Katie smiled. ‘Young lads, eh, Father?’
The priest, accustomed to his reprimands, no matter how slight, being taken with rather more seriousness by members of his congregation, was stunned into momentary silence by her casual attitude.
Katie turned back to Frank. ‘I mean, what would yer do with ’em, eh?’
Frank laughed, a soft, throaty chuckle. ‘Be easier if they played hopscotch and two balls like the girls, I reckon, Kate.’
‘Yer right there,’ she agreed. ‘Better than being out fighting. I mean, look at your little Theresa. What a sweetheart. Now look at them two rogues of mine.’
Michael and Timmy were in the middle of a surging, rolling heap of boys, punctuated by flying fists and feet, not caring that the dusty patch of scrubby grass and weeds which surrounded the church was supposedly holy ground.
‘Mrs Mehan—’ Father Hopkins intoned the words with great solemnity.
‘They’re like a barrow load o’ monkeys, ain’t they?’ Katie broke in.
Father Hopkins put on his fiercest expression. ‘I suppose you don’t think there’s anything wrong with boys roaming the streets and terrorising poor old women with their noise and their fighting?’
In complete contrast to what Father Hopkins would ever have expected from such a devout parishioner, Katie very calmly put her hands on her hips and asked him, ‘Are you saying my lads are like that pack of monsters from over Stink House Bridge, Father? Because that’s a serious thing to say to a woman about her children.’
The red-faced priest tried to stand his ground, but his tone betrayed the fact that he knew he had lost all authority. ‘I don’t think I said that now, Mrs Mehan.’
Frank Barber smiled, his open, gentle face giving out reassurances that there was no need for any of this. ‘They’re just a bunch of healthy kids, showing off their high spirits after sitting so nicely while you talked to us all this morning, Father Hopkins. And a very interesting sermon it was and all, if yer don’t mind me saying.’
Before Father Hopkins had the chance to begin questioning Frank Barber to check if he really had been listening to his words of wisdom, Nora, frowning so hard her eyes had almost disappeared into her head, had decided it was time that she joined the three of them.
Molly groaned as she watched her grandmother’s determined progress. ‘Don’t start chatting with Father Hopkins, Nanna, please. We’ll never get home at this rate and I’m starving.’
‘You just get the boys rounded up while I go and fetch your mother,’ she called to her without turning round.
Knowing that there was no point arguing with her nanna, Molly weighed in to the still brawling bunch of kids and grabbed the first Mehan ear she could reach.
Michael squealed from the pain and the indignity. ‘Oi, leggo o’ me ear’ole. That bloody hurts, that does.’
‘And yer arse’ll hurt a lot more if Mum hears yer using that language,’ Molly hissed into his burning ear.
‘But, sis,’ Michael complained, pointing accusingly at a bedraggled-looking boy of about ten years old, ‘that Bobby Leighton’s nicked me ciggie cards.’
Bobby’s eyes bulged at such injustice. ‘You little liar, Micky Mehan. I never nicked ’em. You give ’em to me fair and square.’
‘You’re the bloody liar! They was meant to be swapsies. Now come on, give me what yer owe me or give ’em back.’
Molly grabbed any cigarette cards from the grasp of the unsuspecting bystanders. Holding up her hand to silence their indignant protests, she formed the cards into a neat pack, licked her thumb and dealt the first card off the top.
Studying the picture then turning it over, she said threateningly, ‘Right, I’m gonna divide these out, so yer wanna keep quiet or I might make a mistake, mightn’t I? Now, let’s see. Whose is this Don Bradman?’
A grubby hand shot up, declaring ownership.
‘Right.’ She handed it over. ‘Dixie Dean?’
While Molly was sorting out the rightful owners of the treasured cards, Nora concentrated on sorting out Katie. ‘Come on, girl,’ she said, hoisting her bag up her arm. ‘Time we was going.’
‘Do what?’ she asked absently, still smiling at Frank, not seeming to care that she sounded uninterested in what Nora was saying.
‘Now, Katie.’ Nora glared pugnaciously at Frank. ‘Yer husband’s expecting yer home to do his dinner, and I’m sure that Father Hopkins has plenty he has to be getting on with.’
