The Pearly Queen (43 page)

‘What d'you mean? ‘E's not ill, is he?'

‘No, he's fine,' said Jimmy.

‘What d'you mean, then, you're goin' to 'ave to do something about 'im?' Aunt Edie seemed agitated.

‘Well, we don't exactly know, do we, Patsy?' said Jimmy.

‘No, we don't know exactly, Auntie,' said Patsy.

‘Well, what's wrong with 'im?' asked Aunt Edie.

‘I think it's bein' a widower,' said Jimmy. ‘D'you think it's bein' a widower, Patsy?'

‘Yes, I think it's bein' a widower, Jimmy,' said Patsy.

‘Of course, we can't be sure,' said Jimmy.

‘No, we can't be sure, Auntie,' said Patsy, ‘we're too young to be sure.'

‘I wish I knew what you two were talkin' about,' said Aunt Edie.

‘We don't really know ourselves,' said Jimmy.

‘It's just feelings,' said Patsy. ‘Aunt Edie, when you goin' to come an' see us? Can't you come on Sunday?'

‘Well, it's an upset time for the fam'ly,' said Aunt Edie, ‘it's best I wait till you've all got over it. I can't come and play the piano and 'ave some laughs with you at the moment. People would think none of us 'ad decent respect. I'd best wait a bit.'

That didn't sound very convincing to Patsy and Jimmy, but they let it go for the moment and spent an hour with their aunt. She made an effort, she became cheerful, and she helped the hour along by telling them she'd performed at another pearly concert. Jimmy asked what numbers she'd sang, and she said oh, the usual old favourites like ‘Daisy, Daisy', the kind that kids and their mums and dads were fond of. Jimmy thought her smile a bit forced. She wasn't herself. Of course, she was naturally unhappy about Mum, her cousin, but he felt it was more than that. Making another effort, she suddenly laughed and said she'd finished her turn by doing a knees-up on the stage, with someone playing ‘Mother Brown' on the piano.

‘Auntie, what a lark,' said Patsy.

Just as suddenly, Aunt Edie made a face. ‘I forgot meself,' she said. ‘I shouldn't 'ave done it, not a knees-up, it was disrespectful, only a week or so after the funeral. I don't know what got into me. I'd be appreciative if you two wouldn't tell your dad.'

‘Well, it wouldn't be very clever to tell 'im,' said Jimmy gravely. ‘He wouldn't be too pleased that he'd missed you doin' a knees-up, Aunt Edie, 'specially as he needed a bit of cheerin' up.'

‘I think Dad likes ladies' legs,' said Patsy.

‘All old soldiers do,' said Jimmy. ‘Well, I've heard they do. I think I like them myself.'

‘You're not an old soldier,' said Patsy.

‘That's the funny thing about it,' said Jimmy. ‘I mean, I'm not an old soldier, but I'm pretty sure I like ladies' legs.'

Aunt Edie looked from one to the other of them. They were over their mum's death. It had been some weeks now, and autumn had turned to winter, and there they were, their dad's son and elder daughter, not looking mournful. And they'd come to see her. Her heart warmed to them.

‘Loveys, I don't know if we should talk like this,' she said.

‘It's all right, Aunt Edie,' said Patsy, ‘we've got kind mem'ries of Mum. Dad says we're not to 'ave anything but kind mem'ries of 'er.'

‘Yes, she did 'er bit durin' the war, didn't she, lookin' after you all the time your Dad was away,' said Aunt Edie. ‘We've all got to remember that.'

‘Aunt Edie,' said Jimmy, ‘I don't see why you can't come and spend a Sunday with us. You're our aunt.'

‘Yes, we nearly forgot to mention that Dad said the fam'ly would like to see you.' Patsy smiled at her aunt.

‘Your dad said that?'

‘We wouldn't ask you to play the piano,' said Jimmy.

‘Oh, I'll come Sunday week,' said Aunt Edie.

‘Oh, good old Auntie,' said Patsy.

When they were on their way back home, Jimmy said, ‘Well, you can see how it is, Patsy.'

‘I always knew it,' said Patsy.

‘Knew what?' asked Jimmy.

‘That Dad was favourite with Aunt Edie.'

‘That's it, then,' said Jimmy, ‘we'll have to move. I'm earnin' regular wages now, so we could afford a bit more rent if we moved to somewhere like Kennington.'

‘Like Lorrimore Square, it's nice there,' said Patsy.

