Molly's Journey

by Sheila Newberry

  Thom had arranged their first employment as Kelly and Sparkes with his old friends, the Jangles, who provided the caravan and horse. This would enable Molly and Rory to venture on to Europe unencumbered, and easily arrange lodgings. Some of the big circuses were now on permanent sites.

  Rory protected her unobtrusively. When there was hard work to be done on arrival at the site, he was ready and willing. When youngsters on the tober asked Molly to join in with their impromptu games of football, she agreed enthusiastically. ‘You don’t have to talk,’ as she told Rory later with a grin. ‘Just yell – and score a goal now and then through the tent poles, then run like mad!’ However, after the evening performance they kept themselves to themselves. He was the better cook, but they didn’t manage many hot suppers. ‘If only Cora was here,’ Molly mused.

  *

  The audience were noisy, cheerful, expectant. The antics of the clowns really stirred them up. When Rory staggered into the spotlight in the ring, put down his swag and rested against a gum tree to eat his tucker, they were instantly transported to the back of beyond. Many round here had relatives down under. Some never heard from again, most would never return. ‘Waltzing Matilda’ died away and was replaced by a slow, muffled drum beat.

  A disembodied voice began to proclaim:

  ‘Not yet a year ago, in Australia in 1907, Cooktown, already a ghost town, was flattened by a cyclone. When this young toe-ragger, this tramp, passed through, he gained an unexpected companion . . . Watch the bluey!’

  The focus was now on the tramp’s bundle, the bulging blue and grey striped blanket, his swag. Slowly, the bluey began to roll away from its owner, then, gathering momentum, it gyrated and shook alarmingly all round the ring, finally coming to a halt back by the tree. The audience sucked in their breath as the knot on the blanket twisted this way and that, and finally unravelled. More gasps as first one small bare foot and then another emerged. Two slender legs waved in the air, the blanket fell away, and a young boy with floppy golden hair waltzed away from it on his hands as the music began again; then he flipped over and over in blurring swift succession before taking a bow to thunderous applause.

  His companion scratched his head, yawned and rubbed his eyes. Then he rose, caught hold of the boy and tossed him in the air. Curled like a ball, the boy bounced back into his outstretched hands; another swift movement, and he was balancing on the other’s shoulders. No amount of handsprings could dislodge him: they were in tandem.

  The older youth untied a rope from round his waist, still with his burden on his back. He wound it round the tree trunk, walked away and fastened the other end to a convenient pole; bending over, he tested the rope for bounce with his hands then decanted the boy, with a determined jerk, on to the rope. He swayed alarmingly – would he fall?

  He straightened up, found his balance, and began to juggle with items thrown to him by his irate partner: half a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, a folded jack-knife, a cap. The small feet clung like limpets, shifting with the rhythm of the juggling; the boy grinned widely, and the crowd cheered as he chucked it all back to his companion.

  The tramp, he of the holey socks and disreputable boots, slumped back against the tree, tore a lump from the bread, cut the cheese with his knife, stuck the cap on his head. He did not appear to notice as the little juggler wriggled his way back into the bluey and tied the knot. A sigh of ‘A-ah . . . ’ rippled through the crowd.

  *

  They made way for the stately camels, about to parade round the ring, as they slipped through the back flap. The white-faced Auguste clown patted Molly on the head: ‘Well done, boy! Got ‘em eating out of your hand, you have.’

  ‘Well done,’ Rory repeated in her ear. ‘I wish I could kiss you, but I daren’t. Thom and Cora would have been very proud of you if they had seen your performance tonight, your best yet.’

  ‘I couldn’t do it without your support, bless you, Rory,’ she said. ‘Quick, pass me the rest of that grub, will you? I’ve expended all my energy!’ Food somehow tasted really good, she thought, even plain old bread and cheese, sweating a bit, when eaten among the powerful mingled odours of the circus.

  *

  There was a package waiting for Molly, addressed merely to M Sparkes, as she had requested, at the main post office – she had promised Alexa and Nancy to keep them as up-to-date as possible regarding her whereabouts.

