Nancy, sitting between Molly and Art, who was at the end of the row after he had gallantly ushered them through, caught his glance and returned it with one of her little half-smiles. She thought how presentable he looked in his best grey lounge suit, with his narrow, sharply creased trousers which she rightly guessed he had pressed himself while his mother’s iron was still hot, and the tall white linen collar, dazzling in its newness, so different from the carefully sponged celluloid collar he wore every day. She was aware, of course, that Molly had stage-managed the seating arrangements. Dear Molly, Nancy thought, always the romantic. I’m very drawn to him, I can’t help myself, but I can’t quite quell those niggling little fears . . . Will I ever be able to put the past behind me?
He gave her a nudge. ‘You look very pretty tonight, Nancy,’ he said, for her ears only.
It was true, she did look attractive, if demure, in a dove grey dress with creamy lace jabot plus a shoulder cape and hat in navy blue; an outfit she had proudly purchased herself from her saved-up wages. Hardly the outfit to fire a young man’s passion, though.
Navy blue was certainly appropriate tonight: The Best Juveniles were very popular with the audience and responded accordingly – they really were excellent acrobatic dancers. ‘Reminds me of the circus, does it you?’ as Molly whispered excitedly to Nancy. The three girls wore spanking clean sailor suits. Their singing was feeble but as everyone joined in with the choruses of the sea-shanties, this didn’t seem to matter one bit. They pulled on the ropes with gusto and back-flipped all round the stage to rousing cheers.
Then came Arthur Prince, the ventriloquist, dressed as a naval officer, and his dummy, Jim, a cheeky rating. The audience’s sympathies were, of course, with the animated Jim, not his long-suffering superior whose lips hardly twitched, thus fostering the illusion.
‘Wonder how he does it?’ Art muttered through his own teeth.
Alexa wore a scarlet ruched cape, more in keeping with the opera, but the great Lottie Collins, one of the main attractions of the evening, was in red, too: a daringly short frock bunched out by layers of pretty petticoats. Incongruously, she wore a Gainsborough hat, secured firmly to her bouncing curls. Art, like the rest of the males present, wore a foolish grin.
The audience rose as one, even Alexa after a prod from an over-enthusiastic Molly, to sing along with Lottie until they were hoarse, many adding their own risqué words. Nancy blushed like mad when she got the gist of these, especially as Art was gripping her hand. It didn’t matter; Lottie Collins, despite the fact that she was pushing forty, could pirouette and kick like a lithe young girl. They could not bear to let her go and she did not let them down.
It was a wonderful, sparkling evening’s entertainment. The party were still humming the finale song, that favourite of the troops in the recent Boer War, the evocative ‘Goodbye, Dolly Gray’. They were about to round the evening off with something to eat and, more importantly, drink, for they were all husky from singing and laughing.
Art quoted from the programme, smoothing it out on the restaurant table. By unspoken consent they had gone to the nearest refreshment place; excitement was exhausting, after all. ‘ ”Goodbye Dolly” was first performed in 1900 by Hamilton Hill – he was an Australian singer, Nancy.’
‘Fancy that!’ She reached out and tapped Molly’s hand. ‘I bet you can kick just as high as Lottie Collins, Molly.’
‘But not reveal as much, I hope,’ Alexa put in, with a mere twitch of her own mouth, hiding her surprise at Nancy’s bold words.
Art speared a large wedge of hot pie onto his plate, with his fork. ‘Go on,’ he challenged the girls, ‘how about letting me into the secret, then? What’s this celebration really about, eh? I know Molly’s going away but . . . ’
He’d quite forgotten that he was sitting down to supper with his boss, until she said drily: ‘You might as well enlighten him, Molly, but I don’t suppose he’ll be as surprised as you might imagine . . . And don’t be too long about it as I anticipate an awful night with indigestion after eating all this rich food so late.’
‘I mean ter say . . . ’ Art murmured, after the telling. He tried to jiggle his eyebrows as George Robey had done earlier when he intoned this familiar catchphrase, but it didn’t have the same effect without the incongruous school cap and the jaunty pipe.
