MOLLY’S JOURNEY
Sheila Newberry
CONTENTS
Prologue
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Part Two
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Part Three
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Epilogue
Meet Sheila Newberry
An extract from The Winter Baby
Bibliography
More from Sheila Newberry
Other Memory Lane titles
Copyright
Also by Sheila Newberry
A Home for Tilly
Angel’s Secret
Bicycles and Blackberries
The Canal Girl
The Daughter’s Choice
The Family at Number Five
Far From Home
The Gingerbread Girl
The Girl With No Home
Hay Bales and Hollyhocks
Hot Pies on the Tram Car
The Poplar Penny Whistlers
The Punch and Judy Girl
The Watercress Girls
For Helen Pedersen of Brisbane, my lifelong friend, with grateful thanks for all her encouragement in my exploration of life in Australia around a century ago when her forebears journeyed there from Great Britain and Scandinavia. Also, for the ‘spark’ generated by Helen’s youngest son Henning, a talented clown acrobat . . .
PROLOGUE
England – April 1906
Molly pointed out the blossom on the gnarled apple trees to the chuckling baby riding on her back. Pudgy arms clung tightly round her neck, and small, jigging feet in soft kid boots urged her on through the old orchard. ‘Look, Fay, snow in April . . . ’
She set the baby down, and Fay, who at eleven months was still uncertain on her feet, swayed and clutched at her new friend’s long skirt. Then Molly unbuckled her belt, lifted Fay up and settled her on her lap on the old plank swing. The belt secured them together at the waist: Molly covered Fay’s clinging hands with her own, and began the momentum.
The jerking of the bough from which the ropes were suspended sent petals floating down, softly brushing their upturned faces. ‘Snow!’ Fay shouted in excitement.
‘Snow!’ Molly echoed. What fun she had had out here with the youngest convent girls making tracks in the real stuff, she thought, not so long ago. But there was the gentle warmth of spring in the air today, the sweet scent of blossom, wild flowers in the long grass. This was always an enchanted place for children to explore and play in, the very heart of the Weald of Kent.
Molly’s eyes were suddenly bright with tears at the realisation that she would shortly be leaving this place where she had always felt secure and happy. Don’t be silly, she reproved herself. Haven’t you been looking forward to finding a job – being independent – travelling the world and seeing the sights, as a governess perhaps or a lady’s companion? It was just, she thought, that this opportunity had come completely out of the blue . . .
Although tact was hardly Molly’s strong point, she had obediently gone out with Fay this afternoon, at Sister Margaret Mary’s suggestion, soon after her prospective employer’s arrival with her late daughter’s child. They were having a serious discussion, she guessed, about her suitability for caring for Fay on a long sea voyage. Molly knew that much, no more, but it was all very exciting. She airily dismissed the thought that such a lowly employee was rarely given time off for sightseeing.
At almost eighteen years old, Molly was a determined girl, even though she was naive in the ways of the world – too impulsive, as she had been throughout her sheltered childhood. How the nuns sighed over her exuberance at times! Her dramatic utterances would cause the younger girls to squeal, but in delight, not terror. They particularly enjoyed: Here comes the ghost of Benjamin Barrett – stabbed in the back with a rusty carrot! However, most of them had a soft spot for young Molly Sparkes because she was invariably cheerful. ‘Sparkle, that should have been her name,’ remarked Sister Margaret Mary with a wry smile. ‘Comes of having an actress for a mother, I suppose, even though Molly hardly knew her. Blood will out.’
Now, Molly steadied the swing and said, ‘That’s enough for this afternoon, Fay, or you might be sick on your best dress – and somehow I don’t think your granny would approve of that.’ Mrs Nagel appeared rather forbidding, she thought. She unfastened the belt, hoisted the protesting Fay in her arms and scrambled to her feet.
‘Oh, don’t you?’ a cool voice observed, from behind them.
Startled, Molly swung round. A tall woman stood there. She was in her late-forties, still in mourning clothes, with tiny lozenge-shaped jet beads gleaming on the pin-tucked bodice of her black watered silk dress. She had piercing blue eyes under frowning brows, a creamy complexion, and thick, dark hair swept up into an elaborate arrangement of curls.
‘Mrs Nagel.’ Molly bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude—’
Alexandra Nagel accepted her apology with a brief nod, regarding Molly frankly in her turn. The scrutiny embarrassed her, made her aware of her lack of height which she often sighed over for she must have finished growing, she supposed. Besides a slight figure, she had a childish snub nose which made her look younger than she was, hazel eyes which she liked to imagine were green, and long, straight, fine brown hair which in sunlight glinted red. The nuns had considered curling rags an indulgence and Molly had been only too glad to escape their discomfort. She was aware that her fringe needed trimming, that she should have ironed her white muslin blouse instead of shaking it out hopefully, and that Fay was burrowing her face against her neck and demanding another swing.
‘The child has taken to you, that’s obvious,’ Mrs Nagel stated, looking as if she could not imagine why this should be. ‘We have clearly made the right decision. I have already been in touch with your father in India through my son-in-law who is in his regiment. I understand that Colonel Sparkes has no objections to your working for me. He has recently remarried, I believe, but will not be returning to this country for some time yet. And, of course, you were due to leave school this summer anyway. Come back to the house with me now, I should like to make the necessary arrangements today, and no doubt you must return to your studies.’
