Chapter Forty-Five
The autumn of 1915 was, even more than usually, the vanguard of winter. The torrential rain that began in September and turned the charnel house of the Western Front into a gruesome quagmire that swallowed horses, guns and men with equal ease, swept the streets of London as if attempting to drown anyone with the temerity to venture out of doors, and continued so without a break through a wild and windy Christmas. By the first day of January 1916 the British Army in France numbered 1 million men, a million men living in the worst conditions and under the most atrocious stress that any human enemy could have devised. The great armies were deadlocked, mired in along an arbitrary line, assaulting each other senselessly and ceaselessly with high explosives, mowing each other down with machine guns, watching each other die and decompose on the strung barbed wire that divided Europe. And all for nothing. Not an inch of ground was taken that was not immediately lost again, not a town or village was left in that great swathe of mud that had one brick still standing upon another. Men drowned in shellholes, were blown to pieces in No Man’s Land, were scythed down attempting to take yet another useless square yard of ground. In Britain compulsory military service was introduced. The cry, still, was for men and yet more men, and there were not many who thought to question it. In order to justify the losses already incurred, a victory must be won, no matter what the cost in blood.
In February the Germans launched a surprise attack on Verdun, taking the Allies completely unawares, the avowed aim of the campaign to bleed the French Army – already very badly battered – to death. Yet, astonishingly, against unbelievable odds, the French held, and the enemy found themselves once more locked into a battle that was to last for months. To relieve the pressure on their almost exhausted allies, the British began to prepare for a push to the north, on the Somme, but while all eyes were turned to France an event took place that aroused passionate indignation throughout the beleaguered British Isles. For while tens of thousands of Irishmen fought and died beside their Welsh, Scots and English comrades in the trenches, a small group of rebels, on Easter Monday, took over the post office in Dublin and proclaimed from the steps of that building an Irish Republic.
Most of the inhabitants of the city were as bewildered and outraged as the rest of Britain. To hear Germany referred to as a “gallant ally” was too much for most people to swallow, however patriotically Irish they might be, and anti-rebel feelings were strong, even in Ireland itself. In the brief, fierce fighting that ensued Dublin was reduced almost to the same state as the towns of the Western Front as the thousand or so rebels fought from street to street, from house to house. For Molly, more than most, the newspaper reports were harrowing, bringing back as they did memories that she had believed long buried. Ironically, she caught more than one sharp glance upon her at this time as a discerning ear picked up the trace of her accent, met once or twice with a hostility from strangers that she knew to be undeserved. In truth, however, she had little time to worry about such things. It concerned her far more that the German U-boat campaign in the North Sea and in the Channel was beginning to take great toll of merchant shipping, and that the new conscription laws meant that she had lost more workers than ever, despite the fact that many men in the cold storage trade could have been exempt – in many cases men were reluctant to remain in their safely starred jobs in face of public opinion, of posters that portrayed their children demanding sternly, “What did you do in the Great War, Father?” and of the danger of the muttered word “Conshie”.
She walked into her office late one May evening to find Adam already there, seated at her desk, a slip of paper in his hand. He stood as she entered the room. There was a gleam in his eyes that she recognized.
“They’ve done it,” he said.
“The North Sea convoys?”
“Yes.”
“Stopped altogether?”
“As we expected. Yes.”
She regarded him reflectively for a moment. “As you expected. So, no more natural ice.” She turned away and began to rummage in a tray of papers.
“The price of ice has already gone up fifty per cent this year.”
“I know it. You’d better give your crystal ball an extra polish tonight,” she said, still hunting, then, “Damn!” She stood up, looking around the room.
“What is it?”
“I thought I had the documents for the Southern Queen. I did have, I’m certain.” She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “I had them with me this afternoon, over at the customs’ shed on quay three. Oh, for heaven’s sake! I must have left them there!”
“Leave them. They’ll be quite safe. You can pick them up in the morning.”
She had picked up her small handbag and was already at the door. “I can’t. I need the wretched things now.”
“Wait.” He was shrugging into his coat. “If you must I’ll run you over there. I—” he smiled faintly “—acquired some petrol this afternoon.”
* * *
She realized that she had left the bag in Adam’s car almost the moment that he drove away. Standing in the twilit road outside the great dock gates she almost stamped her foot in rage at her own stupidity. All her money was in the bag, to say nothing of her only means of identification, should anyone choose to question her presence in this security-sensitive area at a slightly odd hour. Not that she anticipated any problem – she knew almost certainly that she would be recognized and allowed to pass by the guard on the dock gates. A far greater problem seemed to be that unless she was lucky enough to find someone she knew who might be willing to lend her the fare, she was in for a long and dark walk home.
As she approached the gate she smiled in relief as a man stepped out and barred her way, peering at her in the gloom.
“Ah, Sergeant Anderson. I was hoping you might be on duty. I wonder if you could help?”
