* * *
She woke to noise – shattering, destructive noise.
She lifted a dazed head. The fog had gone, driven before the rain that dashed against the window and streamed from the gutters. The light was cloud-obscured; it could have been any time, morning or afternoon. From the room above came another crash. She pulled herself to her feet. Her mouth was sour, her head throbbed; she had woken with the dark knowledge of Sam’s death possessing her mind.
Through the ceiling came a quiet, monotonous voice.
Molly went out into the hall, stood at the foot of the stairs, listening. It was Ellen’s voice, that vicious monotone, the words unintelligible, punctuated by violent crashes. The stairs creaked under Molly’s careful feet. At the open door of the room she had shared with Sam she stopped, paralyzed. It was a battleground. Every stitch of clothing, every article that she owned was shredded, smashed, thrown to the floor. The very sheets on the bed had been ripped apart. Paper was everywhere, manic confetti, pages ripped and scattered, from her books. Just inside the door lay the ruined blue leather cover, the pages gone, the copy of Alice that Sam had given her destroyed. A glimmer of blue silk – forget-me-not blue, the colour of summer skies, the colour of Danny’s eyes – caught her eye. She bent and picked it up. The blouse hung in ribbons from her fingers.
Ellen turned. The grotesque stream of obscenities stopped. In her hand she held a mirror, a small hand mirror that Sam had bought Molly for her birthday, the frame of silver decked with plump, laughing cherubs.
“Harlot!” Ellen brought the mirror down with frightening force on the edge of the dressing table. Splinters of light flew in the dark room. “Filthy whore!”
There was nothing to reason with here. The dark face was wild, distorted with hatred. Molly sent a prayer of thanks to heaven that Danny had not been sleeping in this room. His cot stood splintered in the corner. Ellen’s voice lifted to a shriek; in her hand still glinted the shattered mirror.
“Get out of my house! Out! Get to the gutter where you belong.” With a sweep of her arm she emptied the dressing table of pots and bottles and oddments; they flew, spinning, into every corner.
“My things—” said Molly, stupidly.
“Yours? You’ve nothing. You came with nothing. Go the same way. Starve, damn you! Out!” Ellen advanced threateningly. The thickness of a wall away her only son lay still and silent.
Molly turned and ran; there was nothing else to do. Down the stairs, out of the door and into the freezing, streaming rain. She slammed the door behind her, straggled desperately to get the perambulator through the gate, flew to the Johnsons’ door.
“She’s gone mad,” she said, gasping, “mad.” There was no need to explain further; through the upstairs window Ellen could be seen and heard, raving, her movements violent.
“I’ll get the doctor,” Ernest Johnson said.
“Yes, please.”
Danny was screaming, furious at the upset, at his mother’s jerky, frantic movements.
Molly tucked him tight into the pram, “I’ve got to get him away. If she comes after us—” She lifted her head to find Mrs Johnson’s eyes fixed upon her, their expression torn between concern and scandalized delight at this turn of events.
“Where will you take him, dearie? Where will you go? I’d offer you a room here, but—” She glanced half-fearfully through the rain at the house next door.
“It’s all right, thank you, Mrs Johnson” Molly was astonished at the sudden calmness of her own voice. “I’ve friends to go to. They’ll help. I’ll leave the address—” She scribbled on the used envelope the woman handed her. “Perhaps you’d give that to the doctor, in case he needs me?”
She turned the pram. Through the window Ellen had seen her; with a crash that shook the house to its foundations she threw the window up and leaned into the rain screaming, shaking her fist.
Molly stood for a second, drenched to the skin, looking up at the woman in the window. Ellen’s hair dripped dark rat’s tails around her livid face. She fell silent; then she lifted a pointing finger.
“I curse you,” she shouted clearly above the rain, “you and your bastard brat. Curse you. No good will ever come to you from us, from Sam and me. You hear me?”
Molly was walking away, as fast as she could manage, her shoes squelching on her feet, the pram bouncing on the rain-sluiced pavement.
