Deciding on another cup of tea, Molly waited until she could catch the handsome waitress’s eye and then lifted a hesitant hand. The girl smiled and nodded and came across the room towards her. As she passed the table next to Molly’s, around which sat a particularly boisterous group of young men, a ruddy-faced lad with a shock of fair curls reached blithely for her waist. He was obviously as surprised as anyone else when she failed to dodge him and, more by luck than judgement, found herself sitting on his lap. The roar that followed nearly brought down the ceiling.
“What’re you going to do with her now you’ve got her, Tiny?”
“You’ve got more of a lapful there than you bargained for, you silly bugger—”
“Look out—” a smothered explosion of laughter, “—here’s Johnny. You couldn’t have come at a better time, John. Maggie’s taken a fancy to Tiny—”
Molly’s eyes followed the others’ to the door, where stood the man who had directed her to the best breakfast in Whitechapel. The breadth of his shoulders filled the doorway and he had to bend to enter the room. He was laughing with the others, but his eyes upon Maggie were hard and questioning and there was a dangerous tilt to his head.
Only slightly ruffled, Maggie detached herself from a now scarlet-faced Tiny and nodded to the newcomer. “Mornin’, Johnny.”
Molly was aware that the atmosphere of the room had changed subtly. Chairs scraped upon the tiled floor, someone cleared his throat, and lurking now beneath the surface of good humour was a faint charge of violence. Tiny’s hand, almost unthinking, was still fast upon Maggie’s wrist. Under Johnny’s cool gaze he released the girl hastily. For a fine-balanced moment nobody moved.
“May I have another cup of tea, please, and a pie?” The soft, Irish voice, practised at breaking silences more dangerous than this one, was perfectly composed. “Coming up, love.” The murmur of voices rose and the moment had passed. Molly, aware of covert glances, dropped her own gaze to the table and concentrated resolutely upon preventing the rise of blood to her cheeks. She was therefore unprepared when the chair beside hers was dragged backwards by a large hand and Johnny, all six feet and some inches of him, settled himself with a certain amount of care upon it “You’ve got some gall for a little ’un,” he said, grinning.
She lifted clear eyes, refused to pretend misunderstanding. “I’ve a brother who looks just like that when he’s about to start a fight—”
The grin widened. “Can’t say I wasn’t thinkin’ of it.”
“Well, I like my breakfasts peaceful, thank you. If I want a circus I’ll pay for a ticket.”
He laughed. He was looking at her in open appraisal, taking time over his assessment of the delicate transparency of her skin, the wilderness of curly hair, the shadowed lavender of eyes that would not waver from his, though a faint colour warmed the bones of her cheeks.
“You’ll know me, I should think,” she said with the asperity of embarrassment, “if we should bump into one another again?”
Behind him Maggie was making her way towards their table, a tray of toast and tea expertly balanced. When she reached them she thumped the tray on the table and reached for a chair.
“Time for me own breakfast. Might as well eat with you as on me own.” The softness in her eyes as she looked at Johnny gave the lie to her uncaring tone. He did not look at her, but continued to stare at Molly.
Maggie poured the tea. “Don’t mind ’im. ’Is mother never taught ’im manners.”
Johnny sat back on the perilously swaying chair, his hands spread on his knees. “Not long off the boat, then, eh, Irish?” he said with a certainty that might have provoked her.
She shrugged. “Four o’clock yesterday morning.”
He picked up his cup. “That’s what I thought.” His bright, dark eyes watched her as he drank. “Ever bin to London before?”
She shook her head.
“What you plannin’ on doin’?”
Molly, unwilling to admit even to herself that she had no clear answer to that question, said tartly, “I’m planning on drinking my tea.” Johnny gave a shout of laughter, slapped the table with a hand the size of a carpet beater. “By Christ, I like you, Irish. That I do.”
Maggie leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her lovely face cupped in her hands. “Gawd, girl, you must ’ave some idea?”
“I thought – perhaps—” Molly stopped. The truth was that until now all her energies had been channelled into getting herself to London. Exactly what she might do when she got there had been something for later consideration. “I have to find work, and somewhere to live,” she said, and even in her own ears her voice sounded rather less than confident. She was watching Maggie; she did not see the speculative light in Johnny’s eyes.
