Molly's Christmas Orphans

by Carol Rivers

  ‘You’ve got the strength of a vestal virgin,’ he said, wrinkling his eyebrows.

  ‘I ain’t no virgin and you bloody know it,’ said Cissy, offended.

  ‘I couldn’t care less what you are,’ he replied as she ineffectually tried to loosen his hold. ‘You’re the tastiest peach I’ve seen since me mum’s golden syrup pudding.’

  ‘Will you shut up?’ Cissy pushed back her turban and tried to hide her embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t you enjoy a bit of intelligent conversation once in a while?’

  ‘If you’re intelligent, I’m Mata Hari.’

  ‘Now you’re talking. Not only was Mata Hari a cracker, but bright as a button too.’

  ‘Yeah, she was a spy an’ all. Now, are you gonna give me that broom?’

  Spot held it out to her. ‘Take it. I dare you.’

  Cissy folded her arms and rolled her eyes. ‘Listen, I’ve had enough of you for one day, you’d better clear off.’

  ‘What, and leave you at the mercy of Ronnie Hook?’

  Cissy froze. Her arms fell by her sides. ‘How do you know about Ronnie? Did Molly say?’

  Spot tapped the side of his nose. ‘You told me. You said you was from the other side of the water. And it wasn’t fairies as done this place over. I read that muck on the blackout blind—’

  ‘And you put two and two together to make five.’

  ‘I’m close though, ain’t I?’ Spot insisted. ‘Ronnie’s a big name in the rackets on the south side. I took an uneducated guess.’

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’ Cissy demanded, trying to put on a show of defiance to cover the fact she’d been found out. ‘A little squirt like you ain’t no match for him.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘I would at that. Your dog’s got a better chance of seeing off the enemy than you.’

  Spot nodded slowly, then handed Cissy the broom. ‘Here you are then, gel. If you don’t want me services, we’ll be off.’ He gave a whistle and called to his dog, who sprang from behind the counter. Stuffing his hands in his pockets Spot strolled to the shop door and yanked it open.

  Cissy could have bitten out her tongue. What did she have to upset him for? He was better than nothing and she would be bloody alone too, if he deserted her. It would be just her luck for some of Ronnie’s men to turn up out of the blue and do her – and the place – over.

  ‘You got a real thin skin for someone who boasts being a minder,’ Cissy called, sinking her pride. ‘Thought you could take a joke.’

  At this, the small, sturdy figure stopped just outside the shop and turned to grin at her. ‘Christ, girl, you got a tongue sharper than a stevedore’s ’ook.’

  ‘Well, what you waiting for, then? The floor still needs sweeping.’ She held out the broom as a peace offering.

  Cissy watched him stride in, with a swagger that infuriated her. He grabbed it from her hand, winking with his good eye, and before she could dodge he planted a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Give over!’ she cried, clapping her hand to her face.

  ‘Couldn’t resist.’

  ‘I’m in the kitchen, making a brew,’ she threw over her shoulder as she bolted for the stairs.

  ‘Good on you, girl, keep the troops happy,’ she heard him call. ‘The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his gut.’

  Cissy stood in the kitchen, trying to regain her composure. The cheeky sod was infuriating, cocky and never short of a reply. She would love to bring him down a peg or two. But unfortunately he was the only insurance she possessed against Ronnie Hook. And, as he had guessed her secret, but not made her squirm into the bargain, there was a redeeming factor to his character.

  She slowly filled the kettle and put it on the gas. Just let him say one more word to annoy her though, and – well, he’d have his marching orders!

  Satisfied with her decision, she glanced in Molly’s small mirror behind the door. Sliding off her turban, she let her hair fall softly down to her shoulders, inclining her head to gaze into the soft, silvery eyes staring back at her.

  She wasn’t blushing, not at all. Lena Cole hadn’t blushed in years.

  There were queues of people snaking out from the bus stop on the outskirts of Dagenham. All the passengers followed, like long lines of sheep, making their way to the factories that had managed to survive after being targeted during the blitz.