Alexa surprised them all – proved that she’d really enjoyed the entertainment too. She lifted her hand in a Robeyish salute and told Art: ‘Desist! Time to go home. You may escort us to the tram, Arthur.’
*
‘Art’s really nice, isn’t he, Nancy?’ Molly hinted as they sat chatting on the edge of her bed. Alexa had taken a dose of bicarb and gone straight upstairs on their return. The girls weren’t tired at all. Anyway, it was Sunday tomorrow, a day of rest. On Monday Alexa would see Molly off on the train, and Nancy would go to work as usual, but not in the workroom – to her surprise Alexa had informed her, just before they went out tonight, that she was to replace Molly in the office. She had actually enjoyed the sewing and learning about leather, but she was secretly relieved to be leaving Minnie who was right when she said they didn’t need her there. A little thrill bubbled up inside her at the realisation that she would be working with Art from now on. She hoped he would be as pleased as she was.
‘Mmm. He is,’ Nancy agreed.
‘He really fancies you, you know.’
‘I do know.’
‘I didn’t get the chance to take you two to the pud shop after all – now you can go by yourselves, but I want it still to be my treat. You’re to write often and tell me how the romance is progressing. Don’t protest, Nancy, I shan’t believe you . . . Oh, I’ll miss you.’
‘And I’ll miss you, Molly Sparkes.’
*
‘That you, Art?’ his mother called out when he crept past her towards the winding narrow stairs which led to the little box room where he was privileged to sleep alone, being the only son. ‘Have a good time?’
He poked his head round the door. She was reading the newspaper he always brought home for her on Saturday afternoons after his morning’s work. He saw her by the light of the candle, as she smoothed the paper and folded it neatly. ‘Finished with it, dearie. You want it?’
He shook his head. ‘No, thanks. Looked through the news, when I was on the bus.’
His dad stirred a bit then gave vent to an ear-splitting snore that shook the bed.
‘Don’t know how you can put up with that racket,’ Art told her. ‘Had a good time, you asked. The best, I’d say.’
‘A pretty girl have anything to do with that?’
‘Two pretty girls. Remember, I told you? And the fierce Mrs Nagel, only she was quite different tonight. But one who was special—’
‘Sweet dreams, then, son. And long may they last.’ Another rasping snore from the sleeper beside her. She sighed. ‘Just think, he was my big romance, twenty years ago.’
*
They followed the porter briskly bowling Molly’s luggage along the platform to the waiting train. Liverpool Street Station on a Monday morning in mid-October, mid-morning: they had purposely evaded the early rush and crush.
The carriage door was open. Suddenly they were clutching each other tightly and Molly became aware that Alexa’s eyes were full of unshed tears. Instantly she felt like crying herself, even though she had scarcely slept all night in delightful anticipation of being reunited with her friends from the circus.
Alexa actually sniffed: ‘I’ll miss you, Molly. Now, promise me you’ll send a telegram to let us know you have arrived safely, won’t you?’
‘Oh, Alexa, you’ve reminded me of that at least a dozen times, but of course I will – and I’ll write to you and Nancy regularly – and I’ll miss you too, you know.’
A flash of the old Alexa then. ‘Oh, you’ll be far too busy enjoying yourself!’ Another hug, then she straightened Molly’s hat for her, with a little shake of her head, and stepped back, as Molly stepped aboard.
&
nbsp; ‘Look after Nancy,’ she called as the engine gathered steam. ‘And give my love to Fay when you see her next weekend. Oh, and say hello to Matthew for me, won’t you?’
‘I will!’
*
Mr Loom took Nancy into the office, and she enjoyed the startled expression that came over Art’s face.
‘You’ll look after Miss Atkins, I’m sure, Mr Gray – show her the ropes as you did Miss Sparkes? There’s plenty of filing for you to do this morning, Miss Atkins, the usual task for one new to office work. It’s simple but tedious, I’m afraid,’ he added apologetically. ‘I must go now – Mr Walter to advise of the change. Plenty to do before Mrs Nagel comes in this afternoon.’
‘This is a bit of all right,’ Art said when Mr Loom had gone. ‘You didn’t say—’
‘I didn’t know myself until Saturday, Art.’