Moments later she was hurrying through the darkening evening towards the customs’ shed, her borrowed fare safely in her pocket. By now she knew the layout of the area as well as she knew her own parlour. To save time she turned into a tiny alleyway that ran between two great warehouses, and her breath almost choked in her throat as unexpectedly in front of her loomed a figure, rifle in hand, a threatening silhouette in the fading light.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
She stopped.
“Out, you, and let’s have a look at you.”
She followed the soldier into the open. “I can explain—”
“Yes, I’m sure.” He held an open hand towards her. “You got somethin’ to show who you are an what you’re doin’ ’ere?”
“I – I’m afraid I don’t, no.”
“Is that so?”
“I stupidly mislaid my bag – left it in a car – my name is Benton. I left some documents in the shed on quay three this afternoon. I’ve come to collect them.” Her voice steadied as she recovered from the shock of his sudden appearance.
“Did you now? Make a habit of it, do you? Mislayin’ things, like?” His voice was not friendly. ‘Irish, aren’t you?”
“Yes – that is, no—” she stuttered, confused. “My husband is English, so—”
“And where’s he?”
Her temper flared at the boorishness of the man. “He’s in France, Private. Fighting for his country.”
He was not impressed. “Aren’t we all? I think you’d better come along with me, don’t you? And with no fuss, neither.”
She stood her ground. “Where to?”
He caught her arm very firmly. “Never you mind. Just come along. We can’t ’ave you wanderin’ around ’ere on your own in the dark, now can we?” His voice was heavily sarcastic. “You might ’urt yourself. Or you might ’urt someone else, like. You ever bin to Dublin?”
The question caught her off her guard. “No.”
“My brother ’as. In fact, it was the last place ’e ever went. Died there, ’e did. A month or so ago, fightin’ some of your mates. Hear about that little party, did you? Bloody Irish. Now,
you comin’, or do I ’ave to carry you?”
With as much dignity as the undignified situation allowed her she walked beside him, his hand still firm about her upper arm, to a nearby warehouse in whose cavernous depths stood a small wooden hut. As he marched her towards it she pulled back. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m leavin’ you somewhere nice and safe while I go and find my sergeant. That’s what I’m goin’ to do.”
Somewhere down the river a gun boomed.
“Look, won’t you please listen to me? Sergeant Anderson on the Barley Street gate knows me. Knows me well. He’ll vouch for me. He let me in—”
“More fool ’im. Right. In you go.” He hustled her into the hut, and over her furious protests, slammed the door. She heard the key turn in the lock, and above that the sound of a whistle, shrill and urgent. The guns boomed again. She beat her fists against the door.
“Let me out! It’s a raid! You can’t keep me here—!”
“Safe as ’ouses.” His voice was caustic. “The silly bleeders couldn’t ’it the side of a barn anyway, didn’t you know that?”
“Don’t go away—” His footsteps receded. The guns rumbled again, and it seemed as if the world shook about her.
“Let me out!”
Silence.
She stood, shivering, listening. Thinking of those airborne monsters that had slaughtered Charley and the children. Seeing them. Since that night she had dreamed of them, woken trembling and drenched in sweat.
Please, God, don’t let them come—
She stood, straining her ears for the drone of an engine. The sound of the guns was continuous now, the volume increasing as the dock guns took up the chase. Panic pounded in her veins with her blood. She was freezing cold, and shaking.
Don’t let them come. Please don’t let them come—
Above the sound of the guns came the strong, steady vibrations of an engine.
She flew to the door, pounding on it until her hands stung and throbbed with pain. “Let me out! Let me out! PLEASE!” Panting and sobbing she leaned against the door, felt it shudder as the concussion of an explosion shook the world outside her prison. The hut was windowless. She could see nothing. Mindless panic took her. She was almost choking with terror. She threw herself against the door as the blast of another explosion vibrated through the air.
“Let me out!”
When the sound of the key in the lock came to her ears she flung herself at the door at the very moment that it opened and found herself, unbelievably, held in arms that were strong and familiar. Beyond the open doors of the huge warehouse lurid flames flickered. A great shape hovered in the sky, caught for a moment in a swinging pencil of light. With a shuddering sob she buried her face in Adam’s shoulder.
“Molly, my darling. Molly, Molly. It’s all right. You’re quite safe.” He rocked her gently, soothingly. “Come on now, my love. This isn’t my girl? Isn’t my Molly?” His hand came up to cradle her head, fondling her hair.
She sobbed still, convulsively. The airship’s engines throbbed and swelled, then diminished as the thing turned and, unscathed, followed the path downriver towards home. One by one the guns fell silent. Still Molly clung. Adam laid his face against her hair and held her very close. A uniformed figure marched to him smartly and stamped to a halt, his eyes fixed on some point in darkness above Adam’s right shoulder.
“Is there anything I can do, Sir?”
“Thank you, no, Private Johnston, I think you’ve done quite enough,” Adam said pleasantly.
The soldiers eyes flickered. “Only doin’ my duty, Sir. I wasn’t to know.”