  Molly joined them, hoping there would be a connecting bus to Rush Green or Romford, but she couldn’t see any. Many of the houses on the outskirts of town had suffered damage. As with The Isle of Dogs, there was evidence of the bombing everywhere: holed and broken roads, diversion signs and military traffic. Since she didn’t know the area, she had no idea what times the buses, if any, would run.

  She was still feeling shaken up. Those bullets had come very close as she’d sheltered by the hedge. They had reminded her of the blitz, with the ack-ack firing up at the bombers revealed by the searchlights in the night sky. At least it was daylight now. And even though she had been very scared, her concern for the children was greater.

  Molly soon found herself alone. She looked up and down the road, to the big factory buildings on one side and the fields on the other. It was cold and with a hint of rain in the air. She didn’t even have her umbrella.

  ‘Where d’you want, love?’ a voice called as an open-backed lorry drew up. The driver was an older man, with untidy grey hair and a cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘Town centre?’

  ‘No. I want to get to Romford or even Rush Green.’

  ‘I think I can oblige. I’ve dropped off all me regulars and am on me way back to the London Road.’

  Molly almost jumped for joy and hurried over to the open window. ‘That’s where I want to go!’

  ‘What part?’ he yelled above the noise of the old engine.

  ‘Wherever the Salvation Army have a mission.’

  He rubbed his chin. ‘There ain’t no Army mission, ducks.’

  ‘There must be. Some people I know said they’d be there.’

  ‘We got the Catholics, the Methodists and the Baptists. The Crown Hotel and the Golden Mile and a damn fine dog track. Then there’s the market, and a bloody good one at that. Sheep, cows, pigs, any fowl you can name, and we’ve got a Corn Exchange too.’

  ‘Well, that’s very nice, but I want the Salvation Army.’

  ‘You better hop in and I’ll drop you off at the Crown. And keep yer eyes skinned, as Jerry paid us a visit earlier. Bomb Alley they call us here, as the buggers fly over this way to the city. Give us a bang on the window if you see anything.’

  With this warning ringing in her ears, Molly made her way round to the back of the lorry. She climbed onto the rusty step and grabbed the steel struts of the canvas arch. She was soon sitting with her back to the cab, her eyes fixed on the sky. The moment she saw a movement in the clouds, she wasn’t going to hesitate in letting the driver know.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It must have been late morning by the time the lorry stopped at the Crown, as Molly saw people going into the pub.

  ‘Here you are, love, just ask inside,’ said the driver as he helped her out from the back of the lorry.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ Molly asked and was greeted with a firm shake of the head.

  ‘I’m paid for driving the factory workers and was on me way home anyway.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course. Good luck finding your friends.’

  Molly watched him jump in the cab and drive off. She looked up at the three-storey tavern, with a parapet and several large chimneys. All around its walls were sandbags and buckets. The old-fashioned glass windows were covered inside with criss-cross tape. The bar smelled of tobacco and ale as she walked in and the tables and chairs were filling up quickly with Saturday trade. She went to the bar and asked the young girl serving behind it if she knew where the Salvation Army church or mission was.

  ‘No, love, I don’t,’ said the girl. ‘But there’s a Sall
y Army bloke who lives down the road. He might be able to tell you.’ Listening carefully to the directions, Molly thanked her and walked out.

  The rain had started in earnest. By the time she got to the small cottage, she was soaked to the skin. The door was open slightly and she could hear the sound of someone crying.

  Molly pushed the door gently. She looked inside and saw an older woman sitting in a chair, mopping her eyes with a handkerchief. She looked up and met Molly’s gaze. ‘Y-yes?’ she said falteringly.

  ‘I’m Molly Swift. I’m looking for Betty and Len Denham, and two children, Mark and Evie Miller.’

  With that, the woman burst into tears again, rose unsteadily to her feet and threw her arms around Molly.

  Molly held her gently until the tears subsided and she was able to talk.

  ‘Oh, Molly, I’m so pleased to see yer, gel.’

  ‘Betty? Is it you?’

  ‘The very same, love.’

  ‘Where are the children?’

  ‘They’ve just taken ’em. That’s why I’m upset.’

