CHAPTER SIX
Molly waved from the train window until she could no longer see George standing on the platform at Bristol’s Temple Meads Station. But when she sat down her heart plummeted.
On the drive to the station with him she hadn’t been the least bit worried about her two-night stay in London. Yet now she was in a compartment with three total strangers, it came to her that, when she was in the city, there would be absolutely no one to turn to for help.
George had arranged for her to spend two nights in a small guest house he’d stayed at a couple of times when he had to be in court in London. It was close to Paddington Station, and he’d even drawn her a little map so she could find it easily.
Tomorrow morning at eleven she had her interview at Bourne & Hollingsworth. After that she would have to find her way from Oxford Street to Whitechapel to see Constance, then back again to Paddington for her last night there.
What had seemed so simple when George was talking about it now looked so scary. What if she got lost? People said London was dangerous. Supposing someone stole her handbag with all her money and train tickets?
Molly had never been to London before. In fact, the furthest she’d been from her home was a day trip to Weston-super-Mare. She recalled her disappointment when her father refused to let her go to London for the Coronation. He was going to be savage when he got up today to discover that, this time, she’d taken off without his permission.
She smiled at the thought of it. He hated anyone getting one over him and was smart enough to realize she would have been planning this for days. Of course, she’d be for it when she got home but, hopefully, she’d be able to inform him that he’d have no further say in her future, as Bourne & Hollingsworth had offered her a position.
It had seemed forever waiting for the replies to her letters; almost every day, she had had to make sure she was in the shop when the postman called, to ensure that any letter came straight to her. The one from Bourne & Hollingsworth came first, offering her an interview on 12 August. By that point, Molly had convinced herself that Constance wasn’t ever going to reply. But she was wrong: the long-awaited letter arrived a few days later.
Molly took the letter out of her handbag to read again because each time she read it she gained comfort in finding that Constance cared as much about Cassie and Petal as she did.
Dear Miss Heywood [she read]
Please forgive my delay in responding to your letter, but the content was so upsetting that I found myself unable to think what I should say to you. I am deeply shocked and horrified that Cassandra is dead, and absolutely appalled that Petal was taken by her murderer.
To think of that sweet child crying for her mother is more than I can bear, and all I can do is offer up prayers that her kidnapper is treating her well, wherever she is.
Please do call on me when you are in London. We may be able to help one another through the grief and anxiety by talking about it together.
Sincerely yours
Constance
Molly had telephoned her yesterday and was surprised to hear a very frail-sounding voice on the other end of the line. She hadn’t for one moment thought of Constance as old. However, Constance had seemed delighted that Molly would be coming to see her the following afternoon.
George had pressed a five-pound note into her hand just before she boarded the train. ‘It’s for unexpected expenses,’ he said, waving away her protestations. ‘If you get lost, or you feel threatened, it’s money for a cab. It’s a safety net.’
Molly had said she would give it him back if no emergency arose, but he’d laughed and kissed her cheek, saying all she had to do was come home safely.
Molly wished she knew how he really thought of her. He’d been part of her life since she was five, and she’d always assumed he saw her like a sister, nothing more. But there did seem to be something more than that or why would he be so waspish about Simon? Like everyone else he had heard about his wife coming to the village to see him. George had spoken about the man as if he were a complete cad. Was it jealousy?
She might not know George’s true feelings for her, but one thing was certain, she couldn’t wish for a better friend. He’d rung the guest house in London and booked her room, driven her to the station and given her the encouragement she needed to make this huge first step towards leaving home. She hadn’t admitted to him that she was scared of staying in a guest house because she’d never been in one before, or that the prospect of going on the underground filled her with dread. She certainly wouldn’t have admitted that she didn’t know how she was going to eat while she was away, because she was much too bashful to go into a café alone.
Was everyone like this on their first trip to London? Or was she just being a big baby?
The rhythmic chugging of the train was so soothing that Molly found herself wafting into a kind of torpor in which random thoughts and things people had said in the last couple of days kept popping back into her head.
