On Tuesday morning, Jim knocked on Miss Pilgrim’s living-room door.
‘Come in.’
Entering, he found her immersed in her needlework.
‘That looks lovely,’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘What is it you want, Mr Cooper?’
‘To see you,’ he said. Her handsome countenance took on a familiar coolness. He noted the brushed perfection of her thick black hair, but even its shine seemed austere. ‘The second week’s rent is due, and I also have to settle the food bill. Is it inconvenient just now?’
‘Not now you’re here,’ she said. ‘The rent is twelve shillings, and the cost of the food is nine shillings and fourpence.’
‘Is that all? Nine shillings and fourpence for the three of us?’
‘I shop economically, Mr Cooper. I don’t like coming home feeling I’ve failed to get value for my money.’
‘You’ve given us first-class value,’ said Jim. ‘Let’s see, rent and food. Twelve bob plus nine and fourpence. One pound, one and four.’
‘Correct,’ said Miss Pilgrim, and Jim placed the money on the table with the rent book.
‘Don’t worry about the rent book entry at the moment,’ he said, ‘I can pick it up later.’
‘Very well. I am, as it happens, in the middle of some very delicate work. I’ll return the book in twenty minutes, when I’m going out to shop for today’s midday meal. Thank you, Mr Cooper.’ It was a cool dismissal. Jim went back to his book-keeping manual.
She came up to his room twenty minutes later wearing a grey hat and the stiff-looking black dress that reached to her ankles. It was years out of fashion, but it dignified her tall figure. She gave him back the rent book.
‘Many thanks,’ said Jim. She nodded and left. He heard the rustle of her clothes. She was undoubtedly still in favour of starched Edwardian petticoats.
After she had been gone five minutes there was a knock on the front door. Jim went down to answer it. A slim, good-looking woman in her mid-thirties stood on the step, her spring coat very fetching, her hat crisp and smart. She eyed him in frank curiosity.
‘Good heavens,’ she said, ‘could you possibly be her husband?’
‘Ask me another,’ smiled Jim, ‘I’m not quite with you.’
‘Is Rebecca at home?’
‘Are you looking for Miss Pilgrim?’
‘I am. I’m Mrs Audrey Lockheart. May I ask who you are?’
‘Well,’ said Jim, ‘in the first place, I’m nobody’s husband, I’m Jim Cooper, a bachelor. I’m afraid Miss Pilgrim’s out.’
‘Oh, I really don’t mind waiting,’ said Mrs Lockheart with a smile. ‘I’m very much acquainted with Miss Pilgrim. May I come in and wait if she isn’t going to be too long?’
‘Of course,’ said Jim, intrigued. The visitor looked as if she had very little in common with Miss Pilgrim fashion-wise. Not only was there an elegance in the look of her coat, and a stylishness to her hat, there was a newness to both items. ‘Yes, do come in, Mrs Lockheart.’ He stepped aside and she entered. He closed the door and debated for a moment. Miss Pilgrim was a close guardian of her privacy. He could not be certain she would approve if he gave the freedom of her sitting-room to a caller, even if the caller had declared herself an acquaintance. ‘Would you like to wait upstairs?’
‘I’ll be quite happy to, Mr Cooper. You did say Cooper? Yes, I thought you did. Does Rebecca – Miss Pilgrim – have a sitting-room upstairs?’ Mrs Lockheart, personable, was gently enquiring.
‘Well, no,’ said Jim, ‘I live upstairs with my two wards, a boy and a girl. But you’re very welcome to wait in our living-room.’
‘How kind, thank you so much.’ Mrs Lockheart began to ascend the stairs, the post-war length of her coat allowing her to show sleek calves and faultless stocking seams. Jim followed her up and took her into his living-room, where the table was spread with papers covered with book-keeping scribbles. ‘Well, this is cosy, isn’t it?’
‘Please sit down,’ said Jim, and she unbuttoned her light coat, hitched the skirt of her grey costume and seated herself, her movements fluent, her manner that of a woman able to communicate easily with people. ‘I’m not sure how long Miss Pilgrim will be,’ he said. ‘Not too long, probably. She’s only gone to the shops.’
‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Mrs Lockheart. ‘It’s many years since I last saw her, so half an hour, or even an hour, won’t test my patience. It’s really very kind of you to let me wait in your living-room. I’m sure I’ve interrupted you in some work or other.’
