It was useless. Rosie straightened as she remained staring at the slumped figure in the chair. It had been the worst day’s work Mrs McLinnie had ever done to invite her mother to the party after Robert’s wedding. It had been there Jessie had discovered she could forget her troubles in drink, and from that evening, when two of the lads had brought her home so intoxicated she couldn’t stand, the craving had been with her. But no, it wasn’t Mrs McLinnie’s fault, she corrected herself in the next moment. It would probably have happened sooner or later. In fact she had wondered more than once if the reason her father had been so opposed to having drink in the house or visiting the pub was because he had sensed her mother’s innate weakness. Whatever, over the last three years her mother’s drinking had had the effect of slowly alienating Molly and Hannah, Rosie thought sadly, and now it was her they turned to for maternal love and support.
Rosie became aware that Hannah was at her side as the child tugged at her sleeve, and as she began to undo the buttons of her coat she said, ‘Yes, hinny? What is it?’
‘I . . . I think I know where Molly is but . . . but she said I hadn’t to snitch else she’d skelp me.’
Rosie became still and, looking straight at her sister, said in a quiet voice, ‘This isn’t like telling tales, Hannah. Where is she?’
‘But she said.’ Hannah’s voice had a quiver in it; Molly could hit hard and she was frightened of her.
‘Come here, pet.’ Rosie took Hannah across to the other side of the room, pulled one of the straight-backed chairs out from the table and sat down, drawing Hannah between her knees as she said again, ‘This is important, hinny. Where is she? Tell me.’
The plain little face framed by its two plaits of mouseybrown hair crumpled. ‘I think . . . she’s at me grannie’s.’
‘Gran’s?’ Rosie’s eyes narrowed. Tuesday was her grandmother’s night out with her old cronies and they never missed going to the Archer’s Arms where a little ragtime band played on Tuesdays and Saturdays. She’d half expected Hannah to say that Molly was out with Robbie Black from the next street. She had got the impression her sister liked the tall, gangling fifteen-year-old who had just started work at the kipper-curing factory and now had the added allure of being a working man. ‘Are you sure, Hannah?’
Hannah nodded. She was sure, and now her worry at the late hour induced her to say, ‘An’ she - she’s bin meetin’ Uncle Ronnie after school sometimes, afore . . . afore we come home.
‘What!’
‘They make me wait somewhere an’ then our Molly comes back for me an’ she tells Mam we’ve bin playin’.’
This was getting worse by the minute. ‘How long has this been going on, Hannah?’
Hannah wriggled a bit, rubbing her nose and twisting one plait round her fingers before she said, ‘I dunno. A while.’
Oh, God, please don’t let this be what I’m thinking. Please, please, please. Rosie could feel the panic closing her throat and she forced herself to say, in as quiet a voice as she could manage, ‘Have you ever . . . ? Has Uncle Ronnie ever asked you to do anything you don’t want to do?’
‘No.’ It was immediate and carried the ring of truth.
So while she had been at work thinking her mother was taking care of the children they had been out on the streets after school, with Molly doing goodness knows what. And Molly had been clever. Or rather that man, he had been clever. But he knew she was only a young lass of barely thirteen and he was well over thirty, although he didn’t look it. Oh, she had to find her. She had to get Molly back here and find out what had been going on.
‘An’ . . .’
‘There’s not anything more?’ Rosie’s eyes returned to Hannah’s face as her sister spoke.
‘No, ’cept . . .’ Hannah wriggled a bit more. ‘When me mam takes us to Grannie’s an’ Molly an’ me go outside to play while they talk, Molly don’t always play. She sometimes . . . goes upstairs.’
She didn’t believe this was happening. Please, please, God, don’t let her have allowed that man to touch her, Rosie prayed frantically.
‘An’ he gives her things.’
‘Things?’
‘Money an’ things.’
Jessie was now snoring her head off, the guttural sounds from her throat vibrating the air, and Rosie suddenly had the urge to fly across the room and take hold of her and shake her and shake her until her teeth rattled. Every day, every day when she came back from the Store she would ask her mother how the bairns were and if they had come straight home from school, and every day her mother had nodded. And she had promised to keep the children with her every minute they were at her grannie’s too. And all the time this had been going on. But no, she was jumping the gun here, she didn’t know what ‘this’ was. It could be nothing. It could, it could be nothing.