The priest decided to cut his losses and took Nora’s words as his cue to shuffle away and try to exercise his authority more productively on less forceful members of his congregation.
‘Sorry, Nora,’ Frank said. ‘That was me going on. But I just wanted to thank Katie for all she’s done for our Theresa recently. It ain’t been easy for me since my Sarah . . .’ He looked over to where his little girl was watching Molly hand out the cigarette cards.
Nora lifted her chin and stared along her nose at Frank. ‘That’s our way,’ she said, ‘being neighbourly,’ and she hooked her arm through Katie’s and unceremoniously tugged her away. Looking over her shoulder, Nora called to Danny and Sean who were lolling against the wall. ‘Come on, you two, we’re going home for a bit of dinner.’ She flashed a look at Frank who had gone over to his daughter and was retying her hair ribbon. ‘Yer father’ll be waiting for us. And Molly, make those young ’uns get a move on.’
At first, as Katie was marched by her mother back towards home at double speed, not even pausing to cross themselves at the big wayside statue of Christ on the cross on the corner of Upper North Street and Canton Street, she didn’t say a word, she was steaming with humiliation at being pulled away by her mother as if she were a little schoolgirl who was late going home for her tea. But, by the time they were almost at the corner of their turning, Katie could stand it no longer. She dragged Nora to a halt beside her, shoved her hands on her hips and demanded, ‘So, are yer gonna tell me what that little performance was all about?’
With a hasty glance towards her grandchildren, who were still dawdling along behind them, Nora leant close to her daughter. ‘Didn’t I warn you about geeing up that man of yours? He won’t take it, yer know, carrying on like that in front of everyone. And at church too. And on a Sunday.’
‘Mum, just leave off, can’t yer? Saying things like that. You should be on my side, not encouraging his stupid jealousy.’ Katie looked anxiously up and down the road. ‘And keep yer voice down. Someone’ll hear yer if yer ain’t careful.’
‘And if they do, is there something you’d be ashamed of?’
‘I’m not putting up with this.’ Katie strode off, swinging her arms furiously.
‘I’d watch meself if I was you, Katie,’ Nora called after her.
Katie spun round and confronted her mother. ‘I don’t believe this. It’s like being under flaming guard. You know your trouble, Mum? I never realised it before, but I reckon you’ve got a worse imagination than Pat.’
‘And you, my girl,’ countered Nora, as she turned the corner into Plumley Street, ‘I reckon you’ve got a guilty conscience.’
5
SUNDAY DINNER IN number twelve had been a much quieter affair than usual, with no happy laughter or even a bit of playful bickering. Instead, the atmosphere was nastily touchy, with everyone, apart from young Michael and Timmy, seeming to be either brooding about something or else ready to boil over into a row. Even an inoffensive remark about the tastiness of the carrots and a simple, polite request for more gravy were met with scowls and grunts. To make matters worse, the warm, sunny weather had turned hot and muggy, with heavy clouds hovering in the distance, threatening to move closer; the stormy atmosphere making the kitchen feel more sultry and crowded than ever.
So it was with a sense of relief, rather than a pleasant feeling of comfortable fullness, that everyone left the table, and with it a hefty portion of Nora’s usually fought over fruit pie still untouched in the dish – a previously unheard of event in the Mehan household.
Fruit pie, or any other food, was the last thing on Molly’s mind. She had barely noticed eating anything. All she could think of was how she was going to get out of the house to meet Simon Blomstein. With the mood her mum was in, she dreaded even mentioning that she had plans to go out for the afternoon. She was bound to have something that Molly had to do instead: an errand that suddenly had to be run or a job that couldn’t wait. And then there was her dad, she sighed to herself. And her nanna. They were usually easy to get around, but with their current frame of mind they could prove as difficult as her mum. Molly just couldn’t figure out what had got into them all and had spent the whole meal fretting about what she was going to do.
But Molly had been troubling herself unnecessarily about her mum. As soon as the clearing up was finished, Katie, without saying a word to anyone, carried one of the kitchen chairs out into the back yard and got stuck into tackling a pile of mending as though her life depended on it.
