The Pearly Queen (28 page)

Patsy was near to hysterics. Dad was wondering why Maud's cousin hadn't ever taken up with a decent bloke and got herself married. Losing her fiancé years ago had been tragic, but she'd got over it, she'd come up smiling. Why wasn't she married, a lovely-looking woman like her?

‘Oh, Dad, ain't she funny?' gasped Patsy.

‘Now how about what I'm here for,' called Aunt Edie, a glittering pearly flamboyance, ‘how about a song? What would you like as a start?'

‘“Pack up yer troubles!”' The request was from a man.

Standing in the wings, Jimmy thought his aunt hesitated for a moment, as if she didn't want to be reminded of the war, and a little picture flashed into his mind of her walking in a stiff and vexed way from the hospital in which his dad had been recuperating from a serious wound. She hadn't liked what the war was doing to soldiers.

‘All right, old soldier,' she called in response to the request, and sat down at the piano. ‘I'll sing it first, then all join in, an' that includes the lady with toffee-apples in her hat. Here we go, then.'

And she played and sang ‘Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kitbag'. And then the audience joined in. Except Dad. Dad was thinking of Johnny Turk, and the flies and the heat, and of blood that turned black inside a minute. The audience was carried along by Aunt Edie's infectious performance especially when, after two more numbers, she played and sang ‘I've Got A Lovely Bunch Of Coconuts'.

Then she introduced Jimmy. ‘Mums, dads and kids,' she said, ‘it's me great honour an' privilege to present me young man to you, name of Jimmy Andrews, who comes from down the road in Walworth, where the gels follow him about – only I saw 'im first. Come on, Jimmy.'

Jimmy showed himself. The audience clapped and the kids cheered.

‘Cor, aincher luvverly!' called a girl.

‘Not all the time,' said Jimmy, ‘sometimes I'm just ordinary. But not often.'

Patsy curled herself up into a shrieking ball.

‘Crikey, our Jimmy,' said Betsy.

Dad was grinning.

‘Jimmy and me's got a romance goin',' called Aunt Edie from the piano, ‘so we're going to sing romantic together. Off we go, Jimmy love.'

They sang the duet, ‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World'. Jimmy had no stage fright, he took it all in his stride and he had a very pleasant voice. In any case, Aunt Edie took him along in the song in a way to ensure he didn't fail her. They followed with ‘Let's All Sing Like The Birdies Sing', and Jimmy's tweet-tweets brought the house down.

Aunt Edie finished her turn with a request from the audience, ‘Any Old Iron'. The audience joined in and stamped their feet as well, and Aunt Edie departed from the stage, arm in arm with Jimmy, to a standing ovation.

Waiting for her off-stage was Joe Gosling, a resplendent pearly king.

‘Told yer, Edie, told yer,' he said with a broad grin of delight. ‘Yer a born natural. Ain't she that, Jimmy, a born natural?'

‘Yes, and she's good too,' said Jimmy.

‘Well, I said that, didn't I? A born natural, I said.'

‘Yes, and she can sing as well,' said Jimmy.

‘Eh?' said Joe. ‘Course she can sing as well, I wasn't excludin' nothing. Yer Aunt Edie's good all over.'

‘Keeps you guessin', though, when she's leg before wicket at cricket,' said Jimmy.

Aunt Edie burst into laughter. ‘I'll give you leg before wicket,' she said.

‘You're the best, Aunt Edie, you are,' said Jimmy, ‘and that's a fact.' And he gave her a kiss and a cuddle. Aunt Edie's eyes suddenly went moist.

‘Take yer to the pub soon as the show's finished, Edie me darling,' said Joe.

‘Kind of yer, Joe, but no thanks.'

‘Yes, sorry, Mr Gosling,' said Jimmy, ‘but she's with me.'

‘Strike a light,' said Joe, ‘done in me eye by a young cockalorum.'

‘I'll go and get changed,' said Aunt Edie.

She went back to Walworth with the family. When they got off the tram at Manor Place, Jimmy said as he was flush from working for Mr Gibbs, he'd treat everyone to fish and chips. The shop was only a few yards away and was exuding an irresistible aroma. Aunt Edie walked on with the others while Jimmy went to the shop.

‘That boy,' she said.

‘Our Jimmy?' said Patsy.

‘I don't know who's goin' to be able to say no to 'im when he's older,' said Aunt Edie.

‘Well, after that concert,' said Dad, ‘I don't know meself who can say no to you. Mind, it depends on what you ask for. What d'yer think, Betsy me pickle, an' Patsy me love, now that you've seen your Aunt Edie bring the 'ouse down?'

