by Annie Murray
Em’s first thought was that Molly had seen the Buttons’ ravaged house across the street. She knew how upset Molly would be about Jenny and Stanley and thought this the reason for the strange, tragic expression in both Cynthia’s and Molly’s eyes.
‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’ Em said sympathetically. ‘We just couldn’t believe it when it happened.’ She put her hand on Molly’s shoulder. ‘It’s ever so nice to see you, Molly. Have you got a bit of leave?’
‘No,’ Molly said, fresh tears running down her cheeks. ‘I’ve left the army. I was engaged, Em, to a lovely fella, and he was killed – last week. I can’t stay in the army, not after that. I’m home now – for good.’
Absent Without Leave
Twenty-Nine
Turning into Kenilworth Street that afternoon, Molly had thought her heart could not weigh any heavier, until she saw the smashed wreckage of the place she had long thought of as her refuge and home – Jenny and Stanley Button’s house.
‘Oh my God,’ she breathed, the sight of it jolting her to a standstill.
She’d known about it, of course, but seeing was another matter. The front of the house had collapsed, leaving black, gaping holes. Most of the rubble had been cleared away to make the street passable, and much of the smashed brick and other mess had been piled into the shell of the ruined house.
Slowly, Molly moved closer, trying to come to terms with the reality of it – that the Buttons were gone for ever. She could see the white walls of the room she had slept in upstairs, the door frame leading off the postcard-sized landing. It was one of the worst things she’d ever seen. And it all brought back the explosion that had killed Tony only a few heartbreaking days ago. She looked down to shut out the desolate sight, feeling herself start to shake again. Already immersed in the wrenching awfulness of losing him, this was too much. Everyone she had ever truly loved in the world was gone, and being back here, instead of being any sort of comfort, made it all feel starkly worse.
Why had she even come back? She had panicked, turned on the spur of the moment towards something familiar, to get away from anywhere that could remind her of Tony. But of course it did remind her. It pressed her further into the pain. And what comfort could she find here? Here there was nothing that could be called a home. There was Em, of course, but she was married now, had her own family and future. But for Molly now, there was nothing anywhere. What did it matter where she went?
Standing in the street on that warm afternoon, for a few moments her anguish grew until it was unbearable. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, desperately craving a drink to blot out the pain, to blur the edges of everything and let her sink into black unconsciousness. But no. NO! She mustn’t start down that road. No now: not ever. I’m not ending up like my bloody mother! she raged inwardly. If I only do one good thing in my life it will be not ending up like that sodden old cow.
A tiny sound snagged her attention. It was someone coughing further along the road, but it was instantly familiar. Opening her eyes, she saw a figure in the distance: skinny, slightly bent, walking in a furtive manner, head turning from side to side, glancing behind as if uneasy about being followed. Yet there was something different. She watched, rooted to the spot, as her brother came towards her from the far end of the street.
Realizing that the last thing on earth she wanted to do was run into Bert, she dashed to number eighteen, rapped urgently on the Browns’ half-open door and stepped inside.
‘Who’s that?’ Cynthia came through from the back. It took her seconds to recognize her. ‘Molly? What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Shhh!’ Molly put her finger urgently to her lips. She’d nipped in quickly and hidden behind the door, pretty sure Bert hadn’t seen her. ‘Sorry, Mrs Brown, only Bert’s coming along . . .’
‘Huh,’ Cynthia said contemptuously. She folded her arms and the two of them peered out from behind the nets as Bert went slouching past. His greasy hair was parted in the middle and slicked back either side.
‘Look at that suit – those lapels!’ Molly whispered. ‘He daint get that down the pawn shop – he looks a proper dandy! Those shoes! How did he get hold of all that?’
‘Not by a hard day’s work, you can bet,’ Cynthia said.
Bert disappeared and the two women turned to each other. Molly was struck by some change in Cynthia. She had always been a lovely-looking woman, strong and curvaceous, with her dark eyes and dark wavy hair. She was wearing a loose frock under which could be seen clearly the outline of her generous breasts. She looked suddenly older, slacker in the body. But she appeared steady: she was not going through one of her bad patches, by the looks of things.
