Molly's War

by Maggie Hope

  Betty moved, turned over on to her side, seemed to settle into an easier sleep. Molly decided to go back to work. The girl would probably sleep for hours, sleep herself better. She tip-toed to the door and down the stairs and let herself out of the house.

  At three o’clock she was back. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on the work at all, had actually spoilt two pieces and Enid had been very annoyed, even when Molly had told her the reason.

  ‘You’d best go back then and make sure the lass is all right,’ the charge hand had finally said. ‘Mind, Mr Bolton will dock the time off your wages. He might fine you for these pieces an’ all. I don’t know, Molly Mason, if you’re going to take on the woes of all and sundry and let them affect your work, you’re not going to be much good to anyone, are you?’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she had agreed humbly. ‘I wouldn’t normally, but she’s only thirteen and in the house on her own, she’s got no mother.’

  ‘Away with you then, if you have to,’ Enid had said, her voice edged with bad temper, and Molly had left while the going was good.

  It was very quiet as she let herself into the house. Betty must be asleep, she thought, and took off her shoes before climbing the stairs though the cold from the thin cotton carpet seeped straight through her lisle stockings and her toes curled against it.

  ‘Betty?’ she murmured from the doorway. There was no movement from the bed. The fire was nearly out, the room chilly. Molly moved quietly to the grate, tried to poke the flames to life with as little noise as possible. Ash fell with a plop into the box beneath, a small plume of smoke rose. She added a couple of sticks, blew on the ashes until the sticks crackled then put on a couple of lumps of coal.

  Tip-toeing to the bed, Molly looked down at the still figure. ‘Betty?’ she said. Then louder, ‘Betty?’

  Oh, God! Betty was so white and still, her eyes not properly closed. She looked as though she wasn’t breathing. She had pushed back the eiderdown which Molly had brought from Eden Hope. Molly put a hand on her shoulder, her bare arm. Don’t let her be dead, she prayed. There was some slight warmth there, of course there was. Betty couldn’t really be dead. By heck, I’m getting morbid, Molly berated herself, and pulled the eiderdown up around the girl’s neck, tucking it in. She patted her cheek. ‘Betty!’ she cried, loudly now. ‘Betty!’ And she stirred, opened her eyes, tried to sit up.

  Molly was weak with relief. ‘Oh, Betty, you scared me half to death,’ she said, laughing almost.

  ‘My throat hurts,’ whispered Betty.

  ‘Wait, I’ll get you a hot drink,’ said Molly, and ran downstairs to the kitchen. She put on the kettle and rummaged in the press for Ovaltine, cocoa, anything.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, young woman?’

  Molly hadn’t heard the door opening and was startled when the angry voice spoke right behind her so that she almost dropped the packet of cocoa she was reaching for.

  ‘Oh, I’m so pleased to see you –’ she began as relief flooded through her.

  ‘Aye, I bet you are. I caught you nicely, didn’t I?’ Mr Jones was angry. His narrow nose quivered pinkly, his lips were moist with spittle. ‘Going through my press, eh? I suppose you’ve already been through all the drawers. Well, you can just pack your things –’

  ‘Shut up! Just shut your flaming mouth!’ Molly shouted, all the worry and agitation of the past few hours finding release in fury. ‘Do you think I want your measly groceries? You’re nothing but a mean old …’ She bit off the rest of the sentence, forcing herself to calm down as her eye fell on the cocoa and she remembered Betty.

  ‘Don’t you speak to me like that,’ Mr Jones began, but Molly broke in, her voice quieter.

  ‘Betty’s poorly. I think she needs the doctor.’

  ‘What, Betty is? She’s never bad. If this is just some excuse, I’ll soon find out.’

  ‘It’s no excuse. She’s in my bed upstairs. I put her there because it’s warmer. This house feels like an igloo.’

  ‘We’ll see about that! A daughter of mine in bed during the day …’

  Molly watched in disbelief as he marched up the stairs with the air of a teacher about to sort out a recalcitrant pupil. The kettle boiled and she made the cocoa, adding milk and two spoonfuls of sugar from her own supply. Putting on her shoes, she followed him up to her room.