‘Oh, she was so good, Dad, that I don't know what to think,' said Patsy. ‘Couldn't you ask your old sergeant-major?'

‘Not a bad idea, that, Patsy,' said Dad.

‘Don't mind me,' said Aunt Edie, who still seemed to have a glow about her. ‘I'm only someone walkin' with you.'

‘You're our star turn, proud to 'ave you walkin' with us,' said Dad, ‘only Patsy reminded me of the time me old battalion reached Damascus an' Johnny Turk was chuckin' down his arms. The sergeant-major celebrated by showin' he knew a bit about 'ow to treat a star turn. He got off with a female Syrian tummy wobbler—'

‘What's one of them, Dad?' asked Betsy.

‘They're dancers,' said Dad, ‘an' when they're dancin' they wobble their tummies, they're all star turns. Well, me old sergeant-major spoke this one some choice words that were 'ighly complimentary, and you know what she did? Filled his face full of Turkish Delight. Ruddy whole boxful landed in his cakehole.'

They turned in at the house, with Betsy giggling. ‘Any more of that sergeant-major stuff,' said Aunt Edie, ‘and a whole 'elping of fried cod and chips is goin' to land on your head, Jack Andrews.'

That brought the house down again.

Father Peter was most impressed by the successful distribution of clothes and footwear, and of its mellowing effect on the people of Whitechapel. He expressed his admiration of the way it had been done. He and Father Luke were at dinner with the resident lady Repenters.

‘Softening 'em up, Father,' said Mother Joan. ‘Best way, you know. They're heathens, of course, but you can't drill Christian ways into 'em until they're receptive. But we can't fit all the East End out with new clothes, the money wouldn't run to it, not by a long chalk. Ye gods, those poor little devils running about in their bare feet. Now my idea is that we go collecting clothes and footwear, from districts more affluent than the East End. There's a year's work in that, the Lord's practical work.'

‘Praise Him,' said the Repenters.

‘That's the stuff,' said Mother Joan.

‘Your suggestion does you credit, sister,' said Father Peter.

‘Very sound, Father, very sound,' said Father Luke. ‘Mind you, there's still 'ardly any salt in the potatoes. 'As anyone noticed Mrs Murphy still don't seem to be bothering?'

‘A small thing, Father Luke,' said Mother Ruth, an uncomplaining woman.

‘We shall concentrate on clothes collections,' said Father Peter.

‘I was prayin' last night,' said Mother Mary, ‘and I think the Lord said something to me about it wasn't right for the poor to wear only sackcloth.'

‘His word is our command,' said Father Peter, ‘and I concur with Mother Joan in that to supply the poor with necessities is to begin the process of making them receptive to the ways of Christianity. While their state is wholly parlous, they will remain heathens. Their hardened souls must be softened. I fear that in going among them with anger I have lacked understanding, but with the Lord's help I shall redeem myself.'

‘Amen,' said the Repenters.

‘It was Mother Verity, I believe, who softened the soul of the man who outraged her in the beginning and whom we all thought past redemption,' said Father Peter, gaunt face benign of expression.

‘Even in the beginning, Father, I did not think him quite past redemption,' said Mother Verity.

‘Praise 'er faith,' said Father Luke.

‘And her forgivingness,' said Mother Mary. ‘I don't know I could ever 'ave forgive 'im myself.'

‘Her lips,' said Father Peter, shaking a sad head, ‘to take her lips so brutally.'

Colour touched Mother Verity's cheeks.

‘'Orrible,' said Mother Mary.

‘We must all be forgiving, sister,' said Mother Ruth.

‘Still, the Lord's fire an' brimstone can't be for nothing,' said Mother Mary.

‘True, my child,' said Father Peter, ‘that is for those who have sold their souls to Satan. For them the Lord has neither forgiveness nor mercy. For others, for people who have misguidedly sinned, there is always forgiveness.'

‘Well spoken, Father,' said Mother Joan.

‘I have seen the light,' said Father Peter.

‘So have I, by George,' said Mother Joan, ‘damn nearly blinded me.'

‘Jimmy . . . lunch . . . slice of veal and ham pie, oh—' Ada blinked. There was Jimmy in the sunshine, sawing up a large branch, clearing it of smaller branches. He was wearing just shoes and an old pair of Scout shorts. His chest was bare and browning. Perspiration bedewed his forehead and glistened in his hair. Ada blinked again. After all, a girl didn't often see a boy half undressed, specially a boy with such a firm body. ‘Oh,' she said again.