‘All right, we'll go and do some lookin',' said Jimmy. ‘Say Saturday afternoon. We'll see if there's any notices up for houses to rent around there.'

‘Who's goin' to speak to Dad?' asked Patsy.

‘Well, you bein' a girl, and Dad havin' a soft spot for girls, 'specially you and Betsy, you ought to speak to 'im,' said Jimmy. ‘But I'd best do it, as I usually know what I'm talkin' about, and besides I can operate man to man with Dad.'

‘Big'ead,' said Patsy.

Jimmy got to the stage where it was his turn to have a private word with Dad.

‘You're doin' fine, Dad,' he said, ‘and so is Patsy.'

‘You're doin' your bit too, me lad.'

‘Still, we don't want to go on like this for ever,' said Jimmy. ‘Not when it's not necessary.'

‘I see,' said Dad. ‘No, wait a tick, I don't see.'

‘Well, it's not been a very good time for you,' said Jimmy, ‘I'm not surprised you can't see straight.'

‘About what?' asked Dad, eyeing his son warily.

‘About your future.'

‘Listen, Jimmy my son, I'm comin' up to forty. I'm livin' me future, I started livin' it when I came of age.'

‘Now you're not thinkin' straight,' said Jimmy. ‘You've had that future, Dad, it's a back number. I'm talkin' about your new future. You don't want to miss it, and you might do if you don't get started on it.'

‘Oh, is that a fact?' said Dad.

‘Well, yes, man to man, it is,' said Jimmy. ‘When are you goin' round to see Aunt Edie?'

‘What?' said Dad.

‘Why don't you pop round this evenin'?' suggested Jimmy. ‘You two 'ave got to make arrangements to get fixed up some time.'

‘Say that again,' said Dad.

‘We're not daft, y'know, Patsy and me. Of course, you can't marry Aunt Edie right away, it wouldn't be decent. You'd have to wait a bit, and of course you couldn't settle down here with her, you'd have to move, otherwise the two of you would get all kinds of looks. Your luck must be changin', Dad, because there's a house comin' up to rent in Lorrimore Square in Kennington. Patsy and me 'appened to see the firm that's the landlord of several houses there, and you've got to let them know by the end of the week or you might lose your chance of gettin' the house. It'll be empty the fourth week in November. It's three bob a week more than 'ere, but we can manage that, and Aunt Edie'll go for Lorrimore Square. You could go round and see her now. You've had supper, you've only got to put your hat an' coat on. Tell her Betsy can't wait for her to be her new mum.'

‘Well, knock me over,' said Dad. He knew what was happening, he knew he was being told that his son and daughters, far from minding about him and Aunt Edie, were all for it. They'd noticed, they'd noticed how he felt about their aunt during those weekends she'd been here. ‘You're comin' it a bit, Jimmy lad, givin' me these kind of orders and doin' certain things behind me back and all. You've grown up more than a bit since you met Mr Gibbs and went to Anerley to work for 'im.'

‘Yes, I've got to remind you I'm nearly seventeen,' said Jimmy, 'and I'm doin' some thinkin' on my own account. I fancy 'aving a girl to take out, and I've got one in mind, except I might 'ave to struggle with complications. But never mind that, are you goin' to make a start on this new future of yours?'

‘Chip off me old sergeant-major, you are, Jimmy, I'll 'ave to watch you,' said Dad. ‘All right, pass me me hat an' coat, no point in waitin' till Aunt Edie comes on Sunday.'

‘What?' said Aunt Edie, proud bosom actually fluttering a bit.

‘Yes, what d'you think, Edie love?' asked Dad, having said it all, including a move to Lorrimore Square and a possible date in the New Year. ‘Am I pushin' you a bit, or takin' you for granted?'

‘You want to marry me?' said Aunt Edie. ‘You really want that?'

‘You're my kind of woman, love,' said Dad, ‘you always were.'

Aunt Edie went moist-eyed. ‘Then give us a kiss, love, would you?' she said.

Dad gave her the kind of kiss that convinced her once and for all that he wanted her. Weak at the knees, she tumbled backwards on to her sofa. Dad went after her. His old sergeant-major knew a thing or two about women, even if he had come a cropper with a certain Syrian belly-dancer.

