The vicar appeared at the entrance to the church after the Sunday morning service, to say a few words to each departing parishioner. Mrs Lockheart, who had again been present, was detained for a few moments longer than other people, the vicar regarding her with curiosity while exchanging pleasantries with her. She was smiling when she detached herself to join a group of women who seemed in no hurry to get home. Jim, waiting with Orrice and Effel, saw Miss Pilgrim appear. The vicar spoke to her. Miss Pilgrim eyed him enquiringly, then she nodded and went back into the church with him.
‘Horace,’ said Jim, ‘you walk on home with Ethel.’
Orrice, spotting Alice heading towards him, took Effel away at a fast pace. Jim walked across to the group of women. Mrs Lockheart smiled at him.
‘Can you spare a few moments?’ he asked.
‘With pleasure, Mr Cooper,’ she said. She excused herself to the ladies and joined him.
‘Let’s walk,’ said Jim, and took her at a stroll along Larcom Street. ‘Mrs Lockheart, it’s time you went back to where you came from.’
‘Whatever do you mean, Mr Cooper?’
‘I mean you’ve done enough damage. If that’s what you came for, you’ve succeeded. You’ve got the vicar worried now. So give it a rest. Your brother was bitten by a viper, and the inquest confirmed this. I’ve checked. I suggest that before you leave you write a letter to the vicar clearing Miss Pilgrim of any connection with your brother’s unfortunate death.’
‘Why, Mr Cooper, I do believe you’ve been talking to Rebecca. I hope you’re not a gullible man. Rebecca has a forked tongue, you know.’
‘A forked tongue has been wagging in every street around here,’ said Jim, ‘but it doesn’t belong to Miss Pilgrim.’
‘Oh, dear me,’ said Mrs Lockheart prettily, ‘she has a champion? But how does a viper get from a conservatory into a sleeping man’s bed?’
‘Snakes its way there. You told me your brother was found dead in his bed. At the mission, I presume.’
‘A guest, Mr Cooper.’
‘Yet I heard you ask Miss Pilgrim if he said anything during his last moments. That doesn’t add up. Nor do you.’
‘How clever of that viper to find its way to my brother’s bed,’ murmured Mrs Lockheart as they approached the Walworth Road.
‘Mrs Lockheart, I accept none of your insinuations about Miss Pilgrim.’
‘Dear me,’ she said, ‘I see how true it is that love is blind.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Jim, disliking her thoroughly.
‘Clarence, poor man, was also in love with Rebecca.’
‘So she put a viper in his bed? You’re out of your mind, Mrs Lockheart.’
Mrs Lockheart stopped and turned on him, her charming smile vanishing. Her eyes glittered and her expression became waspish. No, thought Jim, not waspish. There was a more appropriate adjective. Viperish.
‘You dare say that to me?’ She almost hissed the words. ‘You will regret that.’ And she walked away, back towards the church. Jim walked home. Orrice and Effel were waiting on the doorstep. He used his key to let them in.
‘You all right, Uncle?’ asked Orrice. ‘You don’t look very ’appy, does he, Effel?’
‘Not my fault,’ protested Effel.
‘I’m all right now I’m in clean air,’ said Jim.
He heard Miss Pilgrim come in ten minutes later. He went down to see her. In her kitchen, she was aproned and busying herself with the dinner preparations. She did not seem as if her interlude with the vicar had disturbed her. She looked her usual composed self.
‘Yes, Mr Cooper?’
‘The vicar spoke to you,’ said Jim.
‘That is so.’
‘About Mrs Lockheart and what she’s been saying to people?’
‘The conversation I had with the vicar was a private one, Mr Cooper.’
‘I had a conversation myself. With Mrs Lockheart.’
‘It’s a free country, I’m told,’ said Miss Pilgrim, placing prepared potatoes in the pan containing a joint of mutton. ‘And I naturally assume your conversation was not about me.’
‘It was all about you,’ said Jim.
‘You had no right,’ she said sharply.
‘As you pointed out, it’s a free country.’
‘That doesn’t give you the right to discuss my affairs.’
‘I’m a friend,’ said Jim.
