by Annie Murray
‘You’ll ’ave a cuppa tea won’t yer?’ Jenny said, disappearing out the back before Molly could say that she’d just had one at Em’s. It would have done no good anyway. When Jenny was determined to feed you, being fed was what happened and no arguments.
‘How’s the big wide world out there?’ Stanley wanted to know.
‘Much as usual,’ Molly said, as she always did. She perched on the chair opposite him, warming her hands at the fire.
‘Ooh, not these days.’ Stanley’s pink, kindly face looked troubled. His loose denture clicked as he spoke. ‘Never know what those Kraut bastards are going to’ve done for next. The Market Hall, the BSA . . .’ He sucked in his lips for a moment. ‘’Scuse my lingo, bab. Terrible about that cinema though.’ It had been playing on his mind ever since it had happened, a bomb landing on the Carlton cinema in Sparkbrook, while the show was on, at the end of October. ‘Terrible. Imagine it . . .’
‘But we still can’t get you to go into a shelter.’
‘I can’t get down into no shelter, bab,’ he said gently. Sometimes his watery blue eyes looked so little-boyish, he really touched Molly’s heart. ‘My Jenny says the same. We’ll take our chances together, the pair of us – in our own bed.’
‘There’s no telling you two, is there?’ Molly teased, gently.
‘I’m lucky to be alive as it is, bab. Always living on borrowed time.’
Stanley gave her his sweetest of smiles and she knew not to say any more. Her heart lurched as his next question was usually what had she been up to, what was the news, and she didn’t feel ready to talk about that – not until Jenny was here. But instead, he looked reflective.
‘I don’t know why – I’ve been thinking a lot about the past – how it used to be . . .’ And he began to reminisce. Stanley was a local boy, had gone to another school in the area at Loxton Street. He loved to tell her about his childhood friends, many of whom had not survived the war, about their pranks and their games at the local playground known as Spion Kop. Before the Great War he had worked in a local metal-bashing company. Since the war maimed him, his working life – or much life at all, apart from Jenny pushing him along on rare outings in the wheelchair – had come to an end. Molly liked to listen to him, even though she’d heard some of the stories countless times before.
He was chatting away happily when Jenny came puffing in with a tray of tea and buns.
‘There yer go, bab – and there’s a finger of Chelsea for yer to keep yer going.’
She sat down with a whoosh of exhaled breath.
‘So, bab – how’s everything?’
‘All right,’ Molly said lightly. God, she thought. Her mind recoiled again from Iris’s words the other night, from the foul burden of knowledge she now carried. If they only knew. Or did they? Again, a dizzy feeling passed through her, as if the ground was moving under her feet. Perhaps they all knew everything? Perhaps her secret had never been secret after all? But if so, they showed no sign of it.
As she ate the cake, Wally the dog sat scrutinizing her every move, panting heavily with his pink tongue lolling to one side. Molly laughed.
‘He’s trying to mesmerize me!’
‘He’ll ignore yer, soon as you’ve finished,’ Jenny said, and she was right – Wally did then lie down by the fire with a long-suffering sigh.
Molly chatted to them about work, recounting some of Gladys’s funny stories, and about going to see the Browns.
‘Cynthia seems quite good at the moment,’ Jenny said. ‘I saw Dot pop in to visit yesterday – that’ll have cheered her up.’
‘I’d’ve liked to see her,’ Molly said. Dot Wiggin, Cynthia Brown’s old friend, had been a tower of strength to her in her hardest times. Though Dot had been a war widow, she had now remarried, a widower called Lou Alberello who had three grown-up children. She’d moved over to the Italian quarter in Duddesdon to be with him, but she popped in from time to time.
‘Oh, she’s thriving on it by the looks of it. Filling out – must be all that spaghetti!’
Molly laughed. She was very fond of Dot. ‘I’m glad she’s all right then. She’s a good sort.’
There was a lull in the conversation and Molly had almost finished her tea. She was also growing so hot and sweaty she could hardly stand it, her cheeks glowing pinker by the minute. It was time to get it over with. Putting her cup down, she took a deep breath, her heart pounding.
