Molly

by Molly (retail) (epub)

  Upstairs, the object of her doubts rolled from the bed, took the looped thong of leather from about her neck and began to count Maggie’s money.

  Chapter Six

  Molly slept like the dead and woke in the early morning thinking herself in her mother’s kitchen. On a sudden wave of unexpected misery she turned her face to the pillow, defenceless in that unguarded moment between sleeping and waking, unable for her life to control a surge of unhappy homesickness. Nothing about these surroundings was familiar. Molly clamped sharp teeth into her lip: in her inner, childhood ear her mother, dead now for two years, sang softly as she cooked breakfast in a warm, untidy kitchen, her husband’s cap and jacket thrown across a chair, her sons’ boots lined up against the stove for warmth…

  Molly sat up, pushing her mass of hair from eyes that burned and blurred and, finally, cleared. This room was her home now, and a great improvement it certainly was on the attic in Whitechapel. Her life was her own, win or lose – that was above all what she had wanted; there was little to be gained from tears now.

  She scrambled from the bed, wrapping her shawl over her nightdress against the early chill, and scuttled on bare feet to the window. In the small grate the embers of the fire that Sam had lit for her the evening before were stone-cold and grey; she shivered. Sounds floated up from downstairs: voices, the clatter of plates. She opened the draped, dark red curtains, letting the light seep into the room, lap the dark furniture, creep across the rose-patterned carpet. Outside a milk cart rumbled down the street, pulled by a shaggy, patient horse; a few people hurried past below the window. From downstairs she heard Sam’s voice raised in farewell to his mother; the front door slammed, his footsteps clicked on the tiled garden path beneath her and she stepped back from the window. To be seen at the window in her nightdress would hardly be the best way to start her residence at number twenty-six.

  She washed swiftly, scrambled into her old clothes, keeping her eyes firmly from the sight of herself in the mirror, then reached for the newspaper she’d bought the day before. She turned the pages until she had it folded back at a large advertisement proclaiming, “GRAND SALE. TALBOT AND CO., LTD. DEPARTMENT STORE. PRICES SLASHED. BUY NOW.”

  She found her stub of a pencil, tore off a clean edge from the paper and began figuring.

  Quite some time later, with the morning light stronger, she was still at it. Before her on the tablecloth was spread Maggie’s money – nearly seven pounds, more than she had dared to hope – and her own hard-saved few shillings. Her scrap of paper was covered now in neat writing and a column of figures. She added them up again. For a costume, three flannelette blouses with detachable collars and cuffs – “very smart”, proclaimed the advertisement – a pair of shoes and two pairs of gloves she had committed one pound nineteen shillings and sixpence ha’penny of her precious hoard. She went back to the newspaper. “Smart felt hats in Brown, Beaver and Navy, trimmed with Stylish Bows.” She had seen enough to know that a hat was essential to a well-dressed lady. At 2/11d, down it went on her list. She hovered for a moment over corsets, “special, white, 3/6½ d”. Frowning a little she studied the high bosom and nipped waist of the girl in the advertisement whom she intended to emulate, and then the corset joined the list also. A wool skirt and cloth jacket were next. She calculated again, tapping the end of her pencil on small, strong teeth. Then she turned to the back page of the paper where were the columns of personal advertisements; she skimmed the teachers of pianoforte and singing, the offers to improve her handwriting or her memory and stopped at “J. Marsden. School of Business Studies. Typewriting, Shorthand and Bookkeeping taught. Competitive Rates. Highly Recommended.” There followed a list of fees. Molly did a little swift arithmetic and then added the sum of thirty shillings to her expenditure. Taking out the amount she would need to live on for four or five weeks she was left with just about thirty shillings. She should save that for emergencies, she knew. On that she might eat frugally and pay her rent for another month, supposing her plan took longer than she was expecting. Or, if the worst happened, thirty shillings would pay her fare back to Ireland, or to America, to Patrick.

  She turned back to the Talbot advertisement; at the foot of the page in discreet but slightly more fancy lettering ran the legend: “Special. Ladies’ Silk Shirts. All Colours. 7/11d. Reduced from 15/9d. Also, Exceptional Value: a Few Black and Navy Silk Broche and Satin Skirts. 19/6d. Much Below Normal Price.”