‘Then you should do as I ask, and not interfere. It will do no good. That woman appeared out of thin air. When she gets tired of what she’s doing, when it begins to bore her, she will disappear as suddenly as she came. I forgive you for discussing my affairs with her, and I wish to hear no more about it. Come down to dinner at two as usual, please – oh, and I have baked a fruit cake for tea. The weather is fine enough for us to have it in the garden, with your guest Alice, and I trust your wards will be on their best behaviour. Perhaps over dinner we can have some interesting talk on Horace’s next poem, “How We Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix”.’ Miss Pilgrim placed the meat dish back in the oven. ‘You know that one, Mr Cooper? I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three?’
‘Oh, my sainted aunt,’ said Jim, and laughed.
Miss Pilgrim drew herself up and regarded him stonily.
‘What is amusing you, Mr Cooper?’
‘You, Miss Pilgrim. You’re irrepressible.’
‘Kindly go away, Mr Cooper, I’m far too serious-minded to appreciate that kind of remark. I’m also busy.’
‘Just one question, Miss Pilgrim. Do you know how to handle a snake? That is, how to take hold of it without harm to yourself?’
Her blue eyes took on their familiar frostiness.
‘Yes, you have been discussing me with that woman,’ she said.
‘Can you handle snakes?’
‘I refuse to answer. Please go away.’
Jim went. He felt an easing of his worries, however, despite her icy response to his question. She was standing up to everything that Mrs Lockheart was maliciously throwing at her. He had no doubt that the vicar himself had expressed worries to her. She had probably told him in her fearless way not to concern himself. One would have to be lacking in character to doubt the integrity of a woman as admirable as Miss Pilgrim.
The sun of late June made its warm, bright conquest of the haze of Walworth to flood Miss Pilgrim’s little garden with golden light. The narrow flower beds bordering the small lawn were a marvel of colour. In the tiny timber shed stood the old hand-mower used by Miss Pilgrim to cut the grass. On the lawn the folding table, covered with an embroidered white cloth, was set for tea, with five placings. Effel and Orrice, inspecting the flowers with Jim, were wide-eyed that there were flowers at all, alive and real.
‘Golly,’ breathed Effel, itching to pick some.
‘Ain’t they pretty, Effel?’ said Orrice.
‘Is it a real garding?’ whispered Effel.
‘Course it is.’
‘It’s an oasis, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Jim. That was how she saw it herself, but as her own alone. Not even the ladies of the church who sometimes took afternoon tea with her had ever been invited into her retreat. What she was doing by bringing Mr Cooper and his wards into it, she really did not know, except that she did not intend to make a precedent of the invitation.
‘Even a small piece of ground can be made to look like a gift from God,’ she said. The sound of a knock on the front door penetrated to the garden. ‘That will be Alice,’ she said, and went to answer the knock. A few moments later she brought Alice through to the garden. Alice stopped and stared.
‘Oh, Miss Pilgrim, oh, crumbs, isn’t it lovely?’ she said. She was carrying a large cardboard box, its top covered by a picturesque illustration. ‘Hello, Mr Cooper. Oh, don’t you look nice, Ethel?’
‘No,’ said Effel grumpily.
‘Oh, Horace dear, I’m here,’ said Alice. Orrice had his back turned to her in the hope that what he couldn’t see might not be there.
‘’E ain’t Orrice dear, ’e’s me bruvver,’ said Effel, still fighting her battle to keep Orrice exclusive to herself.
‘I’ve brought you something, Horace,’ said Alice.
Orrice turned.
‘Oh, ’ello,’ he said.
‘Look,’ said Alice, and placed the box on one of the kitchen chairs that Jim had helped bring out. He and Miss Pilgrim watched as Orrice advanced cautiously. The boy looked at the colourful illustration. It was of a shining black railway engine thundering along a track. His eyes opened wide. ‘My cousin Edward’s grown up now,’ said Alice, ‘he didn’t want this any more, so I asked if I could give it to you, Horace. You said you’ve always wanted a clockwork engine set. Look.’ She lifted the lid of the box and disclosed clockwork engine, carriages, a tender, a heap of lines curved and straight, and a signal. ‘It’s for you, Horace.’
Effel, coming to look, ground her teeth in rage.