*
They sat in the austere dining room, Mrs Nagel, Sister Margaret Mary and Molly, while Fay crawled energetically away to hide under the big table – expecting someone to cry ‘Boo!’ Molly thought, but she restrained herself and listened to Mrs Nagel.
‘For some time I have considered going away to have a complete break for a year or so from my business in London. I am not going to prevaricate, Molly, my daughter and I were estranged when she tragically died within a month of Fay’s birth. I considered her too young to marry at just twenty-one – I had married in haste myself and it ended unhappily. I did not go to Lucy’s wedding, have not yet even met her husband, and Fay was cared for by foster parents until I decided that a reconciliation with her father was in the child’s best interests. He knows how much I regret the past . . . He is a generous and forgiving chap and has agreed that, for now, Fay should be with me, and that I may take her abroad on an extended holiday. I shall devote myself to her during this time. I owe it to my daughter.
‘A cousin visited me
recently and mentioned that her brother Frank in Australia was urging her to join him, but that she felt apprehensive about travelling all that way on her own. On impulse, I wrote to Frank and suggested that we might accompany her. The upshot is that we are welcome to stay for a time on his sheep farm in a place called Bodenflower, but naturally this could not be a permanent arrangement. I would then look for a place to rent, in a more civilised part of the country.
‘Once we have arrived in New South Wales I would expect to engage a local nursemaid. In return for your caring for the baby while we are aboard ship, I would like you to regard yourself as more of a travelling companion to us thereafter. I am prepared to pay all your expenses and to make you an allowance. Well, what d’you say?’
Even while she was aware that this was a generous offer indeed, and that, in an unexpected way, her dreams of travelling were about to come true, Molly thought, I do hope we won’t clash – she’s very formidable! And I can’t help speaking out, at times . . .
‘I say, yes – thank you!’ She was aware that Sister Margaret Mary was smiling approvingly. ‘If it’s only for a year,’ Molly added firmly. ‘When would we leave?’
‘In June. We should arrive in Australia in the cooler weather, giving us time to adjust to the change in the climate.’
‘Boo!’ Fay declaimed plaintively. Molly scooped her up and hugged her unselfconsciously. ‘We’ve got a lot in common, you and me, Fay – we’re both motherless girls, you see . . . Would you like me to take her out into the garden again and amuse her, Mrs Nagel?’ she asked.
After a long pause, Mrs Nagel said coolly: ‘Better not. We really must go, we have a train to catch.’ However, she made no attempt to take the child from Molly’s arms.
Fay will need me, Molly thought. She’ll need cuddling and loving because it may take quite a while for her to win her grandmother over.
PART ONE
ONE
To Australia
They left Tilbury on a dazzling morning in June, having embarked the previous afternoon. Mrs Nagel, who had been in business importing and selling leather goods following the breakup of her marriage, had negotiated shrewdly with the shipping company for a large shared cabin.
Noting the six narrow bunks, Molly commented breezily: ‘It’s fortunate there are only four of us – Fay will take up most of the space with her paraphernalia!’
The baby’s collapsible canvas travelling cot was secured to Molly’s lower bunk for safety. ‘Now, we can’t have the little lass bowling back and forth when the ship starts rolling,’ remarked the rotund, cheerful purser, who would be responsible for their comfort and well-being during the six-week-long journey. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he added, catching a glimpse of a flaring match as Mrs Nagel took a cigarette from a shagreen box, ‘not allowed in the cabins. Fire risk, you know. However, smoking is allowed in the drawing room, naturally, ma’am. The gentlemen usually retire to the smoking room after dinner.’
‘You suggest I join them, then?’ she queried sharply, and closed the box with a snap.
The purser thought it wise to assume that ma’am was joking. He changed the subject swiftly. ‘The stewardess will be only too happy to see to the baby’s bottles for you. She will contact you shortly,’ he told Molly, swiftly concealing his surprise at her saucy wink.
She had privately nicknamed their travelling companion, Miss Elfie Wills, ‘Will o’ the Wisp’, for straying strands of her own mousy hair gave away the fact that she wore an auburn hairpiece. Miss Wills, she noted with a grin, was soon ensconced on the bunk furthest from the baby. She had obviously had little to do with children and obviously had no intention of being called upon to act as substitute nurse. Her precious possessions were placed in an orderly fashion on the upper bunk, including religious books and a bulging knitting reticule. Molly had already glimpsed a hank of harsh puce wool. She hoped it was not to be knitted up into a garment for Fay. Concealed under Elfie’s pillow, closer to hand, in case the ship sank in a hurry, was her family bible, potent smelling salts, a leather wallet containing documents and photographs, and a discreet small bottle of brandy, which she told the others was for warding off seasickness. Molly saw her taking a nip or two even before the first throbbing of the ship’s engines. Mind you, she had a treasure or two secreted under her own pillow.