‘Women, I'll 'ave you know, come in various kinds, includin' women that's obedient, women that's a handful on account of bein' contrary, and women that's a different kind of handful on account of bein' comely. Any soldier that 'as trouble with obedient women is gormless and should go home to 'is mother. As for women that's contrary – stand up straight, that man there. As for women that's contrary and given to arguin', what you do with them is let 'em give your earholes a rollickin'. Don't answer them back, let 'em get it all off their chests until they're out of breath. Then give 'em a bunch of flowers and knock 'em sideways. Now, women that's a handful on account of bein' comely. Just treat the handfuls with due appreciation and lovin' care. Corporal Andrews will confirm same. Got that, my lads? Right, that's all.'

Aunt Edie being extremely comely, Dad treated her with extravagant appreciation and very loving care. Aunt Edie wondered where all the bliss was coming from.

‘Jack, oh, you saucy devil – me dress – me legs—'

‘Well, look at that,' said Dad, mourning at an end and a new future beginning. ‘I knew it. Edie love, you've got a pair fit for the pearly queen of old London itself.'

Aunt Edie laughed.

Christmas morning was crisp with frost and winter sunshine. Two knocks on the door of number fifteen Underwood Road, Bethnal Green, brought the upstairs tenant down.

Will Fletcher was on the doorstep.

‘Good morning, Will,' smiled Celia, ‘and a very happy Christmas.'

Will blinked. She was wearing a new costume of silver-grey over a Christmassy red jumper, and her hair shone as if her brush had spent the morning burnishing it. He coughed.

‘Yes, merry Christmas, Sister Charity,' he said, and coughed again. ‘It's like this.'

‘Yes, Will?' said Celia gently, thinking what a handsome man he was.

‘What?' said Will, thinking how elegant and out of reach she was.

‘What is it you want to say?'

‘It's Lulu,' said Will, feeling mesmerized. ‘The fact is, as it's Christmas Day, and as she don't know if she's comin' or goin' because of the present of a new frock and doll's house you left for 'er last night, she wants to know if you'd take 'er to church with you.'

‘I'd love to, Will, you know that.'

‘Further,' said Will, and coughed again. ‘Further, Sister Charity—'

‘Celia.'

‘Oh, hell.'

‘I'll forgive that,' said Celia.

‘Well, further,' said Will, ‘Lulu says would you come and 'ave Christmas dinner with us?'

‘Lulu says?' murmured Celia.

‘Yes. Our landlady's cookin' our joint as well as her fam'ly's, she's got both ovens goin'.'

‘And Lulu would like me to join you?'

Will cleared his throat yet again. He couldn't think why life had to be so contrary. After a long period of unemployment and near starvation, it had suddenly handed him a decent-paid job. Then it had upped and clouted him. People talked about the mysterious ways of God. It wasn't God, it was the aggravating contrariness of life that had landed him with a woman he could never have. Look at her, she could sit for a painter and come out looking like a portrait of a king's lady, and some rich geezer would pay as much as a hundred guineas for it. Was it fair on a man? Or was it punishment for abusing her? Punishment, he thought.

‘What?' he said again.

‘Really, Will, whatever's the matter with you?' smiled Celia.

‘You've got a nerve, askin' a question like that while you're lookin' like that,' said Will. ‘I've got more problems than even Bill Sykes should be landed with on a Christmas Day.'

‘My poor Will,' said Celia, ‘but we were speaking of Lulu inviting me to share dinner with you.'

‘All right, I give in,' said Will. ‘I'm invitin' you as well.'

‘Then I shall come,' said Celia. Actually, she had been invited to have Christmas dinner with Mr and Mrs Hitchins, but had delayed accepting, just in case. There was no telling with a man like Will, no telling whether or not he would leave her outside his life on Christmas Day, however much he was weakening. ‘Thank you, Will, for thinking of me. Shall we all go to church together?'

‘Oh, no you don't,' said Will, ‘you're not landin' that one on me.'

‘Very well, just Lulu and I, then. In an hour. And thank you again for thinking of me.'

‘Lulu didn't like it that you might be by yourself,' said Will.

‘Lulu didn't?'

‘Lord forgive you for pushin' me into corners,' said Will. ‘Well, all right, we both didn't want you sittin' in your lodgings all alone, not on Christmas Day. Everyone ought to 'ave someone else on Christmas Day.'

‘Will, how kind you are.'

‘Cut it out,' said Will, grinding his teeth.

‘But I shall be very happy to be with you and Lulu,' said Celia, ‘and to have her come to church with me.'

‘She'll like that,' said Will, ‘but don't think you'll get me in a pew.'