‘Orrice don’t want it,’ she said.
‘Crikey,’ said Orrice, and was breathless. Alice beamed at him. In a Sunday white dress with a pink sash, she was a picture of nine-year-old prettiness. Jim saw more than prettiness, he saw a warm and generous little girl, who spoke well but had no side, and whose fondness for Orrice was founded, perhaps, on some instinctive feeling that he was a fresh, healthy and honest boy who liked fun. So did Alice. Whenever his little grin arrived, Alice waited quivering for fun to break out. ‘Alice, you can’t give me somefink like this,’ he said, ‘it’s not me birfday or anyfing.’ In his excitement he mangled his English and made Miss Pilgrim sigh.
‘But my cousin said I could give it to you,’ declared Alice, ‘I told him we were sweethearts.’
Effel emitted a strangled yell. Orrice coughed.
‘Have you two got chest colds?’ asked Jim.
‘Feel sick,’ growled Effel.
‘Then go to the kitchen sink, child,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Ain’t that kind of sick,’ muttered Effel.
‘Oh, you want to suck something, Ethel,’ said Alice, ‘something like an acid drop or a bit of barley sugar. Horace, d’you want to fix the railway lines together? I can help.’
‘Well, I dunno as—’ Orrice stopped as he caught Miss Pilgrim’s pained look. ‘Well, I don’t know I ought to take your present, Alice. I don’t have nothing to give you, and I betcher this is more than one of them half-a-crown clockwork train sets.’
‘Horace, you’ve got to have it,’ protested Alice, ‘you don’t have to give me anything, honest.’
‘I think I’d best let Uncle Jim decide,’ said Orrice, who was overwhelmingly tempted, but had a feeling acceptance would put him in chains.
‘Well, my lad,’ said Jim cheerfully, ‘Alice’s cousin doesn’t want it, and he’s let Alice have it to give to you. And you can always ask her the date of her birthday.’ Jim was doing what he could, with Miss Pilgrim’s co-operation, to help Orrice improve his social graces.
‘It’s September the eleventh,’ said Alice, on to that in a flash, ‘and you can come to my birthday party.’
‘’E don’t want no train set, and ’e don’t go to no-one’s birfday parties ‘cept mine,’ said Effel, utterly green-eyed.
‘Well, Uncle Jim says I best have it, sis,’ said Orrice, ‘and Alice did bring it all the way. I got to say thank you, Alice, yer a real sport.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, Horace dear,’ said Alice, and lifted her face for a kiss. Orrice took a deep breath, closed his eyes, aimed with his mouth and landed a quick kiss on her cheek. The faintest smile touched Miss Pilgrim’s lips. Effel trembled with fury. ‘Oh, you are nice, Horace,’ said Alice.
Effel let go an old but still telling chestnut.
‘’Oo’s a pretty boy, then?’ she said.
‘My mum says he’s lovely,’ declared Alice proudly.
Orrice lifted suffering eyes to Jim. Jim winked.
‘I shall put the kettle on for tea now,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘And perhaps—’ She paused, then made a further sacrifice. ‘Yes, perhaps after tea you and Alice would like to put the train set out on my kitchen table, Horace.’
‘Cor, yer rippin’, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Orrice, ‘yer the best sport ever.’
‘I doubt it, young man,’ she said, and went into the kitchen. The cardboard box containing the train set fell off the chair on which Alice had placed it. Effel had given it a push. Jim took her aside, while Alice and Orrice set the box and its contents to rights.
‘What’s it all about, miss?’ murmured Jim.
‘Nuffink,’ said Effel.
‘Well, listen, lovey,’ said Jim, ‘you’ve got Orrice and you’ve got me, and you’ll always have us. But you must let Orrice have his friends.’
‘Not ’er,’ said Effel, mulish.
Miss Pilgrim provided a perfect Sunday tea in the heart of Walworth, in her own little oasis. Alice and Orrice both thought it as grand as it could be. The sparrows came to look, and hopped about on the grass searching for crumbs. Sparrows thrived in Walworth.