Elfie had already told the kindly purser about her brother who, two years earlier, had taken a free passage to New South Wales, having lodged the required deposit with the State Government as a guarantee that he would settle. He had built a homestead fit for a wife, but – or so her captive audience deduced – believing family to be cheaper, had sent for his unmarried sister to act as his housekeeper. His frugality was confirmed when Mrs Nagel interrupted this saga with the dry comment that they, of course, would be paying guests.
*
Alexandra Nagel unclasped her heavy dressing case and seated herself by the handbasin and mirror to apply powder to her nose, which was shining following all the recent exertion, and to tidy her luxuriant hair. She regarded her pale face critically. More lines, she saw to her chagrin, had recently been etched around her mouth and under her eyes. Yet the black dress suited her colouring, she thought vainly. She had actually favoured black for many years, believing it gave her the appearance and status of a wealthy widow rather than a divorcee.
She tested the pin of the oval brooch, set around with milky pearls like tears, to ensure that Fay’s tugging fingers had not disturbed the safety catch. She had carried her aboard earlier while Molly managed their hand baggage. She glanced down at the curl of hair behind the glass facing of the brooch. Did one ever fully recover from the devastating loss of a child? she wondered, biting at her lower lip to stem the rush of forbidden tears – especially when mother and daughter had been at odds with one another . . . Why had she never been able to tell Lucy that she loved her? Now, it was too late.
Fay rocked impatiently in her cot - she hated being restrained. It was a nuisance, Alexandra thought, that although she was now walking, she was not proficient enough to be let loose in the cabin. She had forgotten how demanding children of this age were. Yes, it was a good thing Molly was with them, even though she anticipated that the girl would try her patience at times. She, like Lucy, was not averse to answering back.
Molly intercepted her look, interpreted her sigh. ‘You won’t be able to keep Fay down for long,’ she murmured.
Alexandra was forced to admit to herself that flighty young Molly was surprisingly competent with the baby. Sister Margaret Mary had been right: Molly certainly had a rapport with young children. The small fry at the convent would miss her.
‘I think it would be – easier,’ Alexandra said now to Molly, ‘if you were to address us by our first names. Perhaps you would care to call me Alexa, as Elfie does. D’you agree, Elfie?’
There was a faint moan from her bunk where she lay limply, with a guest towel soaked in eau de cologne pressed firmly to her closed eyes.
Elfie, Molly mused, obviously did not care for her. She didn’t realise it was because she was too vibrant, too outspoken, too young, too much . . .
‘We haven’t even steamed through the Channel yet, Elfie,’ Molly informed her cheerfully. ‘I think she agrees to the informal touch, Alexa. I certainly do!’
‘Oh, I guessed you would,’ her employer returned, and actually smiled at herself in the mirror.
*
Seasickness took its toll of Molly, Alexa and Elfie between Gibraltar and Naples. After dinner, which she had been determined to attend even though she could only manage to eat a bread roll and had to wave away the lobster salad, Molly was obliged to lean over the rail while she heaved her heart out. She wasn’t up to deck games in the day, or dancing at night, but she carried out her duties determinedly.
Elfie was confined to bed, groaning each time the ship lurched and rolled, sending the loathsome receptacles hurtling back and forth across the cabin boards, invariably spilling some of the contents. Then Alexa would summon h
elp: an elderly woman would arrive with a clanking bucket and mop, and then there was a strong odour of carbolic everywhere, which was also intolerable . . .
When the cleaner departed, with a cheerful ‘See you soon, ladies!’ Alexa, whey-faced, downed a large tooth glass brimming with brandy and sprinkled eau de cologne all over her pillow, before lying down and attempting to sleep.
Fortunately, Fay seemed unaffected, sleeping soundly each night despite the turbulence. Molly, naturally, had to keep going, for her sake.
*
When they reached Naples, Molly and Alexa, on wobbly legs, went on deck to marvel at the views. They were glad to leave Elfie, still languishing on her sickbed, wafting the smelling salts under her quivering nostrils, who had reluctantly agreed to keep an eye on Fay while she had her after-lunch nap.
Alexa, clutching her well-thumbed guidebook, informed Molly that nowadays all large sea-going vessels used the modern landing stage opposite Via Duomo. ‘Naples was completely transformed when the tumbledown, overcrowded buildings were razed some years ago in an effort to combat cholera: it’s no longer so picturesque, those narrow alleys gone forever,’ she added with regret. ‘I explored them all when my parents brought me here on a cruise. I was about your age, Molly.’
‘It’s a shame we can’t go ashore, and that we’re only here for the coaling,’ she said.
‘At least we’re getting a glimpse,’ Alexa replied. They could hear the voluble, excited chattering of the Italian dock workers, far below their lofty platform. ‘It’s only two months since Vesuvius erupted, they can’t take any risks, Molly.’
‘It’s strange, isn’t it, that the volcano blew up just twelve days before that terrible earthquake in San Francisco?’
‘You rarely get a single disaster.’
‘I read all about it in the paper – apparently there was a glowing, searing circle around the volcano which completely cut off many villages and towns.’ Molly could picture it vividly. ‘My parents spent their honeymoon in Naples. It must then have been more as you remember it.’
Molly's Journey Page 1
