Two for Three Farthings Page 6

  He lost an arm in 1917. That took him out of the war, but not back into his old job. A one-armed man was not too useful to builders. He picked up temporary work from time to time. Not until five months ago did he click for a permanent job when, after working on a temporary basis in the UK Club, the manager took him on as a fully-fledged member of the kitchen staff. It was not the kind of job he had hoped for at the beginning of his working career, but a job was a job these days, and this one at least kept him physically active. With his small pension and his wage, he was content for the time being. Like many other men, he was waiting for the country’s economy to improve. He even had a little money saved. He also had his father’s name, Cooper, given him by his mother.

  ‘Oh, can yer make us ’ot cocoa?’ asked Effel, the crackling fire a joy to her. ‘But yer only got one—’ She stopped and blushed. She couldn’t think how anyone could make cocoa with only one hand. ‘Orrice could do it for yer, mister,’ she said shyly.

  ‘Orrice?’ said Jim, removing his coat. They saw the pinned-up left sleeve of his jacket. Effel gulped. Orrice looked awkward. ‘Who’s Orrice?’ asked Jim, smiling.

  ‘Please, ’e’s Orrice and I’m Effel. ’E’s me bruvver and I’m ’is sister.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ asked Jim gravely, hanging his hat and coat on the door peg. ‘Horace and Ethel?’

  ‘Orrice and Effel Wivvers,’ said Orrice.

  ‘I see.’ Jim accepted what everyone else did. ‘Well, I’ll see to the cocoa, Orrice, while you and Effel get your wet things off. Here’s something for you, Effel.’ He opened the door of a cupboard and took an old woollen dressing-gown off its hook. Effel received it shyly, hid herself on the blind side of the bed in her modesty, and began to undress. He filled a kettle from a pitcher and put it on the gas ring. In front of the fire, its coal beginning to glow, Orrice took his clothes off, standing to let the warmth caress his naked young body. Jim gave him a towel and he rubbed himself briskly down with it.

  Effel, peeping, whispered, ‘Mister, could yer give me a towel too, could yer, please?’

  Jim got a fresh one from the cupboard. He took his weekly wash to the laundry in Walworth Road, round the corner from Browning Street.

  ‘Coming, Effel,’ he said, and threw the towel. It sailed over the bed and landed on her. Effel was warmer. There was a fire burning and a kettle on the gas ring. And there was a nice man looking after them. So Effel almost giggled as the towel arrived on her head. She used it to take the damp from her body, then wrapped herself in the dressing-gown. It enveloped her, and it spread itself on the floor around her feet. Jim, putting cocoa into enamel mugs, saw her emerge from her hiding-place, a little girl in an old woollen tent, arms full of her clothes. Orrice had his short woollen pants back on, that was all.

  ‘Orrice, oh, yer naughty boy, standin’ like that not dressed,’ she said. ‘Yer got to excuse ’im, mister, we been walkin’ two days, we been everywhere, lookin’ an’ walkin’, an’ all down the market too where a man on a stall let Orrice ’ave some oranges what ’e ’ad to make good. I ‘spect ’e’s tired, so yer got to excuse ’im lookin’ rude.’

  ‘Crikey, she’s talkin’,’ said Orrice to the fire.

  ‘That’s good for all of us, talking,’ said Jim, ‘but not too loud, of course.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ breathed Effel, blanching at the thought of going back into the cold wet night because of loud talking.

  Jim made the cocoa and put in a little milk from the can.

  ‘Effel, lay your clothes over the fender,’ he said, ‘then you can both drink your cocoa. And while you’re drinking it, tell me all about yourselves. I know you must both be very tired, it’s well after midnight, but I think I’d like to know a little about you before we get you tucked down.’

  ‘Yes, mister,’ said Orrice. He and Effel received the hot cocoa gratefully, and they sat on the rug in front of the fire to drink it. He looked again at Jim’s empty sleeve.

  ‘Our dad was in the war,’ he said.

  ‘And I look as if I was too, do I?’ asked Jim.

  ‘Was yer?’ asked Orrice.

  ‘We all were, weren’t we, in our different ways?’ said Jim.

  Orrice, relishing the hot cocoa, said, ‘I dunno about that, mister. I mean about what everyone did in the war, except—’ He thought about what to say. ‘Except most people still got both their arms.’