‘What's all this ohing?' asked Jimmy.

‘Hoeing?'

‘No, ohing.'

‘Where's your shirt and apron?' asked Ada.

‘Don't need 'em for this work,' said Jimmy. ‘Crikey, is all that for me, Ada?' It was a large slice of pie, and there were slices of tomato and some lettuce with it. And a pint mug of lemonade, home-made by Mrs Redfern. A whole pint. ‘Ada, you're all doin' me proud, I don't know I've met kinder people, nor a nicer girl.' He put the saw down, came up to her and took the tray from her. Ada gulped a little. ‘It's all right, is it, me not havin' me shirt on?'

‘Yes . . . no . . . I don't know, I suppose so,' said Ada. It was all right, of course it was. The landscape gardeners were working in their vests. It was just that she felt startled, and a little bit funny. ‘There's a pickled onion hidin' under the lettuce, if you like pickled onions,' she said, by way of returning to normal.

‘What a treat,' said Jimmy, ‘it'll help me to keep cheerful. Me broken heart needs a pickled onion or two and some veal and ham pie. I was pleased to meet Percy the other mornin' – well, perhaps not pleased, seein' what a lucky bloke he is, but I was interested, of course.'

‘You're goin' dotty,' said Ada, ‘you're havin' me on, I know you, Jimmy Andrews. And look, I'm not engaged or anything, my dad wouldn't let me get engaged to anyone when I'm only just sixteen.'

‘No, you'll 'ave to wait a bit,' said Jimmy, seating himself on a log and placing the tray on his knees. ‘Percy's a handsome feller, I noticed.'

‘Handsome?' said Ada, who had begun to feel Percy was a bit ordinary except for his non-stop tongue.

‘I'm hopin' to be handsome meself when I'm older,' said Jimmy. ‘I've heard it's better than lookin' like the back end of a horse and cart.'

‘Yes, keep tryin',' said Ada, ‘you don't want to look like that all your life. Oh, I've got to go or Mr 'Odges will be after me.'

‘What, at his age?' said Jimmy. ‘Saucy old devil. Still, can't blame him, I suppose.'

‘Oh, 'elp, you'll be me death, you will, Jimmy,' said Ada, and rushed off. She had laughing hysterics on the way.

Sophy appeared at two o'clock, a summery enchantment in a frock of azure blue. ‘Gosh, look at you,' she said, ‘you're hardly dressed.'

‘Hullo, Mr Thorpe,' said Jimmy. Mr George Thorpe was the landscape gardeners' foreman who'd talked to him about how to tame and shape nature's tendency to run wild.

‘How can anyone be soppy enough to think I'm Mr Thorpe?' said Sophy in disgust.

‘Me, I suppose,' said Jimmy, ‘when the sun's in my eyes. Oh, it's you, Sophy.'

‘Yes, and I can't stay and help you,' she said.

‘That's good,' said Jimmy.

‘But I can stay long enough to kick you.'

‘Long enough to fall over, you mean, like you did before. That won't do your frock any good, there's some thorny bits and pieces lyin' about round here.'

‘Yes, that's why I can't stay and help you,' said Sophy, ‘it's a new frock and Mummy says she'll pack me off to a boarding school if I ruin it. D'you like it?'

‘Looks nice,' said Jimmy guardedly. The girl herself looked corking.

‘Would you like to come to tea on Sunday?' asked Sophy.

‘Pardon?' said Jimmy, picking up the saw.

‘I'll tell Mummy you're coming,' said Sophy, ‘then she won't be able to say no.'

‘You can't invite me to tea without askin' your mum first,' said Jimmy. Commonsense surfacing, he added, ‘And I can't come, anyway.'

‘Why can't you?'

‘Because your mum 'asn't asked me, that's why, and because you're posh and rich as well, and I'm not.'

‘Oh, don't be soppy,' said Sophy. ‘I'm not rich, I only get a few shillings pocket money a week from Daddy.'

‘I mean your fam'ly's rich,' said Jimmy, going to work with the saw.

‘Oh, you rotter,' said Sophy. ‘Daddy was born poor, I'll have you know.'

‘But he's not poor now, he's got all this and servants. Besides, my Aunt Edie will be with us.'

‘Well, the Sunday after, then,' said Sophy.

‘No, my Aunt Edie's comin' for the weekend as well, and the next.'

‘Well, I don't think much of any aunt who's as inconvenient as that,' said Sophy. ‘Jimmy, stop sawing. You can kiss me, if you like.'