George had warned her that the Braemar Guest House was a little shabby, but she was to keep in mind that the whole of London was that way, and it would be some time before it recovered from all the bomb damage during the war. He said she’d see bomb sites wherever she went.
There were a great many bomb sites in Bristol, too; almost the entire medieval shopping area of High Street and Wine Street was destroyed during the Blitz. Molly could remember the thudding noise from the bombs late in 1940 and the winter of ’41, and seeing a red glow to the sky from the burning buildings. The horror of what was going on in the city was brought home even more closely by seeing ‘trekkers’, people fleeing for safety to the countryside, prams loaded up with their treasures as well as small children. Those people walked miles, many of them camping out under the stars however cold it was, fearing they would be killed if they stayed at home.
Molly had been twelve then, old enough to have a clear grasp of what war meant, to understand why food rationing was necessary and the terror bombing produced. She remembered how the children at school talked about their fathers and older brothers who had been called up. To her shame, at the time, Molly had always considered those children lucky, because their fathers were away, but she didn’t know back then that some fathers were kind, gentle, affectionate men.
A couple of weeks ago she had run into George while delivering some groceries. It was a hot afternoon and they’d gone for a short walk across the fields together, because George was delaying getting back to the police station just as she was spinning out delivering the groceries.
He’d asked her what she’d been talking to Peter Hayes about in the street a few days earlier. Peter Hayes was a bit of a womanizer, and a bighead, too, and she’d responded a little brusquely, saying something cutting about men who liked to throw their weight around.
‘Maybe the reason you’ve never met Mr Right is because you suspect all men are bullies like your dad and you never give anyone a chance to prove himself,’ George had said.
‘I don’t think that,’ she said indignantly. She’d been a bit nasty about Peter; she had, in fact, stopped him in the street to remind him he hadn’t been into the shop to pay for some groceries that had been dropped off with him several days earlier. She wasn’t going to tell George that, though, because it was unfair to bandy such things around. ‘If you must know, George, you’ve got it back to front. It’s not that I’m “left on the shelf” because I’m frightened of men. It’s just that my dad makes it impossible for me to keep a boyfriend.’
Except for Andy, whom Jack Heywood never met or even found out about, every other prospective boyfriend had been frightened off. Molly had tried to deter them from coming to the house to pick her up, but well-brought-up boys insisted on it. One encounter with her father was enough for most of them: his sarcasm and the way he belittled them was too hard to stomach. She’d had boyfriends who had tried to persist, but who could blame them for preferring to date a girl whose parents were pleasant?
All Molly’s
old schoolfriends had been allowed to invite boyfriends home for tea or Sunday lunch; sometimes their fathers even went to the football or to the pub with them. Courtship flourished where there was a climate of friendliness, trust and real interest. Molly knew this for certain, as all those same old friends were married now, and most had at least two children.
Molly yearned for love. She thought the nearest thing to heaven would be to have a husband and a home of her own. She liked to imagine the kind of wallpaper and curtains she’d have, the meals she’d cook, and sleeping in her husband’s arms at night.
Yet, of all the men she’d met, George was the only one ever to stand up to Jack Heywood. He’d been marvellous that day in the shop when he’d turned on her father and taken his weapon from him. But then, he didn’t seem to want her for his girlfriend, so maybe it could be said that her father put him off, too.
Molly knew deep down inside her that if she stayed in Sawbridge she’d probably settle for any man who wanted her, and the chances were he’d be as big a bully as her father. She had to go away and meet new people who wouldn’t see her as a kind of Cinderella but as a competent, interesting girl with many talents.
These two days away were the first step to a new, completely different life. She would charm the manager at Bourne & Hollingsworth into offering her a job; she would work out for herself how to get around on the underground, conquer the fear of going into a café alone and make Constance like her enough to tell her all she knew about Cassie.
