“What happened?” asked Molly.
“Didn’t they tell you?” Peggy said in astonishment. “About how old Tom saved them poor little children. You see, there was a direct hit on that house, in the early morning, and only old Tom out on the street, because he wouldn’t ever take any notice of the sirens. So he’s clopping up Meakin Street with his horse and cart when, whoomph, there’s a bomb – and bang goes the house next to the stables. So the horse shies and there’s dust everywhere and by the time he’s got the horse under control some of the dust has settled and he can see the house is on fire, right up the back. And above the sound of the crackling there’s this horrible screaming sound. So old Tom just runs up the street, into the house, where it isn’t burning, and right up the stairs, which he thinks are going to give way at any moment – there’s no roof, all the back rooms are on fire. He opens a door, there’s flames everywhere – and on the bed, there’s this dead woman.
“And underneath there’s a boy, still alive. He’s the one who’s screaming. So old Tom grabs him and beats him out, because his shirt’s on fire and then –” Here Peggy paused and a woman turned round and said, “Keep it down, for Christ’s sake – you’re interfering with the sound.” “Then,” said Peggy, “he realizes. Under the boy there’s another kid. So he picks them both up and he runs – just as he gets to the front door the whole staircase collapses.”
“God Almighty,” Molly said. “I never thought of old Tom as a hero.”
“Nor me,” Peggy said. “He was a dirty old man.”
“What happened to the children?” Molly asked.
“Dunno,” Peggy said, with a characteristic lapse of interest and concentration. After a little while she added, “Hadn’t of been for that I’d never’ve been sent away.”
Molly awoke and shook her head, finding it hard to remember she was at Framlingham, in the bedroom she had slept in as a child, that her son lay in a cot beside her. She had forgotten about her meeting with Peggy in prison. It was part of the time she wanted to forget. She could almost smell the prison smell. She gazed, blinking, into the lamp, thinking that Sid and Ivy and George were downstairs in the drawing room with the Allauns and that she should go and mediate between them. She put her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up wearily. But as if she had planned to do it, her hand reached out for the top drawer of the tallboy beside the window. She opened the drawer and took out the fat buff envelope Vera Endell had given her six months earlier. She took the first sheet, which had a letterhead – St Barnabas’s Orphanage, Kilburn, London. The date was September 21st 1940. It was a doctor’s report. The small precise hand had written, “The boy now called Joseph was apparently brought to the orphanage and left in the care of the nuns by an itinerant street trader named Thomas Frederick Totteridge of Meakin Street, London W. He appears to be about six years old. He was found hiding under a burning bed in a bombed house in Meakin Street from which the body of a woman, presumably the mother, was later recovered. His burns, on the left arm and left side, are not serious and are responding to treatment. But he is suffering from shock. He moves very little and does not speak, although he appears to hear and understand what is said to him. The owners of the house were killed in the raid and neighbours state that the woman believed to be Joseph’s mother had moved into the house as a lodger only a short time before.
“The police have been notified and advertisements have been placed in newspapers all over the country in an attempt to find the boy’s friends or relatives. The discovery of someone familiar with him would probably help his mental state. I do not believe him to be mentally sub-normal.” The doctor’s signature followed the report.
St Barnabas’s Orphanage, Routledge Street, thought Molly, putting the paper down carefully on the top of the tallboy. She had seen the noticeboard outside the high-walled building often as a child – and shuddered, imagining being an orphan penned up in there, in the charge of frightening women in long black habits and funny headdresses. And that was where Joe had begun his life. Not begun – that was somewhere else. And she turned the pages which followed eagerly but found no more information about Joe’s origins. There were further reports from the doctor. A fortnight after his arrival at the orphanage the boy was responding better to the nuns who were taking care of him. But he still did not speak and would not make friends with the other children. His burns were healing. But he had not been claimed. The doctor commented also, evidently with some surprise, that he looked as if he could read to a fairly high standard. He had entered the room where the boy was sitting by a window and watched him turning the page of Gulliver’s Travels which he appeared to be reading and understanding. A later report was more encouraging. The boy had begun to speak but, it added, he never apparently asked about his mother and father, or referred to the bombing. And the reports got briefer as the busy doctor began to include the child on the record sheets with the other children at the orphanage. The next papers, eight months later, began the story of Joe’s adoption. And, after that, the record of an ordinary boy growing up in a secure home in the north of England, away from the bombing. There was the programme of a brass band concert – Joe Endell, cornet. There were school reports, exam results, a cutting from a local paper, with a photograph of a young man with a grin and big ears, who had won an exhibition to an Oxford College. There was an article from the Yorkshire Post by-lined Joe Endell, “Can We Save Our Railway History?” Molly, wearier still by now, put all the papers back in the big envelope and again hid it under a pile of nightdresses. She couldn’t understand why Joe had never spoken of all this to her. Had he forgotten his entire life up to the age of six? – it seemed