  ‘Nothing from my lot yet.’ Rory was disappointed.

  ‘Be patient! It’ll be another week or so before they’re back in Melbourne.’

  They sat on a seat on the front, looking out to sea, watching the family parties, still well wrapped up against the bracing wind, and Molly unwrapped her parcel, exclaiming: ‘Oh, look, Rory – isn’t this wonderful?’

  Protected by cardboard was a sepia-coloured photograph, postcard-sized: a picture of a laughing girl in a daringly brief costume, sparkling with sequins and revealing shapely legs, her hair piled high in carefully arranged curls. Molly spotted a ring on her engagement finger. She put her hand involuntarily to her neck, to be sure her own ring was safe.

  ‘It could be you, Molly,’ Rory exclaimed, disregarding the Norfolk jacket and knee breeches she wore this morning. They still smelt musty: they had discovered boys’ clothes in a chest of drawers at the farmhouse and Molly had pounced gleefully on them for future use.

  ‘Don’t you see, Rory – it’s my mother, Florence Almond! Look, on the back:

  DARLING EDWARD FROM FLORENCE WITH LOVE, 1886.

  There was a brief accompanying note, in her father’s handwriting.

  Dear Molly,

  I know you have a photograph of your mother, but this one seems very appropriate. She gave it to me when we became engaged.

  I think you look like her now: she was about your age when it was taken. Keep it, with my love, my dear.

  Your affectionate father,

  Edward Sparkes

  Rory had noticed the ring, too. ‘I wish you would wear Mum’s ring for me, Florence Almond’s daughter. And I wish you would put on a dress when we go out together and stop pretending that you are not very feminine under your disguise – ’cause I know better! You can’t deny that, can you?’

  ‘Well, look, I’m having fun being Monty right now, but I’ll have to be Molly once we’re travelling abroad, of course. You won’t have to endure the smell of mothballs for much longer anyway, I reckon these hairy tweed knickerbockers will be far too hot when the sun shines! As for any other commitment, let’s carry on as we are. Isn’t it enough that our names go together, Kelly and Sparkes?’

  ‘I’d like it to be Kelly and Kelly . . . ’

  On the same day in August that Molly, pretty and cool in a summery dress sprigged with tiny rosebuds, steamed across the channel with Rory towards Europe, Nancy moved up another notch in Nagel’s, becoming a junior sales assistant in the showroom.

  This brought her into closer contact with Mr Loom, but she admitted to herself that she was relieved not to be closeted with Art all day. She was painfully aware that she had disappointed him, hurt his feelings, by the invisible barriers she had instinctively raised between them as their relationship became more intense. It couldn’t lead anywhere, she thought sadly. A decent young chap like Art deserved a girl without a past. She made excuses not to go out with him on a Saturday night, and after some time he stopped asking her. He sloped off at lunchtimes by himself; Nancy stayed in the sales ladies’ restroom, picking at a packed lunch and writing letters to Molly even though she really had nothing to say.

  Mr Loom watched her unobtrusively, wistfully. Once she had conquered her initial uncertainty, she fitted in well. She looked quite the young lady in her long, narrow skirt and neat tucked blouses with a black velvet bow at her throat. Her freckles were fading in the English climate, her hair had deepened to golden brown and her hands were no longer rough. Customers liked her willingness to help, her knowledge of leather. They remarked on her accent and asked about Australia. She was a real asset to t
he company.

  *

  ‘You never brought that nice girl home no more,’ Art’s mum observed as her son applied a pin to the winkles on his plate. Nothing like a dish of seafood for Friday supper, as she often said. ‘Flash in the pan, your friendship, was it?’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Art took a large bite of bread and butter. He couldn’t talk with his mouth full. Mum made them all mind their manners. He was going to make an announcement in a short while, though, but he was still mulling over what to say.

  When he did speak up, Mum spilt tea on the tablecloth in her agitation, and then there was panic, with the girls running for a cloth and mopping up to try to prevent a strain. Darns was one thing, as Mum said, they showed you cared for your nice linen – tea stains was hard to shift. Sign of a slovenly housewife.