At the sound of his voice Molly had quietened. She stood with her face still buried hard in Adam’s shoulder.
“That will be all, Private. I’ll see Mrs Benton home. You can apologize to her – you will apologize to her – another time.”
“Yes, Sir.”
As the man wheeled smartly and left, Adam tried to put Molly from him, to look into her face. She clung to him.
“It’s all over, my love. They’ve gone. You were quite safe, you know. That idiot was at least right about that. These warehouses are built like fortresses. They use them as air raid shelters in some places, you know they do. Most of the bombs missed their target anyway. They fell into the water.” His voice was faintly puzzled, “Molly, what’s wrong? What is it? You’re shaking like a leaf—?”
“They killed Charley,” she said. “And the children. The poor children—”
He pulled her to him, bowing his face to her head. “God forgive me, I had forgotten.” He held her for a long time, until her violent trembling had eased. At last, with a long, trembling breath she drew away from him.
“How did you find me? What are you doing here?”
“You left your bag in the car. I came back with it. Sergeant Anderson told me he’d seen you through the gate – I came to find you and met that donkey in a uniform who’d shut you in. That’s about it.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Any time you get taken for an Irish insurrectionist, just call for me.”
She could not respond to his gentle teasing. He looked at her worriedly.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, “I’ve made an awful fool of myself. You see, ever since—” she caught her breath, tried again, “Ever since—”
“Don’t think about it.” His arms were strong about her. He lifted her chin, tilting her head. Complete darkness had fallen. Her wet face glimmered in the reflected light of distant flame. They could hear, faintly, the cries of the firefighters, the clang of bells. Very gently he kissed her. She stood quite still, the silent tears still running down her face.
“I’ll take you home,” he said.
The big car nosed through dim-lit streets. At the crossroads beyond the docks, Adam stopped. “Is there someone at home with your children?”
“Yes. Chantale’s there. Adam, where are you going?”
“I told you.” She could not see his face in the darkness, “I’m taking you home.”
She was too exhausted to argue. The weariness of months seemed to be engulfing her, a tide drawn to the flood by the evening’s terror. She lay back on the luxurious leather upholstery, her eyes shut. She felt drained and lethargic. And ridiculously safe. Somewhere in her memory those words he had whispered to her as he held her echoed softly.
She woke with a start as they pulled up at the foot of the steps that she had once known so well. The apartment too was the same. Adam settled her in a deep armchair, lifted her feet to a footstool, then went to the telephone and dialled, his eyes on Molly’s face.
“Hello? Is that Ma’m’selle Lefèvre? Ah hello, Adam Jefferson here. Yes, that’s right. She asked me to ring. She’s been delayed, I’m afraid – no, no, there’s nothing wrong. It’s just business, that’s all. She didn’t want you to worry. Thank you. Yes, I’ll tell her. Fine. I’ll make certain she gets back safely. Good night, Ma’m’selle.” He cradled the receiver. “They’re fine. I don’t think they’d even missed you.”
She sat up, swinging her legs from the footstool. “Thank you Adam, I—”
Very firmly he pushed her back into the chair. “Just be still for a minute. Doctor Jefferson prescribes medicine first, talk afterwards.”
“Medicine?”
He went to a cupboard, held up a bottle. “The finest French brandy, saved for just such an emergency.”
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“The same as I ever did. Don’t worry about it. Just drink it. It isn’t stolen, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“The thought didn’t cross my mind.” As he poured the drinks her eyes went to the window. “You haven’t drawn the curtains.”
“I’ll do it if it makes you feel safer. But they won’t come back tonight. And if they did they won’t bomb Kensington. If he wins the war the Kaiser’s going to live here.”
“That isn’t funny, Adam.”
He came to her, kne
lt beside her, put the glass of brandy into her hand. “Don’t tell me my Molly’s losing her sense of humour?”
“You called me that before, tonight.”
“Do you mind?”
She had loved him for so long now that it seemed almost as much a part of her as her breath; she had denied it to herself so long that his bent head, his intent face, the hard, narrow hand that held hers seemed unreal. “No,” she said simply, and took a mouthful of the smooth, warming brandy. His hand held the glass insistently tilted, forcing her to drink the rest.
“Isn’t that a dreadful waste of good brandy?” she asked.
He took the empty glass from her hand. “Do you feel better?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Her head swam for a moment and she lay back in the chair. “Don’t I recall that you had an appointment for this evening?”
“I cancelled it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. When have you ever known me do something that I didn’t want to do?” He took her hand in both of his, opened the small, curled fingers gently and kissed the palm.
She rolled her head, tear-swollen eyes closed, in a small, protesting movement. “Please. Don’t.” But her hand remained, open, in his.
“Molly. Look at me.” He waited. “Look at me,” he said again.
She opened her eyes.
“I think you know that I have never begged a woman—”
She did not reply, because she could not.
“Must I start now?” he asked softly.
“Would you?”
Molly Page 54