Maggie sucked crumbs and butter from long, none-too-clean fingers. “That’s easy, duck,” she said, off-handedly. “Go into service. Work an’ lodgin’s both, that way.”
“No.” The sharp finality of Molly’s tone startled them. “No,” she said again more quietly, “that’s not what I had in mind at all. I was thinking—” memories of the bright glitter of the Regent Street windows crystallized suddenly in her mind, “—I thought perhaps I might get work in one of the big stores—?”
“Hah!” Maggie exclaimed with pure disgust. She sat back inelegantly, her hands on her knees, shaking a bright, knowing head.
“What in Gawd’s name makes yer think that bein’ a bloody slavey in a posh shop’s any better than bein’ in service? You just try it! Take it from one as knows, love. Shop work’s bleedin’ murder. Workin’ six in the mornin’ till eleven at night, at the beck an’ call of any bugger that’s got sixpence to spend, fined ’arf yer wages if yer so much as dare to try to take the weight off yer feet fer a minute – an’ better digs to be found in the work’ouse, I can tell yer. It’s a mug’s game, that. Shops is fer one thing, and one thing only: spendin’ brass. Preferably someone else’s. I’m tellin’ yer – you’d be better off in service.”
Molly looked down at her small, grubby hands that were nursing her half-empty mug, her mouth set in a stubborn line.
Johnny moved his chair a little closer. “Ease off, now, Maggie. Can’t you see she’s made up ’er mind? She’s no one’s skivvy. Right, Irish?”
Molly nodded, trying to ignore the chill of apprehension that was creeping through her. She felt suddenly, desperately, lonely. She lifted her chin. “I’ll find something.”
“Well, ’course you will,” Johnny said encouragingly, his smile friendly, “there’s a million places. Sweatshops where you can sew yerself blind fer pennies, or take the skin off yer fingers makin’ boxes. Factories where you can choke yerself ter death makin’ Lucifers—”
“I can read and write. Figure, too,” Molly said doggedly. “That’ll help.”
Johnny’s sardonic eyes took apart, stitch by stitch, Molly’s shabby, much-darned skirt and shawl. “You can?” His disbelief was palpable.
Molly saw no reason to justify her claim. “Yes.”
Maggie laughed as she began to gather the dirty crockery from the table. “Readin’ and writin’, eh? There’s a thing. There’s a lot o’ call fer that kind o’ thing round ’ere, love. I don’t think.” Someone across the room called her name. “I’m comin’,” she yelled. “’Old yer bleedin’ ’orses. Will I be seein’ yer later?” This last was addressed, casually, to Johnny, but there was an intensity in her eyes that belied the tone.
Johnny ignored her. He had rested his chin on a massive fist and was regarding Molly thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you straight, Irish. I’m worried about you. Wanderin’ the streets of Whitechapel at five in the morning with no more idea than a newborn babe in a brothel.” He shook his head, slowly and soberly. “You’re bloody lucky you ’aven’t ’ad your throat cut. Or worse.”
“Johnny, I asked you—”
“Shut up, Maggie.” It was said conversationally. Bright colour stained Maggie’s cheeks. Johnny jerked his head in a dismissive gesture. Ma
ggie slammed cups and plates noisily onto the tray and walked away, moving between the tables with a defiantly provocative swing of her hips that brought several appreciative glances but impressed Johnny not at all.
Molly sat in miserable silence, her earlier feeling of well-being completely evaporated. Dismay and discouragement nibbled at the edges of her mind.
“Tell you what,” said Johnny, his voice breaking her unpleasant reverie. “There’s a chance – just a chance, mind – that I might be able to ’elp you out. Just temporarily, like. If you’re interested, that is?”
She lifted her eyes to his broad, sharp-eyed face. “Help me out? How?”
“Ma Randolph – she owns this place – is a good friend of mine. Owes me a few favours, know what I mean? Now, I ’appen to know that Ma’s lookin’ for another girl, to give Maggie a bit of a hand. Sharp kid like you’d be just the ticket, I shouldn’t wonder. How about me havin’ a word in ’er ear—?”