‘It’s no bother,’ said Jim.
Mrs Lockheart eyed his disability with visible sympathy.
‘Is it too personal to ask if you’ve suffered an unfortunate accident, Mr Cooper?’
‘It’s not a bit personal,’ said Jim, ‘and I wouldn’t say it was an accident. It was more to do with the fortunes of war. Fortunes sometimes favour you, and sometimes they don’t.’
‘Ah, the war.’ Mrs Lockheart’s reaction evinced itself in the wry smile of a woman unable to understand how men could engage in such murderous conflict. ‘I don’t know you, Mr Cooper, I really don’t know you at all,’ she said. ‘Meeting you isn’t knowing you, but I’m still able to say I’m glad you escaped the slaughter, even if it was at the expense of your left arm. One can make judgements from first impressions, don’t you think so?’
‘Yes, sometimes,’ said Jim. ‘At other times, first impressions can be very deceptive. I had a platoon officer, a junior officer, whom I thought a first-class snob and a first-class swine, but on the day I took bullets and then a bayonet in my arm, and a bullet in my thigh as well, he was the one who hauled me out of the German trench and got me back to our lines, under fire the whole time. When I thanked him he said, “You’re a bit of old England, Cooper, and I hope old England can make good use of what’s left of you.” I’ve been careful about first impressions since then.’
‘That is one of the better stories of the war,’ said Mrs Lockheart. ‘Has old England made good use of what the war left of you?’
‘It’s given me a job,’ said Jim, reserving what he thought of the Government’s apparent indifference to unemployed ex-servicemen.
‘This is really much more pleasant than waiting on my own,’ said Mrs Lockheart. ‘I’m addicted to conversation, you know.’
Jim thought from her stylish clothes and mode of speech that she was upper-class. An upper-class woman was new to him.
‘Good conversation, of course,’ he smiled. ‘I don’t know just how pleasant your wait will be, I can get very boring.’
‘Men who are very boring never mention the possibility that they might be.’ A light little laugh escaped her. ‘It’s something that never occurs to them. May I take my coat off, it’s really warmly cosy in here, isn’t it?’ She stood up. Jim, as dexterous as ever with his one hand, helped her off with her coat. She turned, smiled her thanks, hitched her tailored grey skirt again, and sat down again. Her slim, silken-sheathed legs shone, the light rippling over the silk. Jim blinked. Mrs Lockheart smiled softly. He suddenly thought, watch this one. ‘Mr Cooper, may I ask what your relationship with Rebecca is?’
‘Relationship?’ Jim regarded her in curiosity. ‘There’s no relationship, Mrs Lockheart. Miss Pilgrim is my landlady, and I might say a very kind one.’
‘Dear me,’ murmured Mrs Lockheart. She crossed her legs. The silk flashed in the light from the window. A delicate, lace-hemmed underskirt was visible for a brief moment. ‘Am I to understnd Rebecca Pilgrim has a lodger, Mr Cooper?’
‘Three,’ said Jim. ‘Myself and my two wards.’ He smiled. ‘Orrice and Effel.’
‘Who?’
‘Horace and Ethel.’ Jim, knowing that book-keeping was out until Miss Pilgrim returned and took Mrs Lockheart off his hands, made innocuous conversation. ‘They’re orphans, brother and sister, and a great help to me. Well, it is a help to a man like me, since they’ll stop me turning into an old stick-in-the-mud. Do you have children, Mrs Lockheart?’
‘Regretfully, no,’ said Mrs Lockheart. Stylish, attractive, and with an air of affluence, she seemed effortlessly at ease in what Jim supposed were relatively humdrum surroundings. Oddly, she seemed to be regarding him with distinct interest. ‘Did you know Rebecca Pilgrim before you became her lodger, Mr Cooper?’
‘No. Why d’you ask?’
‘Oh, I merely wondered. She was an extraordinarily attractive young woman when I first came to know her.’
‘I can believe that,’ said Jim, ‘she’s now a very handsome woman. Did you meet her in China? I understand her father ran a mission there.’
‘Indeed, yes, he did.’ Mrs Lockheart looked gently reminiscent. ‘The Reverend James Pilgrim. Dear me, such a godly gentleman, and Rebecca such a help to him, a girl of sweetness and laughter. Well, that was the impression one had.’
‘Pardon?’ said Jim.
