The Pearly Queen (8 page)

She did not take long to pack a case, she could be brisk and quick. His mum had got to the stage of being a bit vague about everything except the Lord.

‘'Ere we are, Jimmy.'

‘I'll take the case,' said Jimmy.

‘And me the shoppin' bag?' she smiled.

‘Good idea,' he said. ‘What made you ask me to come with you?'

‘What a question,' said Aunt Edie.

‘I thought I'd ask.'

‘Well, you 'appen to be me fav'rite young man, and I like 'aving a young man like you as an escort.'

‘I think I'll come to that concert Joe Gosling mentioned,' said Jimmy, ‘you're bound to help out and it might give me a chance to see you doin' a knees-up.'

‘You saucebox,' said Aunt Edie. ‘I suppose you realize I'm old enough to be your mother?'

‘Can't help that, Aunt Edie, I still think you've got good legs.'

‘Cheeky monkey,' said Aunt Edie, but laughed.

‘I expect Dad'll want to come as well,' said Jimmy, ‘you're not old enough to be his mother.'

Aunt Edie actually turned a little pink. ‘Well, I don't know,' she said, ‘I'll 'ave to watch you, young man. Out you go before you get your ears boxed.' But she was laughing again as she went down the stairs with him.

By the time they got back, Dad and the girls had made their own contribution to the day. The kitchen and scullery had been swept and tidied up, and all the beds made. And Dad had cleaned the kitchen windows. The oil-cloth that covered the kitchen table shone like new, except for cracked corners. The sandwiches were ready, and Dad put the kettle on to make a pot of tea. Aunt Edie, who had bought sausages from the butcher, said she'd do bangers and mash for supper, with fried tomatoes and fried onions, and a banana custard to follow. And for tomorrow's Sunday dinner, she was going to roast a leg of mutton and bake an apple pie.

‘Crikey, apple pie wiv custard?' asked Betsy, eyes shining.

‘Auntie, you really goin' to do all that?' asked Patsy.

‘All that isn't much, lovey,' said Aunt Edie, ‘and we've got to eat. Now let's all sit down and 'ave these sandwiches with the pot of tea your dad's makin'. I don't suppose 'e'll take all day.'

From the scullery, where he was pouring boiling water into the teapot, Dad made his response. ‘Any moment now, Edie.'

‘That's a clever boy,' said Aunt Edie, which made Dad grin. ‘Pass the sandwiches round, Jimmy.' Aunt Edie had already decided on how she would approach these weekends. A little authority combined with fuss and affection. But no gushing. She didn't want Dad to think this was just a whim of hers, or Betsy and Patsy to feel it was only Dad who cared for them. Girls their age needed a mum as well as a dad. Or someone who could be a mum.

Dad brought the pot of tea in and sat down. He helped himself to a sandwich.

‘Did I 'ear there's goin' to be bangers and mash, banana custard, roast leg of mutton and apple pie?' he asked. ‘We'll all get fat.'

‘You will if you eat all that lot at once,' said Aunt Edie. ‘Shall I be mum? Yes, I might as well.' She poured the tea.

‘Patsy's gettin' a bit fat,' said Betsy.

‘Me?' said Patsy indignantly.

‘I don't see she is, Betsy,' said Aunt Edie.

‘Well, she is a little bit,' said Betsy, ‘only I best not say where, 'ad I, Dad?'

‘Oh, you little 'orror,' cried Patsy. She might have been only thirteen, but she was already budding. Secretly, she was proud, of course. It made her feel she wouldn't take long to be a woman. Like Gladys Cooper, she hoped. Gladys Cooper, a famous actress, was ever so attractive, and during the war soldiers in the trenches asked for picture postcards of her to be sent to them. All the same, a girl didn't want any sister making remarks. ‘You Betsy, 'ow would you like me to pull all your 'air out?'

‘But I only said a little bit fat,' protested Betsy. ‘Didn't I, Dad?' Betsy was always appealing to her dad whenever she needed support.

‘Well, I can't tell a lie,' said Dad, ‘you did only say a little bit.'

‘Point is,' said Jimmy, ‘is it true?'

‘Don't you start,' said Patsy.

‘All right,' said Jimmy affably, ‘I'll stay in the dark.'

