The Pearly Queen (29 page)

‘Don't be daft,' said Jimmy.

‘I don't let every boy kiss me, I—' Sophy stopped. Her mother was calling her, and from not far away. ‘Coming, Mummy.' She went off at a hasty run. Jimmy grinned. Saved by the gong, he thought.

That day, Patsy and Betsy were in Ruskin Park with two street friends, having enjoyed a little picnic of bread and marge, bits of cheese and a juicy red tomato each. Then they had afters of roast peanuts. Along came a park-keeper to cast his eyes over the four girls seated on a bench.

‘'Ullo, 'ullo, what've we got 'ere, then?' he asked.

‘We ain't got nothing, mister,' said Lucy Lee, Patsy's friend, ‘we've ate it all.'

‘Except we got two monkey nuts left,' said Betsy.

‘D'yer want one, mister?' asked Harriet Jones, Betsy's friend.

‘I'm not desperate,' said the park-keeper, looking very official in his brown uniform, ‘and you sure that's all you got left? What's that on me clean floor, might I ask?'

‘Oh, they're just the shells,' said Patsy.

‘What, on me clean floor?'

‘Oh, crumbs,' said Harriet.

‘You're right, crumbs as well, I see,' said the park-keeper. ‘Crumbs an' peanut shells on me clean floor is against the law.'

‘Oh, 'elp,' said Lucy.

‘Now who's going to clear 'em up before I fall down in a faint, eh, me young girlies?'

‘We all will,' said Patsy.

‘Will yer now?'

‘Honest,' said Patsy, and the park-keeper smiled. Who wouldn't when eye to eye with a girl whose hair was the colour of August gold and whose face looked as clean as a primrose washed by April showers?

‘On yer school holidays, are yer?'

‘Yes, mister,' said Betsy.

‘All right, don't you worry,' said the park-keeper. ‘I'll get me brush an' pan an' clear up when you've all kindly vacated the bench.'

‘We don't mind doin' it,' said Patsy.

‘Don't you worry, only watch me clean floor next time, eh?'

‘Yes, mister,' said Lucy, and the park-keeper strolled away smiling. After all the years of horrible war, four girls happily eating roast monkey nuts on a park bench were worth a smile or two.

A horse-drawn van turned into the Walworth Road from Manor Place, Father Luke at the reins, Mother Mary and Mother Magda sitting in the back. As it entered the traffic, four girls turned into Manor Place from the opposite corner, having just got off a tram. They walked home, Lucy and Harriet separating from Patsy and Betsy.

When they were indoors, Patsy said, ‘Shall we 'ave a cup of tea, Betsy?'

‘I'm faintin' wiv thirst,' said Betsy, and went upstairs while Patsy filled the kettle. When Betsy came down she was a dumbfounded little girl.

‘Patsy, Patsy, we ain't got no clothes left, they're all gorn.'

‘Oh, you daft ha'porth,' said Patsy.

‘Patsy, we ain't, I been in your room as well. They're all gorn. I fink we been burgled.'

Patsy rushed upstairs. Her chest of drawers was empty of clothes and underwear, and her little wardrobe was as empty as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. It was the same in Betsy's bedroom, and Jimmy's. Footwear as well had gone. She came pell-mell down the stairs and ran into her parents' bedroom. All her dad's clothes were missing, although there were a few things of her mother's still around.

Aghast, Patsy said, ‘Someone's pinched everything, Betsy, everything.'

‘Yes, I fink burglars 'ave been in,' said Betsy. Tears began to spill from her eyes.

‘Don't cry, Betsy, we don't 'ave burglars round here, it's someone else,' said Patsy.

They found the answer in the form of a note on the kitchen mantelshelf. It was from Mother.

I've taken everyone's things to give to the poor, don't forget that from them that hath shall be taken all of it. I hope you're all going to church and that your Aunt Edie is doing her duty and looking after you.

Mother

‘Told you it was mortal,' said Dad, home from his work and looking into Betsy's woebegone face and Patsy's angry eyes. ‘Your mum could be the death of me, but I'm strictly against that. And I'm even more strictly against 'er upsettin' you two. You're me own angels. I'm goin' after her, I know where that place in Bloomsbury is. 'Ullo, that's Jimmy comin' in. I'll take 'im with me. Can you manage to get a bit of supper goin' while we're gone, Patsy?'

‘Yes, course I can, Dad. You'll get our things back, won't you?'

‘If I couldn't, I wouldn't be able to look me old sergeant-major in the eye, would I?'