  He was standing by the bed, looking stricken. Molly glanced at him and went round the other side with the cocoa, putting it down on the night table. Betty was lying with her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open, breathing fast in shallow breaths which barely raised the covers. She was unconscious.

  ‘I’ll get the doctor,’ Molly said.

  ‘No, I’ll go. You look after her, will you?’

  The man’s manner had changed completely. He seemed to have shrunk, gazing at Molly in appeal before turning and running for the door. She heard the front door bang and then there was silence but for the laboured breathing coming from the unconscious girl in the bed.

  Chapter Five

  ‘NATIONAL EMERGENCY!’ SAID Harry, his voice full of disgust. He sat on his hunkers in the typical miner’s resting position in the poor shade of a sparse bush. ‘Isn’t that just like the army? There could be a war in Europe any day and the powers that be think we should stay in India playing war games because of the National Emergency!’

  Jackson leaned back against a dusty rock, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his helmet tipped slightly forward to shade his eyes from the ever-present and pitiless glare of the sun. He grinned but there was no real amusement in his face.

  ‘And wouldn’t you think they would have had the two best soldiers in the entire British Army back there ready to defend old Blighty to the death? That would frighten old Hitler to death, wouldn’t it? He’d think twice before –’

  ‘Aw, shut up, Jackson, this is nowt to laugh at. What about our Molly? Poor lass, in that house all by herself. Why, man, she’s just a kid, isn’t she?’

  ‘I’m far from laughing, Harry. I just don’t know what we can do about it apart from what I’ve already done. We can’t just desert. How the hell would we get back anyway if we did? I’ve asked my mam and dad to keep an eye on her. I’m sure we’ll be going home soon at any rate.’

  Jackson stared grimly out at the dusty road, flanked with rocky outcrops. The platoon was strung out along it, taking what shade they could from the rocks as they ate their hard biscuit and bully beef, drank sparingly from their water bottles. There would be no more water until they got back to camp in six hours’ time, five if they were lucky.

  ‘Let’s have another look at that letter, lad,’ he said, and Harry rummaged in his top pocket and pulled out the well-thumbed sheets of cheap ruled paper. Jackson read it through, though he practically knew it by heart. Mind, she was a plucky one was Molly, he thought. This had been written very soon after her father’s death; the pain of her loss was clear to see in every sentence and yet she had tried to soften the blow for Harry. She’d written it must have been instantaneous, their dad hadn’t suffered, though the writing wavered a bit here. She’d asked if Harry could come home, but told him not to worry if he couldn’t.

  ‘I can manage fine, you know, I’m working at the clothing factory now, Mrs Pendle is very good too.’

  There was a round water mark right at the bottom of the page, though. Jackson fingered it. It had to be made by a teardrop.

  ‘I asked Mam to write back and tell me how she’s getting on,’ he said as he folded the sheets up carefully and handed them back to Harry. Jackson chewed on his bottom lip. ‘We won’t be long, you know, they will be sending us back,’ he went on as he rose to his feet, lifted his helmet and wiped his brow before settling it firmly back on his head.

  ‘Right then, you lot,’ he called along the line of men. ‘Let’s be having you. We have to make camp before dark.’ Jackson had only recently been promoted to corporal and Harry to lance-corporal. There were a few muttered grumbles which the men consid
ered obligatory but they got to their feet readily enough and the column set off down the dusty track.

  There was post in from England when they finally arrived at the gates, just as the sun sank beyond the hills in the distance and dark descended with startling suddenness. Nothing for Harry but a letter from Mrs Morley, Jackson’s mother. He skimmed through it then handed a page to Harry.

  … Molly Mason, poor lass, you were asking about her. She had to get out of the colliery house, you know. The pit’s working full strength and it was wanted, the gaffer said. He’s a hard manager that one. Any road, as to Molly, I can’t keep an eye on her because she’s left Eden Hope. According to Ann Pendle, she’s got a room over West Auckland way, near the clothing factory.