‘Good idea, Jimmy, it's safer,' said Dad. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time when me old battalion was in a place called Kut? 'Orrible fly-blown dump, believe me. Didn't 'alf make the old battalion thirsty. The sergeant-major said if 'e caught anybody swipin' the sergeants' beer rations, he'd hang 'em from a coconut tree. We still did a bit of needful swipin', though, through Private Gough bein' able to pick a padlock. Did it at night. Safer in the dark, yer see. I mean, who wants to end up hanging from a coconut tree in a place like Kut?'

‘Oh, you're lovely and daft, Dad,' said Patsy. ‘Dad's goin' to try doin' some ironing this afternoon, Aunt Edie.'

‘'E's what?' said Aunt Edie.

‘I'll give it a go,' said Dad.

‘You won't,' said Aunt Edie.

‘Well, durin' me soldiering days—'

‘Your soldiering days are over,' said Aunt Edie, ‘for which we're all thankful. Never mind that old sergeant-major of yours won't lie down, you're not doin' any ironing. Is it all that stuff out there on the line?'

‘Yes, it's what we took to the Bagwash, Aunt Edie,' said Patsy.

‘It's a lot of ironing,' said Dad.

‘I'll do it,' said Aunt Edie.

‘I'll 'elp,' said Patsy.

‘No, you and Betsy 'ave got friends you like to go out with Saturday afternoons,' said Aunt Edie. ‘Jimmy can help, 'e can fold things and 'e knows where to put them away.'

‘Oh, no, don't let 'im,' begged Betsy, ‘'e'll put apple cores in our fings.'

‘Oh, yer silly, that was years ago,' said Patsy.

‘Yes, but 'e's grinnin',' said Betsy.

‘I'll watch 'im, Betsy,' said Aunt Edie.

‘You're a friend in need, you are, Edie,' said Dad.

‘I'll share Betsy's room with 'er tonight,' said Aunt Edie.

‘All right,' said Dad, ‘but no pillow fights, you'll only get licked. Our pickle's dynamite at pillow fights. 'Ere, how about a bus ride to Hyde Park on Bank Holiday Monday? Years since I've been to Hyde Park. Me and Maudie used to go there some Sundays after we were married, and listen to the band. Bound to be a band there on Bank Holiday.'

‘D'you fancy that, Aunt Edie?' asked Jimmy.

‘Love it,' said Aunt Edie.

‘Well, we're not leavin' your aunt out, are we, Betsy?' said Dad. ‘It's a fam'ly outin', and your Aunt Edie's fam'ly, specially at weekends. I've just heard she's goin' to do the ironing as well. What a relief.'

‘We like Aunt Edie, don't we, Dad?' said Betsy.

‘You bet,' said Dad.

And Jimmy thought there was a faint little flush of pleasure on Aunt Edie's face.

Father Peter led his troops into Christian Street, Whitechapel, into the misnamed heart of the Devil's domain, as befitted the League's guiding light. Here dwelt the drunks and the slatterns, the pickpockets and fly-boys, the striving and the still hopeful. And the ragamuffin kids: unwashed kids, hungry kids, artful kids, verminous kids, nice kids and unholy terrors. Doors stood open, and at the doors stood wives, mothers and the slatterns. The flat-fronted houses looked grimy in the humid sunlight. Chimneys smoked in desultory and limp fashion, as if the kitchen fires were full of garbage reluctant to burn. Even in August some families needed to light their fires for cooking, if they had anything to cook, since pennies for gas meters were better spent on food.

Here and there, a smell of stale cabbage pervaded the air. And the air itself seemed exhausted in its eternal battle with soot and smoke. If the war had brought extra jobs, and also jobs for women, those jobs were gone now, and privation stalked Whitechapel and the rest of the East End. Every London slum was tired out and listless, the people waiting in sour resignation for Lloyd George's promise of a brave new world to come to nothing. Only the kids injected a note of vitality. Some kids, that is. They dashed and darted about, playing their street games or kicking a ball made of rolled rags tied up. The listless ones sat on the edge of the pavements, bare feet in the gutters, looking on with the blank stares of the hungry.

Father Peter, in private life Montgomery Wilberforce, was extraordinarily tall. He was also gaunt and cadaverous, and as dark as the Semitic people of the Holy Land. He wore a top hat of matt black, a black cloak lined with dark grey silk, a black frock coat and black tapering trousers. He seemed in all these garments to feel nothing of the heat. His wide shoulders were straight, his tallness majestic. His fervent soul was full of sorrow for the world and its sinfulness. It was also at times full of God's thunder and lightning. His sorrow showed in his expression, and when there was cause, the thunder and lightning glittered in his dark deep-set eyes. He was the self-ordained minister of the League of Repenters. He had taken up this ministry in the belief that God had called him to it, and had anointed himself in the further belief that this sanctified him according to God's command. His followers, mostly highly religious women, had great faith in him.

