice as soon as they’d been dried. She did not want anything to remain too long in their undisciplined hands. It was a relief to her when the job was finished and she was able to get them out of her kitchen.
In Hyde Park, after an exciting bus ride, Jim walked them around the extensive acreage of London’s most popular playground. The expanses of green grass and the sun-dappled waters of the Serpentine were breathtaking to Orrice and Effel. London was still recovering from the war, but there was nothing depressing or shabby about this green oasis in the centre of the metropolis. Effel stared at well-dressed ladies and girls in bright frocks and hats. Orrice took in the wonders of the park and the adventurous look of boats on the Serpentine. At a refreshment kiosk, Jim bought them an ice-cream wafer each. Orrice was overwhelmed, and felt that he and his sister had a new dad. Effel still wanted her old one back.