‘Oh, have I said anything amiss? We mentioned impressions before, didn’t we?’ Mrs Lockheart smiled.
‘First impressions,’ said Jim.
‘Oh, one’s first and second impressions of Rebecca were of a young lady quite delightful,’ said Mrs Lockheart, ‘and sweetly dedicated to the welfare of the Chinese orphans housed at the mission station. There, we’ve touched on orphans again. Your two wards are orphans, you said. How admirable of you to have become their guardian. I’m in favour of guardians, I’m sure they’re less demanding than parents. But what a responsibility for a bachelor.’
‘It’s more of a challenge than merely living for oneself,’ said Jim, wondering what on earth had made her mention Miss Pilgrim in a way that implied her nature and character were suspect.
‘One could say it’s a privilege merely to be alive, Mr Cooper. Nature has surrounded us with beauty and colour, and we only need to close our minds to the failings and wickedness of some people to appreciate we live in a world of natural wonders.’
‘Not everything’s perfect,’ said Jim. ‘We’ve all got weaknesses, and nature blotted its copybook when it plagued us with rats, mice and mosquitoes. And seasickness.’
‘And untimely death,’ said Mrs Lockheart. ‘But no, one can’t blame every untimely death on nature. I must blame the war for the loss of my husband, Major George Lockheart.’ She sighed, shook her head, and smiled wryly. ‘He was killed during the German offensive in 1918. I haven’t enjoyed being a widow. George was such an entertaining man, and so generous. It was like him to leave me well provided for. And earlier, you know, I lost my brother, my only brother. Life can deal hard blows.’
‘It was that kind of war,’ said Jim, ‘it wrecked some families.’
‘Oh, my brother Clarence wasn’t a war casualty. No, no, not at all. That is another story.’ Mrs Lockheart came gracefully to her feet and moved to the window. She regarded the view. It was of the backs of terraced houses. ‘Goodness me, who would have imagined Rebecca living in Walworth?’ she murmured. ‘But is that a little garden below? Rebecca’s little garden?’
‘She fashioned it, I believe, and tends it,’ said Jim, beginning to find his visitor somewhat cryptic.
‘A remarkable woman,’ said Mrs Lockheart.
‘Yes, she is, and very kind.’
Mrs Lockheart turned, and Jim thought her smile had a slightly sharp edge to it. She moved back to her chair in an abstracted way. Automatically, her hands plucked at her trim skirt as she reseated herself.
‘Rebecca isn’t back yet?’ she said.
‘She went out only five minutes before you arrived,’ said Jim.
‘And here I am, still waiting, still taking advantage of your kind hospitality and offering you very dull conversation. I’m sure you’d be doing something interesting if I weren’t here. I suppose, Mr Cooper, you’ve never been to China?’
‘I’ve seen France and Flanders,’ said Jim, ‘and the Isle of Wight. Most people here set their sights on Southend. It’s the cockneys’ own seaside. No, I’ve never been to China.’
‘It holds an abundance of Chinese.’ Again a light laugh escaped her. ‘My husband was never enamoured of it, but my brother Clarence found it very invigorating in terms of business.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Jim could not summon up a great deal of interest in a man he had never known. However. ‘He ran a business in China?’
‘Clarence was a broker in Shanghai. Shanghai, you know, is full of Europeans addicted to the excitement of making their fortunes. Missionaries, of course, deplore men’s devotion to Mammon, and the Chinese call the Europeans foreign devils.’
‘Is that because Europeans in China make their fortunes at the expense of the Chinese?’ asked Jim.
‘I wonder? Perhaps it is.’ Mrs Lockheart murmured to herself. ‘But there are Chinese opium millionaires by the dozen, Mr Cooper. Such a shame about Clarence, when he was doing so well. I can never think of his death merely as water under the bridge. Some things, yes, like old quarrels or one’s youthful mistakes. Clarence had so much to live for and was remarkably popular. Such a shame to have died at his age. But, of course, there are hidden characteristics in many people, aren’t there?’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Jim. ‘That your brother wasn’t what he seemed? That he didn’t deserve his popularity or that he committed suicide?’
Mrs Lockheart, looking shocked, said, ‘Mr Cooper, how can you say such a thing?’
‘Wasn’t it a fair comment? I thought it was.’ Jim felt there were slightly odd undertones to the conversation. ‘You said your brother had much to live for and was very popular, but that there were hidden characteristics in many people. So I assumed you had your brother in mind.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Mrs Lockheart reproachfully, ‘that’s very unkind on poor Clarence.’
