Two for Three Farthings Page 4

  ‘Two penny cups of tea, if yer please, mister,’ said Orrice.

  Toni stared as a little girl hid herself against the counter.

  ‘What-a you say?’ he asked Orrice. ‘Penny cups of tea? What-a you think, eh? I lose my shop selling tea for a penny?’

  ‘’Ow much, then?’ asked Orrice, eyes courageously challenging.

  ‘One fine mug of Toni’s tea, twopence, see? One fine china cup of Toni’s tea in a saucer, also twopence, see? Two mugs or two cups, four pennies, what-a you think? Isn’t it?’

  The market characters grinned.

  ‘’Ere, we ain’t paying tuppence for no cup of tea,’ said Orrice. ‘Are we, Effel?’

  ‘I ain’t ’ere,’ gasped Effel muffledly, face burning with shyness.

  ‘You ain’t-a paying, you ain’t-a getting, see?’ said Toni, dark with five o’clock shadow.

  ‘We don’t mind paying a penny, but we ain’t paying tuppence,’ said Orrice. ‘Crikey, yer can buy a pound of tea for tenpence.’

  Toni clutched his black, oily hair, then smacked his forehead. He appealed to his wife Maria.

  ‘You listen, eh? You hear that? Mama mia, I got to stand here and let-a this kid talk me crazy?’

  ‘Ah, crazy, eh?’ said Maria. ‘You crazy ten times a day.’

  ‘Tea I sell for a penny?’

  ‘We ain’t paying tuppence,’ said Orrice doggedly. ‘Except for two cups. Are we, Effel?’

  ‘Ain’t talkin’,’ gasped Effel.

  ‘Eh?’ said Toni.

  ‘Now see what yer done,’ said Orrice, ‘yer frightened me sister. An’ she ain’t strong, yer know.’

  ‘I should cry my eyes out and give-a you two mugs of tea for a penny each?’ Toni knew the smallest concession to a Walworth kid would bring all his friends round to ask for ice cream at half-price. ‘I should break my heart, eh?’

  A broad-shouldered young man got up from a table and came to the counter.

  ‘Give ’em a mug each, Toni,’ he said, putting down fourpence.

  ‘Mister Adams,’ said Toni, ‘it don’t-a pay to give kids for nothing.’

  ‘Some kids, no,’ said Tommy Adams, who ran a glass and china stall in the market. ‘Some kids, yes.’ He gave Orrice’s cap a pat. ‘Good on yer, son.’

  ‘Mister, yer a sport,’ said Orrice. ‘Effel, speak yer fanks to the kind gent.’

  ‘Fank yer, mister,’ gasped Effel.

  ‘Mister, if yer want anything done so’s I can pay yer back for yer treat, you just say,’ said Orrice. He picked up two of the pennies. ‘Look, we got our own tuppence for the tea, so yer could take these back. It’s only fair, like.’

  Tommy Adams, liking the spirit in which the offer was made, took the two pennies. He felt that was what the boy honestly wanted.

  ‘Enjoy yer tea, son,’ he said, and left.

  Orrice produced two pennies from his own pocket.

  ‘Mugs is larger than cups, Effel,’ he said. ‘Two mugs,’ he said to Toni, ‘if yer please, mister.’

  ‘Kids,’ said Toni, but a moment later two steaming mugs of hot tea appeared on the counter. Maria had poured.

  ‘Fank yer,’ said Orrice.

  ‘You want-a some sugar?’ asked Toni, reaching for the bowl.

  ‘Me sister likes two spoonfuls,’ said Orrice. ‘I likes one.’

  Toni sugared the teas accordingly.

  ‘For free,’ he said.

  ‘No, it ain’t,’ protested Orrice, ‘not when yer charged us fourpence.’

  Customers roared with laughter.

  ‘Got yer there, Toni!’ yelled a man.

  ‘Crazy kids,’ said Toni, and shook his head as Effel showed her face. She blushed crimson.

  ‘Nice crazy kids,’ said Maria, and cut two slices of custard tart, put them on plates and placed them on the counter in front of Orrice, who was holding the mugs of tea.

  ‘What-a you doing?’ cried Toni. ‘You give-a them that for free?’

  ‘Shush, shush,’ said Maria.

  Orrice took the mugs to a table, came back for his sack and the box of oranges, and then returned for the custard tart slices. Effel was still hiding herself and her sack against the counter.

  ‘Me sister and me’s fanking yer kindly, missus,’ he said to Maria.

  ‘Me, I go barmy,’ said Toni.

  ‘Come on, Effel,’ said Orrice. ‘Look, we got tea an’ custard tart. Come on.’