As she turned the corner of Linsey Grove for the last time, above the rain and the baby’s squalling anger she could still hear Ellen’s curses. They followed her, it seemed, for a long time after she was certainly out of earshot.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“When the new King gets crowned,” Edward said, “will he be the King of Wales?” He was sitting on Annie’s best chair, thoughtfully swinging his short legs.
Molly laughed and flicked the duster at him. “Of course not, silly. Whatever put that into your mind?”
“Well, he’s – he was – the Prince of Wales, wasn’t he?” he asked with the indefatigable logic of a seven-year-old. “So why isn’t he going to be the King of Wales?”
Molly tousled his hair.
“Well, what is he going to be, then?” Edward had long since realized that Molly was one of those grown-ups who didn’t mind persistence. “What will he be called?”
She considered for a moment.
“I suppose – King of England, I think.”
“But what about Ireland and Scotland and Wales? Isn’t he King of those as well?”
“Oh, yes. And a lot of other places besides – India, Australia, bits of Africa, half the world, so they say.”
“Well, then—”
The front door slammed and Annie’s quick footsteps tapped down the hall.
“’Lo, Moll, Edward—” She paused in her swift advance and eyed the duster in Molly’s hand. “Now, Molly, I told you that you didn’t have to do that—” she began mildly.
“I like to do it. It keeps me busy and it helps at least a little to repay you and Charley for what you’ve done for me. Kettle’s on.”
“Thank Gawd for that,” Annie said, kicking her shoes off. “But, honest, Moll, I don’t want you to think you’ve got to—”
Molly turned, smiling, hand on hip. “I don’t. Truly I don’t. But while I’m here on my own for the best part of the day I might as well make myself useful. What else should I do? Sit in the corner and suck my thumb?” Edward giggled. Molly pretended to dust his ears, still talking to Annie. “I’ll be able to give you some rent soon, when the money that Mr Ambler, Sam’s solicitor, told me about arrives. A couple of weeks he said. And then, when I get a job, I’ll see about getting some rooms of my own.” As she walked into the tiny kitchen across the hall to make the tea Annie flopped into a chair, her legs outstretched, bony toes wriggling painfully.
“Stay as long as you like,” she called. “I’m just sorry we’ve no better room to offer you. That box room’s not much more than a cupboard.”
Molly came back with the tea on a tray. “Don’t be silly. It’s fine. You know I can’t thank you and Charley enough.”
“Oh, shut up and pour.” Annie grinned. Always she looked as if she were on the point of laughter.
“I will pay you,” Molly persisted, “as soon as the money comes.”
“If it makes you feel better.” Annie thoughtfully stirred three heaped spoonfuls of sugar into her tea. “Handy, that little bit Sam left you.”
“Yes. Poor Sam. Penny by penny he must have saved it. It’s certain that his mother knew nothing of it.”
Molly had neither seen nor heard from Ellen since the day of Sam’s funeral, when each had rigidly ignored the other. As far as Molly could see it was unlikely that their paths would ever cross again, and she was happy to have it so.
Annie lay back in her chair. “D’you know I ache all over? That bloody laundry’s going to be the death of me, I swear it. Still, it’s better than the dye shop; thank Gawd I’m not working there.”
“Oh?”
>
Annie fanned a hand in the air. “Talk about depressing. Black, black, black. Nothin’ but. Coats, dresses, skirts, suits, the lot. Even sheets. Sheets! People want them to hang out of the window on the day of the funeral. Everythin’ black as Newgate’s knocker. Funny, ain’t it?” She took her tea and sipped it meditatively. “What did the old girl do for us? I mean, really do? Did she care that I sweat my life away in a stinkin’ laundry? Would she have cried if Jack or Charley’d got themselves clobbered by a crate? ’Course not. When big Bill Shepherd down the road died in that accident at the sugar works, did she send flowers? Like ’eck. Yet look around you. People are cryin’ in the streets. Cryin’! The whole bloody country’s gone into mourning – shops, houses, whole streets, draped in black. Looks as if God ’Imself ’as died.”