Molly looked around her unhappily. “Work here?”
“Why not? Just till you get yerself sorted, o’course, find somethin’ better, like—?” His handsome face was intent and sympathetic. He smiled.
“Well, I—” Molly looked down at the table, her heart sinking. Where was the difference between working here and going into service? And yet – what else, at the moment, could she do? Could she turn down any offer of help?
Johnny leaned forward. “Just while you get yerself settled, eh? It wouldn’t be as bad as yer thinkin’, Irish. Me an’ the old lady, we’re like that—” he held up two crossed fingers “—she’d treat you right, knowin’ you were a friend of Johnny Cribben’s.” He paused and watched her, letting her own fears work on her. “Better think about it, Irish,” he added softly. “You can thank yer lucky stars you fell among friends. They ain’t easy come by in this part of the world. You got any goin’ spare?”
Molly bit her lip. The thought of setting off alone into the unfriendly streets of this unknown city to hunt for work and lodgings suddenly appalled her. The warmth of the room and the cheerful atmosphere offered comfort and safety, for a while at least. Just, as Johnny said, until she found something better.
There was a shout of laughter from across the room, obviously in answer to something that Maggie had said. Johnny grinned his wide, pleasant grin. “Look at Maggie there. Nobody’s drudge our Maggie, eh? I ask you – does she look hard done by?”
Molly had to laugh. “That she doesn’t.”
“Well, then, what’s yer worry? Give it a bloody try, eh?”
She hesitated for only a moment longer. “All right, I will. Thank you. Just till I can save some money and get myself straight—” The decision made, right or wrong, was like a weight lifted from her heart.
“That’s the girl!” He stood up and took her hand in his. “Come an’ meet Ma. She’s an old cow, sometimes, but her heart’s in the right place!” he said, and, shouting with laughter, pulled her in the direction of the kitchen.
Chapter Three
It was less than a week before Molly discovered her mistake, and during that time she learned many things very quickly. She learned that her employer, a tall, rake-thin woman with sharp, deep-set eyes and the shadow of a moustache above her thin-lipped mouth, was a greedy shrew with a raucous voice and a bitter heart. Molly learned that beneath the surface camaraderie of the men who frequented Ma’s eating house lurked a ready, almost casual violence that could maim, or kill, upon the slightest provocation. She learned, too, that Maggie would do anything – up to and probably including murder – for Johnny Cribben, and that the girl was a compulsive thief. Dishonesty was second nature to her: she overcharged customers and pocketed the difference, gave the wrong change whenever she thought she could get away with it, smiling and wheedling her way out of it if caught; tucking the money into an already well-filled wash-leather purse beneath her mattress when she was not. She would steal anything she could get her hands on and even boasted of her skill. “I’d ’ave the gold from the bugger’s teeth if I could,” she said, laughing at Molly’s startled face. Molly took to carrying her own precious if meagre store of coins in a purse that she strapped around her waist, next to her skin. She strongly suspected that Maggie’s off-hand and careless friendship would be no protection against the girl’s long, thieving fingers.
The days were long: they were up at four to help in the kitchen, spurred on by Ma’s caustic tongue. The eating room opened at four-thirty. Molly, dressed in a cast-off dress of Maggie’s, belted tight and with several inches cut off the bottom, soon learned to hold her own with the customers – not for nothing had she lived eighteen years with a houseful of brothers – and though the work was tiring and the surroundings less than pleasant it was a relief at least to know with certainty that her next meal was assured, and that she had a roof over her head. She worked hard, refused to be provoked by Ma Randolph’s ways, and battled homesickness, resolutely putting from her mind all thoughts of the green hills and soft skies of Ireland. If a Whitechapel eating house was not quite what she had envisaged in her dreams of the future, she at least had her independence. And she would not be here for long, she told herself as she rested her aching back upon the pallet bed in the attic room that she shared with Maggie. She wrinkled her nose at the greasy smell of food that hung about her hair and skin; no, not for long. She was grateful to Johnny for helping her – grateful, too, for the fact that he had quite obviously taken her under his protection; while his huge form was anywhere around – and it quite often was – she had no trouble with the men of Whitechapel. It did not occur to her at first to wonder at that.
