Read Two for Three Farthings Online
Authors: Mary Jane Staples
âI hope this incident will not repeat itself, young man. You and your sister are to come down to my kitchen at six o'clock, when I will give you your supper. I have discussed matters with your guardian, Mr Cooper. He has left me food to cook for your supper, and from tomorrow you will come here for a hot midday meal and return to school afterwards. This is until your guardian changes his hours of work. Is that quite clear?'
âYou're goin' to give us an 'ot meal at school break times, Miss Pilgrim?' said Orrice, gaping.
âOne hot meal a day is very necessary for boys and girls.'
âAnd we're to come down for an 'ot supper at six this evening?' said Orrice.
âThat is what I said, boy.'
âCrikey, yer a real sport, Miss Pilgrim.'
âKindly do not address me as a real sport, young man. Be down promptly at six.'
They were down promptly at six, having in the meantime thoroughly explored their new lodgings. Miss Pilgrim sent them straight back upstairs to wash their hands. When they came down again, she placed their supper before them. Jim had provided Miss Pilgrim with sausages, potatoes, tomatoes and onions, such being a reflection of his masculine tastes and his preference for simple bachelor cooking. Orrice gazed with joy at the fried onion rings and the creamy-looking mashed potatoes. Effel blinked. Miss Pilgrim, seated at the table with them, a pot of tea and bread and butter constituting her own meal, eyed Orrice as he picked up his knife and fork.
âWe will say grace first,' she said.
âYes'm,' said Orrice.
âWe thank thee, Lord, for thy goodness and for bestowing on us that which is our sustenance this day.'
âAmen,' said Orrice.
âAmen,' gasped Effel, in awe at the savoury food and the stern, handsome lady who had cooked it.
âKindly use the napkins,' said Miss Pilgrim.
âBeggin' yer pardon'm?' said Orrice faintly. He related napkins only to smelly babies.
âHere, child,' said Miss Pilgrim to Effel, and picked up the folded napkin beside the girl's plate, shook it out and tucked it into the neck of Effel's blouse. Oh, a bib, thought Orrice, they're for babies, too, what a funny woman. All the same, he unfolded his own napkin and tucked it into the neck of his jersey. Then he and Effel set to, he hungrily, Effel with the nervous cautiousness of a little girl continuing to be dubious about what was happening to her life. She had woken up last night, thought unhappily of her mum and dad, and cried a little before going to sleep again.
Miss Pilgrim ate bread and butter, drank tea and kept an eye on the table manners of these cockney children. The boy had rough edges, but to her relief he did not eat noisily. And the girl was almost dainty. That was because of her nervousness, which Miss Pilgrim assumed was shyness. It had been no hardship to cook for them. She enjoyed many of the domestic arts, including cooking. If her first lodgers proved to be a little more troublesome than two respectable single ladies might have been, she must bear with that. They at least meant she did not have to go out and find a job, something which she viewed with distaste. She did not mind voluntary work for charity, she did not like the thought of working in a shop or office for a wage.
âApart from the regrettable fight,' she said, âhow did you both get on at your new school today?'
âAin't telling,' muttered Effel automatically.
âWhat was that, child?' asked Miss Pilgrim sternly, and Effel blushed crimson.
âPlease, nuffink,' she said, and filled her mouth with sausage, which put her out of conversational action for the moment.
Orrice said, âSchool's all right'm, but there's that Alice French, yer know.'
âAlice French?' said Miss Pilgrim. âYes, I do know her, and her family. Alice is a sweet child.' Effel choked on the sausage. âWhat is wrong, Ethel?' Effel swallowed, the sausage went down, and she cast a fierce little look at her brother. It was all his fault. Fancy hitting that boy just because of that Alice. âHave you lost your tongue, miss?' asked Miss Pilgrim crisply.
âPlease'm,' said Orrice, âEffel don't go in for talkin' sometimes.'