There were cucumber sandwiches, thinly-sliced bread and butter, Kennedy’s salmon and shrimp paste, pink and creamy, home-made jam, a marmalade tart and the freshly-baked fruit cake. Alice ate happily and healthily, Orrice ate with the typical relish of a Walworth boy, and Effel with snapping teeth. Miss Pilgrim encouraged conversation as usual. Orrice participated only at intervals, for his mind could concentrate on little else except his exciting ownership of a superior clockwork train set. The one problem about that was his feeling of obligation towards Alice. It could mean he’d never get rid of her.
Tea over, Alice said, ‘I heard Horace is going to be put down for West Square. I’m going to try for West Square Girls the year after. Then me and Horace will be able to walk home together, or ride on the tram.’
The folding table lurched. Empty cups and saucers, jam-stained tea plates, the cake-stand and what was left of the cake, and the teapot and the slop basin slithered over the crumpling tablecloth. Fortunately, most of the things landed in Jim’s lap, although the teapot hit the lawn and its handle snapped off. Two cups also lost their handles as they clashed. Everyone looked at Effel, Miss Pilgrim exhibiting utter shock. Effel had given the table a violent shove.
‘Effel, wha’dyer do that for?’ asked Orrice in dismay.
‘Wasn’t me,’ said Effel. Miss Pilgrim looked at Jim, who was carefully unloading his lap, his trousers wet from tea remnants.
‘Ethel,’ said Jim, ‘go up to your room, and stay there until I come up myself.’
‘Ain’t goin’,’ said Effel.
Jim placed the things back on the table, including the teapot and three snapped-off handles.
‘I’ll glue the handles back on, Miss Pilgrim, until we can get matching replacements,’ he said, and rose to his feet. He came round to Effel and lifted her from her chair. With his strong right arm around her waist, he carried her kicking and yelling into the house.
‘Oh, blimey,’ muttered Orrice.
‘She didn’t mean it, Miss Pilgrim,’ said Alice.
‘Master Horace,’ said Miss Pilgrim, ‘fetch the tray and we’ll collect everything up.’
When Jim brought Effel down again fifteen minutes later, Miss Pilgrim was washing up the tea things, and Orrice and Alice were in the garden. Effel was tear-stained. Jim had talked to her at length, and with a great deal of seriousness.
‘Please, Miss Pilgrim, I—’ Effel gulped, her head hanging. ‘I’m sorry.’
Miss Pilgrim dried her hands and did what was surprising to Jim. She went down on one knee in front of Effel. She placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders and regarded her in compassion.
‘Child,’ she said, ‘it’s easy to upset a folding table, but it’s not so easy to bear the consequences. That’s an unhappiness, isn’t it? We all make mistakes on impulse. Regrets are more lasting. And how silly to think you are going to lose your brother to Alice. I told you that before. You will learn, Effel, we all learn, we have all had our wrong moments as children. There, a few broken handles don’t amount to much. It’s far more important for you to know you have a very protective brother and a kind guardian. And you are a brave little girl, Ethel. There.’ She actually kissed Ethel, then straightened up. Ethel stared, her eyes misty.
‘I’m not goin’ to be given just bread and water for a week?’ she said with a gulp.
‘Bread and water?’ Miss Pilgrim looked shocked. She cast a glance at Jim. ‘Bread and water?’
‘Not this time,’ said Jim.
‘I should hope not,’ said Miss Pilgrim. ‘Ethel, go and join Horace and Alice in the garden, go and make friends with Alice.’
Effel escaped. Miss Pilgrim regarded Jim severely.
‘Really, Mr Cooper, bread and water indeed,’ she said.
‘The threat was the only thing I could think of,’ said Jim, ‘she’s a little terror.’
‘How very perceptive of you,’ said Miss Pilgrim scornfully. ‘They’re all little terrors in Walworth, but most of them grow up to be honest and hard-working. I’m afraid I must blame you as much as Ethel for what she did. You’ve been too indulgent and not firm enough. I don’t mean harshly firm, I mean sensibly firm. You’ve failed to give her clear lines as to her behaviour, and although I have your permission to be corrective, your lack of firmness has undermined me.’
‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Jim.
