All The Days of My Life

by Hilary Bailey

  “I can’t see what either of us gains by your staying,” Tom said.

  “I need the use of the premises,” Molly told him bluntly. “And the name might do no harm. Lady Allaun sounds respectable.”

  “And me?” he asked.

  “A cut of the profits, if any – and your freedom,” she said. “At worst you lose nothing.”

  She felt, now, stunned with fatigue. Her arms and legs were like lead, her eyes closed continually. She could not be sure if she had spoken, or just thought she had. Tom said, “What financial arrangements were you thinking of exactly?”

  “Ten per cent to you and five to Isabel,” she muttered.

  “I’ll get it drawn up if you settle things with Charlie,” he said.

  Molly was asleep. He nudged her. “Yes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Molly told him.

  Shirley declared later that it was unfortunate that Molly had learned everything she knew about contracts from Ferenc Nedermann, to whom a contract was chiefly a gesture of moderate goodwill and otherwise an item like a net, as valuable for its holes as its more solid parts.

  Nevertheless, she signed.

  It must have been at almost exactly this time that I was invited to tea by my former employer. This was not unusual but I had an instinct, which became stronger after I arrived, that she had some purpose in mind. But I couldn’t imagine what it might be so I settled down to enjoy the occasion. There was a poet there, I remember, who had little to say for himself and a very pleasant professor of biochemistry. In fact I had got up to leave and was on my way out when someone came up to me and asked if I would be good enough to go into another room and examine some letters on which my hostess would like an opinion. Old they indeed were – they proved to be to the Abbess of Whitby from her brother. I was certainly interested although I could not give a firm opinion about their authenticity on the spot. It was when the door opened behind me that I realized the letters might have been a pretext to detain me, which my hostess admitted, saying, as I stood there still holding the ancient documents, “Quite simply, I’m trying to clear the ground a little for the coming celebrations – and my mind suddenly turned to Mary Waterhouse. I wondered if you had any news of her.”

  “None at all,” I said. “As far as I know she’s still living quietly in the country with her husband. There may have been changes, of course.”

  “It seems to me,” she said, “that anything which keeps her out of the newspapers is a gain. But I’d be interested to know the details of her situation.”

  “I’ll find out,” I said. And remembering what Corrie had said, I added, “I imagine they’re still short of money and that often leads people to change things for themselves.” I could see that although she was quite composed she was not altogether easy in her mind.

  She said, “You’ve never been pleased by how this matter was handled, have you? Be frank with me.”

  I demurred, hesitated and finally admitted that the tactics used had not seemed to me to be very efficient or even to lead in the general direction of a solution. But I added that I didn’t know what I would have recommended anyone to do at the outset of the business – and that it was not always a bad idea to tackle a problem by doing as little as possible and letting it disappear of its own accord.

  I went home thoughtfully to my wife, unsure whether my answer had been true, or only diplomatic. Corrie’s attitude was more forthright. “Wait till she finds out about the boy,” she said, rather vindictively, I thought.

  I said firmly, “Corrie – there is no boy. The boy is dead. The rest is a figment of our over-heated imagination.”

  “Just wait,” she said.

  If Charlie Markham hadn’t suggested we should meet for dinner as well as lunch I’d probably have had too little time to go and look up Peggy Jones. Because I’d spent the morning seeing shops about the toys, then shown him, over lunch, the drawings and some figures to prove the bike would be profitable if he got the backing. And he’d said he was going to talk to some people that afternoon and see what he could do, so why didn’t we meet for dinner that night and see what he’d come up with? I should’ve known better – too much speed in these things is always a bit suspicious. There’s a difference between not hanging about and the sudden production of contracts and chequebooks, like a conjurer bringing a rabbit out of a hat. But I fell for it – being like a babe in arms in the ways of that world. This left me with the afternoon free, so I went to see Peggy. I walked straight out of the restaurant after seeing Charlie that lunchtime and got a cab to the Rose and Crown in Kilburn High Road.