âNonsense,' said Miss Pilgrim. Effel filled her mouth with mashed potato and onion rings, putting her tongue out of action again. âI should not like to think that is an absurd way of defining sulks. Sulks are not becoming, Ethel. And lift your head, child, your nose is almost in your supper.'
Effel reluctantly lifted her head. She blushed as she caught the direct glance of the striking blue eyes.
âPlease'm,' said Orrice, having made a young trencherman's inroads into his supper, âEffel don't 'ave sulks, it's just sometimes she don't talk.'
âYou have no problem, boy,' said Miss Pilgrim.
âWell'm, I ain't shy like Effelâ'
âEthel,' said Miss Pilgrim with corrective reproof.
âYes'm,' said Orrice. âStill, you should've 'eard 'er dinnertime at the school gates, goin' on at our Uncle Jim about me and that Alice. That Alice, Miss Pilgrim, I dunno what I done to deserve 'er and 'er skippin'-rope. I ain't saying she ain't a nice girlâ' An unsuppressible hiss escaped Effel. âBut boys don't do skippin', Miss Pilgrim, it makes yer look like a poof.'
The blue eyes gathered familiar frost.
âBoy,' said Miss Pilgrim, âthere are expressions I do not like to hear in my house, particularly from children.'
âI was only saying, like, I was only saying,' said Orrice. âI can't get it into that Alice's 'ead that I don't do skippin'.'
âYou are very fortunate, young man, that a girl as sweet as Alice is willing to be friends with you.'
âYes'm,' said Orrice, and thought. âWell,' he said, âI dunno it's friendly follering me about with a skippin'-rope that's got pink 'andles. Pink, Miss Pilgrim, would yer believe. It don't 'ardly bear finking about.'
Miss Pilgrim gave him a critical look. She saw a boy who needed a haircut, whose face was marked from brawling, who had a fresh, healthy complexion unusual in a Walworth urchin, and whose brown eyes were asking the whole world to look at what was happening to his social life.
âNevertheless, Master Horace,' she said, âI am sure your guardian, Mr Cooper, would like it if you got into no more fights and responded to Alice's gesture of friendship.'
âYes'm,' said Orrice, and thought more as he polished off his supper. He looked up, eyeing their stiffly handsome landlady in alarm. âBeg pardon, Miss Pilgrim, but yer don't mean do skippin' with 'er, do yer?'
âIf that is her wish, why not, boy?'
âI'll fall down dead,' gasped Orrice.
âNonsense.'
Effel uttered a strangled cry.
âEffel's feeling sick,' said Orrice. âSo am I,' he added, but only in a growling, barely audible mutter.
âChild, there is something wrong with you,' said Miss Pilgrim to Effel. âWhat is it?'
Effel, in her fury, came out with it.
âOrrice ain't skippin', not wiv 'er, 'e don't even do it wiv me, and I'm 'is sister. She ain't nobody.'
Shocked, Miss Pilgrim said, âChild, you are not to speak like that, not at this table. Do you hear?'
âWant me mum,' said Effel, and a tear rolled. Miss Pilgrim sighed.
âThere, finish up your food,' she said, âand I will forget your little naughtiness. There is hot jam tart to follow. Do you like that?'
âCrikey, jam tart's scrumptious,' said Orrice. âMiss Pilgrim's a real sport, ain't she, Effel?'
âDon't want none,' said Effel.
âVery well,' said Miss Pilgrim. She got up, removed their plates, took the jam tart out of the oven, cut Orrice a large slice and served it to him. She cut a small slice for herself. Orrice tucked in. Effel eyed the tart forlornly, then cast a glance at Miss Pilgrim. She gulped.
âPlease, missâ' She gulped again.
âWell?' said Miss Pilgrim.
âI likes jam tart,' whispered Effel.
Silently, Miss Pilgrim served her.
âSay fank you, Effel,' said Orrice.