  She looked at it very thoughtfully for some time, picked up the pencil, fiddled with it, laid it down and began to gather together the stacked piles of money before taking herself downstairs to enquire after the whereabouts of Talbot and Co., Department Store.

  * * *

  The small figure in the mirror, ridiculously unfamiliar in the grey tweed skirt and jacket and soft white flannelette blouse, twirled and swayed and dipped her curly head; then muttered a descriptive and unladylike Irish curse as the smart little black hat slipped sideways and finished at a gay but unfashionable angle over one eye. She should have bought a hat pin. Why hadn’t she thought of it? She straightened the hat, pulled a few provoking curls forward onto her cheeks and, her temper restored, smiled at her reflection. She could barely breathe in the contraption of a corset; her feet in the dainty, pointed kid shoes already hurt; the stiff detachable collar of the shirt rubbed painfully upon skin not used to such restriction – and she had never, never seen herself looking so astonishingly lovely; had never, indeed, dreamed that she could look so. The dark blue bombazine had made her look a pretty, wayward child; in this outfit she was a smart, self-possessed and very attractive young lady. She stopped smiling and rearranged her expression into one of cool composure. Her silvered eyes reflected the gentle colour of the tweed, her full breasts and tiny waist were shown to perfection by the fitted jacket She turned and walked to the window, trying not to wince as her toes cramped and pinched in the shoes, then she turned and glided back towards the mirror with a dazzling smile. “Mr Marsden?” she asked in her new, Margaret Wharton voice, “my name is Molly O’Dowd.” She stopped, frowning ferociously. That wouldn’t do at all. She must look efficient, businesslike – she lifted a fine-drawn curve of eyebrow, lowered the arched lids a little. “Mr Marsden? My name is Molly O’Dowd—” That was better, much better. For a moment she studied intently the girl in the mirror, her eyes moving from pointed toe to discreetly feathered hat, looking for anything that might connect this genteel, sober, smartly dressed young woman with the ragamuffin who had stepped from the Kerry onto Prince’s Dock ten days ago, or, worse, with the girl who had scrambled dazed and terrified across the wet slates of Whitechapel… There was, so far as she could tell, no hint of either. Excitement stirred, causing her stomach to churn uncomfortably and her heartbeat to increase within the awful confining corset. It was begun, the new life. And – she turned to the bed upon which her other purchases lay – there could be no turning back now. For alongside the black wool skirt and sensible cloth jacket lay a soft, sheer silk shirt the colour of forget-me-nots, like a jewel against the dark bedspread, and a navy broche silk skirt trimmed with satin. And the man at the ticket office, she reflected with wry certainty, won’t accept them in payment for a return ticket. She had added to her wardrobe two pairs of stockings, a small bag, which had cost her one and sixpence, and an umbrella for half a crown. Apart from the thirty shillings she was now hoping to venture upon Mr Marsden, she had barely enough money to live on for four or five weeks. After that she must earn her keep.

  She picked up the bag and umbrella, for the sky outside was overcast, laid in passing one caressing finger upon the lovely blue silk of the blouse, regretting faintly the down-to-earth flannelette, then left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Her new clothes rustled gratifyingly around her as she descended the stairs and marched along the empty hall to the front door. As she opened it she heard a sound behind her. Ellen Alden had come to the kitchen door and stood wiping floured hands upon an immaculate apron.

  Molly
inclined her head, smiled gently and shut the door with quiet care behind her. If she had needed any reassurance it was there in the unguardedly astonished eyes of her landlady.

  With neither thought nor care for painfully tight shoes she set off in search of Mr John Marsden, Teacher of Shorthand, Typing and Bookkeeping, leaving Ellen Alden to wonder if Lady Margaret Wharton might not have been so mistaken after all.

  * * *

  It had been by no means a good day. John Marsden rubbed a hand through his thinning, grizzled hair and consigned to perdition all idiotic, simpering, giggling women; pretty or plain, clever or dim, they were all the same. Not one of them with the straightforward good sense of a man. Thank God in heaven he’d never married. He couldn’t have stood it.

