Without a Trace

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘When did you last hear from Cassie?’ Molly asked.

  Constance frowned, as if trying to picture it. ‘I think it was late 1950. I’ve probably got her last letter here somewhere. She told me she didn’t like living in Bristol, but she thought the countryside around it was lovely and she was going to look for somewhere to live there. I was a little hurt that she didn’t write again. She had told me she wasn’t good at keeping in touch, but I suppose I thought I was a special case.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me, I think you were, and maybe the reason she didn’t write to you was because she was afraid whoever she was running from might come to you. That would be a very good reason not to tell you where she was.’

  Constance half smiled. ‘You make it sound very cloak and dagger, Molly, but you might be right, because there was a man making enquiries about her around that time. He didn’t come to me, but he questioned a few people in the road. They said they thought he was a private detective.’

  ‘Really?’ Molly exclaimed. ‘What did people tell him?’

  ‘They couldn’t tell him anything, because they didn’t know. I was the only person who knew she’d moved to Bristol, and I hadn’t said a word to anyone. But people round here don’t tell tales anyway, not if they like the person, and people did like Cassie. She slotted in here, Molly. Women liked her because she was straight-talking; she’d write letters for them if they couldn’t do it. She helped children with their reading; she talked to them, too. She could make a fancy-dress outfit out of nothing and often helped people decorate their homes. A great many people missed her when she moved away, and those who I have told about her death are very sad.’

  ‘It sounds as if people here are a lot broader minded than back home.’ Molly sighed. ‘She had few friends in our village. It’s one of the reasons I want to move to London.’

  ‘You may find the girls in Bourne & Hollingsworth are even smaller minded than your neighbours back home,’ Constance said, arching one eyebrow. ‘I’ve known a few girls who have worked in the big London stores and, for most, it’s not as they imagined. But I’m sure you’ll rise above it.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ Molly said in alarm. ‘I thought it was going to be fun!’

  ‘It might very well be,’ Constance said soothingly. ‘I’ve lived in the East End so long I can’t imagine a life now where you can’t speak your mind or be a bit different. All I can say is that if you don’t like it, Molly, you come right back here. I’ll help you find a job and somewhere to live.’

  Molly didn’t think it would come to that. But before she could make any comment a woman came in, greeting Constance as ‘Sister’. Her name was Sheila. Molly thought she was in her late thirties, and she wore a flowery print pinafore and a headscarf over metal curlers.

  ‘This is Molly, the friend of Cassie’s I told you about,’ Constance said. ‘She wants to play detective and find Petal.’

  Sheila looked hard at Molly. ‘Terrible business,’ she said. ‘We was fond of Cassie and her little girl round ’ere. It were a nasty shock to ’ear she were dead. I reckon it all had to do with an inheritance. She were ’iding up when she were ’ere, but maybe she were too close to ’er ’ome and got spotted.’

  ‘Where do you think she came from, then?’ Cassie asked.

  ‘I’d say down Sussex way. She mentioned riding her ’orse on the downs. And she talked about the sea. Didn’t she mention Hastings and the marshes in that notebook she left ’ere, Sister?’

  Molly sat up straight. ‘Notebook?’

  ‘Well, a journal I think you’d call it. Just scribblings of poetry, really, Molly,’ Constance said. ‘You can find it in the sideboard. I have no idea why she left it with me.’

  ‘When you say she left it with you, would that be like leaving it here by accident, or wanting you to keep it safe?’

  Constance frowned. ‘I don’t really know. She left it here one evening and when, a couple of days later, I mentioned I still had it, she just said, “Oh, you hang on to it for me.” I gathered by that it wasn’t important.’

  ‘May I take it away with me to read?’

  ‘Please do. Maybe as you are closer in age to her than me, you’ll find something meaningful in it. I can’t be doing with poetry that doesn’t rhyme.’

  Constance pointed to the sideboard and said Molly would find it at the back, under a biscuit tin.

  The notebook had a brown leather cover and an elastic strap that held it closed. Molly opened it at the first page and read aloud:

  ‘“Fletcher’s box, where he keeps his socks, and the schemes and dreams that don’t fit in his head.