Some such women – four precisely – followed him into Christian Street. Mother was there, Mother Mary. Father Peter, in anointing her, had sprinkled a little of the contents of a bottle of bay rum over her head. He had holified the bay rum by blessing it.

Accompanying Mother Mary were Mother Joan, Mother Verity and Mother Ruth. Mother Joan was a fine figure of a woman from Berkshire and had known the humiliation of being thrown by her horse when it refused a high hedge. She fell heavily. There ensued a blinding light and then blackness. When she came to she realized the blinding light had signified a visitation from God. She gave up her horses, her home, her husband and his wealth, and came to London in search of a cause and a leader. Her husband told friends he couldn't do anything with her, her brains had taken a hammering, poor old girl. In London, she found the League of Repenters and its minister, Father Peter, commandingly tall and inspiring. Was the League Roman Catholic? She hoped not. Good plain commonsense Christianity at war with the Devil, that was what she was looking for.

‘We are of no denomination,' said Father Peter. ‘We are associated with the Lord's prophets and their sisterly brethren. With us,' he declared, ‘ye shall be led to righteousness, and ye shall bring that righteousness to sinners.'

‘Oh, splendid,' said Mrs Blythe-Huntingdon of Berkshire. ‘Righteousness and sinners are just what I'm looking for.' She was forthwith anointed to become Mother Joan.

Mother Verity and Mother Ruth could not claim to have owned horses or wealthy husbands. They were genteel ladies and unmarried, and what they could claim, therefore, were modest means and purity.

Bringing up the rear of the little procession was Father Luke, the first man to be received into the League. Plump and cheerful, he looked not unlike a Friar Tuck. He, too, wore a black top hat, a black frock coat and black trousers. Formerly, he had been Fred Huggett of Hackney, and had been on reverent terms with the Lord all his life. He had taken God's words to work with him, at a jam factory, and had brought them home with him. The walls of his home were adorned with them in capital letters:
BY YOUR DEEDS THE LORD SHALL KNOW YE
. And so on. In the end, his wife chucked them all out, and him as well. He went to his church and prayed. The Lord answered:

‘Fred Huggett, take up thy bed and walk.' He walked, with a tied-up mattress on his back, and met Father Peter, who received him into the League and anointed him as Father Luke. Fred was good at first-aid. He had no money, but nor did several other men and women who had been received into the League. Father Peter, its guiding light, was also its provider of funds and sustenance. He had investments. But he bought no worldly goods.

Down Christian Street he led his Repenters. The Mothers all carried banners bearing the words,
REPENT YE SINNERS
. Mother Mary was pleased with her banner, it was shining and pristine. She had lost the one she'd carried into battle yesterday, dropping it while fleeing from a mob and a barrage of blasphemies. She had never heard anything more shocking, and that after some awful women had tried to pull her costume off her. Only Mother Verity had been with her. Perhaps they should not have entered the Devil's kitchen on their own, but Father Peter, responding to their enthusiasm, said, ‘Go ye, my sisters, seek out the sinners, use the words of God to chastise them and then offer them the joy of repentance.' But the sinners of Whitechapel wouldn't listen. Their language had been something dreadful, and hands had reached to claw at garments. She was lucky she had only lost buttons.

How brave Sister Verity had been, for a tall man, laughing at her, had actually seized her and kissed her. It was hardly believable. Mother Verity flushed deeply at the outrage, but withstood the shock bravely. Then even more bravely she offered the other cheek, suffering another dreadful kiss on her lips. And the Devil's laughing disciple said to her, ‘Well, I'll say this much, you're not a complainin' woman, and that's a welcome change in these parts.' Oh, poor Mother Verity, she suffered a third wicked assault on her lips, and she such a ladylike Repenter too. But she fled when a second outrageous man attempted to seize her. Mother Mary, escaping other clawing hands, fled with her. Father Peter boomed with wrath on being told what had befallen them. God's thunder rolled and lightning flashed. It was most awe-inspiring. He vowed he himself would lead a return to Whitechapel on the morrow. He asked for volunteers, and was full of reverent admiration for Mother Mary and Mother Verity when they declared themselves ready to face up to iniquity again.