Well, ruddy hard luck on poor old Clarence, thought Jim.
‘Sorry if I jumped to the wrong conclusion,’ he said. ‘What did happen to him, then?’
‘Yes, I must ask Rebecca exactly what did happen. Clarence was staying at the mission house at the time. But no, it’s nothing that would interest you.’ Mrs Lockheart mused on her reflections, and Jim thought yes, it may not interest me, but she’s making a strange attempt to whip up my curiosity. ‘Do you know Rebecca well, Mr Cooper?’
‘Miss Pilgrim? Hardly at all.’
‘Really? I’m to believe that when you’re living in her house?’
‘I’ve only been living here a week,’ said Jim, who had no intention of gossiping about his remarkable landlady.
‘But you’re an interesting man, I think, with a very nice way of making a stranger feel at home. I like informal men.’ Mrs Lockheart smiled. Jim had his bottom informally perched on the edge of the dwarf bookcase. ‘Well, after a week of living in Rebecca’s house, what does an interesting man think of her?’
‘That she’s kind,’ said Jim, who had a feeling now that Mrs Lockheart was trying to point a finger at Miss Pilgrim. It put him instinctively on his landlady’s side. She might be stiff and starchy, the kind of woman to make a man conscious of his shortcomings before she even opened her mouth, but the fact was she had thrown a lifeline to him and the kids, and had done so with generosity. And if Mrs Lockheart, by contrast, was appealingly feminine, the fact was that she had only just met him and accordingly had to be a little out of order in trying to point a finger, if that indeed was what she had in mind. ‘I’m still wondering, Mrs Lockheart, what made you mention there were hidden characteristics in many people.’
‘Oh, but it’s true, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Some of us are much deeper than our friends and acquaintances would ever suspect, and are capable of surprising things. Why, when one considers it was a serpent that shattered the tranquillity of the Garden of Eden, isn’t it the most surprising thing that such a godly man as the Reverend James Pilgrim should become so attached to them?’
‘Them?’ said Jim.
‘Serpents,’ said Mrs Lockheart with a gentle shake of her head. ‘Clarence thought it most odd. So did I. Rebecca said her father found snakes extremely interesting, and laughed about it. She was very captivating, you know, when she was laughing or smiling, and she had beautiful blue eyes. Everyone thought her a sweet angel.’
‘I know very little about Miss Pilgrim,’ said Jim a trifle brusquely, ‘and nothing at all about her father, except that he was a missionary who spent some years in China. And I’m totally ignorant about snakes. Miss Pilgrim, I hope, will be back any moment—’
‘Oh, China isn’t known for its snakes,’ said Mrs Lockheart, ‘it isn’t a tropical country, Mr Cooper. It does get very hot in the summer but can be bitterly cold in the winter. Most species of snakes are indigenous to the tropics. They like constant warmth, you know. Of course, there are probably Chinese adders just as there are English adders, but I’ve never heard of an English adder being found in someone’s bed, have you? Dear me, we’re managing to pass the time very equably, aren’t we? Interesting conversation can make a passing hour very pleasant. Did I mention Rebecca’s father had a snakehouse constructed at the mission, so that he could study his specimens at leisure?’
‘No, you didn’t mention it,’ said Jim. He felt the undertones were uneasy now, and he didn’t like that. ‘But you did mention water under a bridge, and I think that’s what all this is now.’
‘But there are still waters too, aren’t there, still waters that run deep?’ Mrs Lockheart’s smile did nothing to change Jim’s dislike of the undercurrents.
‘There aren’t any around here, Mrs Lockheart, just people trying to keep their heads above the usual kind of waters.’
‘Yes, Walworth is an area of poverty, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I imagine Rebecca regards it as a place where she can still do good work, she was always very much her father’s daughter. Perhaps good work makes up for other things. I’m sure she was in love with Clarence, although at his death you would not have thought so. I don’t believe she shed a single tear. Isn’t that surprising?’
‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ said Jim. The woman did not look like a pedlar of mischief or unpleasant insinuations, but he knew he’d be a fool not to recognize there was something definitely unpleasant behind her oblique references to snakes, still waters, hidden characteristics and the death of her brother. ‘And it doesn’t really concern me.’
