by Maggie Hope
There was a dance hall next to the station in Auckland, a five-piece band regularly playing there. Molly had never been but she had heard a lot about it from the other girls. For a moment she wondered what it was like to go to a dance like that then dismissed it from her mind. She had more important things to do with her money. Maybe she could even afford different lodgings.
Enid had moved on down the line and the girls were quiet as the wireless started to play and they bent over their humming sewing machines. Molly’s thoughts were with the boys, Harry and Jackson. She still hadn’t had a reply to her Christmas card or a thank you for the tie pin she had sent Harry. Nine-carat gold it was, with a minuscule red stone in the middle which the shop keeper had assured her was a ruby. Nice and light too, it hadn’t cost much to post. Soon it would be time to find him a birthday present, get it off in good time for his birthday in July.
It was not until six-thirty that evening when she came out of the factory to face a bitter cold wind which seemed to blow in her face no matter which way she turned, that Molly realised she had missed her hour in the kitchen. Cold and hungry, she paused in the lea of the gable end of the house. She could ask Mr Jones if she could use the kitchen now, though she knew he couldn’t abide the smell of food in the house in the evening.
Molly was reluctant to ask any favours of him but she was so hungry her stomach felt like a great empty hole. She’d had only had a tomato sandwich and an apple at dinner time. Pausing at the door, she changed her mind about going in and made her way back to the fish shop where the smell of frying fish made her feel dizzy. She spent half her overtime on a piece of fish and a bag of chips. Putting the newspaper-wrapped parcel inside her coat and buttoning it up, she sped back to the house. As she let herself in she prayed Mr Jones wouldn’t smell the fish. Luckily there was no sign of him and she hurried up the stairs and into her room, locking the door after her as usual.
She sat on the clippie mat she had brought from home and ate the fish and chips out of the paper, leaning forward to let the smell go up the chimney as far as possible. The fish was piping hot and flaky, the batter crisp and light, the chips done to a turn. Molly enjoyed them more than she had enjoyed any meal since before her father was killed.
The newly lit fire flamed and crackled, started as it was by the outer layers of the newspaper parcel. Warmth crept through her bones. Though it was late spring already according to the calendar, the north-easter still swept down the Wear valley and drew the flames upwards.
Replete, Molly screwed the inner paper into a ball and added it to the flames. She sat back against the chair and gazed at the fire, rubbing her neck which was aching after bending over the sewing machine for such long hours. She was tired. When she had drunk her Tizer she would wash and go to bed early with her book.
Relaxed now, her mind wandered off. She was back in another time, years before, when she and Harry were children and had pinched pea pods from the row in Dad’s garden, ducking down out of view of the house to eat sweet, not yet fully grown peas from the pod. She smiled now as she pictured it, the two of them giggling and laughing, thinking they were safe from detection, out of sight of the windows of the house. And there Dad had been, standing at the end of the row, trying to look stern. He had been out and come in by the garden gate.
‘But … why have you come this way?’ Harry had stammered, jumping to his feet, scattering pea pods. ‘You always use the back gate.’
‘I didn’t today, though, did I?’ Dad had asked, and the corners of his mouth had twitched. He hadn’t really been mad, thought Molly now. Not like Mr Jones would be if he found out about tonight’s meal.
‘Oh, what the heck!’ she said aloud. She had enjoyed it. Jumping to her feet, she began to prepare for bed.
Chapter Six
‘HITLER AND MUSSOLINI sign pact of steel.’ The headlines were on the board outside the newsagent’s window. Molly saw it as she rounded the corner from Adelaide Street and waited for the bus to go by before crossing the road to the factory. She was heavy-eyed this morning, had slept badly after last night’s greasy supper. Mr Jones had knocked on her door again after she had gone to bed and she had been startled out of her first sleep. Standing by the closed door she had asked what he wanted. Could he smell the faint aroma of fish which hung in the air?
‘Let me in a minute, Molly, I just want to talk to you,’ he had said.
‘I can’t, Mr Jones, I’m not dressed,’ she’d replied.
