When she emerged from the cloakroom with at least some order brought to the chaos of her undisciplinable hair and the worst of the journey’s grime wiped from her face, she was walking as briskly as everyone else.
Once through the astonishing Doric arch that guarded the station entrance, she took breath and hesitated for only a moment before marching straight-backed to the row of horse-drawn cabs that lined the road outside. The leading driver, dozing in his high seat, sensed her approach, lifted a bowler-hatted head and briskly raked her from head to foot with eyes that weighed, measured and found her wanting. Girls in country homespun and their brother’s battered hand-me-down boots did not hire cabs. By the time she reached him he had determinedly gone back to sleep, but gritting her teeth she stepped past him to the second vehicle, whose driver had a more friendly aspect. Like his companion, he looked her over and dismissed her as a fare; but at least he smiled.
“Yes, love?”
“I wondered—” she said, appalled at her uncertain tone, “I – want to go – to Regent Street.” At that moment it was the only name she could think of. “Would you be kind enough to tell me the way?”
“’Course. It ain’t far. Just down ter the corner there, see? Turn right and a little way up the road you’ll come to a crossroads. Turn left an’ there you are. Easy as fallin’ off a cart. You can’t miss it.”
She could barely hear his words above the awful din of the traffic, but it was beyond her to ask him to repeat his instructions. Smiling her thanks she left him and started in the general direction of his waved hand. With every step she took the level of her panic rose. She had not thought, had not dreamed, that London could be like this. She had spent the whole of her life in a village of a few hundred souls, had never until now been further than the nearest small market town. Her preconception of London, formed from conversations with Mary, had been of an elegant and only slightly larger version of that town; not for a moment had she been prepared for the overwhelming size, the infinity of streets and buildings, and above all this multitude who pushed and jostled and passed her and each other with no glance, no courteous word, no curiosity. The constant movement of people and horses, the spin and clatter of wheels dizzied her. Cabs and carriages and open-topped horse-drawn omnibuses rolled in an endless, confused, slow-moving stream; carters shouted and cursed as pedestrians wove in and out of the traffic dodging wheel and hoof with admirable and life-preserving skill.
Molly turned the corner and let herself be carried on towards the crossroads. Where she should go from there she had no idea; that part of the cabman’s instructions had been lost to her. She simply hoped with a fervour close to prayer that the traffic would ease a little before she had to cross the terrifying road.
At the corner she stopped and looked around her, holding her own as best she could against the current of the crowds. Poised on the curb, she assessed her chances of getting across the road in one piece; then like a swimmer taking a deep breath and diving into turbulent water she stepped into the moving stream, dodging an advancing omnibus as if she had been doing it all her life.
If London was not quite as she had imagined, Regent Street was; it at least did not disappoint her as so often the subjects of long-held dreams do. Mary and she talked so often of London, of this street with its shops and arcades, its fascinating windows, the bustling, fashionable life of its pavements, that Molly had once or twice wondered if her usually truthful friend might not be exaggerating. But now she knew differently; she had never seen such splendours.
For a while tiredness and uncertainty were forgotten. Here indeed was the stuff of dreams, separated from her by only a sheet of glass. Beneath the shadowing awnings she dawdled, hardly aware now of traffic or people, bemused by the sparkle of the artfully displayed treasures, watching the comings and goings. She smelt the perfumed warmth that gusted through the swinging doors from the brilliantly lit interiors and shivered suddenly as a cold wind blew on her back. In her dreams of the future she had almost forgotten that she had not eaten for hours, nor slept since the night before last. On board the Kerry she had preferred to stay on deck in the clean if stormy air rather than be prisoned in the nauseous and overcrowded shelters provided. But now evening was advancing; she had to find lodgings, a place to eat and sleep. The very thought of bed seemed to bring to painful life all the until-now-ignored effects of her long journey; her neck and shoulders ached relentlessly, her bones felt brittle with weariness. She had walked the length of the west side of Regent Street and had emerged into Piccadilly Circus, where the confusion of traffic was even worse than it had been outside the station. The odd, triangular-shaped Circus was jammed with every conceivable kind of vehicle, while above the turmoil winged Eros poised, expressionless and on the whole ignored. People hurried past, intent upon quitting the draughty, darkening streets. So many people, and all apparently with somewhere to go. Suddenly Molly felt a loneliness she had never known before, and it was hard to learn it here in the noisy and uncaring chaos of a city that seemed, with advancing darkness, to become more hostile every minute.
