Endell became annoyed. He believed in the destruction of the old slums, where many were still living without bathrooms. He believed in good, modern housing for families. He saw in Molly an example of the kind of woman who held progress back. He as good as told her she was operating against her own class interests. Molly said staunchly, “Look, Joe Endell, I bet I’ve lived in more places than you have in the course of a short career. I bet you come from some nice, detached house in the suburbs, with an apple tree in the garden. You may have the information and the brains, but I’ve got the experience. My mum’s just achieved her life’s ambition and moved out to the suburbs to a little house with a bit of garden. If you offered a flat on the nineteenth floor for nothing with all the furniture thrown in free, she’d laugh at you. It’s not what she wants. It’s not what I want. I wouldn’t go there if you paid me. Aren’t you in the business of giving people what they want?”
Endell told her, “Not when they don’t know what they want really.”
“Ooh,” said Molly. “What makes you think you know what they want better than they do? You’re nothing but a – an élitist.” She was pleased to have found the word, which she had picked up over Christmas while listening to her relations.
Endell was still annoyed with her. He told her, “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”
“All right,” Molly said. “But I bet I’m right about your house with the garden, when you were a kid.”
He owned up to a comfortable middle-class childhood in the suburbs of Leeds. His father was a doctor. His mother was a local councillor and the governor of a school. In turn Molly summarized her life for Endell. She added, “I’m thinking now, at my age, that it’s time to get a grip on things. Up to now I haven’t done much of the steering – I’ve just hurtled from one crisis to another. I mean – take you. You’ve followed a steady course. Admittedly you had a lot on your side. A middle-class family – just being a man – but I can see not everybody’s carried on like me. Take Cissie Messiter – she had a far worse home than me and now she’s got a good job and everything. She’s never got in all the messes I got into.”
“She probably doesn’t look like you,” Endell said frankly.
“Classic, isn’t it?” Molly said. “Golden hair – and she’s ruined. Then ruined again – and again – and again. It won’t do. That’s why I can’t stand the idea of the Daily Mirror dragging it all up.”
Endell, leaning forward over a plate of sponge pudding, said, “There’s marriage. Ever thought of taking up with a steady, respectable chap – something like a Labour MP, for example?”
Molly laughed. “Nice for him,” she said. “Do wonders for a man in the public eye, wouldn’t it? A jailbird for a wife? A woman with a record of consorting with known criminals. He wouldn’t stay an MP for long. What I would like,” she continued, “is another pudding. The problem is, George Messiter has got the appetite of a wolf. So’s Josephine. I haven’t the heart to deny them because they’re growing but I haven’t seen seconds for a long time. I’m lucky to get firsts.”
Endell, who had spoken quickly, on impulse, was relieved that she had not taken his remark about marriage seriously. He did not know why he had made it. After he had done so, his first thought was of how angry Harriet would be. His second, how wonderful it would be to go and vote at the House of Commons and then go home with Molly Flanders.
I paid my half of the bill, dropped Joe off at the House of Commons and went home. But I knew it was all a technicality really. That’s a thing you do know. I had to have Joe Endell. It was suddenly all I wanted. I wanted to feel his arms round me, I wanted to make love to him and, more than that, I wanted him to be there. I loved him, even his stupidity, even the fact that he talked about marriage without really knowing he loved me. But I had to try to get rid of him. For one thing, I really wanted – part of me really wanted – just to make it come out right for me by myself, without some Bridges getting me into trouble, without some Nedermann offering help, at a price, without threatening men like Arnie coming round – even without perfectly decent blokes, like Endell, changing things for me. But that was a dying impulse, really, and at the back of my mind I knew it. The real reason why I wanted to hold him off was what I’d told him – a woman with a record like mine could only be a handicap to a man in public life. Joe Endell had a clean sheet – no scandal, political or personal, unless you count an early marriage, which failed, no children and the ex-wife remarried and settled in New Zealand. If he got mixed up with me I’d be anything from a disadvantage to a disaster in his life. In short, to coin a phrase, I didn’t want to leave him but I thought he ought to go. And I knew that if I didn’t get rid of him fast I wouldn’t be able to part with him later. My weakness is, I’m greedy. I knew I couldn’t trust myself to say “no” forever.