‘You will be, Mr Cooper, if you address me like that. You must let Ethel know precisely where she stands in regard to discipline. You should never allow her to be disrespectful to you, to start with. You are a very civilized man, and it’s to be hoped you will help to make Ethel and Horace just as civilized. Mr Cooper, why are you looking at me like that?’
‘It’s the first time I’ve been dressed down by a young woman,’ said Jim.
‘Young woman?’ Miss Pilgrim seemed affronted.
‘Well, of course you’re a young woman still.’
‘Nonsense. I am a little past thirty. Now, while I dry these tea things, perhaps you would clear the table so that Horace and Alice can put the train set together and enjoy themselves for half an hour before Horace takes her home and I can spend a quiet evening at my embroidery. What is the matter with you now, Mr Cooper, what are you laughing at?’
‘God knows,’ said Jim. ‘Probably at myself.’
Horace was walking Alice home. Jim and Effel were sitting at the table in the garden, Miss Pilgrim having said they might stay there as the evening was so fine. She had joined them herself, bringing her embroidery out to work on it there. Effel was looking at Jim forgivingly, because he was about to read to her from one of her Ragamuffin Jack books.
‘Ragamuffin Jack was a very happy chap
Who laughed the whole day through,
He had a fat jolly mother
And a very skinny brother
Whose nose had turned dark blue.’
‘I know why, I know,’ said Effel excitedly, ‘Ragamuffin Jack did it, ’e tells ’is mum ’e couldn’t find no pink paint, so ’e used blue.’
‘I’d like to find that out for myself,’ said Jim, and continued reading, much to Effel’s pleasure. It took her mind off Orrice walking Alice home.
Orrice and Alice were midway to Crampton Street. Behind them were Higgs, Cattermole and Stubbs, close cronies.
‘Oh, dearie me, ain’t they sweet?’ said Higgs loudly.
‘I dunno who’s the sweetest,’ said Stubbs.
‘I don’t even know ’oo’s Alice and ’oo’s Wivvers,’ said Cattermole.
‘Yes, yer do,’ said Higgs, ‘’e’s the one wearin’ ’is farver’s trousers.’
‘Yer sure ’e ain’t the one in a frock?’ asked Cattermole.
‘Well, I’ll tell yer,’ said Higgs, ‘no, I ain’t sure.’ He raised his voice in the Sunday evening quiet of Amelia Street. ‘Oi, Wivvers, is that you wearin’ a frock?’
‘Horace, they’re horrid,’ said Alice, ‘don’t let’s take any notice.’
‘I ain’t goin’ to, not till I get you home,’ said Orrice, ‘then I’m goin’ to bash ’em.’ Higgs, Cattermole and Stubbs had been following them since they turned the corner of Wansey Street.
‘You’re not to,’ said Alice.
‘Eh?’ said Orrice.
‘You’re not to fight with them,’ said Alice.
Orrice in his wisdom recognized the proprietary note and the necessity of retaining his independence.
‘Now don’t worry, Alice,’ he said, ‘you just go indoors when we reach yer house. You been a real sport, givin’ me that train set, but me dad wouldn’t ’ave wanted me not to put me dukes up. I ain’t goin’ to fight ’em, I’m just goin’ bash ’em one at a time.’
‘No, you’re not to,’ said Alice.
‘We can’t ’ear yer,’ called Higgs, ‘can’t yer talk louder, we don’t want to miss yer lovey-dovey stuff.’
‘Ain’t it time they started kissin’?’ asked Stubbs.
‘Wake ’em up, Catters,’ whispered Higgs, ‘get your catapult workin’.’
Cattermole took a catapult from his pocket, together with a brown paper bag containing lumps of hard raw potato. He slipped a lump into the sling while Stubbs held the bag, drew back the sling and elastic, took aim for Orrice’s head and fired. The potato lump struck the back of Alice’s head. Alice gasped. The lump had hurt. She stopped. Orrice stopped. They had reached her street.
‘’Old me cap, Alice,’ he said, and gave it to her.
‘No, don’t,’ said Alice, but Orrice was already in action, picking out Cattermole as he saw him slip the catapult back into his pocket. Orrice went straight for him, and at speed. Cattermole squared up. Orrice didn’t stop coming. A straight right arm, taught him by his dad, vanguarded by a tightly balled fist, passed through Cattermole’s guard. The first landed smack in his right eye, and knocked him down.