It didn't take Dad and Jimmy long to get to Bloomsbury. They rode on an open bus operated by the London General Omnibus Company. It took them over Waterloo Bridge and up through Kingsway and Southampton Row to land them in the heart of Bloomsbury. Dad was silent as he walked fast to Bedford Way, and Jimmy knew that for once he was ready to lose his temper. Arriving at the large house now named the Temple of Endeavour, Dad thundered on the huge iron knocker. Half a minute elapsed before someone opened it. It was Mother Ruth, the gentle and uncomplaining Repenter.

‘May I help you?' she asked.

‘I'm Jack Andrews,' said Dad. ‘Where's my wife?'

‘Sir?'

‘My wife, Maud Andrews, where is she?'

‘Oh, yes, Mother Mary. I'm so sorry, but she's out at the moment. She's been out all day, collecting clothes for the poor.'

‘That's a fact, is it?' said Dad. ‘Well, when will she be back?'

‘We're expecting her and Father Luke and Mother Magda any moment – oh, I think this may be them.'

The horse-drawn van, ambling down the street, pulled up. Father Luke descended, put a nosebag on the horse, then went round to the back of the van to help Mother Mary and Mother Magda alight.

Dad and Jimmy were there in a flash.

‘You silly woman,' said Dad.

Mother stared at him. ‘What're you doin' here?' she asked. ‘And who's that boy with you? Don't I know him?'

‘I'm not 'ere to answer daft questions,' said Dad. ‘Who are you?' he asked Father Luke.

‘'Umbly, sir, I announce myself as Father Luke of—'

‘Hoppit,' said Dad.

‘'Ere, I say—'

‘Push off,' said Dad, and Father Luke took a look into glinting grey eyes and retired into the Temple with a portly dignity and an air of injury. ‘And who are you?' asked Dad of Mother Magda.

‘'Ere, I don't like the sound of you,' said Mother Magda, ‘you ain't a nice gentleman.'

‘Right first time,' said Dad. ‘Hoppit.'

‘It's me bounden duty to talk to Father Peter about you,' said Mother Magda.

‘Don't bring 'im out here,' said Dad, ‘or I'll stuff 'im down a manhole.'

‘Well, I don't know, what a coarse brute,' said Mother Magda, and hurried away to search for Father Peter.

Dad looked Mother in the eye. ‘You came 'ome and pinched all our clothes,' he said.

‘I'll give you something you talk to me Christian friends like that,' said Mother, and shook her umbrella in his face.

Dad pushed it aside. ‘It's all in the van, is it?' he said. ‘Right, tailboard down, Jimmy, and up you get.'

Jimmy let the tailboard down and swung himself into the van. There were a dozen large tea chests, all full of clothes or footwear.

‘Clothes for the five thousand here, Dad,' he said.

‘Which is the one our stuff's in?' asked Dad of Mother.

‘Don't you come it with me,' said Mother, and set about him with her umbrella, much to the open-mouthed astonishment of passers-by. Dad did lose his temper then. He took the umbrella from her, smashed it over his knee, flung it into the gutter, picked her up and carried her into the hall of the Temple, Mother Ruth looking on in faint shock. Dad dumped Mother into a chair.

‘Oh, you sinful 'eathen,' she gasped.

‘Stay there,' said Dad, ‘I'll be back in a few minutes to tie you up and carry you 'ome.' He returned to the van. He climbed up and joined Jimmy. Jimmy had upended two chests, and there was a heap of spilled clothes. ‘That's the ticket, Jimmy.'

Together they upended another. And another. And a fifth. Out spilled an overcoat and a jacket, and then the family's clothes and footwear, a great mound of items.

‘Poor old Mum,' said Jimmy.

‘Gone potty, Jimmy, poor old gel,' said Dad. ‘Right, put all our stuff back in that chest. I'll go an' get her.'

‘You bringing her home, Dad?' asked Jimmy.

‘Thing is, will she act up?'

‘Bound to, if she can do a thing like this,' said Jimmy. ‘Like makin' off with everything except what we're standing up in, an' that includes what Betsy and Patsy are standing up in as well. Betsy's upset, and Patsy's spittin'.'

A shadow fell across them. The tall, gaunt and wide-shouldered minister of the League of Repenters loomed at the open back of the van. ‘Vandals!' he boomed.

‘Who are you?' asked Dad.

‘The minister of the League of Repenters.'

‘Oh, you're bloke in charge of the loony bin, are yer?' said Dad. ‘Well, back off a bit, because I'm comin' down to knock your bleedin' 'ead off.'