  ‘“His clothes, his tools and his mother’s old jewels, he keeps in a suitcase under his bed.”’

  Sheila snorted with laughter. ‘That’s a bit peculiar. But it kind of rhymes.’

  Molly laughed too. ‘It is peculiar, but I like it just the same. It’s very Cassie! But that’s all there is to it, unfortunately.’

  ‘Did she tell you she liked to write poetry?’ Constance asked.

  ‘She did mention it once. She had a diary – it looked a bit like this notebook – she said she wrote her thoughts in it. It wasn’t found in her home after she died.’

  ‘Sounds like the geezer who killed ’er took it, then,’ Sheila said. ‘Tell us, Molly, were she ’appy down in Somerset?’

  ‘Yes, I’d say so. People in the village were a bit mean to her, but she seemed to accept that was just the way it was. As long as they weren’t nasty to Petal, she didn’t seem troubled.’

  ‘Were there a man in her life?’

  Molly wasn’t sure how to reply to that. She didn’t want to tell the truth and shock Constance.

  ‘I think she had a couple of admirers,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘But they were ruled out as her killer, and I never met them.’

  ‘Sounds like she hadn’t changed much,’ Sheila said with a smile. ‘She were always cagey about that stuff when she were ’ere. But I knowed there was a couple of blokes sniffin’ around.’

  ‘Oh, Sheila, you always like to add a bit of drama to everything!’ Constance said with a little chuckle.

  Molly talked to the two women for a little longer, but sensing that Sheila had come to see Constance for more than just a social call, she told them she had to go.

  ‘Come back and see me again once you’ve moved to London,’ Constance urged her. ‘If I hear anything more about Cassie, I’ll pass it on to you.’

  ‘Don’t let those snotty women at your new job grind you down,’ Sheila added. ‘Remember you’ve got chums ’ere.’

  When Molly walked back down Myrdle Street to Whitechapel Road, it didn’t look as grim as it had earlier. If the two women she’d met today were representative of the neighbourhood, she was beginning to understand why Cassie had been happy here.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Molly had enjoyed her brief stay in London, seeing the big shops, Hyde Park and Piccadilly, but the time went too fast and, as soon as she got on the train at Paddington to go home, fear set in.

  She knew her father was going to hit the roof because she had gone without his permission, and he’d be even angrier that she was going back to London to work, because that would mean he’d lose the person who did the lion’s share of the work in the shop.

  Molly tried to blot out what the homecoming would be like by reading Cassie’s journal. But most of what she read was puzzling.

  It was part diary, part a record of her state of mind, and part poems and prose, but there were no dates at all. One page she read at random said, ‘Caught the bus, so many gloomy faces. Trapped by their family? Anxiety about money? Lack of love? I wonder how I look to others? Do my worries show in my face?’

  It was a strange thing to record, yet it seemed appropriate, because when Molly looked around the railway carriage she saw lots of gloomy faces and wondered if her own anxiety about the reception she would get at home showed in her face.

  George had said that he wouldn’t be able to
pick her up on her return, so she caught the bus home and nodded off on it, only waking when she was approaching Sawbridge. It was nearly seven in the evening, so the shop was closed.

  She approached the side door with trepidation, let herself in and, hearing the television on upstairs, hoped her father would be so engrossed in the programme he wouldn’t want to miss it by having a row with her.

  As she walked up the stairs she reminded herself that she wasn’t going to be meek any more. She’d got to stick up for herself and show him she wasn’t afraid of him.

  But as she reached the landing he came out of the sitting room and glowered at her. He was wearing his usual grey flannels held up by braces, a white shirt and a cardigan. He wore a tie in the shop, but he’d taken it off now and, as always, he smelled of pipe tobacco.

  ‘Well, where do you think you’ve been, young lady?’ he growled.

  ‘To London, for a job interview,’ she said, trying hard not to shake with fear and to sound confident. ‘I got the job. I start next Monday but go to the hostel on Saturday.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ he said, his voice rasping with anger. ‘This is where you live and work. I’m not having you gallivanting around London getting yourself into trouble.’