When Molly got home that evening the house was quiet and Ivy was sitting in her coat on the sofa. She had her feet up. “I’ve done a bit of tidying,” she reported, “and I’m just waiting for my mini-cab. I can get the last train from Victoria. Help yourself to a cup of coffee if you want one – it’s standing on the table.”
“Thanks, Mum,” Molly said, sitting down. “You’ve done wonders.”
“Josephine’s staying round at her friend’s. I’ve phoned to make sure she’s really there and she is. Also, I’ve had a word with Shirley and I’ve told her she’s got to make her own arrangements. I’ve told her she can’t stop here with you any longer – it isn’t fair. There isn’t room. And I’ve told her Sid and me can’t take her in either. There isn’t room there, either. She said it wasn’t fair because I spent all those years looking after Josephine. Well, she’s right but Sid and me are getting older and there was only one of Josie. I didn’t like to tell her straight but the idea of her drooping about the place while I get to grips with those two hooligans of boys is just like a nightmare.”
Molly said, “But what’s she going to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Ivy. “She’s got to decide. I expect she’ll go back to that Brian. She hasn’t got a lot of choice. She’ll have to work for her escape.”
“Oh, God,” said Molly.
“It’s easier to get in than out,” declared Ivy. “Like prison. That’s what women don’t understand. She’s either going to have to bolt and leave her children behind or set her lips and get on with it until she’s formed a better plan for getting out than just turning up at her sister’s and dumping herself and the kids on you. Like I say – it was better for you because I was younger and it only meant Josephine –”
“I don’t know how to help her,” Molly said.
“You can’t,” Ivy told her. “And even you’ve had your wings clipped,” Ivy observed, with mingled regret and satisfaction. “Anyway, while you’re in the trade of getting respectable, the woman at the corner shop told me that snooty pair who bought our house are moving out. It’s up for sale. Why don’t you see if you can get a mortgage? Time you owned your own home.”
“I’ve got enough to cope with,” Molly said, “without putting a mortgage round my neck. I’d never get one anyway.”
“Sid’ll probably back you,” Ivy told her. She stood up and went to the window. “Where’s that cab?” she demanded. She was plainly in an impatient mood, brought on by once again, as she saw it, being hauled in to sort out her daughters’ problems. “He’ll offer Shirley a bit of help if she gets herself organized. God knows, none of us want to see her stuck with that Brian. The wedding was bad enough – all that praying and them watching us to make sure we weren’t drinking too much as if we were a bunch of alcoholics. I’ll never forget them standing there with their faces as long as fiddles and these glasses of lemonade in their hands. They thought I was crying because of losing Shirley. It wasn’t that – I suddenly saw what her life would be,” Ivy said. “What’s all this about that MP?”
“What’s all what?” asked Molly.
“I wouldn’t want you mixed up with any of that lot,” said he
r mother. “They’re the worst – gambling drink, one wife in the constituency and one in London. They’re like sailors – a wife in every port. Half of them make Johnnie Bridges look like a plaster angel.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Molly.
“Jack,” said her mother succinctly. Then the doorbell rang, she got into her mini-cab and left.
The next day Shirley also packed up and left for Greenford, looking more depressed than ever. “Ivy’s right, you know,” Molly said. “It’s only a case of planning your escape better next time. It’s just that no one can think what to do to help you.” But Shirley only cried and Molly only felt more guilty.