  I would have taken her in, I would, Jackson, but with your dad the way he was after the accident I didn’t realise till she’d gone. But likely she’ll be better off not having to take the bus to work and no doubt she’ll be sending word to Harry. Ann Pendle had a Christmas card from her …

  Harry handed the page back to his friend, saying nothing, thinking that this was the first time Molly hadn’t sent him a card and a present in time for Christmas.

  ‘She’ll be all right, I know she will. Right as rain once she gets over the first few weeks,’ said Jackson, and Harry nodded.

  But later, as Jackson collected his soap and towel and headed for the showers, he wondered about Molly. What sort of a Christmas had she had? Lonely, he dared to bet. She was a lovely lass but didn’t make friends easily. She was quiet, reserved, had been since the death of her mother. Surely they would get their orders to go back to Blighty soon? He had lied when he’d told Harry he thought Molly would be fine. In fact, he felt anxious about her.

  A strange sort of Christmas, Molly thought as she stood at the window of her bedroom and gazed out over the street. The familiar feeling of unhappiness was lodged in her chest. 1939. She hoped it would be a better year than 1938 had been for her but somehow she didn’t feel very optimistic.

  At least the holiday was over. Like Christmas, the celebrations had been subdued this year. She looked over to where her gas mask lay in its cardboard box on the bed beside her sewing basket. She was making a waterproof cover for it out of an old macintosh. It had been half-finished since Dad had died, now she was getting on with it at last. She drew the curtains across the window and went over to the bed. Picking up her needle, she threaded it and began to sew.

  She had stayed in her room over Christmas, apart from Chapel on Christmas morning. But the congregation was strange to her; only a few people and the minister had spoken to her, wished her a Merry Christmas. She had come home afterwards and locked herself in her room, putting on the wireless which she had brought from Eden Hope quietly, not wanting to disturb Mr Jones.

  Her needle faltered. If only Betty were still here they might have been friends. But she had gone into hospital with pneumonia and not come back. Instead she had been sent to the sanatorium high in Weardale. A shadow on the lungs, the doctor had diagnosed. It had come to light in the hospital and a good thing too, he’d said. He had said a lot of other things, such as the girl was too thin, almost undernourished, it was a miracle she had survived pneumonia. She was still very ill. Even if Molly could have afforded the fare, Betty wasn’t allowed visitors.

  Molly sighed and decided to play some music now, patiently twiddling the knobs on her radio until the crackling subsided and the sound of a dance band came out. They were playing a Noel Coward tune. What was it called? But there was a knocking at the door, loud over the music. She went to it but didn’t open it. Somehow she disliked being in the house alone with Mr Jones now Betty was away, always felt uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘Turn that damn’ thing off, will you? I’m off to my bed and I want to sleep, not listen to that racket all night!’

  ‘Righto. Sorry, Mr Jones.’

  Molly switched off the wireless and stood for a minute, curling her bare toes against the cold linoleum. She might as well go to bed too, she thought, and began tidying away the sewing things. The fire was almost out anyway and she couldn’t afford to use any more coal.

  In bed she picked up her library book from the night table and opened it. It was a Sherlock Holmes mystery. She would finish it and then be able to change it tomorrow. The branch library at West Auckland only opened three days a week.

  She was on the last chapter when the knocking came again. Startled, she jumped out of bed and pulled the coverlet round her.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Put that light out, do you think I’m made of money? The electric’s dear enough without wasting it. Any decent lass should be asleep by now any road.’

  Molly sighed. ‘Righto. Sorry, Mr Jones.’ Snuggling back under the bedclothes in the dark, she began to think about looking for different lodgings. Mr Jones wasn’t human, she thought. What a rotten life Betty must have had living here alone with him. She was probably better off in the sanatorium. At least she wouldn’t have her father carping on at her all the time. And once she felt better, of course, Molly reminded herself with a prick of conscience.

