The Pearly Queen (3 page)

‘Oh, the spuds!' gasped Patsy, and rushed into the scullery.

‘And what about the chops, Jimmy?' asked Dad.

‘I've got confidence in me chops,' said Jimmy.

‘Well, good,' said Dad. ‘We'll manage, Jimmy, don't you worry, and you'll get another job soon.'

‘Dad, d'you fink our mum's gone a bit barmy?' asked Betsy worriedly.

‘No, she's just got religion, Betsy love,' said Dad.

‘Point is, can she be cured?' asked Jimmy.

‘Well,' said Dad, ‘she might be cured already, they might've chucked a whole barrow-load of cabbages at 'er in Whitechapel.'

‘I don't fink that's very funny,' sighed Betsy.

They were at supper a little later, around the kitchen table, which was always covered by a green and white check oil cloth. It was very practical and only needed a wipe with a damp cloth to look clean and shiny. As in all cockney homes, the kitchen was the hub of family life. It was where setbacks, triumphs, giggles, laughs, arguments and mother's laying down of the law were all part of the way the character and spirit of the family were shaped and nurtured. There were signs, however, that Mum's priorities had changed. The kitchen range and the iron fender that guarded the hearth hadn't been blackleaded for ages. In the scullery, dirty washing had been piling up in a large tin bath on top of the copper.

Dad ignored all that for the moment. He knew his girls were upset about their mum. Jimmy was old enough to take it in his stride. Dad commented on the supper, saying he'd never had greens more green, mashed potatoes more tasty and a mutton chop better done. Betsy asked if she was going to have to do the greens every day.

‘Only till cauliflowers come in,' said Jimmy.

‘Crikey,' said Betsy, ‘I hate cauliflowers.'

‘Well, you need only hate them till runner beans come in,' said Jimmy.

Betsy said, ‘What, me slice runner beans every day?'

‘Only till sprouts come in,' said Jimmy.

‘Ugh, I hate sprouts worse than cauliflowers,' said Betsy.

‘Oh, well, greens come in again after sprouts,' said Jimmy.

Betsy, thinking about the washing, said, ‘Dad, I only got one clean pair of fings left.'

‘Well, dear oh lor',' said Dad, taking off Mrs Shaw, a gossipy neighbour. ‘We can't 'ave that, lovey.' He regarded his girls. Betsy at nine had a cheeky-looking face and was full of tricks. She had her mum's light brown hair and brown eyes. She was a giggly pickle. Well, normally she was. Patsy at thirteen was active and lively, with fair hair and hazel eyes that could look blue when the sun caught them. She liked her hair left long, tying it with a ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her mum had been very pretty as a girl, and Patsy had a lot of that prettiness. And she always had a tidy look, whereas Betsy always had a rumpled look, as if she'd just had a pillow fight. Pillow fights made her yell with excitement. They made her mum call up and threaten to give her something.

As for Jimmy, he was a good-looking boy with a lot of sense. He could be very funny. It had been a blow to him to lose his job, but his sense of humour was keeping him going. During the war, when he was only eight, he wrote to the prime minister about the air raids, asking if the government couldn't train pigeons to go up and do a puncturing job with their beaks on German zeppelins. Although the prime minister must have been very busy, he'd actually sent a reply saying he'd talk to some pigeon fanciers about it. Mum showed the reply to neighbours, some of whom said it sounded dangerous, they didn't want punctured zeppelins falling on top of them.

‘I got to 'ave more clean pairs of fings,' said Betsy.

‘So 'ave I,' said Patsy, who liked everything she was wearing to feel clean. She was sorry for girls who came to school looking as if their frocks hadn't been in a copper for ages.

‘Well, I tell you what,' said Dad, ‘how about cartin' everything off to the Bagwash laundry in the mornin' while I'm at work? Say the bedsheets and pillow cases as well. Could you three manage that?'

‘Then bring it all back later and 'ang it on the line?' said Patsy.

‘Just in case your mum's not goin' to do anything about it,' said Dad.

‘What about the ironing?' asked Patsy.

‘Well, if your mum's not in the mood,' said Dad, ‘I'll try me hand at it.'

‘Dad, men don't do ironing, they do their own work,' said Patsy, who wasn't going to have her mum's mood make things that awkward for her dad.

‘Most men don't do ironing, I grant yer,' said Dad. ‘But a lot of old soldiers could, and I've done some darnin' in me time, too.'

‘I'll do the ironing,' said Patsy.