  Effel rushed herself and her sack to the table, sat down and ducked her head until the brim of her boater shaded her mug of tea.

  ‘Funny, eh, them kids?’ said Toni to Maria. Maria smiled.

  Effel recovered after gulping some mouthfuls of the hot sweet tea. She and Orrice ate their custard tart in huge enjoyment. Then Orrice brought the box of oranges up on the table. He took the fruit out. Toni, serving a customer, saw ten oranges appear. Market men were grinning. Orrice slipped from his chair and dived into his sack. He groped around, found a knife and brought it out. Sitting down again, he began to cut out deteriorating skin and flesh, putting the pieces on his plate, now devoid of custard tart.

  ‘Hey, you kids, now what-a you think you’re doing, eh?’ called Toni.

  ‘Orrice, what’s ’e keep shoutin’ for?’ whispered Effel.

  ‘I dunno, I’m sure,’ said Orrice.

  ‘Now what-a you see?’ said Toni to Maria. ‘Look, oranges. I don’t-a believe it.’

  ‘Listen, Effel,’ whispered Orrice, ‘shall we give ’im one?’

  ‘Will ’e stop shoutin’ an’ lookin’, then?’ asked Effel.

  ‘Well, ’e ought to if ’e likes oranges. Give ’im this one, Effel, I’ve only ’ad to cut a small bit off it.’

  ‘A’ right,’ said Effel, the hot tea having given her Dutch courage. She took the orange to the counter, her long coat scurfing around her boots. She looked up at Toni, who wasn’t sure if it wasn’t all a dream. ‘Mister,’ she said shyly, ‘’ere’s an orange for yer. It didn’t ’ardly ’ave no bad bit.’ She placed the fruit on the counter, going on tiptoe to do so. The customers watched in huge amusement.

  ‘I’m crazy for oranges, now?’ said Toni, and Effel’s lashes dropped over her hazel eyes.

  ‘Would yer lady like one?’ called Orrice, never as shy as Effel.

  ‘For me, yes?’ said Maria, smiling in delight. Children like these two appealed to her warm Italian heart.

  Effel went and took another trimmed orange from Orrice, carrying it to Maria.

  ‘Me bruvver’s done it up nice wiv ’is knife,’ she said, and sighed because the plump lady looked so kind and motherly. Maria, no more in need of any kind of an orange than Toni was, beamed at the little girl. A market runabout boy came in and asked for two mugs of tea.

  ‘Ah, you want-a for free, maybe?’ said Toni in heavy sarcasm.

  ‘Eh?’ said the boy. ‘You ain’t givin’ ’em away, are yer, Toni?’

  ‘How do I know, eh? Kids come in, send-a me crazy, how do I know what-a I’m doing? All right, all right, two mugs of tea. Fourpence I want, you got that, eh?’

  ‘I ain’t deaf,’ said the market lad. ‘What’s that orange for?’

  ‘Me,’ said Toni, and put it under the counter instead of throwing it into his waste bin. Maria noted the gesture and smiled. Effel went back to finish her tea, leaving every customer highly tickled. Orrice, having reduced the oranges to an eatable condition, put them back in the box. His plate and Effel’s plate were heaped with sections of cut-out fruit.

  ‘Best go now, sis,’ he said, and they took up the sacks again, and the box, and made for the door.

  ‘Hey, you kids,’ called Toni, ‘you come back again and I go barmy again.’ He took a look at the table and saw the heaped plates. He hit himself on the head. ‘Mama mia, you see that, Maria? You kids—’

  But Orrice and Effel had escaped.

  Maria laughed. Toni grinned.

  ‘We just got to find somewhere,’ said Orrice an hour later. It was gone five, and the breezy April day
was now cloudy and cool. They had walked and walked, carrying their possesions and the box of oranges. They’d eaten one each, while traversing streets all around the market. They had looked and searched and investigated, but hadn’t seen an empty house anywhere.

  ‘I fink I’m all wore out,’ said Effel. She was actually more dispirited than fatigued. Lack of success in finding a place to shelter had brought back forlorn thoughts of their home in Deacon Street, and what it had meant to them with their mum and dad there. ‘Orrice, couldn’t we go back ’ome?’

  ‘We best not, sis, unless yer don’t mind goin’ to an orphanage,’ said Orrice. ‘Uncle Perce and Aunt Glad’ll be lookin’ in to take us. ’ere, let’s go to Browning Park. You can sit there and I’ll do more lookin’, and come back with the bread an’ cheese. That’s best, Effel, you ’aving a sit-down and mindin’ the sacks.’

  ‘A’ right,’ said Effel.