  He sat down, breathing heavily and wheezing painfully. God damn this chest that made him good for nothing but playing nursemaid to a bunch of schoolgirls. Damn the bloody weather that was sending raindrops sliding like dreary tears down the windowpane, reminding him that November and its discomforts were nearly upon him. He eyed, savagely wistful, a full pipe rack that stood on his desk; and damn the damned doctor who had convinced him that tobacco, his only vice, might well kill him.

  As he reached for a pipe the front door bell rang loudly. Who in hell was that? He hadn’t another pupil till four o’clock – that stupid Miss Denby who had a tendency to tears when he shouted at her.

  A few moments later the door opened.

  “A young lady to see you, Mr Marsden.” His housekeeper eyed the still-empty pipe repressively but refrained from comment.

  John Marsden watched the small, tweed-suited figure that the housekeeper had ushered in, noted the unsmiling composure, the still, gloved hands that did not fidget with the small bag they carried, the level blue-grey eyes. Not as bad as some, anyway. At least she didn’t look as if she’d burst into tears when he told her that the world of business was not waiting with eager open arms for pretty, brainless, unqualified young ladies. She appeared quite undisturbed by his regard; he had the suspicion in fact that she rather enjoyed it. As the door closed behind the housekeeper she said in a low, musically accented voice, “Mr Marsden? My name is Molly O’Dowd. I saw your advertisement in the newspaper—”

  He nodded. Molly, slowly, began to count to ten. If the wretched man did not offer her a seat by the time she had finished she would leave. Not even in the days of cast-off boots had her feet hurt her so.

  “Sit down, Miss O’Dowd.”

  With no outward sign of relief she walked steadily to the chair across the desk from his and sat down, of necessity bolt upright; her new corset was like steel. Grateful for the cover that the enormous desk provided she slipped swollen and agonized feet from the constricting shoes. Whether she would ever get them back on again was open to question; but the immediate relief was so intense that she could not for the moment bring herself to care. Gravely she looked across at a craggy, bad-tempered face, the cheeks sunken with ill- health, bloodshot eyes overhung with brows so thick they appeared to frown even in repose. He showed no inclination to question her; the only alternative to an afternoon of silence appeared to lie with her.

  “I wish to train for office work,” she said. “I have absolutely no previous experience, but I read and write well and have a very good head for figures. And I don’t mind how hard I have to work. I wish to learn typewriting and bookkeeping. I should like to learn shorthand as well, but I don’t believe that I have the time. I could perhaps take a course in that later. Your terms, according to the paper, are ninepence for an hour’s lesson, is that correct?” A slight movement that might have been a nod. “I thought we might come to a special arrangement for—” she paused “—something a little more intensive than usual. I should like a lesson each day for a month. I can pay thirty shillings, no more.”

  John Marsden sat back in a creaking, high-backed chair, steepling long, bony fingers. “You’re in a hurry, are you?”

  “I am.” She saw no reason to prevaricate. “I have to find a job within five or six weeks.”

  “And you think that by some miraculous formula, some effortless waving of a thirty shilling magic wand, I can provide you with one?”

  He noted the spark of temper in her expressive eyes, the sudden sharp lifting of her chin, but when she spoke her voice had not changed.

  “I think nothing of the kind. I hope that if I work hard – and if you are a good enough teacher—” she did not give herself time to wonder if she should have resisted that temptation “—I might find myself with the qualifications to obtain an office job. If not—” she made a small movement with her head and her little hat tilted slightly “—I’ll have lost my thirty shillings and I’ll have to try a shop or a factory.”

  He did not for the moment speak. The girl sat straight and slight as a blade of grass, waiting.

  “Typewriting,” he said thoughtfully, “and bookkeeping.”

  “That is what your advertisement says.”

  “It is,” he agreed, peacefully; then shot out, “Add threepence three farthings, elevenpence ha’penny, one and nine and twopence farthing.”

  “Three and twopence ha’penny.” The answer came with no apparent thought.

  “What is a third of two pounds ten and six?”

  “Sixteen and tenpence.”

  “Show me your hands.”