‘We'll see, me love, we'll see,' said Dad. ‘Now it's me pleasure to tell you the supper was a treat—'

‘Oh, me rice puddin'!' exclaimed Patsy, and rushed out to the oven.

‘Who said rice puddin'?' asked Dad.

‘Patsy,' said Jimmy.

‘She done it with milk,' said Betsy, ‘it's been cookin' hours and hours.'

‘Bless the girl,' said Dad.

Patsy reappeared and placed the hot dish down on the bread board in the centre of the table. The skin was brown with grated nutmeg. ‘Patsy, I'm proud of you,' said Dad. ‘Did I ever mention we used to 'ave rice puddin' in the Army? Well, boiled rice mostly, with jam. A bit like sticky glue, but nourishin', of course. We had a roll call just after dinner once, and the sergeant-major got to a bloke whose monicker was Rafferty. Rafferty didn't answer. “Rafferty!” hollered the sergeant-major. There still wasn't any answer, but Rafferty was present all right. “Rafferty!” bawled the sergeant-major. So I spoke up, bein' Rafferty's platoon corporal, and I said he couldn't answer because he'd 'ad two helpings of boiled rice with jam, and that his Irish north-and-south was all stuck up in consequence. You should've seen the sergeant-major havin' fifty fits all at once. Well now, look at that, Patsy's rice puddin'. You're a treasure, Patsy.'

‘Good as the Queen of Sheba, that's me,' said Patsy.

‘I've never 'eard the Queen of Sheba did rice puddings,' said Jimmy. ‘I thought she just went in for puttin' rubies in her belly button.'

‘That's rude, sayin' belly button, ain't it, Dad?' said Betsy.

‘Dimple, I call it,' said Dad.

Patsy served out rice pudding to all, and everyone began to enjoy it.

‘Someone's comin' in,' said Patsy, lifting her head. Footsteps sounded in the passage.

‘It's Mum,' said Betsy, looking nervous.

‘Mother,' said Jimmy, looking solemn.

‘Just act natural,' said Dad, ‘and as if we're all doin' some repentin'.'

Mother entered the kitchen: a slender woman of thirty six, she still owned a measure of attractiveness, despite her lack of make-up and despite the disordered look of her clothes. The long jacket of her black costume had lost all its buttons, and the skirt seemed very sorry for itself. Her black velvet hat was slightly askew, held in that position by her hatpin. Her umbrella was in one hand, handbag in the other. Crikey, her clothes, thought Betsy. She's been in the wars, thought Patsy. Good old Mum, she's at least come out alive, thought Jimmy.

‘So you're back,' said Dad, then adjusted his welcome. ‘Glad to see you, Mother.'

Mother gazed in shock at the rice pudding. ‘You're all eatin' rice puddin',' she said accusingly.

‘Well, we couldn't just sit and look at it,' said Jimmy, ‘we thought we might as well eat it, 'specially seein' Patsy made it.'

‘And Jimmy cooked the mutton chops,' said Patsy.

‘What?' said Mother in new shock. ‘You've all 'ad mutton chops as well as rice puddin'?'

‘And greens,' said Jimmy.

‘And mashed potatoes,' said Patsy.

‘I don't know how I can 'old my head up,' said Mother, ‘knowin' you've all been gourmandisin'. I was goin' to give them mutton chops to the poor.'

‘What a shame,' said Jimmy, ‘they've all gone now.'

‘It's just been supper, Maudie,' said Dad easily, ‘just a bit of custom'ry eatin'.'

‘I left a loaf of bread in the larder,' said Mother sternly, ‘and a jug of water on the table. To think you've all been 'aving mutton chops and rice puddin'. I can't turn my back a minute without you doin' some sin or other.'

‘Never mind, Mother,' said Jimmy, ‘we've been doin' some repentin' as well. And you can see how Patsy's repentin' for makin' the rice puddin'.'

‘Yes, I don't 'ardly know where to put my face, Mum – I mean Mother,' said Patsy.

‘Still, it would've been more of a sin not to eat it,' said Dad, ‘you can't let good food go to waste. Like a cup of tea, Mother?'

‘Well, I could do with a cup,' said Mother, ‘I've 'ad a tryin' day on behalf of the Lord. But don't put any milk or sugar in.'

‘That's not tea, Mum, that's ugh,' said Betsy.

‘Don't call me Mum,' said Mother, ‘it don't befit me.'

‘I forgot,' said Betsy, feeling and looking very upset.

‘Be your age, Maudie,' said Dad.