  The place they called Browning Park was actually. Browning Gardens, a little oasis of flowering shrubs and bushes, including mulberry bushes. There were a few bench seats, and old people liked to sit there in the summertime. Two were there at the moment, an elderly couple gazing raptly at shrubs beginning to bud. Orrice saw to it that Effel had a bench all to herself, with the sacks and box placed underneath it.

  ‘I won’t be long, sis.’

  ‘I’ll scream if you are,’ said Effel.

  ‘Now yer shouldn’t do fings like screamin’,’ said Orrice, ‘yer gettin’ a big girl these days.’

  ‘No, I ain’t.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘I ain’t. I’m a little girl, I am. And I’ll scream.’

  ‘I’ll only buy the bread an’ cheese, and do some more lookin’ on me way,’ said Orrice.

  ‘A’ right,’ said Effel trustingly.

  When Orrice returned half an hour later, carrying a crusty loaf, with some margarine and cheese, Effel was in trouble. The little park was empty of grown-ups, and two boys were worrying the sacks like terriers. The sacks were on the path, and Effel was on the sacks. She was hugging them fiercely. She looked as if she had thrown herself down on top of them to prevent the boys running off with them. Their hands were pulling, jerking and tugging. Effel’s teeth were clenched, her own hands gripping the sacks. Orrice broke into a run. He dropped the loaf, marge and cheese on the bench, and he went for the boys, both a year older than himself.

  ‘’Ere, ’old orf,’ said one boy, and delivered a swipe that knocked Orrice’s cap off. Orrice straightaway punched him in his breadbasket, and the boy, staggered, expelled a noisy gust of breath. The second boy leapt at Orrice’s back, wound wiry arms around him and wrestled him to the ground. Effel sprang up like a fury. With the ferocity of a sister who had no-one else but her brother, she delivered a succession of rageful kicks. The boy yelled with pain, letting go of Orrice as the first boy re-entered the fray. Orrice was up on his feet in a flash. His dad had taught him the very effective value of a straight right arm. Orrice stuck his out rigidly straight. The first boy ran into the balled fist. It split his lip and dropped him on his bottom.

  ‘Oh, yer bleedin’ ’ooligan!’ he bawled, as his blood ran.

  ‘Like it, did yer?’ said Orrice. ‘Yer’ll get two more for luck if yer don’t ’oppit. Effel, leave off kickin’.’

  Effel was still applying the toe of her right boot to the grounded boy, who was suffering the indignity of having been put out of action. A kick from Effel had wounded his stomach. Orrice pulled his tigerish sister away.

  ‘Lemme go!’ she yelled. Her blood was up. Orrice calmed her down. Both boys sat up, one with a sore stomach, the other with a split lip.

  ‘Oh, yer bleedin’ terror,’ said sore stomach to Effel, ‘yer been an’ near kicked me to death.’

  ‘Serve yer right,’ said Orrice.

  ‘An’ look what yer done to Alfie, ’e’s all over blood.’

  ‘I’m bleedin’ as well,’ groaned split lip.

  ‘Well, yer shouldn’t hit girls,’ said Orrice, ‘specially not me sister.’

  ‘Some sister.’ Sore stomach rubbed his bruised middle. ‘She’s a flaming walloper, more like.’

  ‘Lemme go,’ hissed Effel, ‘I want to kick ’im some more.’

  ‘Now, sis, you already done ’im in,’ said Orrice.

  ‘And you done Alfie in,’ said sore stomach.

  Alfie had a hand to his mouth. Blood was smearing his chin. Effel, relenting, dug into her coat pocket and produced a grubby handkerchief.

  ‘’Ere y’ar,’ she said to Alfie, ‘you can use me ’ankie to wipe it wiv, I don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m honoured, I am, I don’t think,’ said Alfie, but he took the hankie and wiped blood away. ‘Oh, me gawd, me mum’s goin’ to knock me ’ead off when she sees me like this.’

  ‘All right, ’ave an orange,’ said Orrice. The box was still under the bench. He pulled it out and gave an orange to each boy. A scrap was a scrap in Walworth, and afterwards, in most cases, you shook hands.

  ‘It ain’t all there,’ said Alfie. ‘Is yourn all there, Eddie?’

  ‘Mine’s got a lump out,’ said Eddie.

  ‘I ’ad to cut bad bits off, that’s all,’ said Orrice.

  ‘A’ right, I got yer,’ said Eddie, and dug his teeth into his fruit. Alfie ate his gingerly, the juice making his split lip smart.

  ‘Listen,’ said Orrice, ‘wha’d’yer ’it my sister for?’