  It was nearly closing time when I arrived but the bar was still crowded …

  “I’m looking for Peggy Jones,” Molly told the barmaid. “Know where she is?”

  The barmaid, as might have been expected, was cautious. Molly, in her fur jacket and boots, did not look like a policewoman, but might have been. “We grew up in the same street,” Molly explained. “Off Wattenblath Street. I’m trying to find her. I wondered if you knew her address.”

  The manager had been listening from a little way off. “Joe Endell’s widow, aren’t you,” he said. “A shocking loss – please accept my condolences.”

  It was no time to explain that she had remarried. Molly said, “Thank you.”

  “Looking for Peggy? It’s Murchison Street – in the phone book. You could give her a call.”

  So within fifteen minutes Peggy was coming through the pub door, looking round for Molly. She, who had always been plump, was now thin. Her eyes were heavily outlined with black and her skirt was short. She wore high-heeled pumps. She looked clearly what she was, an ageing prostitute but, Molly thought, she seemed contented. “Molly! Lady Allaun, eh? Come up in the world!” she cried, sitting down. Molly went to the bar and was served rather sulkily by the manager, who pointed out that he would be serving no more drinks and the pub would shut soon. She suspected he had been speaking to someone who had heard about her quick re-marriage and had, in consequence, lost sympathy for her.

  “Well,” Peggy said, “cheers, Moll. You’re looking sharp these days.”

  “It’s not as good as all that, Peg,” Molly said. “I’m barely keeping my end up.”

  “Don’t let them get you down,” Peggy said. “That’s right, isn’t it? Still, don’t tell me you’re short of a bob or two.” She paused, suddenly seeming to lose her concentration. Then said, “You’re not here for nothing, are you? What d’you want?”

  “Nothing much,” Molly told her. “Only a bit of information.”

  “Ah,” Peggy said, becoming cautious. “Depends what, doesn’t it?”

  “Nothing incriminating,” Molly said. “Would I get you into trouble?”

  “You’ve got yourself in enough,” Peggy stated flatly. “Still, never mind. My horoscope said it’d be a wonderful year for me.”

  “Has it?” asked Molly.

  “Got myself a new flat – three piece suite, red velvet – and a gold clock in a glass case,” Peggy told her.

  “That’s nice,” said Molly.

  “They tell you it gets harder when you get older,” Peggy said. “But it’s not true – a lot of the punters like an older woman. They feel more comfortable. You get more regulars.”

  “I’ll tell you what I want to know,” Molly said. “It’s about that story you told me in the nick – how Tom Totteridge did a rescue at that house in Meakin Street during the war.”

  “Oh – yeah,” Peggy said. “Course, it was Mum told me. I never knew anything about it.” She paused. “Funny, isn’t it,” she said. “You’re a lady and I’m on the game.”

  “There’s less difference than you’d think,” Molly said.

  Peggy looked at her. “Can’t be the same,” she said decidedly.

  “Well – what did she tell you – your mum?” asked Molly, becoming impatient.

  Peggy hailed the barmaid, who was emptying the ashtrays at the next table. “Send up a couple of drinks, love?” she suggested.
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  “We’re closed,” said the woman.

  “This lady’s an aristocrat,” Peggy claimed. The woman looked at Molly. “I don’t care if she’s the Empress Josephine,” she said.

  “Come on, darling,” coaxed Peggy.

  “Wait till we shut,” said the woman.