It was late one afternoon that, after climbing the narrow stairs to the attic, she was surprised to discover upon her bed a pile of clothes – tawdry things of scarlet and black and emerald-green from which, when she picked them up, lifted a faint, unpleasant smell of sweat and cheap perfume.
“These must be yours.” She made to toss them to Maggie.
Maggie was sitting on her own bed with an open box beside her from which spilled a cascade of glittering trinkets. She was wearing a gown of red satin that was trimmed with rhinestones and left her beautiful shoulders bare and exposed her white, swelling breasts almost to the nipples. Molly had seen her so before, on the evenings she was meeting Johnny Cribben. Maggie slid a bright ring onto her finger and held her hand out, spread, to judge the effect. “Oh, no. Johnny left ’em fer you. We’re off up West tonight. Oh – there’s shoes and stuff over there. Can’t ’ave you tricked out like a fairy queen in that navvie’s footgear, can we?” She gestured scornfully at Molly’s small, battered boots.
“But—”
“’E said,” Maggie walked to the pile of clothes and sorted through them, pulling out a dark blue silky bombazine dress trimmed with heavy cream lace that looked at least a little less tastelessly gaudy than the others in the pile, “that ’e thought that this’d do you nicely.” She tossed it to Molly, shaking her head, “but if yer want my advice, then take one o’ the others. Yer likely to get lumbered with more than you can ’andle in that.”
Molly stood with the dress in her hand, her small face a picture of incomprehension. “Maggie, what are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere. I’m tired. I want to—”
“Well, it ain’t a case of what you want, is it gel? It’s what Johnny wants. An’ tonight ’e wants you with us. So, was I you I’d act a bit nippy. Come on, try the green. You’d not look ’arf bad in green, I reckon.”
Molly shook her head. In the silence Maggie looked at her, her face very hard. “You ain’t goin’ ter cause trouble now, gel, are yer?”
Something very close to fear was creeping through Molly. “Trouble? Of course not. It’s just that—”
“Good. ’Cos if you are – yer on yer own. I thought I’d better warn yer. I ain’t crossin’ Johnny fer you… don’t think it. Do as yer told and were all ’appy, see?”
“There isn’t any reason for anyone to cross Johnny! Why should he want me to come out w
ith you tonight? I mean – it’s very kind of him—” her voice was uncertain “—but—”
“Kind? Johnny? Jesus, gel, what you on about? Johnny don’t know the meanin’ of the word. Ain’t you realized that yet? You surely don’t think ’e makes ’is livin’ on the market? That’s a front, gel. A blind. You want yer throat cut?” Maggie’s scathingly blunt question, Molly realized in sudden horror, was perfectly serious.
“Of – of course not.”
“Then get yerself sorted, and quick. Johnny was ’opin’ to leave it a couple of weeks – break yer in slowly, like. But one of ’is girls ’as got ’erself cut up by ’er fancy man – an’ I wouldn’t want to be in ’is shoes either,” she added with malice. “So tonight’s the night. Get dressed. Like I said. Try the green.”
“’Avin a bit o’ trouble, are we?” Johnny Cribben’s soft voice, his sudden appearance in the doorway, shocked both girls to silence. He stood, massive and unsmiling, his hard eyes taking in Molly from tousled head to shabby boots. He was in a superbly fitting dress suit which emphasized his good looks and his size. His stiff-collared shirt was blindingly white, pearls at the cuffs, a diamond pin in his pale grey cravat.
Maggie dropped a ring on the floor and it rolled noisily in the silence across the wooden floorboards. “No trouble, Johnny. Honest She was just going to get dressed.”
“Well. So I should ’ope.” The quiet words raised the hairs on the back of Molly’s neck. She realized suddenly, seeing the cold cruelty in the hardened line of his mouth, that it was not simply Johnny Cribben’s size that kept tough men at arm’s length from him.
Molly Page 3