‘No, of course not, but it’s interesting, isn’t it? Does Rebecca do good work here?’
‘I believe she’s an interest in a mission in Bermondsey, which isn’t far away.’
‘She helps out at a Bermondsey mission?’ Mrs Lockheart’s smile was all of cryptic. ‘Perhaps she sees that as a form of penance.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’d rather you didn’t continue with remarks that—’ Jim stopped as his keen ears picked up the sound of the front door being opened. ‘I think Miss Pilgrim’s back.’
‘Miss Pilgrim? Rebecca?’ Mrs Lockheart looked slightly surprised, as if the expected had become the unexpected. ‘Oh, yes. Good. I haven’t seen her for years, it will be quite a reunion. I’ve been looking forward to it very much, although I’m not sure how she will feel.’ She came to her feet, picked up her coat and placed it over her arm. ‘Thank you so much for your company, Mr Cooper, it’s been so interesting talking to you. I do hope we’ll meet again.’ Her smile seemed that of a woman in pleasurable anticipation of a reunion. ‘Goodbye for now.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Jim, his feelings mixed. One should like a woman whose looks and femininity were as appealing as hers, and whose manner was so civilized, but he was not sure that he did. There had been too many veiled remarks, too much wandering from one thing to another. He opened the door for her and she smiled as she left. He heard her descending the stairs, and he closed the door. He had an odd suspicion that Miss Pilgrim was not going to enjoy the reunion. He sat down and resumed his book-keeping studies, but found it difficult to concentrate. He was listening. But the solidly built house did not communicate its sounds at all clearly when doors were closed. He shook his head at himself and applied himself to his studies with determination.
A sound did reach his ears after ten minutes, and with jolting clarity. It came from the neat little hall below.
‘Wretched woman!’ It was Miss Pilgrim’s voice. ‘Leave my house, take yourself off, and at once!’
A laugh came, a laugh that Jim thought was mocking.
‘How dramatic.’ Mrs Lockheart’s voice, neither so sharp nor so biting as Miss Pilgrim’s, was quite clear all the same. ‘False anger will do you no good, Rebecca. I know, you see, I have always known. But what I still don’t know is why you did it. Poison of that kind is a venomous thing. Poor Clarence did not deserve that. But now that I’ve found you, you are done for.’
‘Rubbish. I can face my God.’ The front door was pulled open. Jim was on his feet now, his own door open a little, his listening compulsive. ‘Go!’
‘I shall be back, Rebecca Pilgrim.’
The front door was sharply closed. Jim ventured out on to the landing.
‘Hello there,’ he called lightly. Miss Pilgrim looked up at him from the hall.
‘Kindly don’t let unwanted visitors into my house again, Mr Cooper,’ she said.
‘So sorry,’ said Jim. ‘She said she was an acquaintance of yours, and asked if she could come in and wait until you were back.’
‘An impositon.’
‘The lady wasn’t an old acquaintance?’ Jim, out of disturbed curiosity, was probing.
‘That is not the point. I’m not a saintly Christian, as I’ve told you, and my door is closed to certain people. Whenever there’s a visitor and I am out, please be so good as to ask them to call again.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Pilgrim, to see you distressed.’
‘I’m not in the least distressed, I am merely vexed.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Help? With what?’ From the hall she stared frostily up at him.
‘With whatever’s vexing you.’
‘What nonsense. Allow me to begin preparing the midday meal, or it will be late.’ With her familiar starchy rustle, Miss Pilgrim disappeared.
It occurred to Jim that for all the imperturbability of Mrs Lockheart, the woman had a screw loose.
At half-past eleven the same morning, Mrs French called at the school and spoke to the headmistress. The headmistress communicated at once with Mr Hill, and Mr Hill addressed his class, informing the boys and girls that Alice French had mislaid her skipping-rope yesterday. Would the pupil who had found it please say so.
No-one said so. Everyone simply looked blankly at everyone else. Alice blushed slightly. She knew her mum had come to see the headmistress about it, although she had asked her not to.
‘Well, let’s wait until the dinnertime break,’ said Mr Hill tactfully, ‘then the rope might come to light. Or someone in the other classes might be handing it in now. We’ll see.’
During the break, an eleven-year-old girl approached Mr Hill and told him she’d seen a new girl pick the skipping-rope up from the playground bench and go off with it.
‘What new girl?’ asked Mr Hill.