Molly nodded. “I suppose it’s just that she’s been around for so long. There aren’t many alive who can remember the country without Victoria on the throne. And though we all knew it had to happen sooner or later, it’s still a shock somehow. The paper says that every King and Queen in Europe will be at the funeral. That’ll be a show.” Molly gathered cups and saucers onto the tray. “I’ll just wash these up, then I’ll walk Edward home. Supper’s on the stove. If Charley comes in before I’m back help yourselves. I’ll eat later.”
“Righto. Come on, Eddie, get your coat on.” Annie began to help the boy with his outdoor clothes. “By the way,” she called to Molly over the clatter of crockery, “wasn’t it today you were going to see your John Marsden?”
There was the tiniest pause. ‘It was.”
“What happened? Any luck?”
Molly appeared at the door, a cup and a teacloth in her hand. “He said that he’d help if he could. But.” She smiled wryly.
“But, but, but,” Annie said. “Such a little word.”
“He says there are dozens – hundreds – of girls like me, looking for work, local work, because of home commitments. And next to no jobs for them. The typewriting machine has not yet arrived with a bang in West Ham. Or East Ham. Or anywhere else east of Liverpool Street.”
“I expect Sarah’d take Danny for you if you wanted to try in town again.”
“Yes, I expect she would. And it still might come to that. But it isn’t what I want. I want something that will fit in with looking after him.”
“Is that all? Don’t ask for much, do you?”
Molly pulled a face. She was still absently rubbing at the cup she held.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s dangerous for a start.”
“Oh, Annie, do listen for a minute.” Molly sat herself on the table, discarded the cup and cloth and frowned at the wall.
“I’m listening, but you aren’t saying anything,” Annie said, injured, after a short silence.
Molly spoke slowly. “John Marsden – and he should know – says that most local businesses, especially the small ones, are miles behind the times. Out of touch. Plain old-fashioned. A lot of the girls he’s trained are now in the same position that I am: they want office work but they find themselves faced with opposition and prejudice about employing women. Especially round here.” She smiled suddenly, that quick urchin grin that Annie was glad to see was much more in evidence lately than when she had first come to them. “Now don’t you think it’s time someone came to the rescue of those poor, silly men who’ve still got clerks perched on high stools writing everything out by hand, who won’t have a typewriting machine near the place, let alone a woman in the office? Do you think it’s right to leave them so deprived?”
“So what do you think you’re going to do about it? Wave a magic wand?”
Molly jumped from the table. “No. Better than that. I’m going to see John Marsden again. Tomorrow. Come on, Eddie me lad. Time for home.”
* * *
“An agency?” Charley, his feet propped on the fender and the smell of his scorching slippers acrid in the air, regarded Molly with surprise. “What kind of agency?”
“An employment agency. For young lady office workers, full- and part-time. Heavens, Charley, you’ll cook yourself.”
Charley moved a quarter of an inch further from the blaze. “Hold on a minute. You’ll have to do better than that. You know your Uncle Charley’s a bit thick sometimes. I thought you told Annie there aren’t any jobs?”
“That’s right.”
“So you’re starting an employment agency for unemployable young women. Sounds like a good idea.”
“If you don’t hold your noise I’ll not tell you.”
“I’m holding it. Honest.”
“Sooner or later,” Molly began, “things have got to change around here.”
“And you’re going to change them single-handed?” put in Charley with a grin.
“Let’s say – I’m going to give them a hand, yes. I’m going up every staircase, down every alley, through every door with a name on it. And I’m going to make all those little men sitting on their high stools see that they can’t possibly go another day without that invaluable, indispensable—” she paused, running out of words.
“—unbelievable—” Annie supplied.
“—essential—” Charley shouted in his best music hall voice.
“—asset to every businessman—” Molly ploughed on grimly.
“—the typah – writingah – machinah!” Charley finished happily.
“The lady typewriter,” Molly corrected, trying not to laugh. “And it isn’t funny. Not that funny, anyway.”
Annie leaned forward. “Are you serious? Do you really think that you could convince them?”