Molly saw Cynthia take in the sight of her in her uniform, of her hair taken up smartly under her hat. Even in the fog of her grief, Molly had automatically dressed as if for an inspection.
‘You look so different! Very grown-up.’ Cynthia smiled, then took in Molly’s hollow-eyed, desolate expression and closed the front door. ‘Come through, bab – I’ll get you a cup of tea. What’s happened?’
It all came pouring out as Molly sat at the table. Cynthia busied herself making the tea, until Molly got to the bit about being in London with Tony, and then the bomb, and she came and sat close, her dark eyes seeming to reflect the horror she was hearing.
‘Oh love – what a terrible thing to happen – and on top of Mr and Mrs Button!’ She rested her hand on Molly’s arm as she talked, weeping wretchedly. ‘You poor, poor thing. No wonder you can’t go back there. That’s right, you have a good cry and let some of it out.’
Once Em had come home and heard the news, they’d told Molly to go up on Em’s bed and have a rest.
‘You look all in, love,’ Cynthia said.
And though she did not think she would be able to, as soon as she lay down sleep overcame her.
She woke in the late-afternoon light to find Em sitting on the edge of the bed and the low sun slanting through the window.
‘Brought you another cup of tea,’ Em said.
Molly sat up, disorientated, her hair rumpled round her face. ‘I couldn’t think where I was.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Em still looked stricken. ‘I’m ever so sorry, Molly.’
Molly took the cup of tea, her eyes filling with tears again at the sight of Em’s sympathetic face. Sipping her tea, she looked around her. She was in the bigger bed that Em shared with Joyce, and by the wall was Violet’s single one.
‘What’re you going to do?’ Em asked.
Molly shrugged. ‘I haven’t thought. Go back to the factory, I s’pose.’
Em was frowning. ‘Won’t they come and look for you? Surely they will?’
‘Will they?’ Molly looked unconcerned by this thought. ‘Oh I don’t s’pose so.’ Looking over the rim of her teacup, she said, ‘How’re you, Em? Norm all right?’
‘I think so.’ Em smiled. ‘He’s in Canada. Can you believe it? All that way.’ She blushed prettily. ‘Did Mom tell you?’
‘What?’
‘I’m expecting.’
A terrible pang went through Molly, seeing Em’s face, which she now noticed was different, radiant in a way she’d never seen before. Em looked happy and excited, with a husband and future, whereas she . . . But she dragged her features into a smile.
‘Oh I am pleased for yer! That’s lovely, Em! When’s it due to arrive?’
‘January,’ Em said. ‘I’ve got my special ration book, it’s a green one they give you if you’re having a babby, and Mr Perry’s being ever so kind when I haven’t been feeling too well . . .’ She stopped, seeing the sadness in Molly’s face. ‘Sorry – not very nice of me.’ She touched her friend’s shoulder. ‘Rattling on after all that’s happened to you.’
‘No – I’m happy for yer,’ Molly said, wiping away the tears which wouldn’t stop running down her cheeks. ‘Em – d’you know what happened to Stanley?’
‘No.’ Em thought for a moment. ‘It was a terrible night. I was on du
ty round the corner. I came round and saw it, after . . . They’d gone by then. They took both of ’em away – I s’pose he went to the hospital. D’you want to go and see him?’
‘They were ever so kind to me. And he must be lost without Mrs B. She was the life and soul, did everything for him.’
‘We’ll have to find out,’ Em said. ‘I’ll ask around.’
‘And what about Wally?’
‘Who’s Wally?’
‘The little dog – don’t you remember?’
Em looked vague. ‘I don’t know. He must’ve got killed – or run off.’ She got up from the bed. ‘Look Molly, I don’t know what you want to do, but you can bunk up with us here if you like. If you don’t want to go home? Have you even seen their new place?’ Em saw Molly’s blank look. ‘You did know they’ve moved?’
‘No! Where to?’
‘Only up the road. To a bigger house. One of those ones up the end.’