‘I don’t know ’er much, sir, I think she’s Ethel Somebody.’
Mr Hill sighed. Ethel Somebody, of course, was the sister of Horace Withers, a bright boy with potential. Mr Hill waited until brother and sister returned to the school after dinner at their lodgings. He took the little girl aside, and he called Alice over.
‘Alice, your missing skipping-rope,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes, blessed thing,’ said Alice. ‘Well, you see, sir, Mum was cross I didn’t come home with it yesterday. I told her I hadn’t actually lost it, not actually, I just couldn’t remember about it, and she said well, someone’s got to remember, that skipping-rope’s new and it cost money.’
‘Can you remember, Ethel?’ asked Mr Hill. Effel, head bent, fidgeted and mumbled. ‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Mr Hill.
‘Oh, Ethel wouldn’t know anything about it, sir,’ said Alice, ‘she’s Horace’s sister.’ Which meant that as far as Alice was concerned no sister of Horace could be accused of pinching.
‘Well, do you know, Ethel?’ asked Mr Hill.
‘Don’t know nuffink,’ said Ethel, feet itching to bear her away.
‘Does that mean you didn’t pick the rope up from the bench yesterday and go off with it?’
‘Oh, Ethel wouldn’t have done that, sir,’ said Alice.
Effel muttered.
‘Did you take it home just to play a joke?’ asked Mr Hill. If that was a lifeline, Effel didn’t recognize it.
‘Ain’t got no ’ome,’ she said, ‘nor no mum and dad, not like she’s got.’ The bell rang for afternoon classes, and she scampered off. Alice followed. Mr Hill looked for Orrice. Seeing him, he beckoned. Orrice arrived, and Mr Hill explained the position to him tactfully and kindly.
‘Well, Effel might’ve ‘idden it for a joke, sir,’ said Orrice, ‘but she wouldn’t ’ave nicked it. Effel don’t go in for nickin’. Nor me. Our dad would’ve walloped us. Effel’s a bit funny sometimes, but she ain’t a tea leaf.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Mr Hill. They were a ragtag and bobtail, many of the Walworth kids, and some did nick little things from each other. But the moment their dads got wind of it, such things quickly reappeared. ‘However, she was seen with the rope. Look here, tell you what, you talk to her. If anyone can find out what she did with it, you can. Can’t you? Talk to her. I’d like to have the rope returned by the time classes start tomorrow morning.’
‘It ain’t like Effel to take someone else’s fings,’ said Orrice.
‘No, but you’ve lost your parents. I’m sorry to mention that, it’s been hard on both of you, but it might have something to do with Ethel’s actions. It might be affecting her in a different way from you, Horace. So talk to her during this afternoon’s break.’
Orrice did so, taking his sister aside in the playground. Alice looked on from afar.
‘Effel, did you mess about wiv Alice’s skippin’-rope yesterday?’
‘Don’t know nuffink about it,’ said Effel.
‘You sure?’
‘Serve ’er right,’ said Effel, ‘now yer can’t skip wiv ’er no more.’
‘Here, ’ave you hid it?’ asked Orrice. ‘It’s daft. Yer know I don’t skip wiv ’er, anyway, I ain’t turnin’ meself into no cissy. I wouldn’t be able to look no-one in the face if I turned cissy, nor if me sister went in for nickin’. Alice won’t mind if you took ’er rope for a joke. Did yer hide it or didn’t yer?’
‘Dunno,’ said Effel.
‘Course you know, you ain’t as daft as that. Look, what’s Uncle Jim goin’ to say when ’e knows?’
‘’E ain’t nobody,’ said Effel.
‘Yes, ’e is,’ said Orrice, ‘’e’s lookin’ after us, ’e can’t be nobody. Effel, d’you want me to bash yer?’
‘Dunno, don’t care,’ said Effel, and Orrice could get no more out of her. Reluctantly, he reported failure to Mr Hill. Mr Hill sighed and reported to the headmistress. When classes were over for the day, Orrice and Effel were told to go and see the headmistress. She addressed them kindly, telling them she wanted the matter cleared up by tomorrow morning. If it was, then she would not have to ask their guardian to come and see her.
It worried Mrs Wainwright that she might be doing the little girl an injustice, that she might be innocent. And there was also the unhappy fact that sister and brother had both been recently orphaned. Some allowances must be made for the disturbing effect such a traumatic happening might have had on the girl.