‘Aw, come on, do you think I haven’t seen a lass in her pyjamas before?’
Molly had stood there, shivering with cold. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Mr Jones.’
‘Why can’t you call me Bart? It’s only friendly like.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Jones,’ Molly had said firmly and went back to bed. She pulled the covers up over her ears, determined not to let him bother her, but despite that her heart beat fast and she was trembling. Was that the door handle turning?
‘I’ll speak to you in the morning then,’ he called.
‘Yes.’ It was a few minutes before she heard him shuffling away and another hour before she was relaxed enough to sleep after getting up and checking that the door was locked.
This morning she had been late in waking and had had to rush to work without her breakfast. Her landlord had already gone, thank goodness. But, oh, she knew she had to find somewhere else to live very soon.
There was a parcel by her sewing machine postmarked India. Molly forgot all her troubles when she saw it. She didn’t even wonder how it had got there, just sat and stared at it, her happiness intensified by her previous misery until she thought she might burst.
The parcel was still there unopened when the power was switched on and the wireless started churning out ‘Whistle While You Work’ from Disney’s Snow White.
‘Howay now, girls,’ Enid shouted, and the line settled down to work, heads bent over machines, khaki cloth whizzing under needles. For the minute it was enough for Molly to keep glancing at the parcel. Its brown paper covering was scuffed and torn in places after its journey halfway round the world. She was eager to open it when the morning break arrived at last. Some of the girls crowded round, curious about it.
‘Your birthday, is it, Molly?’ asked Enid.
‘No.’
Someone offered her a pen knife and she carefully split the paper and opened the cardboard box inside. On top there was a card with a picture of Father Christmas, mopping his brow as he staggered beneath a sackful of goodies under a blazing sun. ‘Merry Christmas’ was written in Harry’s handwriting.
‘Blimey!’ one of the girls said. ‘It’s a Christmas present. Nearly six months late an’ all.’
‘You brought it, didn’t you, Joan?’ asked Enid. ‘Where did you get it?’
She sniffed and didn’t reply for a moment.
‘Well?’ asked Molly.
‘It came to your old house a while ago. I just forgot to bring it.’ In fact her mother had been on at her over and over to take the parcel for Molly and Joan had only pretended to forget. This morning there had been a shouting match in the Pendle household about it.
‘You’ll take that parcel to the lass or I’ll come with you and take it myself!’ Ann had said.
‘Aw, why should I have to run about after her?’ Joan had retorted. ‘If she wants it, she can come over and get it!’
‘You’ll take it!’ Ann had lost her temper thoroughly and thrust the parcel into Joan’s arms. ‘Get along with you now, and you give it to her, do you understand me? I’m ashamed it’s been here so long.’
‘All right, all right,’ Joan had said in martyred tones. ‘I’ll take it.’
Now the other girls were looking at her strangely and she didn’t like it. It was all that stuck-up Molly’s fault. Joan glared at her. She was so like Harry. Her hair and eyes were lighter but she had the same straight nose and firm chin. Joan felt a pang of misery and turned sharply away.
‘Oh, get on with it,’ she said crossly. �
��I’m going to have my tea. I’ve got better things to do. It’ll only be rubbish any road.’ And she walked away, not wanting to think about Harry any more.
Joan looked over her shoulder, however, as there was a gasp from the girls. Molly had lifted out a shawl of palest blue silk, edged with a wide fringe. There was another gasp as a matching dolly bag emerged with a picture of the Taj Mahal embroidered in silver on the side.
‘Eeh … it’s lovely!’ one of the girls breathed. ‘By, you are lucky, Molly.’
Lucky? For a minute Molly’s happiness dimmed. Was she lucky after all that had happened to her? She shook her head. No, she mustn’t be bitter. It was a happy day, she was lucky to get such beautiful things. Surely such a lovely shawl had never been seen before in Eden Hope or West Auckland?
‘Now then, girls,’ said Enid, brisk again. ‘Get your tea or you won’t have time before the break is over.’