  ‘Oh, there are thousands worse off than me,’ said Jim. He sat down. ‘And it’s you two I want to hear about. So tell me.’

  They told him their story. Jim did not need to own great perception to sense the heartbreak. It was not only in the loss of both parents, it was also in their realization that their only relatives, Uncle Perce and Aunt Glad, could not permanently house them. But many aunts and uncles had children of their own, problems of their own, and a depressing lack of money. Jim could not condemn Uncle Perce and Aunt Glad. Nevertheless, he could understand why the heartbreak of the boy and girl was the more acute. He himself had been spared that kind of anguish, for at the age of three he would probably have suffered more from bewilderment than anything else. It was not until he was several years older that the sad moments had come, and with them a longing to have known his mother and father.

  Lily Downes had filled in many blanks for him. When he left the orphanage he was given his birth certificate. That told him what Lily told him. Mother, Betsy Margaret Miller, spinster. Father, John James Cooper, bachelor. He often thought that one day he would go to his mother’s birthplace, the village of Elderfield in Hampshire, and see if he had any relatives there. Something must have happened to the few personal possessions she had at the time of her death. Letters and so on. He had nothing of hers, not even a photograph.

  He fully understood why Orrice and Effel did not want to go to an orphanage. Every kid sensed that life at an orphanage was of a regimented kind. And there was no institution that could give this brother and sister what their parents had given them. He suspected they might have been a rough and ready couple, but affectionate for all that. Cockneys were typically of that kind, large-hearted and with great family loyalties.

  What to do with these kids, what to do about them? Jim knew what officialdom would expect him to do, but he took all officialdom with a pinch of salt. He had little time for rules and regulations that were supposed to be for the good of people, but in the main made things easier for those who administered them from the offices of town halls, county halls, government departments and institutions.

  ‘Well, tomorrow we’ll have to see about things,’ he said.

  ‘Mister, you been swell,’ said Orrice, ‘and me an’ Effel don’t want to be no trouble. Yer real swell, takin’ us in for tonight, and we don’t want yer to go to no more trouble than that. Yer won’t tell no-one we’re running away, will yer?’

  ‘No, I won’t tell, Orrice, cross my heart,’ said Jim, but that was a promise that might be difficult to keep.

  Effel whispered in her brother’s ear.

  ‘Mister,’ said Orrice, ‘Effel wants to know are yer really goin’ to let us sleep in a bed tonight?’

  ‘Yes, in this one,’ said Jim, ‘and I think it’s time you kipped down now.’

  A minute later they were in the bed, Effel wearing the old dressing-gown, Orrice his woollen pants. They fell asleep almost at once. Jim settled for the fireside rug, with a chair cushion for a pillow. After his years in the Army he could sleep anywhere. A fireside rug and a cushion represented relative luxury. All the same, he lay awake for a while, thinking about what alternatives there were to an orphanage. Effel and Orrice slept in bliss, Effel dreaming she was sailing through warm billowing clouds of fleecy white, and Orrice dreaming of squashy oranges.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Orrice and Effel were still asleep at half-past eight the next morning. Jim, drinking his breakfast cup of tea, sat at the little table, regarding an empty shell, all that was left of his soft-boiled egg. He was not a man of ifs and buts. He gave necessary thought
to a problem and came uncompromisingly to a decision. If it did not turn out to be the right one, he was always prepared to take the consequences. He had made an instant decision once, to turn right instead of left in a captured German trench on the Passchendaele Ridge. He had had to accept the consequences of that, an amputated left arm.

  Now he came to a decision about Orrice and Effel. For the time being he must take care of them. His landlady, Mrs Palmer, would have to know about them, and he had to give her a story that would stand up. He could not bring himself to send these pathetic kids back to the streets to wander about in hope, dodging coppers, avoiding school, scraping pennies together for their sustenance, sleeping in doorways and looking for a miracle to happen. There were no miracles. Jesus had used them all up in Galilee. There were all sorts of kids in Walworth, rascals, ragamuffins and truants among them. Orrice and Effel, somehow, were not quite like most of them. Their attachment to each other was obvious and touching. He had to take care of them until a better alternative offered itself. But they had to attend school. Education, however elementary, was the most important thing in a child’s life, although few children realized it. Most would happily give it a miss, not knowing how bitterly they might regret it later on.