‘Wonder what old Minnie’ll think?’
‘She’ll be pleased. But I must say, I’ll miss Walt and Aggie, they’ve both been very kind to me.’
‘Well, I thought I was going to be lonely today. I was wondering who they might employ in Molly’s place.’
‘I feel rather nervous,’ Nancy confessed, seating herself at the desk and looking at the pile of invoices she was to shuffle.
Unexpectedly, Art ruffled her hair from behind, making her jump and her heart thump. ‘Not of me, I hope. I promise you I’ll be completely businesslike while we’re together in this room. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you?’
‘Art!’ she exclaimed.
‘Out of work, mind,’ he continued, ‘it will be very different, that’s another promise!’
FOUR
It was good to breathe country air again, Molly thought, after the fug and fogs of London, as she and Rory bowled along the winding lane from the station in the governess cart.
They passed clusters of cottages clinging together against the winds that blasted across the North Sea from Russia. Minuscule front gardens were crammed with hardy plants: tree lupins, curly kale, periwinkle, swaying ferny tamarisk.
The Kellys’ winter quarters were in a dilapidated farmhouse built on a rise, looking down on the village below. The land surrounding it, long sold, was newly ploughed and richly brown after more rain. It had been an indifferent summer leading into autumn. Molly couldn’t help contrasting this with Frank’s spread in Australia. Here there were small fields, sheltered by traditionally layered hedges of hornbeam, hazel, ash, sloe, and shored by stout oaks; not vast areas wired or fenced on the perimeters.
Molly received a warm hug from Cora. ‘Here you are at long last, then!’ It was the welcome she had been half expecting from Rory when she’d alighted from the train, but his greeting had been more restrained. He merely took her hands in his and said: ‘I’m glad to see you are still wearing Mum’s ring.’
‘Thom!’ Cora called. ‘He’s busy setting up in the barn. You’ll be limbering up there tomorrow,’ she told Molly.
It was Suffolk dumplings in thick stew for lunch; just when Molly was thinking she’d have to excuse herself and sleep away an hour or two on her bed, Rory insisted that they go for a walk across the fields to the sea.
The heather seemed to stretch endlessly towards the cliff edge. ‘We’ve missed the glorious purple,’ Rory regretted. ‘It’s all scrubby and grey now.’ Both the sky and the sea were uncompromisingly grey, too. This stretch of soft sand and the crumbling cliffs above, not many feet high but hazardous to descend, was yet to be discovered by summer visitors.
They stood shivering on the beach, whipped by the wind, with the water lapping ever nearer their feet.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Molly said sincerely.
‘But chilly, eh?’ His arm went round her shoulders.
‘Oh, I love to feel the wind in my hair.’ She looked up at the dark clouds massing in the sky.
‘All wild and flowing, your locks,’ he said softly, his gaze suddenly intense. He drew her closer, and she knew he was going to kiss her. His lips were warm and moist. ‘There! You don’t mind, do you? Just to show you I’m really pleased to see you again.’
‘The feeling is mutual.’ A friendly kiss, she told herself. No more. But it made her feel warm, all the same, despite the cold.
*
‘I don’t like doing it,’ Cora said, tackling the tangles in Molly’s hair with a wide-toothed comb when they were relaxing by a welcome fire in the living room after supper. ‘You won’t be getting it all sea-sticky like this every day, after all.’
‘I made my mind up before I came, Cora. Please chop my hair really short, and then I’ll wash it and dry it by the fire before I go to bed. When Rory wrote telling me all about the new act he and Thom have dreamed up, I thought, if I’m to be convincing, appearing as a boy, not a girl, well, long hair would give the game away – don’t you agree, Rory?’ she appealed to him.
‘Molly’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘You’ve had plenty of practise Cora, trimming the poodles; a nice boyish bob, mind, not too masculine . . . Got the scissors?’
Cora nodded. ‘What d’you think, Thom?’
‘What I think, and what you’ll do, are two different things,’ he said enigmatically. ‘As long as you don’t leave a poodle-topknot.’
‘Now, there’s an idea!’ Molly laughed.