  Molly, who had spent the morning discussing orders for funny scarecrows and cuddly foxes with the toy buyers of two London stores and the middle of the day talking about frames and horse power to Charlie Markham, suppressed her impatience. It seemed slightly fantastic here – as Peggy watched the pub doors being shut by the manager and she, Molly, wondered whether Charlie would raise twenty thousand pounds for her in the course of an afternoon she was also trying to unbury a secret over thirty years old. As if she guessed the nature of Molly’s thoughts Peggy said, “I don’t remember – it was a long time ago. And it was Mum’s story – and old Tom’s – but they never talked about it a lot. He didn’t dare wait for the proper people to come because he knew the house could collapse. And there was this terrible crying, right over the noise of the house burning and bits falling to the ground. London was a lot quieter in those days, wasn’t it? When we were kids the mornings were like living in the country. Except for the odd bus – people didn’t have cars so much. You got a car?” she asked.

  Molly nodded. “What happened?” she said, so that Peggy would not lose sight of the story again.

  “He had to get them out before the stairs collapsed, see,” she said. “So he did – could have been killed himself, of course. He picked them up, rushed downstairs, put them on the cart – and straight to the nuns. He couldn’t think what else to do with them. I reckon he didn’t want to mess about going to the police and making long reports. See – these air raids were his opportunity – stuff all over the place and plenty of time to pick it up if you got there first. He left £15,000, you know. Old Tom, who never had a decent pair of trousers to his name. He was going to leave it to the horse but, of course, the horse died first.”

  “Well,” Molly said, “what about the children?”

  “Seems he asked the boy who he was but he couldn’t speak. Too shocked. It was the girl who’d been screaming and crying. He was lying on top of her but her face was free. Right under the bed they were with the bed on fire and their dead mother lying on it. Let’s hope they never knew how bad it was.”

  “I wonder,” Molly said. “You see – it looks as if the boy was Joe Endell – my husband. So the sister may be alive somewhere. No reason why not – she’d still be quite a young woman.”

  “I wouldn’t go looking for her,” Peggy said. “You never know what you’ll find when you start that lark. I had a baby once, years and years ago. I don’t want to find her now and I hope to God she never finds me. Let the past stay buried, that’s what Mum used to say.” She grinned. “Course, that was when I asked who my dad was. You’re an angel, Harry,” she said to the manager as he came up with two glasses.

  “Well, that’s your lot,” he said, “if you’ll pardon my bluntness. But some of us have got things to do this afternoon.”

  Peggy looked at Molly. “No – I wouldn’t dig about for missing relatives,” she said. “Not unless they’ve got something to leave you. Still, it’s all a funny mystery, isn’t it.” She sighed, drank her gin and said, “I used to think I was somebody else’s kid. I suppose we all do. You know, left in a basket with a note pinned to my nightie: ‘Please take care of my child. I will return.’ And then this posh lady turns up years later and takes you to live in luxury in her house and you meet this handsome rich fellow – things would have been a lot different if that had happened – no punters, no fines – oh Christ, Moll, don’t things turn out different to what you expected, eh? Oh, God – look at the time,” she said in alarm, glancing at the clock above the bar. “I’ve got someone coming at four.”

  “I’ll run you back in a cab,” Molly said. “I’ve got nothing to do so I’m going to get my hair done.”

  “Funny, though,” Peggy said when they were outside in the crowded street, waiting for a taxi to appear. “Funny old Tom hardly ever talked about his rescue. You’d think he’d have made more of it – I mean, he risked his life. He was a hero – and he wasn’t the sort to shut up about a thing like that.” She paused. “He only mentioned it when he was drunk.”

  “Could be he took something out of that room besides the children,” Molly said waving a taxi to a stop. “Something valuable – jewellery or money the woman had in a drawer. So he didn’t want any investigations in case it came out.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Peggy said as she climbed in. “There was plenty of people not like what they say in the papers these days. Our finest hour, and all that. I know it was my mum’s – she used to come home with big rolls of notes tucked in the top of her stockings.”

  In the hairdresser’s Molly began to shake as the man cut her hair. It must have been the wine at lunchtime and the drinks in the pub, she thought. It must be nerves about the result of Charlie’s attempts to raise money for her. But when the hairdresser asked her if she was cold she responded automatically, “I was thinking about the Blitz.”