She lifted her head and drew a breath that lifted her narrow shoulders. First things first. A bed for the night, something to eat.
Tomorrow she would start her new life. Tomorrow would be better.
* * *
The clerk, impeccably dressed, eyed the small, untidy figure before him and raised a supercilious eyebrow.
“Out! We don’t buy off the street.”
Molly lifted a challenging head. The hotel vestibule was warm and smelled invitingly of food. Beyond a burnished swing door she could hear the clink of cutlery and the hum of conversation.
“You’ve a rule there that suits the both of us then, for I’ve nothing to sell.”
It had taken a great deal of resolution to walk from the dark street into this shining area of light. In the mirrors that lined the walls she could see reflections of reflections: herself with gypsy hair blown wild again, a haphazard smear of dirt down one thin cheek, looking absurdly out of place in this oasis of enormous potted palms and highly polished brass. She had lost count of the number of inns and cheap hotels she had tried; London, it seemed, was not the easiest place to get a room. Almost desperate now for the rest, she had abandoned her original hope of finding cheap accommodation and had come to the reluctant conclusion that for this one night she would have to pay rather more than she had planned.
She planted her bundle on the floor at her feet and dropped her purse onto the counter before the clerk, making sure that it landed hard enough to make it clink.
“I’d like a room, please. Just for the one night.”
For a long moment he looked at her, every cynical experience of street girls and their money in his pale and slightly protruding eyes. Then, without looking at it, he pushed the purse back to her.
“We don’t have any rooms.” His eyes were hard and mortifyingly sure of themselves.
She was scarlet to the roots of her hair, nearly choking in her rage.
“That isn’t,” she said calmly, “what it says on the door.”
He leaned across the counter, resting on his two hands. A drift of sweet-scented hair oil wafted on the warm air. “What it says on the door is not for the likes of you. Out. Before I call someone to put you out—” his hand hovered above a shining brass bell.
Fighting to suppress her temper and clinging to the shreds of her dignity she picked up her purse and bent to the bundle. She had more sense than to attempt to fight a battle lost before the first shot was fired.
She did not have it in her to risk such a rebuff again. She tried no more palm-decorated lobbies. She wandered instead into the narrow side-streets, almost too tired by now to notice or care about the hazards of the badly-lit passageways and doorways. London’s night-streets never emptied; they were peopled always by a motley army of homeless souls to whom the law of the land denied the right to rest. Among these vagrants Molly attracted little attention; she was just another pair of wande
ring feet.
Exhaustion dogged her heels. She turned one corner, then another, leaned against a wall for a moment, rubbed her tired eyes. When she lifted her head it was to see, in the faint bloom of light from a dirty uncurtained window, a small sign hung crookedly across a doorway, advertising rooms to let. She hesitated. The house front was grimly dirty, its entrance a door at the end of a long, dark alley with an unevenly tiled floor, indescribably filthy; but the time for qualms was long past.
Molly knocked on the door, but receiving no answer, opened it carefully and peered inside. She was stunned by the savage squalor of the room, and her breath caught at the smell.
“Well?”
Molly gasped when she spotted the man who had spoken. He was hunched like a bundle of rags, the meagre fire in front of his tattered chair casting a sickly glow onto his face. It was one of the most unpleasant faces Molly had ever seen: his narrow cheeks were unshaven, his thin grey hair was plastered across his dirty scalp.
“What the ’ell do you want?”