As the scissors snipped, she stared entranced into the leaping flame: Monty, that’s a good name, she thought. Like Molly, it goes with Sparkes. Then, just as the poodles did after a trimming, she shook her shorn head with pleasure.
*
Forward rolls, handstands, cartwheels, on the sawdust-strewn floor of the barn; Molly, in practice tights and loose top, punishing her aching limbs, sweating from her exertions and glad not to have masses of hair clinging damply to her neck.
Thom was an exacting tutor: No stalling or missing a trick. Get back on the bouncing rope – balance and timing, remember, young Mont? Stretch, stretch, now relax. Practise juggling with those balls whenever you’ve a spare moment. Don’t rush it – slowly does it. Rope burns on your hands? You’ll learn to ignore ‘em. If you don’t feel pain, you’re not giving it your best.
‘Maybe I’m too old to learn all this,’ Molly said disconsolately after a particularly gruelling session. ‘Fay could do better than me!’ She drooped against Rory as they squatted on bales of straw, drinking hot chocolate brought to them by a sympathetic Cora.
He cuddled her close, dropped a light kiss on her forehead. ‘Come the spring, the crowd will be cheering the Kellys, and Monty will be a star; I promise you.’
*
‘Think yourself someone, I s’pose,’ Minnie said sarcastically when she encountered Nancy in the cloakroom. ‘Anyway you’d never have made good in the workroom.’
No, you’d have made sure of that, Nancy thought miserably. But I can’t answer back. She hurriedly tidied her hair, replaced a pin more securely. She and Art were going to the steak and kidney pud shop this lunchtime. She didn’t want to quarrel with Minnie, she was just thankful she didn’t have to work with her any more.
Minnie caught at her arm to detain her. ‘Another thing: don’t think I haven’t noticed you making up to Mr Loom. I wonder what Madam would say if she cottoned on to that? Don’t imagine anything’ll come of it – he had a soft spot for me after I lost my husband. I didn’t encourage him, of course, but it wouldn’t have taken much. You’re not good enough for him. Not his sort, I tell you.’
‘I never imagined I was,’ Nancy managed, shocked by the tirade. ‘Please let me go, Minnie.’
‘Oh, your other beau’s waiting, is he? Go on then!’ Minnie gave her a shove, so that she caught her elbow on the door handle.
Funny-bone indeed! Nancy clutched her arm in agony, feeling quite dizzy, but she went downstairs and didn’t look back. The pain was such that she didn’t see Mr Loom standing at the bottom of the stairs, outside his office, until she cannoned into him. He held her steady, full of concern. ‘Are you all right, Miss Atkins?’
‘Ye-es . . . Ju
st knocked my elbow.’ She managed a weak smile.
He opened his door. ‘Come and sit down for a minute until it wears off,’ he suggested kindly.
You’re not his sort. The unkind words echoed in her head. But they were true, she thought. He wouldn’t be so nice if he suspected what her early life had been.
‘No, thanks!’ Nancy blurted out, ‘Arthur – Mr Gray – is waiting for me.’ And she scuttled off and left him standing there.
*
Mr Loom caught a later bus home that evening. He’d been in danger of making a fool of himself, he realised. Nancy must have misinterpreted his concern. Perhaps it was just as well. She was better off with a younger admirer – he’d noted the interest shown in her by young Art since she had taken Molly’s place in the office.
He opened his paper, but didn’t read it. Mother would be wondering where he was. He’d bought ham for tea; seen them both, in that popular shop, sitting at a table together, digging into their steaming meat pudding. But they were too absorbed in each other to notice him. They’d looked right together; of an age.
Mother did not call out as usual. She must have become tired of waiting; probably dozing, he thought. He unloaded the shopping before going into her room.
She wasn’t in her bed. She lay, in a heap of soiled bedclothes, on the floor. She must have been trying to crawl to the door when she’d died.
*
‘Just going to post a letter to Molly,’ Nancy called to Alexa soon after she arrived home that evening. ‘Shan’t be long.’
She’d upset Mr Loom, she was convinced of it. Travelling home alone for once had given her an unsettled feeling. She was determined to apologise, even though she wasn’t sure for what. Hopefully, he had caught the bus after their usual one. She knew where he lived.
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