  These two could stay away from school again today, perhaps. But they must go tomorrow. He must speak to Mrs Palmer, and he must go out to look for new lodgings, lodgings for Orrice and Effel as well as himself. What was his weekly income? Together his modest pension and his modest wage amounted to thirty-four shillings a week. He would need two bedrooms, one for Effel and one for Orrice and himself, plus a room for living in and with cooking facilities. He might accordingly have to find as much as ten bob for rent, leaving twenty-four shillings to keep the three of them.

  He caught the smell of dates. He got up, looked in a crumpled paper bag and saw a small sticky mess of them. He put them on the fire. They fizzed and sizzled. He looked at the sleeping pair. Orrice’s tousled head was visible. Effel’s tangled hair spilled over the pillow. Their breathing was even. He went down to speak to Mrs Palmer, a woman of fifty-five, her husband a plumber. He advised her that his niece and nephew had come to stay with him for a while. Mrs Palmer knew nothing of the fact that he had no relatives, that he was illegitimate. She had never asked pointed questions or nosy ones, being a woman who took people as she found them.

  ‘They’ve come ’ere?’ she asked.

  ‘Unexpectedly, I’ll admit,’ said Jim easily. ‘Trouble in the family, I’m afraid. Not the sort of things friends or relatives want to talk about. You know how it is.’

  ‘That I do. But ’ere, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘I couldn’t say no. They were waiting for me when I got back from work last night. On the doorstep. Too shy to knock.’

  ‘They knew you had late workin’ hours?’ said Mrs Palmer, grey-haired and stout.

  ‘It gets around families,’ said Jim. ‘All that time in the rain, poor little devils. I told them you’d have made them welcome, that they could have waited in my room, but like most children they’re shy with strangers. They’ll be here only until I get new lodgings, which I will just as soon as I can.’

  ‘Well, you’re being downright kind to them, I must say,’ said Mrs Palmer, ‘but you do know me brother Wally’s comin’ tomorrow week, like I said? Now his wife’s gone, poor woman, he can’t manage ’is house by hisself, specially as he’s still working, and he fancies just a quiet little room on his own with us, and he gets on well with me husband. I’m sorry I’ve had to ask you to leave according, you’ve been a welcome lodger, but you see how it is, and you’ll need more space, anyways, if your niece and nephew are goin’ to be with you for a while.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that, Mrs Palmer. Don’t worry now, I’ll have moved out before your brother arrives. But you don’t mind them being in my room for the time being?’

  ‘But can you manage? A boy and girl and yourself?’ Mrs Palmer obviously wondered how old the girl was.

  ‘They’re only young,’ said Jim. ‘Ethel’s seven and Horace is ten.’

  ‘Oh, you can put the girl on me parlour sofa at night till you go,’ offered Mrs Palmer out of consideration for what she thought proper. Many people in Walworth set great store by being proper, never mind the difficulties posed by poverty.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Jim, ‘I’ll tell her.’

  ‘And I’ll be pleased to keep my eye on them for you when you go off to your work this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s even kinder,’ said Jim. His hours were from four in the afternoon until midnight, but he was always free to leave in advance if his work was finished. He did not mind the awkward hours. He had no real social commitments. He was wary about women. The closer a relationship with a woman became, the closer the inevitable problems came. He sometimes felt he was simply waiting, that somewhere, sometime, a woman would appear, a woman who did not mind in the least about a man being illegitimate, providing he did not wear devil’s horns. Meanwhile, the local lending library was open to him during the day, and he spent enjoyable hours there. He was also an avid book borrower. He thought public lending libraries constituted one of the finest privileges a civilized country could bestow on its citizens.

  ‘I’ll give ’em tea this evening, if you like,’ said Mrs Palmer, motherly generosity prompted by her lodger’s Christian outlook towards his troubled relatives. She could never think why some nice woman hadn’t taken him on as a husband. No nice women minded about a kind man only having one arm. ‘I’ll be pleased to make them tea.’

  ‘Bless you, Mrs Palmer,’ said Jim, who had an easy way of talking to people.