“I—” Molly shook her head. Panic, a sour sickness rose from her stomach to her throat. “Nothing. A mistake. I’m sorry—” and she fled, unashamedly frightened, her feet clattering on stone slick with slime, her breath painful in her chest.
It was an hour or so later that, almost at the end of hope, she at last found something close to what she was looking for. In a quiet lane hedged with many-storeyed houses she came upon a sign in a neatly lace-curtained window. Molly, with a whispered prayer, knocked loudly upon the front door. It was some moments before it opened, and then by barely a crack. A woman’s voice, hard and suspicious, snapped, “Who is it?” A knife-edge of light fell across the step.
“Please—” Molly could not keep from pleading, though the desperation in her own voice disgusted her, “—your notice says you have rooms to let—?”
The door opened a little more, and a face appeared, the bubbled blonde hair lit from behind like a halo.
Molly resisted the temptation to put a foot in the door. “I have money,” she said wearily. “I can pay. In advance if you like.”
“Is anyone with you?”
“No.” Would she never open the door? “I’m alone. Please. I need a bed for the night.”
There was an endless moment’s pause.
“You’d better come in.”
With the door safely shut behind her Molly found herself in a short passage, cream painted and with stained lino floor. A narrow flight of stairs led off to the right. Molly made to move forward, but the woman, who seemed fairly to fill the passage with her black-bombazined girth, held up a remarkably white and delicate hand.
“Just a minute, dearie.” Her cheeks were rather too pink for nature and the smile she levelled at the girl did not match her narrow, avaricious eyes. “In advance, you said?” The pale hand cupped itself, waiting, and Molly was suddenly aware of a painfully stupid mistake. Why had she not separated a few shillings from her precious hoard?
“How much do you want?” She dropped her bundle and turned from the watching woman as she reached for her purse.
“One and six to you, dearie.” The woman shuffled closer, peered over her shoulder. The chink of coins sounded very loud.
“That’s very expensive.”
“It’s also very late.” The inference was beyond doubting and the situation not open to argument. Molly turned, the coins in her hand, the purse held firmly by her side in the folds of her skirt The woman took the money. She was smiling again, this time with a degree more warmth.
“This way, then, dearie. I’ll show you to the room. I’ll bring a cup of tea if you like. I’d just made a pot for meself.”
The room was not large; neither was it warm. With wardrobe, washstand and massive iron bedstead there was hardly space to move without banging knee or elbow. Molly thought that no room had ever looked so fine or so comfortable. The woman left for a moment then reappeared with sheets and a pillowcase.
“You make up the bed, dearie, and I’ll go and get the tea. Comfortable, the bed is—” She sat on it herself, bounced a little, and the bedstead, stout as it was, groaned. “You’ll get a good night on this all right.”
“I’m sure I will. Thank you.”
Molly shut the door behind her and had to use her last remaining strength of will to prevent herself from falling onto the unmade bed and sleeping for a week, just as she was. Smiling with the pleasure of the thought, she leaned against the door and swung forward with it, nearly stumbling out onto the landing. She pulled it, hard; but it would not shut properly, nor was there any sign of key or bolt. Odd that it opened outwards; there were marks on the doorjamb where the hinges had been changed. Molly was suddenly wide awake again. Thoughtfully she made up the bed, gratefully accepted the tea, bade her well-paid hostess goodnight and listened as the heavy footsteps receded down the stairs.
When all was still she unwrapped her much-travelled bundle and with no great degree of regret began to rip up her second-best skirt to fashion a makeshift rope with which to secure the door.
In the darkling hours of morning she was wakened from a stone-sound sleep by a tug on the bedstead. She lay quite still in the darkness. The door handle was wrenched again, harder this time, and Molly, her breath held, willed the knotted material not to give. From beyond the door she heard a muffled curse, quickly hushed: a man’s voice. Then the hissing of a woman. The door moved again, but anchored as it was to the heavy bed it would not open. There was a furious whispering, a sharp retort. Molly made a great and noisy to-do of turning in the bed and the sounds stopped dead. Moments later the stairs creaked, and then there was silence.