Stubbs and Higgs jumped Orrice. Alice stood in shock for a moment. Then she launched herself into the fray, feet delivering furious kicks. Kids appeared by magic in the street.
‘Cor, a fight!’ A street fight was an event not to be missed. Within seconds, it seemed, there was a crowd of boys and girls ringing the struggle. Orrice was sitting astride Higgs, and Stubbs, behind Orrice, had his arms locked around Orrice’s neck. Alice was aiming kicks at Stubbs and Higgs alernately. The three boys rolled over, Orrice in the middle, his Sunday suit collecting the dirt and dust of the pavement. Alice stopped and seized Stubbs by his hair. She yanked. Cattermole, up on his feet, waded in.
‘’Oo’s winnin’?’ asked a boy.
‘Dunno,’ said another, ‘except she ain’t losin’ – lummy, she might be now, though.’
Alice had been pulled down. Orrice gave a ferocious yell of rage, burst free and pulled her to her feet.
‘Run ’ome,’ he said. Higgs and Stubbs jumped him again. Orrice planted some stiff levellers. Stubbs staggered back, recovered and ran in again. Alice tripped him up, he clutched at her and they went down together. Orrice and Higgs fell on top of them. Cattermole fell on Orrice.
A man came running, from a house across the way in Crampton Street. He broke through the ring of yelling, excited kids. He stooped and hauled the contestants to their feet, one by one, Alice last. She was at the bottom.
She was flushed and grimy, clothes and hair dishevelled, her right knee grazed. Mr French, her father, looked at her in disbelief. Her hair was over her face.
‘Is that you behind all that hair, my girl?’ he asked.
Alice pushed her hair aside. More exhilarated than found out, she said breathlessly, ‘You should’ve seen, Daddy. Horace bashed them and I kicked them.’
‘You what?’
‘Cor, your Alice don’t ’alf pack a wallop wiv ’er plates of meat, Mr French,’ said a boy. ‘Betcher she could make Jack Dempsey ’op.’
‘I gotter go,’ said Higgs.
‘Me too,’ said Cattermole, hand to his black eye.
‘’Old on,’ said Mr French, ‘no-one’s goin’ yet. You young scruffs, what’s the ’orrible idea, turnin’ my daughter into a hooligan? And I’m surprised at you, Orrice.’
‘But it wasn’t his fault,’ protested Alice, ‘they all jumped on him.’
‘Bleedin’ ‘it me when I wasn’t lookin’,’ growled Cattermole.
Mr French gave them all a good look. They were all marked with cuts and bruises. And Orrice also sported a puffy cheek, Higgs a split lip, Stubbs a bleeding nose and Cattermole his black eye.
‘I’ve a good mind to put me boot to your backsides,’ said Mr French. ‘You perishers, what d’you mean by fightin’ with girls? Who’s changed the rules?’
‘We ain’t, Mr French,’ said Stubbs, mopping his nose, ‘we didn’t ask for Alice to join in. Cor, yer got a bloomin’ terror there, she nearly pulled all me ’air out.’
‘Orrice,’ said Mr French, ‘what’ve you got to say for yourself?’
‘We was all mindin’ our own business, Mr French,’ said Orrice, ‘only Cattermole tripped over me arm, and I dunno where Alice come from after Higgs an’ Stubbs started kissin’ each other.’
‘’Ere, d’you ’ear that?’ asked Higgs of Stubbs. ‘D’you ’ear ’im say kissin’?’
‘You perishers,’ said Mr French again, ‘you jumped Orrice and yanked Alice into the middle of it.’
‘No, we bashed ’em then, Daddy, me and Horace,’ said Alice, her flush that of triumph. Then she added, ‘But not on purpose, though.’
‘Hoppit,’ said Mr French to Higgs, Cattermole and Stubbs, and the three boys gladly departed. Angry grown-ups could start lashing out. ‘Orrice, you’d better get yourself home and cleaned up. And you’d better look out for ructions.’
‘Oh, me Uncle Jim knows a bloke ’as got to stand up for girls,’ said Orrice. ‘You all right, Alice?’