  ‘My pleasure, I’m sure,’ she said, pleased that Mr Cooper hadn’t made any fuss about accepting notice to quit.

  He went back to his room. He made two mugs of hot Bovril, then woke Orrice and Effel. Effel, opening her eyes, gazed up at him in sleepy incomprehension. Orrice came to at once and sat up.

  ‘Rise and shine, my hearties,’ said Jim briskly, ‘it’s nine o’clock. There’s hot Bovril. That’ll make your noses shine. Then you can wash and dress, and I’ll give you a breakfast of boiled eggs. Effel, kindly state your preference, soft-boiled or hard-boiled?’

  Effel pulled the sheet up over her face in a rush of shyness.

  ‘We both like soft-boiled,’ said Orrice. ‘Crikey, I dunno we ever met anyone more swell, mister.’ He slipped with boyish suppleness from the bed. Jim smiled at the hidden Effel, turned the sheet down and ruffled her hair. Effel blushed. ‘Come on, lazybones,’ he said.

  The little clouds of sadness came back to darken her eyes. She and Orrice still didn’t have anyone, just this kind man for a little while. He was going to give them breakfast, and then they would have to start running away all over again, looking for somewhere that would keep the rain off them at night. Effel felt that to get out of the warm bed would bring comfort to an end all too soon. But she got out, the old dressing-gown still wrapped around her slim body. Orrice was gulping his Bovril. She sipped hers with her eyes darting little glances at Jim. The Bovril was flavoursome, the room warm from the fire.

  ‘Now, my beauties, kindly listen,’ said Jim. ‘Ears to the front, both of you. Stand to attention, Orrice. And you, Effel. That’s it, chests out.’ Effel winced. She didn’t like playing games when she felt sad. ‘Now, until things are properly sorted out, I’m going to look after you. That means—’

  ‘Eh?’ said Orrice in astonishment. ‘Wha’d’yer mean, mister?’

  ‘I mean you and Effel can’t be left to wander about,’ said Jim, a figure of adult authority in his trousers, shirt, tie and braces. ‘Can’t be allowed. Not good for you or your futures. Someone’s got to take charge of you. To start with, I’ll take charge. Hands up all those with objections.’

  Neither put a hand up, but Effel whispered, ‘Orrice, what’s objections?’

  ‘It’s like arguin’,’ said Orrice. ‘Mister, yer really goin’ to look after us?’

  ‘Can’t
have you wandering off into nowhere. And it’s back to school tomorrow. You’re excused today, Effel’s got a bone in her leg from too much wandering about yesterday. Now, kids, I want good behaviour, kindness to dogs and cats, no fighting with other kids, and washing behind your ears. Manor Place Public Baths on Fridays, and polished boots and clean hankies every day. No wiping noses on sleeves. Haircut for you sometime, Orrice. Tangles out of your hair today, Effel. Combs and brushes will be used daily. Got all that?’

  ‘Oh, lummy,’ said Orrice, ‘yer kiddin’ us, mister.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Jim. ‘Anything wrong with your Bovril, Effel?’

  Effel, her mouth open, mug clasped in her hands, was staring up at him with a mixture of awe and disbelief. He was a grown-up of a kind new to her, his soldierly speech commanding, his eyes very direct. She saw the left sleeve of his shirt pinned up. She gulped.

  ‘Effel don’t always go in for talkin’, mister,’ said Orrice, ‘except when she does yer can’t ’ardly stop her and it don’t ’alf hurt yer ears. Don’t mind ’er now, mister, she likes ’er Bovril all right, don’t yer, Effel?’

  ‘Ain’t talkin’,’ gulped Effel, and hid her face by ducking her head and drinking her Bovril.

  ‘See, I told yer, mister,’ said Orrice. ‘Mister, are yer really goin’ to look after us?’ He could not help asking the question again. He was fascinated but cautious. A boy of sense, he knew it was his responsibility to protect his little sister. His mum had liked to settle down with the News of the World on Sunday afternoons, and would say things like, ‘Well, yer’ll never believe this,’ to his dad. Sometimes what she couldn’t believe seemed to Orrice to have something to do with girls disappearing and ending up in a Turkish slave market where sultans bought them. Orrice didn’t want Effel being bought by any sultan.