‘Oh, have they?’ Molly said grimly. ‘They seem to be in the money all of a sudden.’ She ran a hand over her face. She hadn’t thought anything through. ‘I don’t want to be over there – I’ll stop ’ere with you, if that’s all right?’
Em leaned down and squeezed her hand. ‘Course it is.’
Thirty
‘I s’pose I’d better look in on Mom,’ Molly said when they’d all had their tea. ‘See how they’re getting along in their new palace!’
She was a bit curious about the new house in Lupin Street, but as she left number eighteen, she was also anxious not to get in the Brown family’s way. She’d promised Cynthia she’d go and apply for a civilian ration book the next day, so that she was not a burden on them. She was still wearing her uniform, the only clothes she had with her, and she wanted to retrieve a few old things she had in the house to make do with for now. After that she was going to have to get back on her feet, get a job and pay her way.
It was only thanks to Em that she knew the number of the house. It was in a terrace, two up, two down – hardly a palace, but an improvement on the old back-to-back they were in before. Like all the other houses in the neighbourhood, its brickwork wore a thick powdering of grime, and the window frames were rotting, but the front door, which was dark green, had recently been given a lick of paint. Molly stood on the step for a few seconds, bracing herself. As well as the usual musty smell that emanated from these houses, there was a whiff of something else seeping out round the door, a pungent, sickly smell.
Molly pushed at the door, but to her surprise it was bolted from the inside. She tutted. It was very rare for anyone to bother locking their door round here. There was nothing much to steal anyway. What the hell was going on? Impatient, she rapped on the door.
Immediately she heard someone running downstairs and then Bert’s muffled voice: ‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s Molly. Remember me – your sister? For God’s sake, let me in.’
An elaborate performance of undoing locks and bolts went on behind the door, and then Bert’s rat-like face appeared in the gloom. He gave a disparaging laugh.
‘Oh. It’s only you! What’re you doing back ’ere?’
‘Just passing through,’ Molly said as he stepped back to let her in. She could see the shapes of furniture in the dark room. ‘What’s that horrible pong?’
‘ ’Oo’s that down there with yer?’ she heard Iris bawl from upstairs.
‘It’s Molly,’ he said indifferently.
‘Oh-ho – is it?’ Iris shouted nastily. ‘What’s she want?’
‘I’ve come to pick up the last of my clothes,’ Molly said, moving towards the stairs. ‘I s’pose you’ve brought my things here with yer?’ She was already longing to get away. She’d known better than to think she might find a welcome.
Bert was barring the way upstairs, a nasty, taunting expression on his face.
‘Just let me get my clothes and go,’ Molly said wearily. Hearing a cough from the back room, she realized it was Joe, and pushed her way in past Bert. Startled, she looked round. There was a dim light bulb hanging in the middle of the room over a table she had never seen before, with four chairs pushed in under it. It wasn’t new, but it was better than any furniture they’d ever had before. Against one wall stood an old Welsh dresser, arranged with pink flowery crocks, all of which were new, and in the back corner of the kitchen was a gas stove. Joe was parked in his chair by the grate, as he had usually been in the last house, though the evening was too warm for a fire, even if anyone had been prepared to light one.
‘Hello, Joe,’ Molly said once he noticed her in the room. She wasn’t even sure if he knew who she was, in her ATS uniform. ‘It’s Molly.’
Joe nodded. ‘All right?’ he said. He moved a trembling hand up to his face and fussed at his cheek as if some insect had landed on it. Molly couldn’t see anything.
‘I’ve just come to get my things,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go away again for a bit.’
‘Have yer?’ He lowered his quivering hand onto the arm of the chair. It continued to shake.
‘Is there anything I can get yer?’
He shook his head, then closed his eyes and put his head back as if to shut everyone out. Molly pitied him having to live with this stink. She pitied him altogether, but there was nothing she could do. And in his odd, twisted way, it did seem as if Bert was looking after the family, at least in terms of bringing in the money.
Turning, she saw that Bert was watching her, leaning on the door frame and barring her way.
‘It’s a good job you ain’t coming to stop ’ere,’ he said, and there was a note of pride in his voice. ‘’Cos there ain’t no room for yer now. You’d better come up and see what we’re doing, little sis.’