  ‘I said,’ he tried again, ‘I’ve given it a good go at Nagel’s but it’s time to move on now I’ve plenty of experience. There’s a job going in a stockbroker’s in the city; lot of running here and there to start with, but good prospects, I hear.’ Less pay, and back really to being an office boy, but he wouldn’t let on. That would really upset Mum. Dad, of course, just grunted. A labourer, his father. Mum was the one with the ambition. The girls weren’t going into service when their turn came. Oh, no.

  ‘Might have asked our advice,’ she said at last, giving up on the tablecloth. That stain would always remind her of the day Art had sprung this news. She suspected that Nancy had something to do with it. Lovesick, her poor boy. She added: ‘Mrs Nagel’ll be sorry to see you go, I’m sure – told her yet?’

  He swallowed hard. ‘I left today. Start the new job on Monday.’ He’d said goodbye to Nancy, shaken her hand. She’d looked upset, but it was too late to change his mind. Best not to see her again, even though she’d said: ‘Keep in touch, will you, Art?’ There was an envelope in his pocket, given to him by Mr Loom with Mrs Nagel’s handwriting on the front:

  MR GRAY, IN APPRECIATION OF ALL YOUR HARD WORK.

  He knew it contained money. Mum could have it. He’d lost Nancy, and he didn’t understand why.

  ‘I thought you was settled at Nagel’s?’ Mum sighed now.

  ‘I was, but—’

  But you can’t bear seeing her every day, his mum realised. ‘Well, perhaps it’s for the best, boy,’ she said slowly.

  ‘I’ll buy you a new cloth,’ he said, then got up from the table without an excuse-me and went out of the room.

  SIX

  They’d made it! Kelly and Sparkes were low down on the bill, it’s true, but they were with one of the big circuses, and in Paris. There was one evening off, per week for exploring and going to a spectacular show where the dancers had longer legs than Molly and much more voluptuous figures. The plush seats, the thrills, the glasses of wine: she snuggled closer to Rory and did not demur when his arm went round her and his fingers lightly caressed her waist, then daringly inched higher, through the silken folds of her gown. She seemed powerless to stop him; she didn’t want to . . .

  They stayed overnight in a small boarding house, in an unfashionable back street. Their rooms were cramped, not too clean, over-furnished and the sash on the windows was broken, but it didn’t dispel the magic.

  She knew very well what would happen if she was foolish enough to invite him into her room. However, she returned his ardent kisses; permitted him to hold her close outside the firmly closed door. His voice was muffled as his lips moved against her bare throat: ‘Oh, Molly, Molly, you’re making it hard for me, you know.’

  Why? she asked herself later, as she let her clothes drop in a heap on the floor. I could marry him, then I wouldn’t have to fend off illicit passion; I admit he knows exactly how to rouse my emotions, but I’m still chasing that elusive dream . . . Henny, where are you? D’you ever think of me? Don’t they say the first love is the best love?

  *

  Molly’s diary, neglected since her return from Australia, was now filling up rapidly: there was so much to write about, so much she wished to record and not forget as they moved on constantly, into the autumn, in warmer climes. In Madrid, Molly met Hanna, a Danish trapeze artiste, and toyed with the idea of adding new skills to her acrobatics; however, Rory dampened her enthusiasm when he told her he had no head for real heights. He was becoming rather possessive, she thought, seemingly unaware of her need for other friends, particularly a girl friend. She had not had a confidante since Nancy.

  She watched Hanna at practise one day, marvelling at her agility, her confidence, as she hurtled through the air and was caught by her brother. This was yet another family act, one much higher in the billing than their own. ‘Hello Molly!’ Hanna called cheerily as she came swinging down to the ground on the rope. Rory was right in this respect. It was good to be Molly again and to save Monty for the performance.

  ‘I brought you a mug of tea,’ Molly said. ‘It’s still hot.’ They sat in ringside seats and observed Rory in the trinka, and the elephants obediently following their trainer through their familiar routine. She seized her chance with Rory otherwise occupied. ‘Can I ask you something in private?’