  “That’s a strange thing to be worrying about now,” he told her, masking his distaste at her ancient memories as he tried to make her look like Joan Crawford.

  Later she went to a film, and slept. Later still she was sitting in the restaurant. She looked up at the waiter and pointed at the menu and said, “That one. And a green salad. I’ll start with whitebait.” She had been talking to Charlie about the Roses. She now said, “Small fry shouldn’t get mixed up with sharks. In the end they get eaten.”

  “Well, all that’s over now,” Charlie said. “Let’s pour the wine and talk about the present. The man I spoke to this afternoon is keen to lay off some money against tax. If you start a company on a proper basis he’ll buy in.”

  “How much?” asked Molly.

  “Twenty, twenty-five thousand,” Charlie informed her.

  “What percentage?” Molly insisted.

  “Sixty-five,” he said. “The point is that this way you get all the advantages of being associated with the group.”

  Molly put down her glass and looked at the plate of tiny fish the waiter had just put in front of her. She looked hard at Charlie and said, “I’ve got George and Wayne, and there’ll be others. How am I going to look after them if I’m being pushed by someone who owns two-thirds of the business? How do I look after myself? This geezer can manipulate the company, the staff, me, right out of the way whenever he feels like it. What happens if he complicates his life too much and he goes under –” Then she looked at Charlie, picked up her fork and ate some fish. “It’s you, Charlie, isn’t it? This financial mystery man?”

  He did not reply. Her heart sank. He was her only source of capital.

  Charlie said, “All right, Molly. It’s me and a man called Adrian Trelawney. He’s another member of the board of the group of companies I work with, the Lauderdale Group. He and I talked and we decided that it was worth expanding, investing something in your idea. But you can’t expect us to sign you a cheque and leave it at that.”

  “In case I hand it all over to Johnnie Bridges?” Molly said angrily. “Because you can’t trust a woman with money if there’s a man about? That is what the Roses used to think.”

  Charlie, ignoring this, told her, “Our point of view is that you have a good idea and absolutely no track record – I don’t mean to be insulting, Molly, but you must see that’s true.”

  “Then Lauderdale plunges,” Molly declared fiercely. “And my bike goes under with it. Or it gets sacrificed first to save the situation because we’re small and there’s none of your mates, only a woman and a couple of youngsters involved.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Molly,” Charlie said. Once again he was the older boy, tormenting her. “Lauderdale’s as sound as a nut. Your difficulty is that all your experience of the world comes from the back streets of London.” />
  “Big or small it’s always the same,” said Molly. “Only big’s worse because if there’s trouble they dump you – or else you all go down on the big liner together.” She paused and then, trying to sound more certain than she felt, said, “There’s another way of doing this. A small independent company’s the way. If you and Trelawney are so interested you can take out fifty percent between you. No Lauderdale Group of companies, no fiddling about on the stock exchange – just three people putting up money to start a business.”

  “Where would your money come from?” Charlie asked.

  “I’ll get £10,000,” Molly said. “And you two can put in twenty-five between you – that’s because I’ll be supplying the premises.”

  “How will you get hold of it?” Charlie said.

  “That’s my business,” Molly replied. She was planning to take out a massive mortgage on Meakin Street, if she could, but she was not going to tell Charlie that because she felt it might put her at a disadvantage. Now she felt sick but she picked up her fork and began to eat. A moment or two later she began to feel better. She realized that, no matter what the terms, she had her money. She realized that Charlie had not disagreed with her, which meant he would go ahead. She smiled and raised her glass.

  “To the future,” she said.

  Charlie smiled back broadly, “To you,” he said. “I never imagined that you and I would ever be business partners.”

  “There’s a woman over there who keeps on staring at me,” said Molly.

  “It’s my ex-wife, Caroline,” Charlie told her. “I saw her when we came in. I took this seat deliberately so that after I’d waved at her I didn’t have to look at her any more.”