  She carefully removed her gloves, held up small, narrow-boned hands.

  “Do you play the piano?”

  She hesitated, considering a lie, but discarded the idea as impractical. A piano stood in the corner of the room; any claim might be expected to be substantiated.

  “No.”

  He smiled for the first time, a shadow of a twitch of the lip. It might have been missed had she not been watching so closely. “Good. These parlour musicians tie their fingers in knots when it comes to a typewriting machine. A lesson a day, you said, for a month?”

  “Yes. Could you teach me in that time?”

  He nodded slowly. “I might. If you work like the devil.”

  “I will.”

  “Thirty shillings?”

  She nodded. “That’s all that I can afford,” she said frankly, then added with firmness, “I should expect at least two hours a day for that. Your advertisement said ninepence.”

  He got up and walked around the desk. Smoothly she hooked her toes into her discarded shoes and drew them beneath her skirt. At least her feet had stopped throbbing. Mr Marsden rested upon the desk, fingers drumming reflectively, eyes upon the far wall.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll give you for thirty shillings” he said at last, “an hour and a half’s personal tuition each day followed by an hour by yourself practising on one of my machines. How does that sound?” He had suspected that she might be very pretty indeed when she smiled, and now his opinion was confirmed. “I guarantee nothing,” he added sternly. “If you have no aptitude, both time and money will be wasted, you understand that? You might as well apply to the laundry in Green Street right now.”

  “I understand.”

  “Can you start tomorrow?”

  She nodded.

  “About this time? Right. Three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Now I suggest you put those silly shoes back on your feet before you leave. Or you’ll likely get very wet feet.”

  Molly could smile about that, even as she hobbled through the rain towards Linsey Grove; she was not dissatisfied, something about John Marsden had inspired her confidence. He would do his best for her, she was certain of that The rest was up to her.

  * * *

  The first thing she heard when, with a proprietary air, she turned the key in the lock of number twenty-six was Sam’s cough. She had noticed it last night, a shallow, irritating catching of the breath in his throat, which seemed to be made worse by his attempts to suppress it. As she shut the door he appeared in the hall, flushed and a little breathless but no longer coughing.

  “Good afternoon, Miss O’Dowd.”

  She smiled. “Good
afternoon.”

  He was blocking her way. They stood for a moment, awkwardly, before he stepped hastily aside. “Sorry.” The thin skin of his face was scarlet.

  She stepped past him to the foot of the stairs.

  “Do you usually get home this early?” She had to say something, could not leave him there with that odd, expectant look on his face, without breaking the silence.

  “No. No, I don’t. But Uncle said—” He stopped, gestured helplessly. “—It’s the d-damp. It seems to make my cough worse. It gets on his nerves, I think.”

  “You work for your uncle?” She could think of nothing but the haven of her room and shoeless, corsetless comfort.

  “Yes. He has two shops in the High Street. I-I help him.” She nodded, her duty done, turned to the stairs. “I must say—” he spoke in a rush, one hand half-lifted as if to stop her movement. Wearily she turned. His eyes, milky-pale, were fixed on her with an expression that in her present mood she found vaguely irritating; it somehow inferred a responsibility she had no wish for. “—I must say that you’re – looking very n-nice.”

  “Thank you.” Her smile was genuine, but nothing could keep her from mounting the stairs. His eyes followed her.

  “I lit the fire,” he called, “I thought you might be cold.”

  She paused in the dark at the top of the stairs. “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

  “Don’t—” he coughed, smothered it “—mention it.”

  The kitchen door opened. “Sam? Who’s that you’re talking to?”

  Sam’s cough overcame him. Beneath its cover Molly gently closed the door of her room.

  Chapter Seven

  The lessons went well from the start. Molly was an apt pupil with an unflagging determination to learn, and John Marsden was impressed. In the first week their relationship was established, the teacher appreciating the girl’s diligence and the strength of will that drove her, she reacting to his acid tongue and short temper not with tears and tantrums but with an asperity that matched his own and even won his grudging admiration. A couple of days after she started her lessons he offered to lend her some books to study at home, and was startled at the speed with which she read them and the amount of information she absorbed.