  ‘Sorry, Dad, but it’s all arranged,’ she said, more boldly than she felt. ‘I want a decent career and a life of my own. I’m twenty-five, more than old enough to make my own decisions, but I hoped to get your blessing.’

  ‘Blessing! I’ll give you the back of my hand! You leave this house and you can never come back!’ he roared out at Molly.

  She could see by his flushed face that he was likely to attack her but, although that scared her, her indignation at him using terror tactics to control her gave her the courage to oppose him.

  ‘Why would I want to come back?’ she retorted. ‘All you’ve ever done is belittle me, use me and hit me. I don’t ever want to see you again.’

  She didn’t move out of his reach fast enough and his fist hammered into her cheek, knocking her back against the kitchen door.

  ‘Jack!’ her mother yelled as she came rushing out of the sitting room. ‘Have you learned nothing? Why can’t you be a real man and admit you’ll miss your daughter? You’ve already driven Emily away and now Molly will never come near us again.’

  Molly stood up straight. Her cheek stung and she guessed she’d have a black eye by the following morning. Not the best way to celebrate getting a new job.

  ‘You aren’t going to get away with it this time,’ she said, looking right at her father, daring him to hit her again. ‘I’m going across to the police station now to report an assault. Let’s see how you like being arrested!’

  Jack made a move to grab her, but her mother caught his arm and held him back. ‘No, Jack! Don’t make it any worse. Or I’ll be going over there with her.’

  He made a snarling sound and wheeled round, going into the sitting room and slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Come with me, love,’ Mary said, and drew her daughter into the kitchen. She soaked a cloth under the cold tap and, after wringing it out, held it to Molly’s cheek. ‘He doesn’t really mean it,’ she said weakly. ‘He’s upset that you’re leaving.’

  ‘When are you going to stop defending him?’ Molly said, pushing the cloth away. ‘He’s an out-of-control brute, and I shudder to think what he’ll do to you once I’m not here. I’m going over to the police now, if only so that they’ll keep an eye on you while I’m away. But if you’ve got any sense, you’ll leave him, Mum. If you don’t, he might just kill you.’

  ‘I made my marriage vows in church before God, and “For better or worse” was part of it,’ Mary said quietly. ‘It breaks my heart to know he’s driven you and Emily away, but I have to stay. I’m his wife.’

  Molly shook her head in despair. She’d already said everything there was to be said dozens of times, and she knew her mother would never be shaken from what she considered to be her duty. But before leaving for London she was going to have her father charged with assault. She had to make a stand.

  ‘Then I’ll take my case and go now. I’ll ask George if I can stay at his house tonight, and I’ll go back to the guest house in Paddington till Saturday,’ Molly said. ‘I’ll give you my address and telephone number at the hostel. You know I’ll always help you, and meet you anywhere you like. But I won’t come back to this house while he’s still alive.’

  Mary stepped forward and put her arms around her daughter, hugging her tightly and rocking her to and fro. Molly knew her mother was crying silently, and her whole being wanted to relent, to say she wouldn’t take the job in London and she’d stay here. But as much as she loved her mother and feared for her, she couldn’t back down to her father. To do so would mean a lifetime of kowtowing to him.

  ‘I’ve got to go now, Mum,’ she said, gently wriggling out of her mother’s arms. ‘If you need help any time, call George. It comes to something that I’ve got to start a new job with a black eye, but I’ll keep that in mind if ever I start to weaken and think Dad wasn’t all bad.’

  Two days later, on Saturday, at six in the evening, Molly arrived at the hostel in Gower Street. She’d created a picture in her mind of an almost prison-like place, with bare wooden floors, garret-like rooms with no home comforts and a refectory-type dining room like you’d find in a Dickensian workhouse. But to her shock and surprise it was nothing like that; in fact, it could have been taken for a smart hotel, with its thick carpets, polished mahogany staircase and fancy lighting. She was greeted warmly by Miss Weatherby, the matron, a portly woman in her fifties who was wearing a light-grey dress with a white lace collar and cuffs.

