‘How can she be your devoted relative when you’ve never met her?’ Freda whispered as she handed the sheet of paper back to Molly. ‘There’s not even a proper address. It must be a forgery.’
Not knowing what to make of the letter, Molly had opened her shop in Pier Road, one of the busy shopping streets of Erith, the next morning and then crossed the road to Woolworths to show her friend. Freda, a supervisor in the busy store, was aware that it was against shop policy for staff to chat to friends while on duty. However, it was important that she spoke to her friend as soon as possible.
‘Freda, I don’t feel that someone who wasn’t related to me would go to the trouble of writing such a letter. Do you?’
Freda thought for a moment. ‘I’m not so sure. Stranger things have happened.’
Molly laughed. ‘Oh, Freda, that’s only in the cinema and those crime novels you like to read. This is real life. It’s nice to know I have a relative, even if Mum and Dad had reasons not to tell me about her. I’ve never had a cousin, or a second cousin, come to that. I wonder what Simon is like.’
‘I think you should show this to Mr Denton and see what he has to say about this relative. I’m surprised he hasn’t told you about your dad’s will yet, and why did your parents not mention the house would be left to a stranger?’
‘I suppose Dad never thought that he and Mum would die so young. Even during the war we never spoke of what would happen if . . .’ Molly bit her lip to stop the tears that threatened to fall.
‘The best thing is for you to see that solicitor. He will know what’s to be done.’
Molly placed the letter in her pocket. ‘He has written to me a few times since the funeral, but I’ve not been able to face discussing my future. It makes things so final.’ She felt a lump forming in her throat and couldn’t speak.
Freda reached out and gripped Molly’s hand. ‘Come on, Molly. You’ve done so well up to now. I’m sure your dad will have left you well provided for. The shop is doing better than many of the businesses in town. That must count for something. Why, everyone seems to want bits and bobs from Missons to patch up their homes now that the war’s over.’
As Molly crossed the road back to her shop, she thought of Freda’s reassuring words. But was Missons doing well? Every week she was putting off suppliers who were asking for payments. Although the weekly takings kept them afloat, there seemed to be a backlog of debts to pay. She fell asleep each night wondering how to settle the reminders that came in the post. Molly had dipped into her post-office savings account more than once rather than have deliveries refused, but still the shop seemed to live from hand to mouth. Was she doing something wrong? She would have to bite the bullet and go through her dad’s office with a fine toothcomb. She couldn’t believe the shop had been running at a loss.
The office of A. C. Denton was situated above the bank chambers just up the road from her dad’s shop. It had only taken a couple of minutes to cross the busy road to the office of the solicitor who had always taken care of Norman Missons’s business and private affairs. Molly climbed the steep staircase and entered a chilly room where a young man was seated at a desk. She could smell paraffin from a little stove in the corner of the room. It did nothing to warm the small area. Molly recalled that Mr Denton had an account with Missons and it was some time since it had been settled. Perhaps she should write a note to remind him. However, it didn’t seem the polite thing to do. Many people in the town who had paid their respects at the funeral had accounts with the shop. She couldn’t insult her parents’ friends by reminding them of their debts. They would be sure to bring their accounts up to date in time.
The young man glanced up with a bored expression on his face. ‘Can I help you? I’m Mr Timothy Denton, junior partner.’
Molly fumbled in her handbag for the letter sent by Mr Denton. ‘I received this from Mr Denton Senior requesting I call into the office at my earliest convenience. It says it concerns my dad’s will.’ She held it out to him as she sat down on the hard wooden seat across the desk from his own, which he’d indicated with a wave of his hand. She felt sick and dizzy, and had to fight off the thought of fleeing from the office. Did she want to hear what her dad had decided about the house and business, if indeed he had made a decision?
The young man frowned as he read the letter. ‘This was written a few weeks ago. I’m afraid my uncle is now out of the office on an urgent family matter abroad.’
Molly rose to leave. ‘Then I’ll return another time. I have been a little tardy in reading my post recently. Please forgive me.’
He raised his hand. ‘I am sure I can assist you. This should be straightforward.’
Molly sat down and watched as he rummaged through filing cabinets and cupboards before returning to his desk to sift through an untidy pile of files heaped in a wire tray. By now he was muttering to himself and there were beads of sweat on his brow. He tugged at his wing collar as if it were choking him, before giving a loud sigh. ‘Ah! Here we are.’ He pulled a single sheet of paper from a thin folder.
Molly could see him scanning the page before placing it on his desk. He removed his spectacles and leaned back in his chair. ‘Everything seems to be in order. Your father, Norman Sydney Missons, left his house and business to your mother. You can inform her that she has nothing to worry about. As soon as my uncle returns, he will speak with your mother and give her the necessary paperwork to sign. Perhaps you could convey this to her and give her my most sincere condolences at her sad loss.’ He nodded as if to dismiss her.
Molly didn’t know whether to sob her heart out or laugh out loud. If only she could convey his message. If only. She pulled herself together. ‘Mr Denton, I’m afraid you are under the illusion that my mum is alive. If she were, I can assure you she would be sitting here herself. She died with my dad. There’s only me now. I have no siblings. I need to know about the house. It seems a distant relative is under the impression they now own my home.’