Rosie had risen to her feet and now, as a thought struck, she looked down at Hannah and with a catch in her voice she said, ‘These things, what did Molly do with them?’ She knew every inch of these two rooms they called home - she cleaned them from top to bottom every Sunday afternoon because her mother wouldn’t lift a finger, and while she was doing that Molly and Hannah would clean the washhouse and scour the privy and brush the small yard - and there wasn’t anywhere to hide ill-gotten gains. Perhaps Hannah was mistaken, maybe Ronnie Tiller just gave Molly a few sweets now and again and the odd sixpence to spend on herself.
‘She keeps ’em in her dolly bag.’
Rosie thought of the rainbow-coloured bag her mother had knitted some years back with odd scraps of wool and, realizing she hadn’t seen it for some time, said quietly, ‘And where is the bag?’
‘She’s hidden it. She gets it out when she thinks I’m asleep, she thinks she’s so canny, our Molly.’
‘And you know where it is?’ At Hannah’s nod, Rosie said, ‘Show me.’
When Hannah led the way into the bedroom and squeezed her body down the narrow aisle between the two three-quarter beds, one of which was used by Molly and Jessie, the other by Rosie and Hannah, Rosie said nothing, but when her sister squatted in front of the little fireplace she let out a soft ‘ahh’. It was impossible to light a fire in the room with the beds situated as they were, and Molly had hit on the perfect hiding place, she told herself silently, as Hannah fished out the now black bag with an ‘Ugh, it tain’t half hacky, Rosie.’
Her heart was beating like a drum as she took the bag from Hannah’s soot-smeared fingers and she stared at it for some seconds before raising her gaze to Hannah, who was looking at her with wide, frightened eyes as the enormity of her betrayal to Molly dawned. ‘She’ll bash me face in.’ Hannah sat down very suddenly on one of the beds and her voice was a whimper when she repeated, ‘She will, she’ll bash me face in.’
‘No she won’t, I won’t let her, I promise.’
The contents of the bag were wrapped in a piece of rough cloth, and as Rosie unfolded it on the floor, the two of them kneeling either side of the rag, hemmed in by the beds, she found she was holding her breath.
‘Ooo, Rosie.’ Hannah’s brown button eyes were wide. ‘Why did he give her all them bits? An’ look at the money, all them shillin’s an’ half crowns.’
Molly. Molly, Molly, Molly, what have you done? Rosie kept her gaze on the little hoard of jewellery, cheap trinkets for the most part, and the collection of sixpences, shillings and half crowns the rag had held, but in her mind’s eye she was seeing Ronnie’s smiling face as it had been a couple of months ago when she had last been at her grannie’s. As she worked every Saturday her mother took the girls on the routine visit once a week, but that particular day it had been her grannie’s birthday so she had arranged to meet them at the terraced house in the East End when she had left the Co-op.
She had only been in her grannie’s kitchen two minutes before Ronnie had made his appearance, and he had been full of oily congratulations about her promotion, his white teeth flashing as he had smiled and nodded, and his manner ingratiating. And yet there had been something -
an inflexion in his voice, a certain look in his eyes perhaps - she hadn’t been able to put her finger on, but that had made her feel almost as though he was laughing at her. And he would have been, wouldn’t he, if all the time he was-- She caught herself abruptly as panic churned her stomach. She didn’t know how far things had gone, now then. This could be something or nothing.
‘What you gonna do with it?’ Hannah was staring at the glittering heap with something like awe on her face, and as her hand went out to touch a gaudy necklace, its brilliant red stones twinkling in the dim light, Rosie made them both jump as she hissed, ‘Don’t touch it, don’t, Hannah.’
‘Why?’ Hannah had shot back as though she had been burnt, sprawling onto her bottom and smacking the side of her head on the iron base of one of the beds.