unlikely. Had he been too scarred to speak of it? Perhaps that was it – or perhaps he had once been unable to speak of the past and, even when the trauma had gone, the habit of silence remained. She could not reconcile the outward-looking, enthusiastic man he had been with the idea of a man badly damaged by the past. And now, she thought, glancing across at the sleeping child who lay with his arms above his head in the position of a footballer who had just scored – now there was Fred, grandchild of a woman killed in a back room in Meakin Street and a missing father, perhaps a serviceman. What peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented anyone from coming forward to ask what had happened to him? Had the woman run away from home so no one knew where she was? Had the father been killed in action? Perhaps, she thought, there was no father as such. No father, no relatives – what would have brought a woman and child with no connections in the world to a top bedroom in Meakin Street in the early part of the war? Or had she been a refugee from Europe, a fugitive without friends or relatives? There was no way now, Molly thought, of ever finding out who Joe really was. Now, she thought, she had better go downstairs to keep her son’s living relatives from quarrelling. But on her way downstairs she wondered why she had never heard the story of Tom Totteridge’s rescue. Hadn’t Sid and Ivy heard about it? Peggy Jones had. And what about the other child Peggy had mentioned? She resolved to ask her parents what they knew about the story, now part of their grandchild’s history. But the sound of raised voices from the sitting room drove this idea from her head and sent her hurrying forward. When she got into the room she found that George had begun, naively, to talk about Molly’s plans for converting the stables. When she came in, Isabel and Tom stared at her in horror and disbelief. Ivy’s face wore a look of resignation. George looked blank and it was Sid who broke the silence by saying, as she walked into the room, “George has been talking about your plan to turn the stables into a workshop-cum-factory. I think you’ve got a bit of explaining to do.”
“Tom – Isabel,” Molly said, sitting down. “The point is I have to raise the money first. That’s why I haven’t mentioned it. Unless I can get the backing, nothing will happen anyway. I thought there was no point in dragging the whole thing over the coals till I had finance.”
“I should have thought the first thing to do was discuss it with me,” Isabel said. “Because without
my permission no amount of money will help. And that permission I do not give. I can’t imagine how you can ever have thought I would. You actually plan to turn my stables into a bicycle factory – quite honestly, I still don’t believe it. It’s a fantasy. I think you must be mad!”
“But it could work,” Molly said. “The bike’s unique. People would want it. And there’s what – sixty or seventy square yards of disused space and buildings we could make a start in – it isn’t a stupid idea, if you stop to think about it.”
Isabel said, “You come here, and within six months you’re planning to use my land and my buildings, without any consultation at all – I still can’t believe it. It’s the most outrageously impudent thing I ever heard. You must believe me to be so old and so foolish that you can do what you like. Let me tell you now – you’re wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Isabel,” Molly said. “As I said, my main idea was not to start talking about something that might not be going to happen.”
“And where’s this money supposed to be coming from anyway?” demanded Isabel. “If you’re thinking of the bank you’re wasting your time.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the bank,” Molly told her.
“Where then?” Isabel demanded. Molly was silent. But Isabel was now curious and becoming interested in the new source of capital Molly appeared to have discovered.
“I asked you where you were thinking of getting financial backing,” Isabel said again.
“I’d rather not say at present,” Molly answered.
“Really,” Isabel Allaun said in a tone of pure rage. “Really – I see. You’re prepared to make plans to convert my stables, fill the grounds with noise and dirt and labourers, without any consultation at all – but when I ask you a simple question I’m denied a reply. It’s quite unbearable.”
Tom said, “Come on, Molly, what have you got in mind?”
It seemed even more impossible to reveal to Tom that she was in collusion with his cousin than it was to tell Isabel her nephew was involved. And she knew that once she told them she was seeing Charlie they would start watching her like thieves hanging about in an alley waiting for a likely prospect to come down the street.
At that moment, as the silence following Tom’s question became intolerable, Sid stood up and said, “Come on, Molly. I’d like a word with you in private.”
In the library, where he led her, he looked round at the shelves of neglected books and the dust, and said, “This is a gloomy spot for a chat, I must say.”
“Well?” said Molly, standing her ground in front of the closed door.
“Well,” Sid asked, “where are you going to get the money for this mad scheme?”
“It’s not a mad scheme – not that mad, anyway,” Molly said.
“Don’t sulk at me,” Sid told her. “All right – it’s not mad – it’s just half mad. But what I asked is where you’re expecting to get the cash from? My worry is, you’re planning to sell your house. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m going to Charlie Markham,” Molly said bluntly. “He offered me backing when he was down here – if I had a good idea and if I didn’t let Isabel or Tom know what I was doing.”
“Charlie Markham,” said Sid. “After the way you’ve talked about him all these years.”
“This is business,” Molly said. “He’s got money to invest and I’ve got a proposition.”
Sid sat down in the big cracked leather armchair by the fireplace. A smile spread over his face. He said, “My God, Molly. You’ve got a nerve and all.”