  ‘Oh, my goodness! What has happened to your face?’ she asked solicitously.

  ‘I tripped on the stairs the other day and banged into the newel post,’ Molly lied. ‘It looks worse than it is.’

  Miss Weatherby touched it gently with her fingertips. ‘I’ve got some arnica, which is good for bruising. I’ll put a compress on it for you now, before showing you your room. You’ll be sharing with Dilys Porter. She’s the same age as you, but she’s been here for over a year now and she’ll show you the ropes. Dinner will be served very soon, so we won’t waste any time. I’ll see you again at ten tomorrow to explain all the rules and answer any questions you may have.’

  Fifteen minutes later, holding a pad of cotton wool soaked in some kind of potion to her bruised cheek, Molly met Dilys in the room they were to share.

  Dilys Porter was a small, blonde, blue-eyed girl from Cardiff, and she seemed very open and friendly. She, too, commiserated with Molly about her bruised cheek, and told Miss Weatherby she’d take good care of her new roommate.

  The room was far nicer than Molly had expected: twin divan beds, a chest of drawers each, a shared wardrobe, a washbasin and a couple of easy chairs. The bathrooms were further down the hall. There was no view from the window, as it opened on to a well-like void at the centre of the building, but that didn’t bother her at all.

  ‘Unpack after dinner,’ Dilys suggested. ‘I’m not going out tonight, so we can get to know each other better, and I’ll introduce you to some of the others.’

  A further shock, but a good one, was the dining room. It was vast, and all the tables were laid with silver and glasses, just like in a first-class restaurant. They even had waitress service. Molly could hardly believe it.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ Dilys giggled at her new friend’s astounded expression. ‘Hundreds of people work for the company, and it believes in treating and feeding its staff well. Lots of people say it’s more like a hotel than a hostel. We have lots of laughs, too – us girls go out on the town quite a bit. I never expected it to be like this. I used to work in a chemist’s in Cardiff, all old folk coughing and wheezing and complaining about everything, then home on the bus in the cold and wet. Then I get here and it’s like paradise. In winter its lovely and warm. I tell you, Molly, you won’t catch me going back to work in Cardiff
.’

  Molly had reported her father to the police the night he hit her, and they had issued him with a formal warning that if he was to attack her again he would be arrested. She had stayed for two nights at George’s house and, during the day, he had gone back to the house with her to collect the rest of her clothes. That morning, he had driven her to the station to see her off.

  But Molly put home and her father out of her mind that evening as she tucked into a lovely dinner of steak-and-kidney pie, followed by rice pudding. She met some of the other girls on her landing and found out a little more about the job. From what she gathered, all the girls had to toe the line in the store, as the senior staff watched them like hawks and no one got away with anything. The girls complained that it was tough being on their feet all day, being nice to customers who were often very rude, and it could also be boring when the shop wasn’t busy.

  ‘You always have to look busy,’ Dilys said. ‘Putting clothes back in size order on the rails, folding sweaters and blouses, polishing up glass surfaces. You daren’t get chatting to another member of staff, not unless you want to be out on your ear.’

  Molly thought she could cope with all that; after all, she’d had to do just about everything in her father’s shop. But whatever the daytime hours were like, the evenings and days off sounded like fun. The girls went out dancing together. Once a week they could get a late pass till midnight, but on other nights they had to be in by ten thirty.

  Because of her bruised cheek, Molly was put to work in the store room for her first three days. Staff rang down when they were running low on stock of something, and Molly and the other staff had to check to see if they had more there, and send it up to the appropriate department. Molly thought it was probably very useful to her, as she learned which departments upstairs were busiest, which managers were difficult and which were pleasant. Most of the store-room staff felt that they were looked down upon by the shop assistants, as did all the staff that worked in housekeeping or the kitchens. It seemed to be a triangular structure, with department managers at the top, then senior shop assistants, then the junior ones, right on down to the bottom, to the lowly porters who unloaded goods from the delivery lorries. There was a similar hierarchy with the office staff. They tended not to mix with the sales-floor staff at all.