She followed Bert’s shiny shoes and the pungent smell up the stairs. These, she noticed in the light of another dim bulb, had deep red carpet running up them, an unheard-of luxury in any of the other houses. At the top, a tiny landing separated the back room from the front, and Bert turned into the back one. Molly stopped at the door, trying to make sense of the startling sight in front of her. There was a narrow bed against the back wall away from the window, across which had been laid a flat board, covered in newspaper to make a makeshift table. On it, arranged methodically, were a number of large metal cans and several rows of small glass bottles, and in front of it, Iris was sitting on a chair, clothed in a satin confection of a dress in a harsh shade of peacock blue, all pleats and flounces and plunging neckline. Her legs were braced wide apart, the skirt hoicked up indecently high, and she was pouring liquid from one of the cans through a funnel into one of the little bottles. Beside her, on the bed, rested a half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker. Iris finished pouring, took a swig from the bottle, and, staring aggressively at Molly with bleary eyes, said, ‘Oh – so you’re back, are yer? I thought you was too good for us.’
It was only then that Molly noticed a movement from behind the door and realized there was someone else there. A young woman walked towards the bed holding another of the cans, which she put down near the others. She turned to look at Molly, who saw a thin, sallow face with a poor complexion, dark eyebrows plucked to a thin line, the eyes heavily laden with makeup. Her hair, blonde, unlike her eyebrows, was obviously dyed, and was scraped back from her face in tight, lacquered waves. She had a pert little mouth which seemed to express a sneering scorn at the sight of Molly. She too was wearing a fancy little frock, pink and too short for her.
‘This is my little sister, Molly,’ Bert said to the girl. She made a sour movement with her mouth and turned away. He didn’t bother to tell Molly who she was and Molly couldn’t have cared less anyway. Just another of Bert’s nasty little bits, she thought.
She stared round the room. Against all the other walls were stacked cartons. Some were open and she could see that they contained empty bottles like the one Iris was filling, but the others held other booty. She went over to look and Bert didn’t stop her. He stood with his arms folded, a scheming, satisfied grin on his face.
She opened one box and tapped at the smaller boxes inside, shocked to realize that it was crammed full of packets of cigarettes. In another, under the window, she prodded blue wrapped packages.
‘Sugar?’ She turned to Bert.
‘Bingo. And here—’ He rifled in another smaller box behind the door and brought out a sheaf of papers. Petrol coupons – hundreds of them.
‘Are they . . . ?’ Molly looked at him, only gradually taking in the magnitude of what he was involved in.
‘Straight up?’ Bert gave a sneering laugh. ‘What do you think?’
‘And what’s . . . ?’ She gestured towards the bed, the bottles.
‘Perfume – straight from the boulevards of Paris!’ He pronounced it Paree. ‘The ladies love it – it’s the scent of love!’
‘Smells lovely,’ Iris murmured. ‘D’yer like my frock, Moll? Bert got it for me.’
Molly stared at the grotesque sight of her mother in the silky dress, fit for a glamorous night out, yet so tight on her that she looked more like a stringed ham, the silky folds pulled about in all directions. Her hair was scraped up chaotically, and she was wearing daubs of rouge and bright red lipstick, no doubt all courtesy of Bert. She and the girl were most likely drenched in perfume too, though the sickly smell was so generally overpowering in here that there was no way of telling.
Bert became expansive, seemingly enjoying showing off his prowess. He went to a box in the corner and brought out another bottle of Johnny Walker. Molly’s gaze fastened hungrily on the bottle, a look which Bert didn’t miss.
‘That’s it, sis – come down and have a drink. I know you like a drop. There’s plenty more where this came from. Hilda – you stay here and help our mom for a bit. I need a conflab with my sister.’
Hilda stared balefully as Molly followed Bert from the room.
‘Our mom dozes off on the job,’ Bert said as they went downstairs. ‘I like to ’ave Hilda up there to keep ’er going as long as ’er can. Help earn some of the money for all ’er finery! Right – go and sit in the front – the old man’s in the back.’
