Two for Three Farthings (25 page)

‘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.

The Sunday morning train from Waterloo steamed through the Surrey countryside on its way into Hampshire. Jim, Effel and Orrice had a compartment to themselves. The boy and girl, faces close to the windows, stared in excitement at every passing scene. The sun shone over the gentle hills, and gold dappled the fields. Effel could hardly believe the moments when real live cows came into being before her astonished eyes. Standing cows, walking cows, and cows solemnly chewing the cud. Orrice took in the wonder of open spaces where there weren't any houses to be seen, just trees and meadows. He and Effel chattered animatedly to each other. Effel was in her best Sunday frock and boater. She also wore a clean face. Orrice was in his suit and Sunday cap.

Jim sat in deep thought. He really did not know what the day would bring. If any of his mother's relatives were alive, he had no idea what their reactions would be to a visitor claiming to be her illegitimate son. Did they know she had had a son? Had she told them? If so, none of them had ever come to the orphanage to see him. Such thoughts had crossed his mind before, and he had concluded that either his mother had told none of her relatives or, if she had, none were interested in him. But he had always known he would make this train journey one day. It was something he had had to do. One day.

The village, Elderfield, was not far from Petersfield. The train stopped at Petersfield, and they took the local line to Lower Bordean. From there they walked half a mile to Elderfield by way of a country lane, where primroses were flowering along the edges of the ditches and Effel, rapturous, begged to be allowed to pick some. Jim managed to shift her off that idea by pointing out the golden allure of pristine dandelions. Effel swooped on them. Orrice decided it wouldn't actually be cissy to give her a hand, so he picked some too and loaded them on to her, much to her delight. After five minutes in her clutching hands, the golden heads drooped on limp stalks, but Effel still remained rapturous.

Jim, the children beside him, approached the first houses of the village in a tentative mood. The whole village consisted of only a few dwellings, no more than half a dozen houses and a couple of old cottages. To the side of one house was a tiny shop that sold tobacco, confectionery and a small range of groceries. It was open for the morning.

Everything was utterly quiet. Only the murmurous sounds of early summer came to the ear. Effel stared as a huge bumble bee alighted on wisteria growing against a cottage wall.

‘Oh, crikey,' she gasped. The bumble bee took wing and flew away. ‘Orrice, did yer see that, did yer see it?'

‘Bumble bee,' said Orrice, ‘I seen some in Ruskin Park.'

Jim surveyed the village street, all part of the country lane. He was here now, with the kids. There was no point in avoiding the issue. He turned and went back to the tiny shop, Orrice and Effel on his heels. He descended a step and pushed open the door. A bell jangled. Effel gazed at a dummy packet of Cadbury's milk chocolate in the shop window. Her mouth watered. She entered the shop behind Jim, Orrice following. A little counter was bare except for a tin of Osborne biscuits. Grocery items stood on shelves. A petite old lady appeared.

‘Good morning,' said Jim.

‘Eh?' she said, and peered at him. She seemed to find him suspect. She looked at the children. ‘Who's they?' she asked.

‘That's Effel,' said Jim, ‘and that's Orrice.'

‘What's they got?'

‘Dandelions,' said Jim.

‘Been in they danged old war, I see.'

‘No, we ain't, missus,' said Orrice.

‘Bain't talkin' to you,' said the little old lady, and Effel sidled to hide herself behind Jim. ‘What's they want, soldier?'

‘Four ounces of bull's-eyes twice, thanks very much,' said Jim.

‘Eh?'

‘Those,' said Jim, pointing to the large glass jar of bull's-eyes on a shelf behind the counter.

‘They's not lemon drops.'

‘Bull's-eyes,' said Jim.

‘I know, I know. Who they for?'

‘The children. Four ounces each.'

‘Yer a sport, Uncle Jim,' said Orrice, and watched the little old lady weigh the sweets on brass scales. Her bright button-eyes caught his look. She put one extra bull's-eye in a twist of brown paper for luck. She did the same with the second four ounces, humming to herself.

‘Sixpence, they is,' she said.

‘Each?' said Jim, startled.

‘Pound. Same for foreigners as for folks. Thruppence, they be, this lot.'

Jim handed the copper coins over, and gave the packets to Orrice and Effel.

‘Yer spiffin', Uncle,' said Orrice.

Effel's thanks were mumbled. Orrice had established a very easy relationship with Jim. Effel's approach was still cautious and guarded.

‘They's from up to London?' asked the old lady, face brown and wrinkled.

‘So we are,' said Jim. ‘I was wondering—'

‘Bain't nothing here for London foreigners.'

