Two for Three Farthings by Mary Jane Staples Page B

in providing this favouite cockney repast. The succulent meal cost Orrice and Effel sixpence. Orrice said living was expensive when you were running away, they’d best just have bread and marge for their tea later on. He thought he ought to look for a job. Wearing long trousers, people might think he was fourteen. Effel didn’t think it was much good getting a job when they hadn’t got nowhere to live yet. Orrice said they’d do some more looking, and if they still couldn’t find nowhere they could sleep at the house again, they could creep back in when it was dark.
    It rained for a while during the afternoon. That brought Effel’s spirits low. Orrice tried to cheer her up, but secretly he was feeling discouraged, not only because they hadn’t got a roof, but also because there was nothing to do except walk about. Normally he liked walking about, he liked shops and markets and lots of people, but it wasn’t the same when he didn’t have a mum and dad to go home to. And he hadn’t been able to find anyone who wanted him to run errands.
    The rain finally stopped, they retrieved their sacks before the market closed down, and went to Browning Gardens to eat bread and marge. They sat on a bench and Orrice cut slices from what was left of yesterday’s loaf.
    â€˜Yer cut it all fick,’ complained Effel.
    â€˜But we got to eat well, sis. Fin slices ain’t goin’ to do us much good. There y’ar, look, I put lots of marge on that slice. An’ we can have some dates after.’
    â€˜A’ right,’ said Effel.
    Later, when it was dark, they entered their old street again. Much to Orrice’s bitter disappointment, this time the door was locked. Effel gave a muffled wail of anguish. Orrice supposed Aunt Glad had been round again to look for them and had removed the latchcord when she left.
    They decided to go to St John’s Church again. Effel was worn out, Orrice carrying on in determined fashion. They’d be all right in the church. It might be a bit awesome, but it would provide shelter. And they’d be out of the way of grown-ups. Grown-ups would ask questions. So would bobbies.
    It began to rain again on their way. They hurried. A glimpse of a bobby in Larcom Street sent them scurrying on to Browning Street, Orrice carrying both sacks at this stage, and Effel nearly falling over in her weariness.
    At midnight it was raining hard, and the rain was chill. They were huddled together in the doorway of a house in Morecambe Street. With the rain was an April wind, and the wind blew the rain into their faces. They were wet, cold and very tired, and every so often a sob shook Effel. Orrice cuddled her and she put her cold face in his shoulder. Orrice was uncomfortably sure he’d let his sister down by not providing her with a roof.
    They thought, of course, of their home and their mum and dad. They thought of the warmth of the kitchen fire, and the blissful comfort of their beds. They thought of the sounds of their dad getting up at five in the morning to go to his work in Covent Garden, and of snuggling rapturously down knowing they could go back to sleep and not get up themselves till eight, when their mum would have hot porridge ready for them. Orrice thought of his dad’s hearty, manly strength, and Effel thought of her mum’s warm, capacious bosom whenever she needed a comforting cuddle.
    Orrice knew they couldn’t stay where they were. The rain kept gusting at them inside the shelter of the shallow doorway. The street was silent, every house in darkness. Rain skittered over the street surface in the light of a lamp-post.
    â€˜Orrice.’ Effel gulped back a sob. ‘We got to go somewhere.’
    â€˜Yes, we best go to the church, even if we do get wetter on the way,’ whispered Orrice, ‘we could—’ He stopped as they heard slow and deliberate footsteps. Effel, shivering, clung tightly to her brother. Orrice