The girls moved away and Molly pulled out a letter from Harry. She would save it for the dinner hour, take it back to Adelaide Street and stow the beautiful shawl and dolly bag safely in her bedroom. She was packing it in the box carefully when she noticed there was something else: a letter from Jackson. Her happiness intensified. He hadn’t forgotten her. She was so happy she even smiled at Joan.
‘Thanks for fetching it in,’ she said. ‘How is your mother, by the way?’ She well knew it would be Ann who had insisted on Joan’s bringing it. But in her present mood she could even forgive the long delay.
The second half of the morning seemed interminable but at last Molly was free to pick up the parcel and run over the road and round the corner into Adelaide Street. She was panting as she opened the door and raced up the stairs to her bedroom. Leaving the door ajar, for she knew her landlord wouldn’t be in from work for hours yet, she sat on the bed and unpacked the box again, laying the presents carefully on the bedspread. Then she took the letters and went over to her chair by the fireplace and settled down to read Harry’s first.
I’m worried about you, petal. I don’t like to think of you alone in the house. Travelling to work too. You should watch out for yourself, there are some funny folk about. And can you afford it? You can’t be making much money. I’ve enclosed a money order for five pounds, it’s not much but it will help. Let me know if you need any more. I can let you have an allowance from my pay if you can’t manage, as I told you in my letter.
What letter? Molly wondered. Had there been a letter gone astray? For a minute she suspected Joan, but no, she wouldn’t do that. And why didn’t Harry know she was living in St Helen’s Auckland now? She had written to him, sent a Christmas present too. Molly shook her head and read on.
I don’t know when we’ll be coming back to Blighty but it can’t be long, not with the way things are over there. In the meantime, look after yourself and eat properly. You were always too thin, so don’t stint on food. And don’t go with any lads. You’re just a young lass, remember. And I know what lads are like, believe me. You’re my kid sister and I will be back soon to look after you. Think on it and be a good girl. You know Mam and Dad would expect it.
Your loving brother, Harry
P.S. I hope you like the shawl, pet. When we come home we’ll find a posh dance where you can wear it.
Molly had a grand bubbly feeling inside her. In one morning she had gone from black depression, where she’d felt completely alone and unloved, to a mood of bright optimism, which had once been her usual outlook on life but which she hadn’t felt since her dad was killed. She carefully folded the letter and put it back, glancing at the clock. Goodness, she only had five minutes to get back to her machine. It was amazing how fast half an hour could go. Promising herself she would save Jackson’s letter until the evening, she rushed back to the factory, completely forgetting that she’d had no dinner.
By six o’clock Molly was light-headed. The noise of the machines and the wireless still rang in her head as she crossed the road towards Adelaide Street. Calling at the grocer’s on the main road, she bought a couple of eggs. She would do herself scrambled eggs or an omelette, she thought. Her empty stomach ached almost as much as her head.
Mr Jones was in the kitchen, sitting by the oil-cloth-covered table and reading the Evening Gazette. Molly hesitated in the doorway.
‘Can I use the kitchen, Mr Jones?’ she asked. ‘I have to work an extra hour at the factory nowadays and I’ve just come in.’
‘Aye, go on then,’ he replied with a grudging sort of sigh. ‘I hope you’re not going to cook anything smelly?’
‘Oh, no, Mr Jones,’ said Molly, thinking regretfully of the onion lying in her cupboard which she had been going to put in an omelette. Scrambled eggs it was then.
He sat at the table, looking at her over a pair of reading glasses from Woolworth’s. ‘I’ve told you to call me Bart,’ he said mildly. Molly smiled vaguely. She couldn’t imagine calling him by his first name, not in a million years. And tonight, as soon as she had eaten, she would go to the newsagent’s and take the address of another house with a room to let, even if it cost ten shillings or more. She thought of the five-pound money order which Harry had sent with a warm glow of gratitude.
She whisked the eggs, cooked them in a pan on the fire, sat at the table and ate them with bread and butter rather than spend more time making toast. All the time she could feel Mr Jones’s eyes on her, though she kept hers on what she was doing. After she had washed up she escaped to her room, looked regretfully at the letter from Jackson and decided to leave it until she came back in. Feeling decidedly better with something in her stomach, she washed her face and combed her hair. This was a good day with the parcel coming and now she was going to find other lodgings, she was sure of it.