What worried Orrice was the thought that the whole school might soon be calling Effel nasty names.
‘Look,’ he said on the way home, ‘yer don’t want everyone saying you nicked Alice’s rope. Our mum and dad wouldn’t like that, and our Uncle Jim ain’t goin’ to be too bloomin’ joyful.’
‘’E ain’t our dad,’ said Effel.
‘I know that, don’t I? Why’d yer keep telling me what I already know? But ’e saved us from being sent to an orphanage, didn’t ’e?’
‘’E grumbles at me,’ said Effel.
‘Cor, you fibber, ’e ain’t ever grumbled at no-one, it’s not grumbling when ’e tells yer to pick up fings you’ve dropped. Effel, yer can tell me, can’t yer, if yer took that skippin’-rope or not?’
‘Ain’t saying.’
‘I bet yer know where it is, I just betcher.’
‘Ain’t talkin’.’
‘Right,’ said Orrice, ‘I’m goin’ to wallop yer silly when I get yer ’ome.’
When they arrived at nineteen Wansey Street, Miss Pilgrim, set of face, let them in. They wiped their feet carefully on both mats, and Orrice, under their landlady’s strict eye, took his cap off. Miss Pilgrim at once noted there was gloom all over his fresh young countenance. She also noted Effel was scowling. Closing the door, she asked, ‘What is wrong with you two?’
‘Me bruvver’s goin’ to ‘it me,’ said Effel
‘Well, I got a good mind to, Miss Pilgrim,’ admitted Orrice.
‘You will do no such thing,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘In the absence of your guardian, I must take it upon myself to forbid you to even think about it. Brutality will be your lot all the days of your life if you exercise it now, at your age. And, Master Horace, as Shakespeare says, the evil that men do lives after them.’
‘Oh, crikey, Miss Pilgrim,’ protested Orrice, ‘it ain’t evil just thinkin’ about wallopin’ Effel, is it? Not just thinkin’ about it.’
‘Deeds are the children of thoughts, young man.’ Miss Pilgrim studied the boy and girl again. Effel, of course, was hanging her head. Orrice met her gaze in his fearless way. ‘What has been happening?’ she asked.
‘Yes, what’s goin’ to ’appen, that’s what I’d like to know,’ said Orrice, deeply gloomy. ‘I’m goin’ to ’ave to fight all of ’em, I am.’
‘You are going to fight no-one, do you hear?’
‘Miss Pilgrim, I got to, I got to fight everyone what calls Effel a tea leaf. Effel ain’t a tea leaf, she’s just playing up, which is why I ’ad a good mind to wallop ’er.’
Miss Pilgrim, who knew tea leaf was cockney rhyming slang for thief, said, ‘Go into the kitchen, both of you.’ They went in, Effel muttering. She followed them. ‘Master Horace, I think you had better explain.’
Orrice explained in somewhat garbled fashion, such was his disgust with events. It did not prevent Miss Pilgrim drawing a correct picture. She gave Effel’s boater a stern look.
‘Lift your head, child,’ she said, and the boater came up and Effel’s face appeared, her mouth closed mutinously. ‘I believe, miss, you’ve no liking for Alice French.’
‘Ugh,’ said Effel.
‘Or her skipping-rope.’
‘Ain’t saying.’
‘Absurd child, you have made yourself unhappy. Go into the scullery.’
In the scullery, she poured warm water from the kettle into a bowl in the sink. She washed Effel’s hands with a soapy flannel. She washed them thoroughly, and then scrubbed them. The palms of Effel’s hands turned pink. Miss Pilgrim examined them.
‘Miss Pilgrim, what yer doing?’ asked Orrice.
‘You have said, Master Horace, that Alice’s skipping-rope had pink handles. Your unhappy sister carries the mark. God has his own way of pointing a finger. Ethel, why did you take the rope?’
Effel, staring at her pink palms, gulped.
‘I – I—’
‘Yes?’ said Miss Pilgrim crisply.
‘She wants to take Orrice away from me,’ said Effel painfully.
‘Child, no-one can do that. Horace is your brother, no-one can—’ Miss Pilgrim came to a halt. Her dark lashes flickered and her mouth compressed. Then she went on. ‘No-one can take him away from you. What did you do with the skipping-rope?’
‘Effel, you ain’t nicked it and lost it, ’ave yer?’ said Orrice bitterly.