‘Sit up,' said Mother, walking around the table to give each member of her family a critical look. She addressed Jimmy. ‘What d'you think you're doin'?' she asked.

‘Finishin' my rice pudding,' said Jimmy.

‘What impudence,' said Mother. ‘And where are you goin'?' she asked Dad as he came to his feet.

‘To put the kettle on, seein' you're so busy doin' nothing,' said Dad. ‘Try sittin' down instead of standin' in me way.'

‘Yes, I can do with a sit down,' said Mother. She put her handbag and umbrella on the dresser and sat down. ‘I've been among sinners nearly all afternoon, and it's been a sore trial.'

‘We're sufferin' a sore trial ourselves,' said Dad from the scullery.

‘That's what comes from gourmandisin',' said Mother.

‘You been an' lost all yer buttons,' said Betsy.

‘Gave 'em to some poor woman who hadn't got any, I suppose,' said Jimmy.

‘Yes, you've always been a givin' woman, Mother,' said Patsy.
I'll give you something
, that had been her mum's favourite expression for years.

‘To the poor, I expect,' said Jimmy.

‘We're poor,' said Betsy. Mother frowned at her. Nervously, Betsy added, ‘I mean we ain't rich, are we, Dad?'

‘Not yet, Betsy,' said Dad, doing his best not to let his kids down by rowing with his wife. What was plain, of course, was the fact that Maud had not only gone religious for good, but she'd gone completely barmy as well. Not much anyone could do with a barmy woman except give her her head. ‘Still, as me old sergeant-major used to say, if you keep your buttons shinin', your boots polished and your expectations modest, you've got as good a chance of fallin' down a goldmine as anyone else.'

‘Behold, the Day of Judgement is nigh,' said Mother.

‘Might be the day when I get a job,' said Jimmy, and got up to fetch cups and saucers from the dresser.

‘'Eathens, that's what those people in Whitechapel are,' said Mother.

‘Crikey, did they chuck—' Betsy checked herself. ‘Did they treat yer a bit rough, Mum?'

‘Don't call me Mum.'

‘I keep forgettin',' said Betsy.

‘I'll forget something meself in a minute,' said Dad darkly.

‘I want proper respect,' said Mother. ‘As for them 'eathen sinners, the Lord 'as commanded me to go among them again, which I'm goin' to do tomorrow, with some of my sister Repenters.'

Dad, waiting for the kettle to boil, muttered.

Jimmy said, ‘What about the fam'ly washin'?'

‘I 'aven't got time for that sort of thing now I'm workin' on behalf of the Lord,' said Mother. ‘I'll be away a lot, so don't forget about 'aving bread and water for some of your meals, I don't want to find you've had mutton chops again and more rice puddin'. Young man, what's that you're doin'?'

‘I'm havin' seconds of Patsy's rice puddin',' said Jimmy.

‘It don't befit you to 'ave seconds,' said Mother. ‘There's people starvin' in some places.'

‘Jimmy knows that,' said Dad, ‘so do the rest of us, and so do most people round 'ere. About time you cooked some rice puddings yourself, Mother, an' gave them to the starvin' poor instead of pokin' them with your fiery sword.'

‘Oh, 'elp,' breathed Betsy.

‘Sticks an' stones may break my bones, but words won't never 'urt me,' said Mother.

Dad made the tea and brought the pot to the table. ‘Anyway, what 'appened in Whitechapel?' he asked.

‘It wasn't nice, I can tell you that,' said Mother, vexed. ‘I went among them with Mother Verity to offer them salvation and repentance.'

‘Mother Verity?' said Patsy.

‘She was Miss Celia Stokes till she was anointed,' said Mother.

‘I hear you've been anointed Mother Mary,' said Dad.

‘I was done that religious honour by our minister, Father Peter,' said Mother. She frowned at what was left of the rice pudding. ‘Perhaps I'll 'ave a little of that,' she said. Betsy fetched a spoon and plate, and she helped herself from the dish. ‘I've been very sore tried this afternoon,' she said. ‘I can do with a bit of eatin'.'

She ate the lot and scraped the dish. Dad poured the tea, Patsy milking the cups. She looked at him. He winked and nodded. She put milk into all five cups. Mother took her cup without commenting.

‘Sugar, Mum – sugar, Mother?' invited Betsy, pushing the bowl forward. Mother absently sugared her tea.

‘Father Peter and 'is assistant, Father Luke, are both comin' with us to Whitechapel tomorrow,' she said.