“Shut up, Dad,” Molly cried. “Somebody’s got to do something round here – and don’t start bloody laughing at me. I’m not confident. I don’t need any help but I don’t need people acting incredulous either.”
Her father said, “I don’t know anything about whether this plan will work or not. I suppose this Charlie can tell you that. But you’re taking a big risk with George and Wayne – they’re giving up their jobs.”
“Oh, Dad,” Molly said. “They don’t care. They can always get other jobs working on cars. If it all falls through no one will be much worse off – but at least we’ll have had a try.”
“Maybe,” Sid said. “But you can see my point of view: you’ve got no capital, you’re a woman going into business – and worse than that it’s something you don’t know anything about –”
Molly felt discouraged. She knew that what he said was true but she didn’t want to listen to him. He spotted her expression. “All right,” he said, “but I can’t see how you can get away with not telling your mother-in-law. It’s a bit high-handed to take over her premises without telling her –”
Now Ivy burst in. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Am I a leper or something? Not good enough to be told what’s happening?”
Molly told her quickly what they had been talking about.
“Oh my God,” said Ivy. “You must be raving mad. This place is a lunatic asylum. I knew it’d contaminate you in the end. If you want a decent life why don’t you get back to Meakin Street and find yourself a job?”
“Thanks a lot,” Molly said. “Thank you very much indeed, Mum.” And she walked out of the room and back into the sitting room. If, she thought, her own parents were chipping at her, George was unable to understand what was going on and Tom and Isabel were in a temper already, there seemed no point at all in keeping her secret. She sat down and said bluntly to Isabel, “I’m going to Charlie Markham to try to raise some money.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Tom. “You’ll be lucky. Blood from a stone, that’d be. Whatever gave you the idea he’d help?”
Molly did not say that his cousin had made the offer. She told him, “Charlie’s in the business of making money – if he thinks it’ll produce a profit he’ll invest.”
Isabel stood up. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “I think we’ve all discussed this quite enough for tonight.” She turned in the doorway and asked, “Have you arranged to see Charlie?”
“Tuesday,” Molly told her.
And Isabel went out. “Having lunch with him?” asked Tom. “Yes,” Molly said. “I can manage Tuesday,” Tom assured her. “I think I’d rather do it by myself,” Molly replied. “Two heads are better than one,” Tom told her, “and, after all, you’re a woman. You’re not used to dealing with operators like Charlie M.” “I’ll be going alone,” said Molly. “I think it’s better.”
He came into her room late that night, rather drunk, and woke her by leaning over the bed and saying, “I want you in my room.” Molly was frightened. She knew that her new plans had changed matters between them. Her refusal to let him come to the lunch with Charlie Markham only confirmed her lack of faith in him.
She said, “Not tonight, Tom. Let’s pick a better time.”
“Get up,” he said, and grasped the top of her arm.
And so she allowed him to wrestle her through the doorway of her bedroom, resisting only as much as she knew she must in order to inflame his feelings. She submitted, in the big, cold bedroom, to his tearing off her nightdress. She even pulled away from him as he pushed her towards the bed, feigning terror and anticipation. She was half-convinced by her own performance – he was, after all, stronger than her. Tom entered her quickly and, almost immediately, his erection failed. He took a handful of her hair and pulled it. He bit her shoulder. She raked at his back with her nails. Then he stared down at her with hatred and flung himself from her body, “Cow,” she heard him mutter. Then, wearily, “Woman? I don’t think so.” She had little trouble in crying. Through her tears she said, “Tom – please, Tom.” It was partly that she wanted to redeem his failure by her humility, partly that she felt genuinely upset. Each failure, not just sexual but emotional, reminded her of what she once had, and what she and Tom would never find. She tried to rouse him and succeeded only, it seemed, in sickening him, and herself, more.
She cried again and said, “Tom – cry. It could save us.”
“There’s nothing to cry
about,” he said bitterly. He lay, naked, with his legs wide apart.
She said, “This can’t go on.”
Reaching for a cigarette from the bedside table he lit it and puffed out smoke. “Why did I marry you?” he said.
“You wanted what I once was, or seemed to be,” she said. “And Fred – and all the rest of it. Maybe you thought a fast tart, all blonde hair and curves, was what you wanted. I suppose you thought if I was what everybody had always wanted, I’d be what you wanted, too. What do you want to do?”
“Do?” he said, getting up and putting on his dressing-gown. “What do you mean – do?”
“I either go or we face facts,” Molly said. “There’s very little chance now that we can have a proper marriage. So either I leave and we get divorced and you find somebody else or I stay and we accept each other for what we are. If I take up with someone, I won’t push it in your face. Same applies to you. Just keep it out of the way. I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl – I’ll just wish you well. It’s no good protesting, Tom,” she said, seeing him about to challenge what she said. “I saw you looking at Wayne yesterday. You fancied him. Wayne knew it, too. All I’m saying is, let’s tell the truth, be as happy as we can, and whatever we do, don’t make a big fuss about it. Then maybe we can be friends, if nothing else.”
All The Days of My Life Page 59