Chapter Two
For a country girl it was no great effort to wake with first light. Molly lay for a moment listening to the clatter of cartwheels on cobblestones; the world outside was astir. Within the house all was still, and in a matter of moments she slipped from the bed, gathered her belongings and, boots in hand and with her heart thumping loud enough to wake the whole of London, loosened the knot from the door handle. She opened the door a crack: the windowless landing was dark; all the doors were shut and the rooms beyond them silent. The door swung a little, creaking, and she grabbed and held it, the silence rushing in her ears as she strained to detect any sign of disturbance. She slipped like a wraith through the shadows to the top of the stairs, freezing as a board groaned beneath her bare feet. Somewhere near a man coughed, bedsprings creaked. At the foot of the stairs the intricate pattern of coloured light thrown by the stained glass in the front door urged her on, and she moved soundlessly forward. As she set her foot upon the top stair a door near the landing was thrown open and a man’s voice boomed out, “What’s this, then?”
She had never in her life moved so fast. She was down the stairs in one flying leap, and then struggling frantically with the bolt on the front door. The man was starting heavily down the stairs behind her. The bolt crashed back, catching her fingers, and then she was out into the cold, early-morning street.
She ran until her breath gave out, though she knew the likelihood of pursuit to be slim; the man on the landing had been in his nightshirt, unlikely apparel for a chase through a waking neighbourhood. When finally she stopped she was panting painfully, and her feet hurt. She bent to pull on her boots, then straightened to look around her. She was in a narrow, winding lane, tiered high with windows and rickety balconies. From a doorway blank and irritated eyes watched, blinked, closed again in sleep. Peace was hard enough to come by. Stamping her feet firmly into her cold boots she set herself to walking, shivering, in the sharp dawn air.
Several random turnings later she emerged from the maze of cramped and dirty streets into a wider cobbled thoroughfare in which there was already considerable activity. Several market stalls were set up; men and women called cheerfully to one another. Near to where Molly stood was tethered an old horse, his rough hide steaming in the chill air, jaws working contentedly in his nosebag while an enormous darkly handsome young man unl
oaded fruit and vegetables from the cart. As Molly stopped, leaning for a moment on the wall, cheeks bright with cold and exertion, the young man looked up and, smiling cheerily, called out, “Mornin’.”
“Good morning to you,” Molly replied, watching as he swung a huge sack effortlessly from the cart to the ground.
“Lookin’ for something?”
She nodded, returning his smile. “Breakfast.”
“No problem. Down the street a ways, see?” He pointed. Molly saw a steamed-up window, a low, dark doorway. “Old Mother Randolph’s place. Best breakfasts in Whitechapel.” He ran his eyes over her appreciatively and winked.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Try the pork pies.”
She did, the rich and meaty pie and dark, sweet tea giving rise gradually to a sense of confidence and well-being that she had not experienced since she had stepped on board the Kerry.
A girl was waiting on the tables, a bright-eyed beauty with expressively arched eyebrows, a wry mouth and a mass of blonde hair. Her tongue was as sharp as her movements as she threaded swiftly around the tables, balancing cups and plates like a music-hall artiste, avoiding outstretched hands and deflecting suggestive compliments with equal ease. It was a game regularly played, part of an early-morning ritual, Molly realized, listening from her quiet corner and watching with admiration as the girl flitted, smiling, around the room, bestowing upon each admirer an equal share of pungent charm, never favouring one above another and ready to slap hard at a too-persistent hand. Well-worn jokes were bandied back and forth with a gusto enhanced by familiarity; everyone, it seemed, knew everyone else, and first names were the rule. These were the market traders, Molly guessed, up since midnight and waiting for the profitable day to start. An outsider, she sat quietly nibbling at her second pie, cheered by the friendly atmosphere.
Molly Page 2