In March Molly passed her tests very well and got a job with the managing director of a firm of dress shops. She ordered The Times and began to study the political news, with particular reference to Joe Endell. The photographs of Molly and Endell never appeared in the Daily Mirror. Molly believed this was the result of her angry conversation with the features editor, and her threats of taking legal action. The chief reason, though, was the conversation between Endell and Harriet, in which he, without putting the matter into words, implied that if she did not make an honest effort to stop the publicity, he would not see her any more. Harriet backed off. Her lack of enthusiasm and Molly’s phone call deterred the news editor. Harriet, however, was resentful and suspicious. She filed the photographs carefully with her other information about Molly Flanders’ past. And Endell, disliking what she had done, and his own part in stopping her, began to see less of Harriet. It seemed almost accidental. He was always busy, she hardly less so. Their schedules often conflicted. But Harriet was under no illusions. “It’s that little tart, Flanders,” she reported to her best friend. “And there isn’t anything I can do about it because he doesn’t know what he’s doing himself.”
Molly was in the Marquis of Zetland with Sid one evening when Endell strolled in. He sat down with them for a little while. They talked about Jack, whom Endell had met at the weekend. “There’s a bye-election pending over in Battersea, and it’s no secret now that they’re putting up Jack. Safe seat, too.”
“Then he can put up big skyscrapers all over Battersea,” Molly remarked sourly.
“She’s a bit of a reactionary, isn’t she?” Endell said to her father.
“One thing you can say for skyscrapers,” Sid remarked neutrally, “when the roof leaks only one family gets wet.”
“How’s the job?” Endell asked Molly.
“I’m leaving,” she replied.
“After a month?” exclaimed Sid. “That’s no way to go on. I’ve been in the same job over thirty years. Through the Blitz.”
“Well, Hitler wasn’t a married man who kept on grabbing you all the time and saying why not come out to dinner because his wife’s got no sparkle,” replied Molly. This was the reason for her sourness. An honest working life was beginning to resemble the days when she was fending off Arnie Rose. She was disillusioned.
Endell was outraged. “Can’t you stop him?” he demanded.
“He’s the boss,” said Molly. “He thinks I’m one of the perks that goes with the job. What annoys me is that he’s a driver – first he corners me by the filing cabinet in the outer office, then he starts demanding the thousands of letters he’s wanted typed. He doesn’t see the joke.”
“Hit him with something and walk out,” Sid told her. “Then phone head office.”
“That’s what I’m going to do,” Molly said. “Then I’ll find a job with a woman boss.”
“That’s my girl,” said Sid. “Never lets anything get her down for long,” he remarked to Endell. Then, standing up, he told them, “I’m going back to the delights of Beckenham, now.” He left, shouting cheerios to his friends. “I’ll bring you one of my home-grown cabbages next time,” he told Ginger, who was behind the bar.
“Fancy a stroll along the canal?” Endell asked her.
“I’ve got to go home. Sid brought Josephine. She’s all by herself,” replied Molly.
“It’s only eight-thirty,” objected Endell. “She’ll be watching TV. Come on – a breath of fresh air will do you good.”
Molly yielded. She remembered leaving the pub with Johnnie Bridges so long – more than ten years – ago.
Endell took her hand as they walked. She knew she should not let him do it. She remembered her Johnnie in 1953, in his sharp, gangster’s suit. She remembered his overconfident smile – she had seen no need to hold back then, had not even considered it.
A cool breeze came across the canal. The branches overhanging the cemetery wall on the other side were already tinged slightly with green.
“I’ve got to tell you,” said Endell. “Those pictures will be in the Mirror tomorrow – and more. I tried to stop it.”
“Oh, fuck,” said Molly, dropping his hand. “Oh, my God. Josephine’ll have to face it out at school – I’ll have trouble getting another job – and now it’ll definitely have to be a woman. With all that I’ll be fair game for any man boss – husband hanged, gangster’s moll. What am I going to do?”
“It’s worse than that,” Endell told her. “I’ve got to tell you – I’m responsible. I mentioned you to my girlfriend – my ex-girlfriend. It was a long time ago, when I first met you. She works on the Mirror. I tried to stop her.”