Molly had temporarily put aside thinking about Cassie and what might have happened to Petal because of her own problems, but she hadn’t forgotten them. She was desperate to get some answers, and when she’d got them she would go back to the police and demand that they finish the job and bring whoever killed Cassie and took Petal to justice.
Molly had gone to see George at his home the day before to check he could still take her to the station in Bristol. Mrs Walsh had been so welcoming, inviting her in for tea and cake while she waited for George to get in, and it made Molly feel a bit guilty, because she hadn’t told him about the letter and Constance.
George arrived back some twenty minutes later, apologizing for being late and telling her he’d been sent out to get some sheep off the road and, as fast as he got them back in the field, the rest of the flock in the field decided to make their escape, too.
‘Luckily, old Enoch came along with his dog and rounded them all up for me,’ George said. ‘I told him you were going to London tomorrow for an interview for a job, and he wished you luck. “She’s a bonny girl,” he said. “London will be the making of her.” I don’t know why he thinks that – I doubt he’s ever been.’
‘Now, George, you don’t need to go to London to know that it offers a lot more than Sawbridge,’ Mrs Walsh said, reprovingly. ‘And, besides, old Enoch did his bit in the trenches in the First War. So I expect he did go to London on the way to France. You shouldn’t assume that no old person has ever done or seen anything.’
George just laughed good-naturedly. ‘Molly’s going to sail through her interview,’ he said. ‘She’s the best sales girl I know. She always manages to make me buy more than I intended.’
‘Let’s hope they put you in the Fashion Department,’ Mrs Walsh said, as if Molly had already got the job. ‘I can just imagine you selling beautiful evening gowns to smart city ladies.’
‘That would be lovely, but I’m fairly certain they give those jobs to experienced, more mature women,’ Molly said. ‘I’d like to be in Children’s Wear, really.’
Mrs Walsh left the living room then; she said she had to get the tea on.
‘You do know they call us “Swedes” up there,’ George said once she’d gone. ‘They snigger at our West Country accents. When I went on a course there, they never stopped pulling my leg. I thought most Londoners were far too full of themselves.’
‘Oh, don’t say that!’ she begged him. ‘I’ll be afraid to speak. It’s bound to be a bit strange at first. Maybe I’ll hate it and I’ll come back and settle in Bristol. But, whatever happens, I can’t see me coming back here to the village, not while Dad’s still around.’
She couldn’t be certain, but she thought George looked a bit sad. ‘Of course, I’ll keep in touch with you, George.’
He smiled at that. ‘Will you be keeping in touch with that writer chap?’ he asked.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said, secretly pleased that he was bothered at the prospect of a rival penpal. ‘He’s just a passing acquaintance, and he’ll move on soon. I’ll keep in touch with you, because you’re special. I’ve known you all my life. Funnily enough, though, you’ve never so much as asked me to the pictures.’
She was surprised at herself for daring to be so outspoken.
‘Would you have gone if I’d asked?’ he said. He looked bashfully boyish and Molly’s stomach gave a tiny flip.
‘I think it’s a possibility,’ she said, leaning over to pat his cheek affectionately. ‘The last time you held my hand was eleven years ago when we were leaving school. I thought you were going to ask me out that day, but you didn’t. A girl has only so much patience.’
He blushed. ‘I wanted to, but I was afraid you’d turn me down. Then there was the problem of how I’d find any time, because I had so many chores, with Dad being off at the War. Mum kept me busy with the vegetable garden, the chickens and sending me out shooting rabbits.’
‘That’s right, blame me,’ Mrs Walsh called out from the kitchen. ‘I’m the big bad mother keeping her boy close to home. As if! Mind you, I might have warned him off in case your dad skinned him alive.’
George looked at Molly, ‘I’m not frightened of him. Even when I was fifteen I wasn’t.’
Molly smiled. ‘Then you were the only boy in the village that wasn’t. I’m going to stand up to him, starting when I get back from London. But I am worried what he’ll be like to Mum once I’ve gone for good.’