Timothy Denton had the good grace to look embarrassed and muttered his apologies. He placed the spectacles back on his nose and scrutinized the document closely. ‘This is dated September 1919. There is no mention of a child,’ he said pointedly.
‘There wouldn’t be. I wasn’t born until March 1921. At that time, my parents had been married but a few months and had just settled in Erith. My dad’s business was in its infancy.’
‘You say a relative claims the house now belongs to her?’
Molly nodded. ‘She is the widow of my dad’s cousin.’
‘Have you seen any documentation?’
Molly handed him the letter from Harriet. ‘This letter is the first I knew of any living relative. I was under the impression I didn’t have any family.’
Timothy Denton glanced at the letter and handed it back. ‘There is the possibility that a later will has been made and that your relative now owns your parents’ property. As there is no mention of a business, I feel that is safe. Perhaps it is time to think of moving on to pastures new? Are you planning to marry, perhaps?’
‘You mean let a man take responsibility for my future, Mr Denton?’ Molly rose to her feet, indignant at his words. ‘I would be failing my parents if I thought my future was just to be a wife and mother. I feel I should await your uncle’s return for guidance. Thank you for your time.’
Molly left the office silently fuming as she strode through the High Street and headed for home. Thank goodness George had offered to lock up the shop. She was in no mood for polite chatter with customers after such a troubling experience. Perhaps she should have thought more about her future and planned her life. It had been so easy to move back home with Mum and Dad after her Land Army days and simply help out in the shop. No doubt if her parents had not had their accident, she would have coasted through life and not had to worry about her future.
Although only late afternoon, it was already getting dark as Molly approached home. Up ahead, she could see a man helping an older woman alight from a taxicab.
Could these be the relatives of whom she had only just heard? Now within a few yards of the couple, she could hear the man reprimand the driver for not carrying the suitcases to the front door. The driver simply tapped his cap in acknowledgement of the sharp words and climbed back into his vehicle.
‘Hello. Are you Cousin Harriet?’ Molly asked as she reached the couple’s side.
The older woman turned to face Molly. ‘If you are the daughter of my much-loved and dearly departed cousin-in-law Norman, then yes, I am.’
Molly frowned. How could someone miss a loved one when, as far as Molly could recall, they had never set foot over the threshold of her family home? To her knowledge, her dad had not received any correspondence from this relative, as he would often open letters over breakfast and mention any snippet of information he thought would be of interest to his wife and daughter. Perhaps they had resumed contact while Molly was working in the Land Army. Yes, that must be the answer. But she had been back in Erith since last summer. Surely one of her parents would have mentioned this cousin?.
Molly felt the woman scrutinize her appearance. She tried to straighten her coat, aware her eyes would still be puffy from recent tears and her cheeks red from hurrying home. The lady in front of her reminded Molly very much of a portrait of the late Queen Victoria that had hung on the wall of her primary school, resplendent in widow’s weeds with a small black bonnet pinned to her silver hair. Cousin Harriet was, however, as thin as the late queen had been portly.
She pointed a silver-handled walking stick towards Molly. ‘Help my son with our cases. We have business to discuss and should not do so in the street.’ She gazed up to the house and nodded approvingly. ‘We shall be very comfortable here, very comfortable indeed.’
Later, as Molly climbed into her bed, she thought back to the uncomfortable evening as she had fed and cleared up after her two guests. Guests? Molly had the distinct feeling they were here to stay. Aware the elder of her relatives would want the best room in the house, she had excused herself from the dinner table after serving them shepherd’s pie, which the pair had tucked into with relish, and gone to her parents’ bedroom. Her heart ached as she cleared a drawer of her mum’s dressing table and her dad’s tallboy. She pulled clothes from one of the two wardrobes, telling herself not to stop and breathe in the scent and the memories of her parents as she carried the clothes to the box room. She would decide what to do with them later. She knew that her parents would expect her to make any guest welcome, regardless of the reason for their visit.
She checked the smaller spare bedroom. Freda stayed in the room occasionally, so it was aired and ready for occupation. Cousin Simon would have to make do with sleeping there, as the other bedroom still required decorating. It had sustained damage to the windows in the last days of the war, and although it now had replacement windows, her dad had not got round to papering and painting the room. Besides that, it contained cupboards and boxes brimming over with Brownie and Girl Guide equipment, but Molly was not prepared to move anything that meant so much to her mum. She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Pull yourself together, Molly,’ she muttered to herself. Taking fresh sheets from the airing cupboard, she quickly made up the beds and threw open the large windows in her parents’ room, which overlooked the front garden of the house, in order to air it. The cool evening air blew away the last of her mum’s fragrance. Squaring her shoulders, Molly went downstairs to join her new family.
‘So you see, my dear, it works out rather splendidly. We can all live here as one big, happy family until I decide what to do with the property. Who knows’ – she gave a little giggle that seemed out of place coming from a woman of her age – ‘you and Simon may just make your own union and then I could consider leaving the house to you and my grandchildren.’ She smiled indulgently at her son, who, after discovering Norman’s best whisky in the sideboard, had partaken until falling into a deep sleep in Norman’s favourite armchair by the fireside. His collar studs now undone and a little dribble escaping his thin lips, he was oblivious to his mother’s words. ‘Then again, he may meet a suitable young lady, meaning you would have to find other accommodation.’