‘Yes, thank you, Horace.’
‘You can scrap real good, you can,’ said Orrice, ‘I don’t mind yer sittin’ next to me in school now.’
‘Oh, thanks ever so much,’ said Alice, not yet of an age to understand it was better to be more condescending than grateful to boys.
‘So long, Mr French,’ said Orrice. ‘Oh, Alice give me a real superior clockwork train set. She’s swell.’
They watched him go on his way, banging his cap against his trousers to knock the dust off. Then Mr French took Alice by the hand and led her home.
‘You monkey,’ he said, ‘your mum’ll have a fit about you fightin’ with boys.’
‘But I couldn’t let them bash Horace to death,’ protested Alice, ‘he’s my sweetheart.’
‘You’re in a hurry, aren’t you, at nine years old? Come on, I’ll try and get you cleaned up before your mum lays her eyes on you.’
Miss Pilgrim opened the door to Orrice, who hid as much of himself as he could under his cap. But his Sunday cap wasn’t quite the friend his weekday one was. Miss Pilgrim did not miss cuts, scratches and bruises, nor the state of his suit.
‘Young man?’
‘Yes, hello, Miss Pilgrim, I’ll just go upstairs for now,’ said Orrice.
‘Disgraceful,’ said Miss Pilgrim.
‘Me?’ said Orrice, fidgeting on the doorstep.
‘Yes, you, sir. You’ve been fighting again.’
‘Me?’
‘Don’t prevaricate.’
‘What’s pre – what’s that, Miss Pilgrim?’
‘Do not attempt to mislead me.’
‘Can’t I come in?’ asked Orrice.
‘I do not admit brawling and bruising boys into my house.’
‘Oh, crikey,’ muttered Orrice.
‘Unless they can explain themselves satisfactorily.’
‘Well, Miss Pilgrim, me and Alice—’
‘Alice and I.’
‘Yes, Miss Pilgrim. Well, me and ’er wasn’t doing no harm to no-one, just walking, we was.’
‘And?’
‘And what, Miss Pilgrim?’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Search me,’ said Orrice, who wasn’t going to split. ‘Oh, yes, well, we fell over, Miss Pilgrim.’
Miss Pilgrim looked down from her tall height into his upturned face, scratched and bruised, and into earnest brown eyes.
‘Boy, do you take me for a simpleton?’ she said.
‘Crikey, no, Miss Pilgrim. Course, I know girls is mostly daft, and you don’t meet many women that ain’t a bit barmy. I mean—’
‘Young man, don’t be impertinent, and don’t gabble. Slower speech, please.’
‘Yes, Miss Pilgrim.’ Orrice was acquiring a wholesome respect for her. ‘I was only meanin’, Miss Pilgrim, that women fuss an’ carry on. Effel an’ me, and Uncle Jim, we’re lucky you’re not like that. Uncle Jim says you’re an angel with commonsense, he says most angels do a lot of fluttering about, like. I never seen you fluttering about, Miss Pilgrim, like you didn’t know what you was doing of.’
Miss Pilgrim’s faint smile showed.
‘I know what I’m doing now,’ she said, ‘I’m standing here listening to nonsense. This house is suffering an epidemic of nonsense.’
‘Yes, Miss Pilgrim. Can I come in now?’
Miss Pilgrim stood aside.
‘Go upstairs,’ she said. ‘Brush your suit and clean yourself up. Your guardian and sister are about to come in from the garden, and they’ll join you. Tell your guardian you’re to write out fifty times, “I must not fight or brawl.”’
‘Eh?’ gasped Orrice.
‘I think you heard me, young man.’
‘What, me, Miss Pilgrim? What for?’
‘Fighting and brawling.’
‘Miss Pilgrim, that’s bloomin’ hard on a bloke, that is,’ said Orrice gloomily. And he was gloomier still when Uncle Jim backed up Miss Pilgrim’s command.
‘Well, yer shouldn’t go walkin’ wiv Alice,’ said Effel. Then she thought of what her guardian and Miss Pilgrim had said. ‘Well, not all the time you shouldn’t, Orrice, not every day. Just sometimes, that’s all.’