Jim, accepting an offering from Orrice's twist, said, ‘Well, there's your bull's-eyes. They're something. I wonder, are there any people called Miller living here?'

‘Eh?'

‘Miller,' said Jim, bull's-eye in his mouth.

‘Bain't none in my shop, nor my upstairs. Some up to Quarry Lane, though.'

‘Where's that?'

‘Elderfield.'

‘Isn't this Elderfield?'

‘Bain't ever been nothing else.'

‘You mean there's more houses farther on?'

‘They's catched on,' said the little old lady, button-eyes twinkling. ‘Two cottages. First be where the Millers live. Got chickens.'

‘Are they old people?'

‘Eh? Bain't no old people up by here, mister. Just people.'

‘Thanks,' said Jim. A grin appeared. The little old lady winked at Orrice. Orrice winked back.

‘They's a saucy lad,' she said. ‘Girls be kissin' 'ee already, I'll be bound.'

Effel giggled. Orrice crushed a half-sucked bull's-eye between grinding teeth.

They left the shop and went through the tiny village and on for two hundred and fifty yards, when they reached the first of two cottages, old stone dwellings with small windows. The first had a neat front garden, and on the wall beside the door a rambler rose was bursting with shoots and leaf.

Jim, halting, said, ‘Look, kids, this is where I have to see some people. Would you mind waiting here a while? I hope it won't bore you.'

‘We don't mind, Uncle Jim,' said Orrice.

‘No, a' right,' said Effel.

‘We'll sit on the grass,' said Orrice.

‘That's the ticket,' said Jim, and walked up the path and knocked on the cottage door. It was nearly eleven o'clock. He had arranged to get back to Waterloo a little after three. Orrice and Effel were due for Sunday tea with Alice and her family.

The door opened. Jim found himself looking at a slim, elderly woman with smooth silver hair, wearing a kitchen apron over blouse and skirt. If her hair was silver with age, her face was unlined except for a few little crow's-feet around her grey eyes. Seeing him, a tall man with a resolute look, and a missing left arm, her hospitable smile was a little tentative.

‘Excuse me,' said Jim, ‘but are you Mrs Miller?'

‘That I am,' she said, ‘I've been Mrs Jonas Miller these fifty years and more. Could I ask where you've come from, and why?'

‘I'm from London, and I've come hoping to talk to you and your husband.'

‘Ah?' she said, regarding him in curiosity. ‘My husband's at church with my daughter-in-law. My son, he's up mending the chicken wire. I didn't catch your name, Mr—?'

‘I'm Jim Cooper.' His name was as much as he thought he should give at this stage. He felt he had to take a little time to lead up to the rest of it.

‘Cooper?' Her smooth brow wrinkled, as if the name was making her search her memory.

‘Yes. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?'

‘I were just starting to prepare dinner, but come in a while, I don't like keepin' a visitor on my doorstep.' She led him into a small parlour, cosy with old leather-upholstered furniture that gave the room a brown mellow look. ‘Sit you down, if you wish.'

‘It's all right. Look, I heard about you years ago, from a friend of mine, when I was living in an orphanage.' Existing was really the word.

‘Orphanage?' The smooth brow wrinkled again, and she gave him a closer inspection. A little tremor touched her mouth. ‘You were an orphan?'

‘I'm afraid so. Mrs Miller, I haven't come to make myself a worry to you, believe me, but have you ever heard the name Cooper before?'

Mrs Miller, aged but wearing her years finely, stood very still, and he knew he had struck a chord.

‘I be worried right now about answering that,' she said quietly.

‘Don't be,' said Jim, ‘there's too much water under the bridge. My father's name was Cooper. John James Cooper. He served in the Army.'

‘Oh, lord,' breathed Mrs Miller.

‘Will it upset you to know my mother's name was Betsy Miller?'

Mrs Miller paled in shock and put a hand to her throat. Jim felt he had prepared her a little unfeelingly, that he had been too quick with his submission of the facts, after all. His mother's mother must be seventy and more. Had he been unfair, springing the facts on her when she did not have the support of her husband?

‘I—' Mrs Miller's hand tightened on her throat.

‘I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come out with it like that,' he said.

‘No,' she whispered, ‘I thought one day perhaps – one day—' She drew a breath. ‘Such a sadness. Poor dear Betsy. It be true, you're her son?'

‘Yes, you can believe me.'

‘Yes.' She seemed a little vague then. ‘But only one arm, more sadness.'

‘That was the war.'

‘So cruel,' she said, and her eyes wandered. ‘We would have come, but Arthur—' She stopped.