‘I’ve come to tell you both summat.’
‘Oh ar,’ Stanley said. They were both staring expectantly at her.
‘Thing is . . .’ Molly stared down at her scuffed brown shoes. She had eased her left foot out at the back to relieve her sore heel. ‘Well – I’ve come to a decision. I s’pose it may be a bit stupid . . .’ The burning confidence which had come over her seemed to be leaking away.
‘Oh I don’t s’pose it is,’ Stanley said encouragingly.
She glanced up at him with a grateful smile.
‘Only – things at home . . . Well, it ain’t just that – it’s me an’ all. Anyroad, I’ve decided – I’m going to join up.’
There, she’d said it! She looked up at them, ever so worried about what the reaction would be – disappointment? Ridicule?
Jenny Button was half way through a mouthful of cake, so it fell to Stanley to say, ‘Join up? How d’yer mean?’
Molly drew herself up straighter. Sweat was trickling down her back. ‘I’m going to go – you know – and join up. The army, I think. That’s if they’ll ’ave me.’
Jenny swallowed. ‘Well I never,’ she said.
The silence went on so long that Molly was beginning to feel really bad, until Jenny turned to her husband. Looking at him, Molly was overwhelmed to see that he had tears in his eyes.
‘What d’you think about it, Stanley?’
‘Well, bab—’ Stanley wiped his eyes on a corner of the eiderdown. ‘I think it’s a terrible thing that a lovely wench like you should have to go and join up. But if you think that’s what you should do – I think it’s marvellous. They ought to be grateful to have you. I’m as proud of you as could be.’
Tears filled Molly’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. No one in her life had ever said anything half as nice as that to her before.
‘You don’t mind, then?’
‘Course we mind,’ Jenny said gruffly. ‘We mind like billy-oh. But I’ll tell yer summat, bab – you’re not to worry about us – ’cause I know you will. But we’ll be with you every step of the way. Won’t we, Stanley?’
‘Ar, that we will,’ Stanley said.
Everyone was rather watery-eyed by now.
‘You’re so kind,’ Molly sniffed. ‘I’m going to miss you both – I’ll write. And I won’t be going quite yet . . .’
‘Told yer mother, ’ave yer?’ Jenny asked.
Molly shook her head.
‘Ah well,’ Jenny said. ‘There’s some things some people don’t need to know straight off. And I’d say this is one of them.’
Six
January 1941
‘All right, take it easy,’ the medical orderly said. ‘I’m not going to amputate one of your limbs, you know!’
Molly had tried to smile and look less nervous. But all the way through the medical and the recruitment interview in the dingy offices in Birmingham, she couldn’t stop shaking. While she sat waiting with the motley group of girls who were volunteering she had kept her gaze fixed on the floor, trying to look calm, but she could hardly stop her legs twitching up and down, she was so nervous. Supposing they rejected her! And what were they going to ask her? But it was the medical examination that made her shake the most.
When she finally emerged into the snowy evening street, her legs almost went from under her and she had to stop for a moment and catch her breath, leaning back against the building. But now she was full of triumph, her spirits soaring. She had done it! The Auxiliary Territorial Service had said yes to Molly Fox!
She had decided to wait until after Chris
tmas to volunteer, mainly because she couldn’t bring herself to leave the Buttons before that and she spent as much time with them as she possibly could. She knew neither Em nor Jenny Button would say anything to Iris. They all kept well out of her path anyway, and during those last weeks she never spoke to any of her family unless she had to, even with the raids going on. She held on to the warm knowledge that at least she had the blessing of Jenny and Stanley. It was as if she was walking on air, in a protective dream and full of a sense of possibility. She could put aside the person she was, all that she had come from. There would be a new Molly Fox, away from this squalid house and these confining streets. She was going to start again and make a new life.
There had been a lull in the raids before Christmas, almost long enough for them to believe it might have stopped, that the bombers had lost interest in Birmingham. But they started the new year with grim intent. The very first night of 1941, the sirens had gone off again. Iris was too drunk ever to take much notice or help Joe. Molly would sit under the stairs, hoping and praying. This time, in the cold, sleepless hours, she switched off to everything around her and dreamed only of escape. She pictured herself in full uniform, marching, giving orders, taking the army by storm. She just knew she could be good at something, that she had an important role to play!