‘No, I just put it in the cloakroom, under a lav,’ burst Effel. ‘I didn’t nick it, I didn’t. I just put it where she couldn’t find it.’
‘Oh, yer sorely trying me,’ said Orrice.
‘Come, come, young man, we’ve all been guilty of childish naughtiness,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘But we’ll have no more of it from either of you. No more pranks from you, Ethel, and no more fighting by your brother at the school gates. Go back to the school, both of you. It will still be open. Retrieve the skipping-rope and take it to Alice at her home in Crampton Street, number fourteen. Ethel, you are to apologize to Alice and to let her know you wish to be friends with her.’
‘Me?’ said Effel in horror.
‘Yes, you, miss. Then there’ll be no more foolishness. Off you go now, both of you.’
They went back to the school. The playground was empty and quiet, one or two teachers still in the building. Effel darted into the girls’ cloakroom, while Orrice kept watch. From under the S bend of a lavatory system, Effel pulled out the folded skipping-rope. She rejoined Orrice, who sighed with relief at the sight of the rope and its shiny pink handles. They walked to Crampton Street, on the other side of the Walworth Road. Crampton Street was a mixture of dwelling places, a block of flats sitting between houses that varied between the good and the indifferent. Number fourteen was a pleasant-looking terraced house.
Orrice knocked. Alice answered the door. Her surprise quickly turned into a happy smile.
‘Horace, it’s you,’ she said, much as if his arrival was the event of the year.
‘Yes, me and Effel’s both come,’ he said. ‘Effel found yer skippin’-rope. She’s sorry it got lost, ain’t yer, sis?’
Effel looked as if she was going to deny that, but she thought of Miss Pilgrim and God.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘It was in the girls’ cloakroom,’ said Orrice, ‘me and Effel went back to the school to look for it.’
‘What’s going on?’ Mrs French put in a plump and enquiring appearance.
‘It’s Horace and Ethel, Mum,’ said Alice happily, ‘they found my skipping-rope and brought it back. It was in our cloakroom, I must have left it there. Wasn’t it nice of Ethel to find it and bring it? You’re awful sweet, Ethel.’
‘Yes, a’ right,’ said Effel.
‘Well, I’m glad it’s been found,’ said Mrs French. Whatever she thought of the way it had reappeared, she was unable, as a mother, not to feel for the orphaned girl and boy. ‘We won’t fuss about it any more. Nice of you to bring it, Ethel, and you, Horace.’
‘Shall I give Horace a kiss, Mum?’ asked Alice.
Orrice went faint. There were boys in the street.
‘We got to get back to Miss Pilgrim,’ he said hoarsely, ‘come on, sis.’
‘A’ right,’ said Effel. She thought of Miss Pilgrim again. ‘You can kiss me bruvver, if you like,’ she said to Alice.
Alice planted an adoring kiss on Orrice’s cheek. Mrs French laughed. The boy was blushing. Orrice, thinking his life might as well come to an end here and now, went blindly off with Effel. He managed to find his voice when they reached Walworth Road.
‘Now yer been an’ really done it, you ’ave,’ he said, ‘yer went an’ told Alice to kiss me wiv all them boys lookin’.’
‘You blushed, you did,’ said Effel.
‘Me? Me?’
‘Fancy blushing,’ said Effel.
‘That’s it, make it so me life ain’t worf livin’ no more,’ said Orrice.
Effel giggled.
Answering the door to them when they got back, Miss Pilgrim took them into her kitchen.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘We done it, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice, ‘we gave Alice ’er skippin’-rope back and Effel said she was sorry.’
‘Good. And Ethel made it clear she was willing to be friends?’
‘I told ’er she could kiss me bruvver,’ said Effel in fiendish glee.
‘H’m,’ said Miss Pilgrim, noting Orrice’s scowl.
‘Orrice blushed,’ said Effel.
Orrice grabbed his sister.
‘Master Horace!’ Miss Pilgrim was sharp and commanding.
‘Well, I’m done for, I am,’ growled Orrice.
‘She finks me bruvver’s ever such a pretty boy,’ said Effel.
Orrice rolled his eyes in despair.
‘That’s enough, Ethel,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘And kindly remember to confess your naughtiness about the skipping-rope to your guardian when you see him tomorrow morning.’
Effel, however, refused to confess, and Orrice, not given to telling tales about his sister, kept his peace.