âFank yer, miss,' said Effel, and bent her head and tucked in.
When they had finished, Miss Pilgrim gave them each a glass of water. Orrice asked if he and Effel should do the washing-up. Miss Pilgrim said it was pleasing to hear children offer, but preferred to do it herself. Her china was valuable to her.
âWe're goin' out now,' said Orrice.
âOut?'
âWe like goin' out.'
Miss Pilgrim, who had needlework to do, said, âVery well. There is no need for me to tell you your guardian expects good behaviour from you. You are not, of course, to play ball games in the streetâ'
âWe ain't got no ball'm,' said Orrice.
âI had not finished speaking, boy. You are not to play ball games in the street, or mark out the pavements for hopscotch or to kick tin cans about. My neighbours are used to relative quiet, and I should not want to be indirectly responsible for bringing rowdiness to the street. Be in at eight o'clock â you will hear the church clock chime. That is to be Ethel's bedtime here according to your guardian. Very well, off you go now.'
âYes'm,' said Orrice. âMiss Pilgrim, Effel and me want to fank you for the best supper ever.'
âI am satisfied to have helped to put a hot meal into you,' said Miss Pilgrim.
They escaped into the street, where Effel said, âShe don't like us.'
âWell, she don't ackcherly unlike us,' said Orrice, âor she wouldn't 'ave cooked us that supper, or that jam tart.'
âAin't goin' to no bed at eight o'clock,' said Effel.
âYes, you are.'
âAin't.'
âYes, you are, or I'll wallop yer,' said Orrice. âWe got to do what Uncle Jim says.'
âOh, a' right,' said Effel grumpily.
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.
â'Lo, Jim old thing,' she said.
âHello to you too,' said Jim.
âI'm tickled pink you're coming out of the kitchens into the book-keeping,' said Molly. âKitchen 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.
âI'm keeping my fingers crossed that my ignorance won't show,' he said, âand I'm doing what I can about that by studying this book-keeping manual.'
âThat's what you're carrying, is it?'
âTo get my nose into at break times. It doesn't seem too mysterious.'
âYou've never done any book-keeping at all?' asked Molly.
âKeep it dark, Molly, or I'll be out on my ears before I've started.'
âNo problem, lovey,' said Molly, âI'll give you a hand as soon as you start.'
âYou're a good friend,' said Jim.
âHope so,' said Molly, âit might mean being asked out one time.'
âAnd that,' said Jim, âmight 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.
âI don't have a steady,' said Molly.
âWell, you should,' smiled Jim, ânot all the young men around here can be that blind.'
âWhat 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.
âThere'll always be one for a girl like you,' said Jim.
âGood-oh,' said Molly, âsend him along when you spot him, will you?'
âPleasure,' 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.
âSo, young Horace, you got into a fight, did you?' said Jim.
âYes, but like I just told you, Uncle, I didn't 'ardly know nuffink about it,' said Orrice.
âI don't think that's true,' said Jim.
âWell, yer can't split,' said Orrice.
âI suppose a black eye's honourable, and splitting isn't. But they're not going to like it at St John's.'
âNo, well, we got to report to the 'eadmistress first thing,' said Orrice.
âWho's we exactly?'
âOh, them and us,' said Orrice casually.
âWho's us?'
âOrrice ain't telling,' mumbled Effel through porridge.
âHe can tell me,' said Jim.
âWell,' said Orrice cautiously, âit's me first, thenâ'
âStop telling,' breathed Effel.
âWe got to tell our uncle, sis.'
âNo, we ain't.' Effel grumbled over her porridge. â'E ain't our uncle.'
âI'll wallop you,' said Orrice.
âNo walloping,' said Jim. âYou were saying?'
âYes, Uncle, it's me and Effel and that Alice. And some boys.'
âEthel,' said Jim, âyou and Alice were in the fight?'
âWasn't,' said Effel, head bent.
âIs that a fib, Ethel?'