It was a bitter winter. Making her way home from work, Molly huddled up in her old coat, pulling her hat further down over her ears as she trudged through the slush in her leaking shoes. But she wasn’t thinking about the cold. On the way home she bought a second-hand suitcase. It was only small, as the army had instructed her not to bring more than the minimum with her. It was battered and brown with soft leather straps and buckles and she felt fond of it immediately. It felt like her partner in her secret mission.
Before going into the house, she went quietly round into the yard and stowed the case beside the copper in the brew house. Late in the evening, when Iris was snoring in her chair, too far gone to notice anything, Molly sneaked back out for the case and hid it under her bed, ready for her departure in a few days. In it were her travel warrant and other necessary papers.
All that remained now was to tell them – but she wasn’t going to do that until the very last minute.
They were all there when she came down that morning, already wearing her hat and carrying the case. She put it down by the front door and took her coat from the hook.
The wireless was on and Bert, who was at the table, was squinting at yesterday’s paper and sneezing every so often. Iris and Joe probably would not have even noticed her leave. Joe was in his usual seat by the fire, which Iris was kneeling beside, cursing as she rattled around in it with the poker, in her customary evil morning temper.
‘Where d’yer think you’re off to?’ Bert asked. His tone was threatening.
‘What d’you care?’ Molly snapped, slipping into her coat. She’d been up before everyone else, made tea, had some bread and made sure everything was packed before Iris had even peeled back her eyelids.
Bert’s lips curled back. ‘Don’t bloody talk to me like that, you—’
‘I’ll tell you where I’m going.’ Molly leaned over the table. ‘I’m off, that’s what. I’ve joined up and I’m going away. And you can’t do a bloody thing to stop me.’
She heard Iris start and say, ‘Eh?’ in the background.
Bert stared at her, then a nasty, calculating smile came over his face. ‘You’re ’aving me on.’
‘No, big brother, I’m not.’ She held up the case. ‘I’m getting on a train this morning. I’ve got all my papers in ’ere, and all I can say is, good riddance to the whole filthy rotten lot of yer. I’m going where you should be, Bert – to fight for my country. Why ain’t you in the army, eh? You’re twenty-one. They called you up. What did you do to wriggle out of that one? Or ’ave you turned conchie or summat?’
‘It’s my chest,’ Bert said, wheezing ostentatiously. ‘Eh, Mom – did you ’ear that?’
Iris was looming over her now. ‘What’s all this, yer stupid little bitch? What’re yer going on about now?’
Molly stared triumphantly into her mother’s bloated face. How vile it was, how slatternly and low and disgusting she was! ‘I’m going, Mom. I ain’t going to be your skivvy no more. You’re the woman of the house. You’ll have to stop pouring so much booze down yer ’odge and start doing more work, won’t yer?’ She nodded at Joe. ‘’Cause he ain’t gunna do it, is ’e? Or Bert ’ere maybe?’
‘You can’t leave – I won’t let yer . . .’ Iris stumbled for words.
‘I’m going, Mom – you’re too late.’ Molly was trembling, her eyes gleaming with triumph and loathing as she moved towards the door. ‘T’ra Joe,’ she said. ‘Good luck to yer with these two. Goodbye, Mother,’ she finished with acid sarcasm.
As Molly stepped out along the street, her mother’s voice roared after her. ‘Yer going to the right place then, wench – they’re all just a load of whores, them lot!’
With these loving words ringing in her ears, Molly headed for the bus. Still shaky with emotion and lost in thought, she turned to cut along a side street to the nearest stop, when someone jumped on her. Before she could do anything she found herself being dragged into the gloomy entry which ran up to the back of a factory, and pinned against the wall. The case fell from her hand and toppled onto its side.
Bert’s foul breath reached her nostrils, his snarling face close to hers.
‘What d’yer think you’re up to, sis?’
