Molly stared at the piece of paper. Why did Spilsby ring a bell? Of course – she’d seen the name of the village on the large map pinned to a wall in reception. The map showed places of interest for campers to visit if they wished to venture out of the camp. Molly and Bunty had planned to borrow bicycles and tour nearby villages when their days off coincided.
She wondered where her dad had come from. As her parents had never mentioned life outside of Erith and had always been secure in the close-knit community, Molly had never thought to ask. Why had she not questioned her parents?
Peering at the small, neat writing on her dad’s birth certificate, she was astonished to see that her dad had been born in the same area as her mum. No wonder Charlotte Missons had shown an interest in visiting Butlins at Skegness before the war. Molly knew she had been disappointed when the camp had been taken over by the navy for the duration, but had always thought it was because she’d longed for the novelty of visiting the well-known holiday camp rather than because she wanted to go back to a place close to her birth.
Excited now at what other information she would discover in the small bundle of papers, she unfolded the next document. It was the deeds to the house in Avenue Road. Surely these should have been kept with Mr Denton, the family solicitor? If only she knew more about such legal matters. The next document was a life-insurance policy. Framed by ornate scrollwork, the fancy wording boiled down to the fact that Molly was the beneficiary of a sum of money if anything should happen to her parents. She would need to contact the London and Provincial Insurance Company to inform them of her parents’ passing. Although she felt some assurance for her future, Molly would have given every penny she owned to have her parents alive.
There was one more item. An envelope. Molly was disappointed. She wasn’t sure what a will would look like but thought it probable that the document was more substantial than the envelope she held in her hand at that moment. She opened the envelope with some trepidation and gasped at what she read.
14
‘Mama, look at my painting,’ Lizzie called, running up to Plum who was wobbling on one foot pulling off the tight-fitting bicycle clips from around her ankles, shaking each leg in turn to free her cream-coloured slacks.
Kneeling down on a faded woollen rug, she held out her arms to her young daughter. ‘Come and give Mama a big hug. Why, I swear you’ve grown six inches since I last saw you. It must be a year at least,’ Plum said as she squeezed her daughter tight in her arms, breathing in the aroma of soap and her daughter’s unique perfume.
‘Oh, Mama, it was two days and . . . three hours.’ She giggled, looking at an ancient grandmother clock standing next to the fireplace.
Plum felt guilty that she had to leave her daughter with her old nanny, Tilly, while she worked at Butlins. If only Billy Butlin would allow his staff to live outside the holiday camp. Perhaps in time she could live at home again. After all, it was only a half-hour brisk bike ride with a good wind behind her. ‘Now, let me take a look at you,’ she said, holding the young girl at arm’s length.
‘Mama, I need to show you my painting. It’s really special,’ the child pleaded, trying to wriggle away as Plum stared hard into her face. She could still see a spark of her late husband. Yes, William was there in the glint of their daughter’s eye and the toss of her head. Plum sighed with relief. What if the day came when Lizzie grew up and she could no longer see a living reminder of her late husband in her only child?
Tilly placed a tray on the table in the small living room and poured tea into two cups. ‘Lizzie’s been that excited about showing you her work. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s been to the gate to see if you were on your way down the lane. Now, drink your tea before it gets cold. There’s a letter for you to read, when you have time to draw breath. It’s from you-know-who. I can tell by the postmark.’ She nodded to where a letter had been placed behind a carved wooden candlestick on the mantel over the fireplace.
‘Why don’t you fetch this wonderful painting, Lizzie?’ Plum said as she reached for the letter, a worried look on her face, ripping open the envelope as quickly as possible so the words inside could be read before Lizzie returned.
Tilly sat at the table and sipped her tea, waiting for Plum to speak. She’d cared for the woman since she was a child and now she continued her duties caring for Plum and her daughter so Plum could earn a wage at the holiday camp. Tilly may only have been Plum’s nanny when she worked at the big house, but she thought of her as a daughter and Lizzie as her own grandchild. She still could not understand why Plum’s family had closed their door to her when she arrived on their doorstep with a child in her arms and no husband. How could anyone do that to their own child? she thought. Why, there’d been a war on, and from all accounts Plum and William were to marry. Only his duties in the RAF had stopped him turning up at the church that day. Then he’d been shot down and there was no wedding and the baby arrived. There were many women like Plum who for one reason or another did not have a man by their side. Thank goodness the girl came to her for help. She’d never turn her away.
‘What does the old battleaxe say this time? It’s been a while since she’s written. I’d hoped after her last words that we were rid of her,’ Tilly huffed, her cup rattling in its saucer as she placed it back on the table.
‘William’s mother says she wishes to meet me. Do you think she is trying to take Lizzie from me again?’ Plum said with a fearful look in her eyes.
‘I wouldn’t trust the woman. In fact, I have a strange feeling in my water about this,’ Tilly said with a shudder.
‘She’s alone in the world and may have regretted her actions. William was her only child, after all . . .’