  ‘You don’t wish to make him jealous, eh?’ Hanna had deep dimples that transformed her chubby face. She was a stocky, muscular young woman, but under the bright lights she appeared beautiful, in shimmering silver.

  ‘How did you guess? It’s just that when I was in Australia I knew someone else who came from Denmark – he went back there before I left.’

  ‘Where? Denmark consists of a series of islands – Faroes, Jutland. You have an address?’

  ‘No . . . But his name is Rasmussen; Henning Rasmussen.’

  ‘I have to tell you, Molly, that Rasmussen is a name like – like Smith, in your country. We come from Copenhagen, we are cosmopolitan. Your friend?’

  ‘He was – I believe still is – a farmer in a small way. Dairy cows, I think. I don’t know.’ She added inconsequentially: ‘He carved me a little horse from wood—’

  ‘Did he ever say huus or sted?’ Hanna speculated. ‘That is a cottage farm – a bigger place is a gaard. A bondergaarde is a peasant farm, likely freehold. But, as in your country, lately, there has been a depression in agriculture. Our farmers are anxious, there is very little money to be made. Maybe that is why he went to Australia, though most emigrate to the United States or Canada. But in Jutland, we hear from family there, is nowadays much planting of pine trees on the heathland. This may help the economy. Does this help your thoughts or does it confuse you?’

  ‘You’ve made me realise that it is probably impossible to find him,’ Molly said disconsolately. Her hands suddenly trembled, her cup rattled. Why was she always so naive? she wondered. She should have known it was unlikely that Hanna and Henning would be acquainted.

  ‘Then you must hope that one day he will come looking for you.’

  Rory had finished his juggling. He stood up, looking round for Molly. When he spotted them, he waved a hand.

  ‘Rory adores you, I think,’ Hanna said perceptively.

  ‘And I am very fond of him.’ Molly sounded defensive.

  ‘You are lovers?’ her friend asked bluntly.

  Molly was shocked. ‘No!’ She blushed deeply.

  ‘He would like this, so?’ Hanna’s dimples flashed. ‘That I can see.’

  ‘He wants to marry me,’ Molly told her, cheeks aglow. Scandinavians, she had discovered, were very direct while she had not yet thrown off all the strictures of her upbringing at the convent school. Rory was beckoning her to join him. She pretended not to see him. ‘But—’

  ‘But you love another. This Rasmussen?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. It didn’t last long. It would be easy for me to settle for Rory: I know his family, we all get on so well. He and I – well, if I put my heart and soul into it, we could be happy, I think. But doesn’t everyone hanker for something more, Hanna?’

  ‘He is coming . . . Me, I aspire to the double somersault on the trapeze! So few artistes can do this. And they say Al
fredo Cordona, the Mexican, is determined he will one day do the triple. Can you imagine it? To fly through the air is my great love in life. But I would not do it without the safety net. Maybe Rory Kelly is your net.’

  *

  Back in Bodenflower, the pastor’s wife was handed a letter by her Ernst. ‘Mrs Mac diverted it, as it was addressed to Frank.’

  Unfamiliar writing, an indistinct postmark, but obviously a missive from overseas: Elfie tentatively tore open the envelope. She read aloud:

  Dear Mr Wills,

  About eighteen months ago, I wrote to Miss Molly Sparkes care of your address. I was not fortunate to receive her reply before I returned to Denmark.

  By now she will, I presume, be back in England. May I respectfully enquire from you her address? Or, if you prefer, would your sister be kind enough to let Miss Sparkes have mine, so that if she wishes, she may contact me? My grateful thanks in any case.

  I hope all is well with you and Miss Wills.

  Most sincerely,

  H Rasmussen (former stockman on the farm)

  Elfie was already flustered. ‘What shall I do, Ernst? Goodness knows where Molly is at present with that circus.’

  Sitting opposite her at the table, he tapped the teapot meaningfully. ‘A cup of tea will help you decide but my advice is, it is best to write to her care of Alexa. She would forward the letter or keep it for Molly’s return, whichever is best. Then Molly must make her own mind up whether to respond. May I have one of these small cakes or are they intended for the sewing party this afternoon?’