‘Get off me, you vile little bastard!’ Full of rage she tried to shove him off her, but though he was only an inch taller than her, he was full of wiry strength.
‘I don’t like this – you going off, without a by your leave . . .’ He gave a nasty grin and she had a grim view of his yellow teeth. ‘ I like to say what happens around at our place. After all – I’m the only real man of the house.’
‘You’re too late,’ Molly said, grappling with him as he shoved her harder and harder against the slimy bricks. ‘Just cowing well get off me – you’re wrecking my coat. I’m going, and that’s that. You can’t bully me. You’re a waster, Bert. You’re just a lowlife . . .’ She trailed off, unable to command words strong enough to express her disgust.
‘Shut it, little sis.’ His hand shot under her coat and grasped her right breast, squeezing it hard, and he pressed himself against her. To her horror she realized he was dangerously aroused. ‘How about it, for old times’ sake, eh Moll?’ he wheedled. ‘You gunna let me have it this time – let me ’ave yer proper like, before yer go?’
His greasy hair was close to her face, his shiny, pitted skin, his body lunging at her.
‘I said, get off me.’ She pointed her finger and jabbed it as hard as she could into his left eye, and he backed off from her shrieking with pain. ‘You bitch . . . you bloody bitch.’
‘Get lost, Bert . . .’
She picked up her case and tore away from him, trying to straighten her hat with her free hand. Passers-by stared curiously as she ran along the road, until, looking back, she was sure that he was not following. Shaken, she slowed and walked with more composure to her stop, her breathing slowing gradually. But it was as if she could smell him on her, had his foulness in her nostrils. How long would it take to fade? How long before she could wash away from her the stench and stain of the whole lot of them?
Square-bashing
Seven
The burning excitement that had filled her ever since she had made her decision to join up, that had bubbled in her all through Christmas, had been seeping away all morning. It was the first time in her life that Molly had travelled more than a couple of miles away from her home streets, and now she was leaving all of Birmingham behind. For the first time she asked herself what the hell she was playing at. It was a day heavy with cloud and the promise of more snow as the train wound its way between the coal-blackened walls of factories and ranks of chimneys, offering brief glimpses of black canals with boats moving alo
ng them and slices of snow-covered parkland between the rows of cramped suburban houses with washing strung across their yards. Everything was in black and white. Then the buildings gave out and they were flanked each side by fields and hedges.
Sitting in a corner of the compartment, Molly kept her head turned to the window, listening to all the chatter around her. There were the two posh girls who had boarded with her, and opposite Molly, a middle-aged couple in black, who hunched close to each other with bereft expressions, talking in very quiet voices. They seemed to have a veil of grief around them, and everyone left them alone. At the first stop, a whoosh of cold air let some passengers off and a band of servicemen got on, three of them squeezing into the compartment. Molly, still facing the window, felt one of them sit down by her. Within moments, the three of them were in conversation with the two posh girls. After a while she heard one of the girls, she couldn’t tell which, say, ‘Yes, we’ve done our bit and joined up as well. We’re off to our basic training somewhere in darkest Northampton!’
Molly shrank inside, all her optimism and certainty ebbing away. What on earth was she doing here, little Molly Fox, the one no one ever wanted to play with, among these posh, alien people? With every glance at the two girls, especially the one adorned with lipstick and fox furs, chatting peppily to the soldiers, Molly became acutely aware of the threadbare shabbiness of her brown and white coat, which had looked so promising in the rag market but now seemed hopelessly worn and dowdy. She feared there were green stains on the back, after Bert pushed her up against the wall like that. Her shoes were drab and scuffed. But she did have a hat she was proud of, even though that had also been a bargain from the rag market. It was a pertly shaped little number in chocolate brown with an upturned brim and a crimson band round it, into which was tucked a jaunty feather. She knew how to wear it at an angle on her wavy blonde hair and she knew it looked good, whatever the state of her shoes. But she did feel rough and ignorant set against these other girls, even though neither of them was what you’d call a looker, not by any means. The fox-fur girl had a narrow, shrewish face. But they were well-heeled and confident. It was frightening to discover that they were heading for the same place as she was.