Tilly stood up, her cheeks slightly pink. ‘We don’t need that woman interfering in our lives. Throw the letter in the bin. Better still, burn it. We are happy as we are.’
Plum slipped the letter into her pocket; she had a feeling it could change her future, but would it be in a good way? Lizzie should know her grandparent. Then again, Plum’s own parents had let her down badly when she’d most needed their help. They cared more about what the county folk thought of a woman having a child out of wedlock than they did about their own daughter. Plum knew she would never forgive them. They were as dead to her as William had been since the day he disappeared in his plane. But was it right to ignore William’s mother now she was possibly prepared to acknowledge her grandchild? She’d have to think about this very carefully.
Lizzie rushed into the room waving a large sheet of white paper. ‘Look, Mama – I painted a picture of Daddy.’
Plum took the picture from her daughter and gazed at the painting of William, which had been carefully copied from the one photograph Plum owned of Lizzie’s father. The six-year-old child had carefully copied her daddy standing by his Spitfire, possibly the one he was flying when he disappeared into the Channel. ‘Why, this is very good. Tell me, who are the other people?’
Lizzie leaned against her mother and pointed first to her father. ‘I painted his hair the exact colour of my own, as you told me we were the same. This is his plane, and here you are with your donkeys. These people are my grannies and grandpops. They are all in heaven,’ she added sadly.
Plum stroked her daughter’s hair from her face. It was indeed just like William’s: light brown in colour with a touch of copper when caught in the sunlight. ‘What makes you say that, my poppet?’
‘Davie, in my class at school, has never seen his grandparents and he said they are in heaven. I’ve never met mine either, so they must be there too.’ She looked at her mother with enquiring eyes. ‘Are they?’
Plum looked over her daughter’s head to where Tilly stood, a frown on her face. Soon she would have to explain to Lizzie about family. It could not be put off for much longer. But what could she say? ‘Why don’t I pin this on the wall next to your daddy’s drawing? Then we will go for a walk and you can tell me what you’ve been doing since I last came home and I�
�ll tell you all about my work at Butlins.’
The young girl’s face broke into a beam, her question forgotten for now in her excitement to spend time with her mama. ‘I’ll find my sandals,’ she said, dashing from the room.
‘The apple didn’t fall far from the tree with that child,’ Tilly said as she looked at Lizzie’s artwork, now pinned on the wall next to a sketch William had done of Plum. ‘The child is showing talent. Even I can see that. If William’s mother needs any more proof, it is here to see.’
Plum nodded. William had caught her likeness in his sketch. She remembered walking with him on the South Downs on one of his rare days off duty. They’d laughed and chatted, making plans for a life together once the war was over. Later, while lying in the sun watching a dogfight overhead, William had become quiet. ‘We will have a future, won’t we?’ he’d asked.
Plum had leaned over and kissed him; she’d been wondering the same thing. ‘My family will accept you even though you are a poor artist.’ She’d laughed. ‘They will love you as much as I do.’
William had continued to gaze up at the sky as an enemy plane burst into flames and spiralled down from the clouds.
‘Here, why don’t you draw my portrait?’ she said, trying to distract him. ‘You’ve been promising to do it for some time.’ She picked up his sketchbook from where he’d left it on the grass and threw it to him.
William snapped out of his reverie and opened the page. ‘This will be the first that we can frame and hang on the wall of our family home.’
Plum looked at the simple sketch now. Until she’d pinned her daughter’s painting alongside, it had hung alone.
Molly pushed open the door of the little chapel and stepped into the semi-dark interior, away from the strong sunlight outside. She stood still while her eyes became accustomed to the light before heading to the altar to light a candle for her parents. The contents of the envelope had taken her breath away and she’d headed back to the holiday camp wishing no more than to go to her chalet and think about her discoveries. It was as she approached the chapel that Molly had decided to enter and contemplate her future. There was a calm in the small chapel that she’d not find anywhere in the holiday camp.
Molly pulled the two pages from the envelope and by the light of the candle again read the words. The first was a letter from Charlotte Missons to her parents notifying them of the birth of their first granddaughter, Molly. She spoke with pride of the opening of the ironmonger’s shop and plans to buy their own home in Avenue Road, where they were currently renting. The letter signed off with hope that past differences would be forgotten and they could all move forward together as one big, happy family. Molly had smiled as she’d read Charlotte’s words, but then wondered why the letter had been in her mum’s possession.
The second letter soon answered her question. The few lines from her grandmother were straight to the point:
The shame you brought on this family when you ran away with Norman Missons can never be mended. You are no longer a child of mine. We do not wish to be associated with any member of the Missons family.
Molly winced as she read the words written by her grandmother, a woman she had never met. A further line simply said that Charlotte’s letter was enclosed as she had no need to keep it.
Sitting down on a nearby seat, she buried her head in her hands and sobbed. Why, she could have had a family to turn to after her parents’ accident if only she’d known about her grandparents. For some reason, her parents had been ostracized, and because of that, she was alone in the world, and on a day that should have been filled with happiness because it was her mum’s birthday. It was then she heard a creak as the door to the chapel opened and the sound of footsteps announced someone else was present in this sacred place.