“Oh, sod it,” Molly exclaimed. “You might be the people’s friend, Joe Endell, but what good are you to me? God help this country if it’s run by men who can’t even stop their girlfriends from doing what they want. Didn’t you tell her what it would do to me and my family, having all that raked up again? Don’t tell me she couldn’t have dreamed up something else to help her career.”
“The trouble is,” Endell said painfully, “she got angry when she saw the pictures. This is by way of a reprisal. Revenge.”
“What?” Mary said. “What do you mean?” Then she understood. “Oh – you mean she thought there was something going on between you and me. Didn’t you tell her there wasn’t?”
“I tried,” he said.
“Ivy was right,” declared Molly.
“How?” asked Endell.
“Told me politicians were up to any game with women,” retorted Molly.
“Hm,” said Endell, uncertain of what strategy to adopt. He took her hand again and moved in front of her, to face her. “Let’s go away,” he said, “tomorrow – to France. I can arrange it. You shouldn’t be going to your job anyway. You needn’t see those pictures –”
Molly stared at him. She burst out, “We can’t do it. You can’t afford me.” Then she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him. She meant to go immediately afterwards. Instead she stayed. Dropping her head towards Endell’s shoulder – he was barely taller than she was – she said, “I can’t hold out any longer. You’ll have to take your chances.”
“There isn’t anything to worry about,” he told her.
She pushed back the tuft of reddish brown hair which always stuck up on the top of his head and told him, “For a clever man, you’re very stupid.”
“I’m clever enough to get what I want,” he said, kissing her again.
They sneaked in to Meakin Street, since Molly did not want to spend the night at his flat because of George and Josephine. By then George was lying flat out on his couch in the front room. Josephine had taken the mattress from George’s bed and was asleep on the floor of his room. Endell and Molly, very quietly, made love. He was gentle and considerate, whispering to her to find out how she felt. Then they talked and laughed, then made love again. This time Molly said, “I’m not a lady, you know.” And this time Endell, whose senses had been trained by another woman, was urgent, exultant and generous. He said, “I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. I want you to marry me.”
Molly feigned a greater sleepiness than she felt and murmured, “I love you, Joe.” They muttered on for a little while but after he fell asleep Molly reflected that she could not marry him. And even felt that even if she had not known that
her existence as his wife might damage him politically she might still have hesitated. A marriage might provide a more respectable background for her teenage daughter but did she really want to be married? It might make her Endell’s in a way she did not want. And yet – she was happy.
Next morning Joe went out for the paper. He and Molly sat, each with their own copy, studying it. There was Molly, pregnant, in a black dress on the step at 19 Meakin Street just after Jim Flanders had been condemned to death – Molly in the nightclub snap with Johnnie Bridges and the Rose brothers – Molly and Steven Greene, both in evening dress, looking smart in their smart flat above the club in South Molton Street. There was Molly with Nedermann. There was a picture of one of Nedermann’s slums. There was the story of Molly’s imprisonment.
To her surprise when she looked at Endell across the table he was wiping away tears with a big blue handkerchief. “Joe!” she exclaimed. “What is it!” For a horrible moment she thought he was regretting that he would have to tell her they had to part. He said, “It’s this picture of you in your teens, pregnant, after they sentenced that poor little bugger to death. It tells a story, that one.”
“Don’t start saying that’s why I went to the bad,” Molly said. “That was only part of it. I enjoyed being like I was – I liked the clothes, the bright lights and the excitement. Don’t think I was happy before, shut up in that little flat with Jim – I wasn’t. Pound to a penny, if he hadn’t been hanged, I’d have skipped anyway.”
“You don’t look like skipping anywhere in that picture,” Endell said. “You look puffy-faced and bewildered, like a child at a parents’ funeral. All right – you wanted more than an early marriage and a baby you hadn’t intended to have. But you didn’t have much chance, really, did you?”
All The Days of My Life Page 48