“Why not? It’s worth a try, isn’t it? I’m not a bad talker.” She pulled a face at the rude noise Charley made. “I’ve had experience and can demonstrate myself the speed and efficiency of the machine. It’s bound to come; and there must be enough people close enough to considering it already to make it worthwhile trying to influence them.”
Her seriousness had sobered the other two.
“But what if you do convince them?” Charley asked. “Then what happens?”
“We organize the right girl for the right job. For a small fee, of course.”
“You mean you and John Marsden!” Annie exclaimed, suddenly getting the drift of Molly’s plan. “Well, damn me, you’re right, Molly. It isn’t funny. It’s a bloody marvellous idea. And I suppose that if some of the smaller places only want a girl for one or two days a week—”
“—then we can supply her. You’ve got it And that girl can finish her week elsewhere; the office saves money, the girl gets a full week’s wages. And I thought of a kind of pool, too, for firms who don’t want a permanent typewriter to draw on, but who’d like some work done each week. They pay us a fee – much less than it would cost them to employ someone full time – and we pay the girls. Everyone’s happy. And if a girl employed through us needs some time off, or is side—”
“—you’ll supply a substitute. My Gawd, Molly, what an idea! You didn’t come up the river on the last tide, did you?”
“You two,” Charley said with expressively lifted brows, “are beginning to sound like a ventriloquist’s act. Neither of you’ve managed to finish a sentence yet.”
“Come off it, Charley. We’ve got a genius in our box room. A blessed genius!”
“Except,” he pointed out with masculine obstructiveness, “that Molly hasn’t set foot outside the door yet. You’re acting as if the whole thing’s set up. How does your Mr Marsden feel, Molly? Is he as enthusiastic?”
Molly hesitated, balanced finely between optimism and the strict truth.
“He thinks it’s a good idea,” she said finally, nicely placed between the two. “But he can be a crotchety old thing.”
“So what are the arrangements? Between him and you, I mean?”
Molly fidgeted a little. “Well, I can’t say exactly that we’ve made what you could call arrangements – but he did say that if I can prove to him that the scheme will work he’ll be delighted
to join me in what he keeps calling ‘your little venture’. I’ll venture him, see if I don’t. I’ll talk myself into every office between here and the East Ham Town Hall. He’ll be crying for me to stop.”
“And so will they. Owch!” Annie’s pointed toe had connected sharply with her husband’s shin.
She leaned her lovely face to Charley and poked a long finger into his chest. “Well, I think it’s a fine idea. Takes something, you know, to think up a scheme like that. Anyone can use brute force and ignorance to blast their way through life.” She prodded him again.
“Watch it, my girl.” Charley reached and gently caught her wrist, pulled her close to him. “Just because we’re wed doesn’t mean you can say what you like, you know. I’m still bigger than you are.”
Annie laughed, a world of warmth and meaning in her eyes and in her voice. “I know you are.”
Charley buried his face for a second in the soft, fire-gilded hair. “Little cat.”
Molly stared at the fire. Never once had she and Sam been this casual, this close, this happy. She mourned him quietly and sincerely, but she could not pretend to any violent grief. And somewhere, deep in her, she was aware that she relished and revelled in the freedom his passing had brought her; she could not deny it. Out of the blue she had another chance – with, she felt, slightly better odds this time on winning – to do something on her own. Her feelings for Jack were so confused that it was beyond her to sort them out. He had made no move towards her in the time she had been staying with Annie and Charley; the constraint between them was as great as ever. At best she could only assume that his emotions were as mixed as her own, and that possibly he had guessed more of Sam’s reasons for braving the fog that had killed him than was comfortable for a tender conscience. But, she told herself with some defiance, she was not going to waste tears on something she could not change. She wasn’t ever going to waste anything ever again. Not time, nor opportunity. This time she would keep some control over her own destiny, prove to herself, and to others, that she could stand on her own two feet. And if there were times, in the dark, quiet hours, when the thought of Jack whispered in her mind and in her body – impossible never to remember those moments at the wedding – there were, too, times when his obstinate self-control, his stiff-necked sobriety convinced her almost that those moments she remembered so well must be an illusion, a fantasy brought about by wedding flowers and claret.
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