How could she explain she felt the lot of it was contaminated, foul? Rosie found herself staring into Hannah’s little face as her mind raced. She couldn’t, but oh . . . She pressed one hand into the corner of her mouth, contorting her bottom lip out of shape. She wanted to kill Ronnie Tiller. Rosie swallowed deeply, and now she had to force the words out as she said, ‘Just don’t, that’s all.’
‘No, all right, Rosie.’ Hannah didn’t understand what was going on but she had gleaned enough to know that there was something bad about Molly’s treasure and she was frightened.
Rosie was on her feet now and Hannah scrambled to hers before moving forwards, stepping over the sparkling pile on the floor as she reached out her arms to this big sister who had become mother and father and whom she loved best in the world. As Rosie’s arms went about her and she was pressed tightly into her sister’s body Hannah wanted to cry. What had their Molly done now? She was always spoiling things, and everything could be so nice if Molly wasn’t always going in a mood. And it was usually because she wanted something or other.
Molly knew they had to watch every penny so Rosie could pay the rent to Mr Price and keep them clothed and fed, but she still yammered on and on when she wanted something until it ended in a barney. Look at last week when Rosie had given them their paste eggs for boolin’ after the Easter parade; Molly wouldn’t join in with the rest of the bairns when they’d all bowled their eggs down the slope at the park, and she had chuntered on and on about how she would have been picked to lead the procession if she’d had a new rig-out, until even their mam had had enough and clipped her ear.
‘Come on, get yourself to bed, pet.’ Rosie put Hannah from her and forced a smile as she added, ‘If you’re quick I’ll bring you a spice wig in and a sup of tea for your supper. Would you like that?’
‘I’m not hungry, Rosie.’
Normally the offer of one of the teacakes with currants that Hannah liked so much would have sent her scurrying under the blankets, and now Rosie’s voice was very soft as she said, ‘Come on, hinny, don’t worry. It’ll be all right.’
But would it? By eleven o’clock, and after Rosie had settled her mother in bed, Molly’s whereabouts had taken precedence over everything else, even the matter of the contents of the dolly bag. She had thought of one scenario after another, and each one worse than the one before. She couldn’t sit here another minute, she had to do something.
Then the turmoil was temporarily frozen as Rosie heard the front door open and close again. She listened, her ears straining and her head cocked towards the sitting-room door, but when she heard movements from the room below her body sagged and the agitation returned tenfold. It was only Zachariah returning from playing darts with Tommy Bailey at the working men’s club. Would Janie have been there too? The name pierced her anxiety briefly and brought her gnawing on her thumbnail.
It had been Tommy who had told her - oh, it must be some six months back or more - about Zachariah’s lady friend, one night when he had called round and Zachariah was out. She’d often wondered since if that had been the prime motive for that particular visit, because it had almost been as if Tommy was accusing her of something, of some unkindness, when he’d said, ‘Zac’s just told her he wants shot of her, upset her good an’ proper it has, an’ him an’ all. I’ve known Janie for years, even afore her an’ Zac got together, an’ she confides in me. She can’t understand why he wants to end it when he won’t give her a reason beyond he don’t feel the same any more an’ he wants ’em to be just pals. She was good to him an’ all, didn’t matter to Janie about him bein’ short, she looked beyond that. She’s taken to turnin’ up at the club whenever she thinks he might be there, tryin’ to wheedle her way back in.’
Rosie had wanted to ask Tommy why he was telling her all this but she hadn’t liked to. Something in his manner had stopped her. She hadn’t known quite what to say but had ventured, ‘Well, perhaps she will?’
‘No, lass, no.’ He had fixed his eyes on her. ‘I’ve known Zac all me life an’ there’s no changin’ him once he’s made up his mind about somethin’. I’ve got me own idea about why he finished it but Zac’s a deep one an’ he don’t discuss his private affairs with no one, not even me.’ There followed a pregnant pause when Rosie felt he was waiting for her to say something, and when she remained silent he had said, ‘Still, there’s nowt I can do about it, but it’s a cryin’ shame. Janie suited him.’