‘Why, if it isn’t Molly Missons. Are you praying for divine intervention so you don’t have to help in tomorrow’s children’s fancy-dress competition? Life can’t always be a walk on the beach or drinking cocktails with your friends.’
Molly’s back stiffened. Why, oh, why did Johnny Johnson have to come into the chapel at this moment? She pulled open her handbag to look for a handkerchief but couldn’t see beyond her tears. She did her best to wipe them away with the back of her hand, hoping he wouldn’t get too close. No such luck.
Johnny appeared in front of her, a wide smile on his face, ready to make another joke until he saw her expression. ‘Whatever has happened? Has someone hurt you?’ He sat beside Molly and reached in his pocket for a handkerchief before passing it to her. ‘Here, use this. It’s clean.’
Molly mumbled her thanks and quickly dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry you caught me like this. I didn’t expect anyone to come in. There isn’t a service today.’
‘I saw you walk into the chapel just now. I wouldn’t have intruded if I’d known you were upset . . . What I mean is, I would haven’t acted such a fool just then. Please forgive me.’
‘Think nothing of it. You weren’t to know I was upset and had come in here to hide away.’
Johnny reached for her hand. Molly turned to face him and was surprised by the concern she saw etched on his face. ‘It must be something pretty awful that upset you so much. Now, why don’t you tell Uncle Johnny all about it? That’s if you want to?’ he added quickly.
Molly took a deep breath and blurted out, ‘It’s my mum’s birthday and I miss her. She died last summer, along with my dad . . . and . . . I feel so lonely.’ She started to sob again, holding Johnny’s freshly laundered handkerchief to her face.
Johnny slid his arms around her and held her close, making soothing noises and gently rocking her until the worst had passed. ‘Now, tell me everything and I promise I’ll try to help. You know what they say – a problem shared is a problem halved.’
Molly looked into Johnny’s eyes. She could see true concern and at that moment trusted him enough to share her story. Words flowed with ease as she started to talk while Johnny listened.
‘Molly, I’d like to help you,’ Johnny said as he handed back the birth certificates and letters.
‘There’s no need, Mr Johnson. You aren’t responsible for your employees’ problems outside of Butlins,’ Molly replied, embarrassed by how she had so easily told Johnny everything that had happened since her parents had died.
Johnny took Molly’s hand. ‘I feel we are more than employer and employee, Molly. Besides, I’m sure Billy Butlin would be pleased to know all his staff were problem-free and able to put a hundred per cent effort into their duties.’
‘I’ve never let my problems affect my work,’ she said quickly, feeling embarrassed that he would think she was shirking her duties while wallowing in her misery.
‘I know you wouldn’t. There’s never a moment when I don’t see you smiling. You are a true redcoat. Whatever problems you have in your life, the campers are not aware of them,’ he said, squeezing her hand tightly. ‘Believe me when I say I truly want to help you and I know a way.’
Molly felt embarrassed and pulled away her hand. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t see how you can sort out my problems. You hardly know me.’
Johnny shrugged. ‘I’ve felt there was a connection between us. You seem to see me as a person rather than as a matinee idol. So many people want to be friendly because of the characters I played on screen. You . . . well, you just treat me like a normal person.’
Molly laughed. ‘You mean I give you a hard time. I wouldn’t say that was treating you like a normal person. We are here to give the holidaymakers a good time. I hope that’s what we do.’
‘I enjoy our weekly nature trips with the children, and I’m impressed with your organizational skills. You’ve never once introduced me as a film star or tried to flatter my ego.’ He looked past her, deep in his own thoughts.
Molly noticed small frown lines on his forehead and forced herself not to reach out and run her fingers across them. Since arriving at Butlins, she’d seen another side to the actor she’d fallen in love with from the stalls o
f the Erith Odeon. She often scolded herself for even thinking that the character he played would be anything like the real man. However, in the few weeks she’d worked with Johnny, she’d witnessed a strong, decent man, very much like the secret agent on the silver screen. Perhaps the character wasn’t so far removed from the man in front of her now. What must he think when she’d been almost rude to him at times? ‘I have a confession to make. You may not be amused.’
Johnny glanced back at her serious face. ‘You’re going to leave Butlins?’
‘Goodness, no. Why would I do that? No, it’s more serious and you may not want to help me when you know.’ She tried not to laugh, but a small smile crept across her face, which did not go unnoticed by Johnny.
‘Don’t tell me you are really on the run for undertaking some dastardly deed?’
‘Oh, much, much worse. Back home in Erith, I have a photograph of you on my bedroom wall. Furthermore, I’ve watched all the Clive Danvers films at least twice.’ She looked him in the eye before bursting into laughter. ‘I’m a lost cause and not different to all the other admiring females.’
Johnny joined in with her laughter. ‘Most definitely not a lost cause,’ he said, running a finger across her cheek, brushing away a few stray hairs.
The Butlins Girls Page 18