Going to her bedroom door, she realised the key was missing. She looked about on the floor, even turned back the rug, but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t outside on the landing either and it wasn’t in her bag. She couldn’t remember if she had used it to get in this evening. She racked her memory but knew she had been feeling slightly dizzy then. Everything before she had eaten was hazy.
Oh, well, she would find it eventually, she told herself. Now she had to go before it was too late. It was already seven-thirty and people didn’t like callers too late in the evening when they had settled down to listen to the wireless. Molly closed her door and hurried down the stairs.
‘Going to the pictures, are you, Molly?’
Mr Jones was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her.
‘No, just to see a friend,’ she fibbed.
‘I’ll treat you to the pictures one night, maybe on Saturday,’ he said with a benevolent air.
‘Hmmm.’ Molly couldn’t think of anything else to say. She turned smartly and went out of the door. No, you will not, she thought savagely as she walked down the street. If you think I’m going anywhere with you, you’re out of your head.
There were two addresses in the newsagent’s window. One of them in West Auckland, about half a mile away, the other in Front Street. Molly considered it worth the extra walking distance to be away from Adelaide Street and set off along Manor Road, past the ancient church and over the bridge which spanned the Gaunless river and into West Auckland. She found the house easily enough. It was in a small row of old two-storey houses with elegant Georgian fronts. There was a bell, too. She pressed it and heard it ring inside the house.
‘Answer that, Jimmy,’ a female voice called and a moment later the heavy front door opened and a boy of about seven poked his head round. He stared at Molly.
‘What do you want?’
‘Can I speak to your mam?’
He closed the door and she could hear him shouting at the top of his voice behind it.
‘Mam! Mam!’
‘Who is it, Jimmy? I’m busy with the baby, you know I am.’
‘It’s a lass.’
‘Ask her what she wants,’ the woman yelled back at him.
The door opened again. ‘What do you want?’ he asked aga
in. ‘Mam wants to know.’
‘I’ve come about the room. Can I come in?’
The door closed for a moment again as he held a shouted conference with his mother. Then, ‘Aye. Howay in then,’ he said and Molly crossed over the high step and into a hall with a high ceiling and varnished dado rail, the floor covered with a worn carpet runner, a piece of coco-matting acting as a door mat. There was a smell of meat pudding from the back of the hall; a door which must lead to the kitchen, Molly surmised, stood beside the narrow staircase. The smell reminded her of her mother somehow. A pair of roller skates lay on their sides just inside the door and a shabby pram stood to one side of the hall.
A woman was coming down the stairs, sandy hair like the boy’s drawn back from her forehead, cheeks rosy beneath laughing blue eyes.
‘Come on in,’ she said, striding forward and holding out her hand. ‘I’m Cathy Grimes and this tearaway is Jimmy.’ Her handshake was firm, her smile friendly. ‘After the room, did you say?’
‘Yes. I’m Molly Mason. I work at the clothing factory in St Helen’s.’
The room which Cathy led her into was large and airy, with a bay window through which rays of a sinking summer sun shone, speckling the air with dancing dust motes. There was a leather suite, shabby and with sagging cushions, an ancient sideboard and corner cupboard. It had a lived-in air, unlike most of the sitting rooms Molly had known. Most mining families spent their time in the kitchen-cum-living room, the sitting room kept tidy for visits from the minister or other important personages.
‘Run along and make sure your sister’s all right,’ Cathy said to her son, reaching out a hand and tousling his hair.
‘Aw, Mam,’ he grumbled, but went all the same, and Cathy motioned Molly to a seat and perched on an armchair herself.
‘You don’t live with your family, then?’ she asked. ‘Not had a fight with your dad, have you?’
Molly’s throat constricted. ‘No. My dad’s dead, my mam an’ all.’ She coughed, put a hand to her mouth. ‘Dad was killed in the disaster at Eden Hope.’