Molly tried not to look horrified. She had taken an instant dislike to Simon, who had ignored her apart from eyeing her occasionally in an uncomfortable way that made Molly’s skin creep. If her dad had decided that his property should be left to a cousin and that cousin’s wife was now here to claim her inheritance, then who was she to argue? Norman Missons had been a good and kind man; he would always do what was right.
‘I wonder if I may see the will, please?’ Molly asked. ‘I didn’t know of Dad’s requests, and with the shock of the accident, it never crossed my mind until now that this would not be my home.’
Cousin Harriet waved her hand to dismiss Molly’s words. ‘I have the letters from my solicitor somewhere. Please don’t worry yourself with such details. Everything is in order. Now, I think it’s time for a little drink before I retire for the night. It has been a long and tiring day. Have you put hot-water bottles in our beds? We do feel the cold since our return from South Africa. Even though the journey took many weeks by sea and fellow travellers were able to get used to the colder climes, I’m afraid my old bones are still not used to the British weather.’
3
‘You’re going to what?’ Freda hissed as she placed four china frogs round an ornate papier-mâché toadstool. Her words echoed around the empty hall of Northend Baptist Mission as they prepared for a special Brownie pack meeting.
Molly arranged a display of paper water lilies on the mirror next to where the toadstool sat and stepped back to admire their handiwork. ‘The perfect toadstool by a lily pond.’ She glanced at Freda, knowing that her friend was angered by her earlier words. ‘I said I’m considering marrying Simon.’
‘You’ve only known him a few weeks. Have you suddenly fallen head over heels in love with a cousin you never knew existed until three weeks ago?’
‘Second cousin,’ Molly replied, quietly aware that just outside the hall, mothers and their Brownie daughters were gathering for the special evening in which new members would be enrolled in the Brownie movement and cease being called Tweenies. She placed six brass badges on a side table and checked each one was shining brightly. They would be pinned to the girls’ uniforms once they were accepted into the pack and had recited the Brownie Promise, in which they swore to do their best and be good Brownies.
‘Are you doing your best?’ Freda asked as she brushed down the skirt of her Brown Owl uniform. She’d been over the moon with excitement when the district commissioner had offered her the position of leader of the Brownie pack. Molly had assured her friend that she was the perfect replacement for her mum and was happy to remain as her assistant. She enjoyed being called Tawny Owl and had returned to helping out at the weekly meetings after her new-found relations had installed themselves in her parents’ house. The two girls looked very smart in their official blue uniforms. Molly’s hair, pinned back into a French pleat, with a navy hat on top, made her look older and more mature.
Molly frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Are you doing your best to carry on as your mum would have wanted? Would she have liked you marrying a man you hardly know just to keep a roof over your head?’ Freda looked concerned. She had seen how in just a few weeks her friend had been taken over by Harriet and her son, and Molly never seemed to have a second to herself unless it was to go to work.
‘Things have changed since . . . since Mum and Dad died. I have no choice . . .’
Freda laid a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘There is always a choice, Molly, and as long as I’m your best friend, I’ll be here to ensure you make the right choice, whether you like it or not.’
‘I don’t feel I have much option. Not if I want to keep hold of my home. Cousin Harriet has been good to me. She could have shown me the door once she moved in. For whatever reason, Dad left the house to his cousin, and Harriet said there wa
s no mention of me in the will. It is only her Christian duty that is keeping a roof over my head. It seems she did a lot of charity work when in South Africa.’
Freda snorted angrily. ‘Christian duty? She has yet to show you this will. Do you even know it exists? Now, let’s invite our guests into the room and start the proceedings, shall we? I have a few hours off tomorrow afternoon. I suggest we have afternoon tea at Hedley Mitchell’s and decide what you should do next.’
Molly gave a weak smile. She had hoped her friend would be able to advise her. Harriet and Simon had swept her along on a wave of change since they stepped over the threshold at Avenue Road. She’d even had to rescue the Brownie property her mum had so lovingly cared for, after she arrived home from work one evening to discover the room clear and all equipment heaped in a pile at the end of the garden ready for a bonfire. She felt her chin start to wobble and tears prick her eyes. ‘Tea and a chat would be lovely.’
The evening was a great success. The little girls were so pleased to see their Tawny Owl back with them once more, and their mothers were able to chat with Molly about their memories of her mum and dad, and understood when Molly was tearful and had to leave the room several times to compose herself. The people of Erith were such a caring community. Molly couldn’t think of anywhere else in the world she would rather live.
Arriving back at the house in Avenue Road, she popped her head round the door of the front room. It felt strange to see Cousin Harriet and her son sitting in Norman and Charlotte’s favourite armchairs. She tried to put it to the back of her mind and found it hard to do so. ‘I’m home. It’s been a long day, so I thought I’d go straight to bed and read for a while, if that’s all right?’
The Butlins Girls Page 3