  Molly released her gently. ‘Who’s taken them and where?’

  ‘They’ve been billeted up north and me and Len are being sent to Wales. The captain and Len just took ’em.’

  Molly’s heart hammered against her ribs. ‘Where?’

  ‘Poor little souls,’ sobbed Betty, as if she hadn’t heard Molly. ‘It was such a wrench to see them go. Bawlin’ their eyes out, they were.’

  ‘Go where – exactly?’ Molly asked more firmly.

  ‘As it was raining the captain drove them in his car to the Crown. They’re being collected by the coach to go to Yorkshire and—’

  Before Betty could say more Molly hurtled out of the cottage door. It was raining so hard that the big drops splashed painfully against her cheeks and in seconds she was drenched once again.

  She began to run, making her way back along the path she had just followed. Her shoes were waterlogged and she could barely see through the sheets of rain. She had come so far to find the children. Surely it couldn’t all end like this?

  She pressed on, through the muddy puddles and small lakes, all the while saying a frantic prayer – that she wouldn’t be too late to find them.

  Molly burst in through the pub doors and pushed her way to the bar. ‘Have you seen the Salvation Army captain you told me about a while ago?’ she enquired of the young girl, who was serving a customer. ‘There’s another man with him, Len Denham. They’re meeting an evacuation coach here – or are supposed to be.’

  ‘No.’ The barmaid shrugged. ‘But you could try the back yard. A lot of vehicles pull in there.’

  Molly searched the room. It was full of country folk – farmers and field workers, she guessed. There wasn’t a Sally Army uniform in sight.

  The men all turned to stare at her as she pushed her way through the small groups who were drinking and talking, until she reached the door. When she was outside once again, the rain filled her eyes and beat against her face. Her stomach was tied in a knot that she thought might never undo.

  The yard behind the pub was deserted except for a very old car parked beside a small hut. Then from the hut a man appeared. He was wearing a shiny mackintosh and stood in the rain, his collar pulled up to his ears. Another man joined him, an older, grey-haired man who was only wearing an old jacket and, like her, was drenched.

  She followed their gaze and suddenly saw a large vehicle drive out from behind the hut. Molly tried to wipe the wet from her eyes. One minute she could see the coach, the next she couldn’t.

  Her heart leaping fiercely, she stepped into the vehicle’s path, waving her hands and yelling at it to stop, as the rain ran in streams down her hair and face.

  The coach still drove towards her. Molly could see the driver behind the windscreen wipers. His face was full of alarm. She kept waving and refused to move. He had to stop!

  ‘You bloody fool!’ the driver cried as he leaped from the coach after a dramatic swerve and squeal of brakes. ‘I could have killed you. My brakes ain’t the best in this foul weather!’

  Molly had thought for a split second the big vehicle wouldn’t stop. She had been frozen with fright. But then, a few feet away, it had splashed to a muddy halt in the middle of a puddle.

  ‘Sorry,’ apologized Molly, dragging her wet hair from her face. ‘But I had to stop you. Are you the evacuation coach taking people to Yorkshire?’

  ‘Yeah. But I ain’t got any room left.’

  ‘I want two of your passengers. Mark and Evie Miller.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have ’em, you bloody lunatic!’

  Molly went to push past him but he grabbed hold of her. They were struggling like this when the two men she had seen appeared.

  ‘What’s this? What’s going on?’ the man in the mackintosh asked.

  Choking back her frustrated cries, Molly shrugged herself free. ‘My name is Molly Swift,’ she gasped. ‘I’m a friend of Andy Miller’s. I’ve come from the East End to take his two children back with me.’

  ‘Molly?’ the grey-haired man said, stepping forward. ‘I can’t believe it’s you!’

  ‘Len?’

  He nodded. And before she knew what she was doing, Molly was hugging him for dear life.

  Then there seemed to be chaos as Molly saw Evie and Mark, their little faces pressed up to the wet coach window. Some of the passengers were trying to restore order as the children banged their palms on the glass, clearly distressed.

  The driver turned his attention to the panic inside the vehicle and jumped up through the open door. Molly pushed herself away from Len and followed. There was bedlam as she moved down the aisle and Mark and Evie saw her.