  Over the next week or two there was a subtle change in Mr Jones’s attitude. Molly was spending quite a lot of her dinner hours looking about for a new place. There were several rooms to rent but all of them were beyond her purse and she was beginning to despair of ever getting away from Adelaide Street. She even thought of going back to Eden Hope to see Mrs Morley and begging Jackson’s mother to take her in, if only on a temporary basis. (Oh, why wasn’t there a letter from India?)

  She picked up the small photograph of Harry and Jackson, resplendent in their new uniforms, arms round each other’s shoulders, both smiling out at her with well-remembered cheeky grins. It had been her Christmas present to herself, having the photograph framed. It had been taken by Taylor’s, the photographer’s in Bishop Auckland, not long before the two men sailed for India.

  Molly smiled at it, touched each tiny black and white face with her finger tip. They had always been together like that, the two lads, all through school and starting work together down the pit. The grins were wiped off their faces on the day they were both turned off in the depression. Molly had ached for their despair that day, hoped with them every time they went after jobs, shared their disappointment when work failed to materialise. Cried when they decided to go into the army as boy soldiers.

  Molly put the photograph back on the mantelshelf. Dear Lord, she was getting maudlin. She glanced at the marble clock. Five o’clock. It was time to go downstairs and start her meal, Mr Jones should be out of the kitchen by now.

  But was not. He was hovering around the sink, doing something with the tap.

  ‘Oh, you’re not finished, Mr Jones. I’ll come back,’ said Molly.

  ‘No, no, lass, come on in, I’m just putting a washer on this dripping tap. But I filled the kettle for you before I turned off the water.’

  ‘Oh … er, thanks.’ Molly was surprised at this consideration. Even more so when he turned to her, a spanner in his hand, and took a step or two forward.

  ‘Why don’t you call me Bart? Here we are, living in this house together, just the two of us. Mr Jones is a bit formal, isn’t it?’ His smile was unctuous.

  ‘Er … yes,’ she mumbled, and turned her back to rummage in the cupboard where she kept her few groceries. What was he up to? She felt decidedly uncomfortable now, her face burning as she moved a packet of dried peas aside, looking for the tin of beans which she had decided to have on toast. There it was, she had been looking at it all the time. Grabbing it, feeling all fingers and thumbs with embarrassment, she nearly dropped it as she looked round and found he was still standing by the sink, watching her. She looked down at the tin, pretending to read the label.

  ‘I’ll take this up to my room, I can easily make toast by the fire up there.’

  The half smile which had been playing round his lips disappeared. ‘No, you won’t, young lady,’ he snapped.
‘I won’t have the smell of food in the bedrooms.’ For a second or two he was back to his old self.

  ‘Sorry, you’re right,’ said Molly, not sure why she was apologising. She took a small pan from the rack and put the beans to heat on the gas ring by the range. Sticking a slice of bread on the toasting fork, she held it before the bars, glad of a reason to keep her back to him. Formless fears crowded coherent thought from her mind so that the toast was smoking by the time she snatched it away from the fire and the beans were bubbling furiously. She turned off the gas and went to look over her shoulder at him.

  ‘Mr Jones,’ she began but he had gone. Relief flooded through her. She scraped the burned bits off the toast and ate her scanty meal quickly, washed up and practically scuttled upstairs. This time she locked the door and put a chair under the door handle too though she smiled wryly to herself as she did so. Nothing has changed, she told herself. It was all in your imagination.

  The next day there was no chance of looking for somewhere else to live, the girls’ dinner hour was reduced by half as a rush order came in.

  ‘We’re changing over to uniforms, girls,’ said Mr Bolton, sounding eager. ‘There’ll be no slacking, we have to get the order out as soon as possible. Now, anyone who can stay back and work overtime tonight, put your name down on the list I’ve pinned on the notice board.’

  There was a buzz of conversation among the others on the line. Molly heard Joan Pendle’s jubilant voice above the rest. ‘Now I’ll be able to buy that dance dress in Doggart’s window. By, it’s lovely, an’ only five shillings down and a shilling a week. Are you going to the station dance on Saturday night, Enid?’