‘We’ll all keep an eye out for her,’ George said, and the sincerity in his voice was touching. ‘I’ll whisper in a few ears, get my scouts out. He’ll need to get help in the shop, and I think that woman who helps out in busy times will be anxious to do more hours.’
Molly nodded. Her mother had said earlier that Hilda Swainswick had often offered to do more hours if she was needed. She would be good for the shop, too: she was hard working, loyal and very fond of Mary, and she had the kind of husband who wouldn’t stand for his wife being bullied by Jack.
‘It isn’t for you to worry about my parents,’ she said. ‘But I appreciate it, and I must be going now. Eight o’clock tomorrow? ’
George got up out of his seat, too, and in two steps reached her and took her hands in his. ‘Be careful up there, won’t you?’
On an impulse, Molly leaned in and kissed him, and all at once his arms went around her and he was kissing her back.
‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ his mother said from the doorway, making them jump apart, blushing furiously.
She didn’t say what she’d come in for, perhaps too surprised at finding them kissing, and Molly and George just stood there feeling awkward.
‘I must go,’ Molly managed to get out, moving towards the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, George.’
He didn’t repeat the kiss at the station today, but remembering it now gave her a lovely prickles-down-the-spine sensation and, as she relived it, she got the stomach-flip thing again. How infuriating it was that George couldn’t have kissed her like that two or three years ago! Why did it have to happen just as she was planning to leave?
Molly stood still and looked up at the Braemar Guest House, 32 Sussex Gardens. It was identical to all the other houses in the once rather grand terrace: four storeys, steps up to an impressive door, but in desperate need of a coat of paint.
It had been a very long train journey; she was tired, stiff and her face felt as if it were covered in a layer of grit. Yet she wasn’t scared now. Simon’s map had been easy to follow and, although L
ondon was frantically busy, with its countless cars and buses and so many more people rushing around than she’d ever seen in Bristol, it wasn’t as terrifying as she’d imagined. She thought it was exciting.
The door to the guest house was opened by an elderly woman with iron-grey hair, thick spectacles and a frilly white apron over a navy-blue dress. ‘You must be Miss Heywood,’ she said with a wide smile. ‘Come on in, my dear. After that long train journey you must be dying for a cup of tea.’
Molly knew right away why George liked staying at the Braemar: it was cosy and clean and Miss Grady, the owner, was kind and welcoming. Molly’s room was on the first floor at the back. It had a double bed with a cheerful red print bedspread, a dressing table and a small wardrobe, the window looked out on to walled gardens, and there were tall plane trees at the bottom of Miss Grady’s, which stopped the Braemar being overlooked.
The shared bathroom and a separate lavatory were both at the front of the house, but Molly had a washbasin in her room, too.
Over a cup of tea and a slice of fruit cake, Molly chatted to Miss Grady, telling her about her job interview the next day. Miss Grady offered to make Molly something to eat but, as tempting as it was to avoid the need to go to a café, Molly refused, because she felt it was cheating. Besides, it was an adventure coming to London, and it would be a shame to stay in the room on a summer’s evening.
It was just after ten when Molly got back to the guest house that evening. She had had egg and chips in a café, followed by apple pie and custard, and had then walked for what seemed miles, looking in shop windows. The café experience hadn’t been frightening, though she had felt a little self-conscious eating alone. As for the fear of being robbed, that had vanished. She had kept a tight hold on her handbag, but she hadn’t feel threatened in any way. As she climbed into bed, she felt very satisfied with herself at overcoming some of her fears.
The interview at Bourne & Hollingsworth was held in an oak-panelled room right at the top of the building. Molly had heard someone refer to it as the boardroom. In films, such rooms had a huge, oval, shiny table and men sat all around it, but the one at the London store had a very ordinary long table, behind which sat the three interviewers, and in front of it, one single chair for the interviewee.
Without a Trace Page 10