Rosie had pondered about the matter for days before putting it behind her, but since then it was as though a door had opened in her mind and she had been unable to see Zachariah in quite the same way. Before the incident with Tommy he had just been Zachariah - her friend, teacher and confidant too at times. But after Tommy’s revelation about this Janie who loved him she had begun to see him as a man and it had disturbed her. It was probably the conversation with Tommy which had prompted her to ask Mr Green about Zachariah’s parents shortly afterwards. She had never forgotten her employer’s comment about ‘the sins of the fathers’ at her interview. Mr Green had been embarrassed at first but he had told her briefly, and stressing that no one knew for sure, that it was the general opinion of folk hereabouts that Mary Price had never been married. ‘’Course she wore a wedding ring, and she liked to put it about she’d been wed across the water, in his country, but folk aren’t daft, lass.’ This second discovery had bothered her less than the first but it had all added to her disquiet.
Still, all that was Zachariah’s business, it was nothing to do with her. Rosie stretched wearily. But now he was back she’d go and ask him to keep an ear open while she went round her grannie’s. She couldn’t sit here another minute, but there needed to be someone available to let Molly in should her sister return while she was gone.
‘Are you barmy, lass? There’s no way you’re walkin’ the streets by yourself.’ Zachariah’s tone was adamant.
‘I’ll be quite all right.’
‘Aye, you will an’ all, because you’re not goin’. If there’s any lookin’ to be done I’ll do it. What’s the old lady’s address?’ And then, as he took in the stubborn line of her mouth, he added, ‘See sense, lass, now then. You’re no bairn an’ you know the sort of women who are out this time of night on their own, I don’t have to spell it out. It’s not goin’ to help the lass if somethin’ happens to you, is it? Give us your grannie’s address an’ I’ll be off, an’ ten to one she’ll be knockin’ on the door the minute I’m away.’
Rosie gave him the address and once Zachariah had left she sat without moving in the splendid red and gold sitting room, her knees tightly together and her hands joined on her lap as she stared into the glowing embers of the fire. Her mind had stopped questioning what Molly had been up to. She knew. Deep in her heart she had known even before she’d shown the dolly bag and its contents to Zachariah and seen the way his mouth had tightened. Had Ronnie Tiller actually taken her down? It seemed likely, but whether Molly would admit to it was a different matter.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have gone out tonight? But no, she couldn’t stay in every night, she just couldn’t. The weekly excursions to the Kings Theatre in Crowtree Road with Flora and Sally were her one indulgence, and they always brought
back fond memories of the Saturday afternoon matinees when she was a child. Sam and Davey had taken her and Flora and any of the other children who had their pennies for the entrance fee to see the silent films, and they had all scampered up the stone steps to the top of the gallery, there to sit on low forms as they goggled at the film and watched the pianist banging away at one side of the theatre on the old piano.
And now both Davey and Sam had gone. She had scarcely been able to believe it that day - over two-and-a-half years ago now - when Flora had come round almost hysterical with the news that the ship Davey had been on had sunk off the Bay of Biscay. She hadn’t even known Davey had signed on. She’d often wished since that Flora had never started work in Baxter’s shipping office because then they wouldn’t have known. She could have imagined him out in the world somewhere, alive, happy, perhaps working towards buying that little farm he and Sam had dreamt of, without the shadow of the pit hanging over him.
The darkness that the thought of Davey’s death always produced came over her and Rosie shrugged it away impatiently as she jumped up from her seat and began pacing the floor. No dwelling in the past. That brought weakness and she needed to be strong now more than ever. She was going to continue to try to hold this family together no matter what was hurled against them, and there were plenty of others worse off than them these days with more and more men being sucked into the deadly mire of unemployment and despair.
She still had to watch every penny, with the four of them to clothe and feed and the rent to pay, but with the extra two-and-six a week the supervisor’s job had brought, and the other rises she’d had since starting work, she was now managing to pay Zachariah five shillings a week rent - something she had insisted on despite his vehement objections that he didn’t want a penny more than the original three-and-six. Of course most weeks she was robbing Peter to pay Paul out of her eighteen shillings less stamp, and the long hours, six days a week, could be exhausting on occasion, but she had been fortunate, so, so fortunate, to get set on at the Co-op and she knew it. If she’d got work in a factory she would have been lucky to clear ten shillings, and the laundries and such paid no better.
Reach for Tomorrow Page 12