  The driver was calling out for calm, and when Molly at last reached the children, she fell to her knees and held them tightly.

  ‘Oh, my darlings,’ she gulped, pressing their tear-streaked faces against her cheeks. ‘I’ve found you. I’ve found you! Everything’s going to be all right now.’

  Evie couldn’t speak for her deep sobs. She held on to Molly, refusing to let go.

  ‘It’s all right, Evie,’ Molly comforted, lifting her into her arms and away from danger. Then, taking Mark’s hand, she looked into his anguished face. ‘Come with me, Mark. We’re going home.’

  He needed no more explanation and squeezed Molly’s hand, following her along the seats past the astonished faces of the passengers.

  The driver barred Molly’s way as he stood by the open door. ‘You ain’t going nowhere with those kids,’ he told her, looking very red under his peaked cap. ‘They’re on my list to go to Yorkshire.’

  ‘They’re going with me,’ Molly argued, ‘and if you try to stop us, then I’ll ask for the police to be called to sort all this out. And then you’ll never get to Yorkshire.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ called the man in the mackintosh outside. He looked up at them, mopping his wet brow and the rain from his eyes. ‘I’ll take responsibility. You can let them pass.’

  ‘Bugger me,’ the driver responded. ‘It’s usually people trying to get on me coach, not leave it. But if you say so, squire, then I suppose they can go.’ He jerked his head at Molly and stood aside.

  Molly jumped down with the children, and Len and the man hurried them to the old car parked a few yards away. When safely seated in the back with the children either side of her, Molly hugged them, trying to disguise her emotion.

  How close she had come to losing them!

  ‘And so you see, love, the fates were against us,’ explained Betty that evening as she hung all the wet coats on the fireguard in front of the blazing fire. ‘With Gert gone, the rent going up and nowhere else to go, we didn’t have no choice.’

  ‘I was very sorry to hear about your sister.’ Molly was sitting on the captain’s old leather sofa, pushed so close to the hearth that their cheeks glowed scarlet. Evie and Mark had curled up to her, one on either side. They had both fallen asleep after devouring the soup and thick slices of
bread that were prepared for them.

  ‘Please call me Roger,’ the captain said, and explained that his cottage acted as a halfway house for Salvation Army evacuees. Molly liked him immediately. A tall, rather stern-looking man in his early fifties, he had heard about her from the Denhams.

  ‘But why didn’t you ask me to take the children?’ Molly asked Betty.

  ‘We should have,’ Betty acknowledged as she sat down beside Len.

  ‘We talked about it,’ Len broke in, a worried expression on his sombre face. ‘But Andy told us you have a shop to run and a dad what’s ill. Well, if that ain’t enough to cope with in wartime, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘Len has a point,’ Roger interrupted. ‘How do you propose to look after two young children as well as carry on with your business and look after your father?’

  ‘Dad’s staying with my sister, Lyn, until he’s better,’ Molly explained. ‘The children were never any trouble.’

  ‘You’re very kind-hearted,’ Roger told her. ‘But what if something happened to Mr Miller? Or to your home, since the East End has been a prime target of the Luftwaffe. Who’s to say the raids won’t start again?’

  ‘If they do, then we’ll manage like we did before,’ Molly said firmly. ‘I’ve very good friends to help me and the children were happy. Although they did miss Betty and Len – and, of course, Stella.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, she wasn’t with ’em half the time,’ said Betty disparagingly. ‘Used to palm them off whenever she could. Not that we minded. They was like our own, which was why we were so upset to see them taken off to Yorkshire.’

  ‘You can come and visit any time,’ Molly said generously. ‘We’d make you very welcome.’

  Roger dropped his hands on his knees and stretched his back. He stood up and looked at the clock. ‘You can’t think of leaving now. It’s dark and still raining. Besides, there won’t be a bus to London until the morning.’

  ‘Stay the night, ducks,’ said Betty, glancing at the captain. ‘She can kip on the sofa, can’t she, Roger?’

  ‘Of course. I have plenty of blankets.’