‘Heathen!' boomed Father Peter, and the thunder rumbled in his chest.

‘Watch out, mister,' said Jimmy, ‘Dad's had more boxin' belts than hot dinners.'

‘Miserable young man, know ye not that enemies of the Lord shall fall like corn before His reapers?'

‘I fancy doin' a bit of reapin',' said Dad, and jumped down. Father Peter at his height and in his rumbling thunder may have been awesome, but Dad shoved him aside and strode back into the Temple. The hall showed a group of women, all in prayer for his soul, but Mother wasn't among them.

‘Where's my wife?' he asked.

‘She has gone, sir,' said Mother Ruth.

‘Gone upstairs, you mean?'

‘She has gone from our Temple, sir, to pray elsewhere for you.'

‘Holy ruddy mackerel,' said Dad, ‘tell 'er to do some praying for herself, and tell 'er the Lord's waitin' for her at 'ome, with an umbrella twice as big as her own.'

‘Repent, yer brute, repent,' said Mother Magda.

Father Peter appeared, his hands crossed over his chest, his gait slow and reverent. Silently he entered the Chapel of Penitence.

‘Barmy,' said Dad, ‘and if I don't get out of 'ere quick, I'll be off me ruddy chump meself.' He went back to the van. Jimmy was out of it, guarding the tea chest and its contents. He looked at his son. Jimmy grinned. Dad grinned. ‘Jimmy lad,' he said, ‘when you next go to church give thanks that you, Patsy, Betsy and me are all granted the privilege of bein' sane. Up with that chest.' They took hold of it together and walked away, carrying it between them. ‘It's a funny thing, yer know, son, but we don't realize how well off we are for bein' sane till we bump into people all as barmy as one-eyed parrots with a twitch.'

‘And what about Mum?' asked Jimmy.

‘Scarpered.'

‘Dodged you, did she, Dad? Didn't want to come home?'

‘Didn't seem like it, Jimmy.'

‘Best thing, really,' said Jimmy. ‘I don't think she's ready to come back yet. And besides—'

‘Besides what?' asked Dad.

‘She wasn't dressed for it, you ruined 'er umbrella.'

Dad laughed.

They took the tea chest on to a bus, and the bus carried them home.

‘'Oo wants to know?' asked Bert Rogers, chin unshaven, braces dangling, a bottle of beer in his hand, and addiction to drink making a bleary man of him.

‘A friend,' said Mother Verity. She was by herself, the evening was cloudy, the street dull and dingy, urchins roaming the gutters. The basic picture never altered. Even when the sun shone, its light only accentuated the dinginess, and the raggedness of the urchins.

‘A friend?' Bert Rogers looked her over. ‘That's you, is it, missus? Comin' up in the world, is 'e?' Two men passed by, glanced at her handbag and then at him. A sly bleary grin distorted his red face for a fleeting second. ‘Posh, are yer, lady?' The men went on, turning into Ellen Street.

‘Has Mr Fletcher moved or not?' asked Mother Verity. ‘If so, could you give me his new address?'

‘E's down there.' Bert Rogers jerked a thumb. ‘Ellen Street. Talkin' to 'is mates.'

‘Thank you,' said Mother Verity, although that was not what she wanted. What she wanted was to know Will Fletcher's new address without having to ask him herself. Nevertheless, she walked down to Ellen Street. Turning into it, she was at once confronted by the two men, their caps now pulled low down over their foreheads. Women at open doors turned their backs immediately.

Will Fletcher, striding up Christian Street from Commercial Road, saw a woman emerge in haste from Ellen Street, only to be pulled back by long arms. He had sight of her only for a second, but he recognized her. He heard a cry that was instantly shut off.

‘Christ,' he breathed, ‘is she as daft as that?' He ran. Turning into Ellen Street, he pulled up, for there she was, one man behind her, left arm around her waist, one hand clapped over her mouth. No-one was looking, every back was turned. Even the kids showed their backs. That was the way of it in this area. No-one bore witness. A second man was trying to prise her handbag from her. Will reached and spun him aside.

‘What the bleedin' 'ell—'

‘Give over, yer silly buggers,' said Will, ‘that's a sister of charity you're manhandling, not a condescendin' female with 'er nose in the air. Let go of her, Lenny. If you've not recognized 'er, then shift the mud out of yer mince pies.'

The man, Lenny, released her. Quite calmly, Mother Verity straightened the jacket of her grey costume and righted her partly dislodged hat.