  ‘Never touched ’er,’ said Alfie, ‘just wanted a look in them sacks.’

  ‘You was goin’ to pinch ’em,’ accused Effel.

  ‘Only goin’ to look,’ said Eddie. ‘They ain’t swag, is they? You doin’ liftin’?’

  ‘Cheek!’ cried Effel, knowing what lifting meant.

  ‘Me dad done some liftin’ once,’ said Eddie, ‘up by Norwood, in some posh ’ouse. Only when ’e got the swag ’ome me mum went for ’im with our frying-pan. Laid ’im out, she did. Then she took the swag round to the police station. In a sack it was, just like yourn, an’ she dumped it outside the police station door when no-one was lookin’. Me dad wasn’t hisself for a week. ’E didn’t ’ave no broken bones, but ’e ’ad everything else. Frying-pans don’t ’alf cop yer. It don’t do no good to do any liftin’ in our fam’ly. Is Alfie’s lip goin’ puffy?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Orrice. ‘Well, a bit.’

  ‘A’ right, I ain’t splittin’ on yer,’ said Alfie generously, ‘I’ll tell me mum a door come up and ’it me.’ He and Eddie finished their oranges, peel and all. ‘Well, time we pushed orf. Where’d yer live, anyways, you two?’

  ‘Oh, round ’ere,’ said Orrice.

  ‘A’ right, see yer, then,’ said Eddie. ‘No ’ard feelings, eh?’

  ‘D’yer know any empty ’ouses?’ asked Orrice cautiously.

  ‘Empty ’ouses? Round ’ere?’ Eddie looked puzzled. Walworth had a teeming population. ‘Ain’t seen none. There’s some down Bermondsey. You got swag, after all? You lookin’ for a place to stow it?’

  ‘Cheek!’ cried Effel again. ‘’It ’im, Orrice.’

  ‘A’ right, a’ right,’ said Eddie, ‘didn’t mean it. Just askin’, that’s all. Come on, Alfie.’

  Alfie, Effel’s hankie to his sore lip, said, ‘Well, so long.’

  ‘You still got me ‘ankie,’ said Effel.

  ‘Ta for the loan,’ said Alfie, and gave it back to her. It was a mess now, but Effel didn’t take offence, she stuffed it back into her coat pocket. ‘So long,’ he said again, and he and Eddie left on a cordial note.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Orrice, ‘they told us Bermondsey for empty ’ouses. All that way, sis.’

  ‘Ain’t goin’,’ said Effel.

  ‘Nor me. We don’t want to run away as far as Bermondsey. Oh, well, s’pose we ’ave supper now, eh? It’s a nice new loaf, an’ cheese. I only bought two ounces of marge, we don’t want to cart any leftover about, it’ll get mucky.’

  ‘No, a’ right,’ said Effel.

  The little park was no
t too warm in the grey light of the cloudy evening, but brother and sister had it all to themselves. Orrice felt they hadn’t done too badly with food. They’d had nourishing dates, custard tart and an orange each. Now they sat on the bench and scoffed bread and marge and cheese. The bread was new and crusty, the cheese a golden yellow. They had another orange each afterwards, then finished up the few dates that were left.

  ‘Well, now we got some bread over for breakfast, and two oranges,’ said Orrice.

  ‘But we ain’t got nowhere to go,’ said Effel. ‘Orrice, where we goin’ to be tonight?’

  Orrice was getting a little worried about that. His optimism had taken a knock. But he said, ‘Don’t you worry, Effel, I didn’t do much lookin’ when I went for the bread an’ cheese, so we still got plenty of streets for proper lookin’. We’ll find somewhere, I betcher.’

  Darkness had arrived an hour ago, and all their proper looking had proved fruitless. Orrice thought it a real sell that there wasn’t a single empty house. It wasn’t very obliging of people not to leave at least one empty house. The darkness was depressing and discouraging, and Effel’s feet were dragging. So was her sack. And she was silent. He tried, but he couldn’t cheer her up or get her to say anything. They kept walking, Orrice with his eyes open on the lookout for coppers on their beat. They sat on doorsteps now and again to rest. Orrice hung on as best as he could to some optimism as they walked and walked. They both felt that everyone who passed them was certain to be going home to a warm kitchen fireside.

  They dodged a copper in Brandon Street when they were thinking of entering Peabody’s Buildings and huddling up together on a landing. Their elusive tactics took them into Larcom Street and to St John’s Church.

  ‘’Ere, we could go in there, Effel,’ whispered Orrice.

  Effel spoke for the first time in an hour. It was gone ten o’clock.

  ‘It don’t ’ave no beds,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it’s a church, yer date.’