Molly was surprised to find that she didn’t have to worry about her dad or her nanna either. Pat took himself off to the front room, supposedly for a look at the paper, but more likely for a Sunday afternoon doze, while Nora, with a whispered warning to the youngest two about behaving themselves and not upsetting their mother, went across the street to check on what tales Phoebe and Sooky were peddling between them. She was all too aware of how quickly the neighbourhood grapevine could work, and the idea of those two telling tales about her Katie and Frank Barber had worked her up into a real froth.
That only left Molly’s brothers to mess things up for her, but not one of them appeared to give a tuppenny damn about what she was planning for the afternoon, so it was with real relief – and a stomach full of butterflies – that Molly ran upstairs to her bedroom to get herself ready for her outing.
Molly had the luxury of a whole room to herself. Liz Watts, the last of her family still to be at home with her mum and dad, was the only other girl of her age Molly knew who didn’t have to share a bed, let alone a room, with a gaggle of younger brothers and sisters. Even though Molly’s room was the little one at the back that overlooked the yard and faced the back of the flats above the shops in Chrisp Street, it could have been as small as the toot cupboard under the stairs and have faced a bare brick wall for all she cared. It was the privacy that Molly treasured.
Occasionally, one of the boys would complain about Molly’s privilege, but Nora would inform whichever of her grandsons was moaning that he was lucky to be sharing two bedrooms between only the four of them while she slept downstairs in the front parlour. And, if they didn’t stop their whining, they could all pile into the back room of number ten while she took the large front bedroom which was, after all, hers by right, and how would they like that? Just the thought was usually good enough to stop their griping.
Molly closed her bedroom door and sat down at the little dressing table her dad had bought her when times had been a bit easier. He had got it from a second-hand furniture man who traded under the arches near Club Row, and Molly had nearly fainted with joy when he had brought it home on a borrowed handcart. Second-hand it might be, and it wasn’t even particularly pretty, but it was hers, and Molly kept it polished with the care she would have lavished on a rare antique. Molly had learnt well from her mother to keep her things nice and to be proud of what she was lucky enough to have, but though she had always kept the mirror shining, she hadn’t spent very much time actually looking at herself in the glass before. She had been too busy raking the streets with Danny or fooling around with Liz, but she felt differently now. Today her reflection was a thing of intense interest.
Molly leant forward and examined her face for flaws. She had a look about her that was difficult to put an age to, and an air of someone who seemed to know about things, which, combined with the energy that was bursting from her, made her into a more than averagely attractive young woman, although she certainly wasn’t aware of the fact.
She leant closer to the mirror and stared. She supposed that all the strange new things she had been feeling lately meant that she was growing up. It was like when she and Liz had both suddenly decided to have their hair bobbed, a daring decision made on their way home from work one Friday, which had caused ructions in both households, the lopping off of their long hair being seen as too adult a decision for either to take without first getting permission. The girls had both been thrilled with the results, but Molly wasn’t so sure now. She liked the way the thick auburn waves framed her blue eyes, but she would have liked to have scooped her hair up into a ribbon, the way she used to, and have it falling in curls around her shoulders. Still that was her – making wild decisions then regretting them afterwards. It was no good moping about it, and it was no good sitting there staring either. If she didn’t get a move on she’d be late.
Molly opened the bottom drawer of the dressing table and took out a little flannel bag from beneath the pile of clean underthings. With a quick look towards the still closed door, she opened the pouch and took out a tube of lipstick and a box of Phul Nana face powder. She and Liz had treated themselves to the illicit cosmetics in Woolworth’s a couple of weeks before, and considering the fuss about their up-to-date hairdos, both girls had wisely chosen to hide their newly purchased make-up. But they had experimented with it in secret, creeping up to Liz or Molly’s bedroom whenever they could. They hadn’t quite got the hang of making themselves look like Merle Oberon yet, but they were definitely getting better at it.
With a slightly unsteady hand, Molly slid the lipstick from its case and spread a thin layer of red across her mouth. Not satisfied with the results, she tried to straighten up the wobbly line, rubbing at the worst bits with her finger and then dabbing a generous amount of powder over the resulting pale pink smudges. She narrowed her eyes and studied the effect.
With a sigh she took her hankie from her dress sleeve and wiped the whole lot off again, then hid the make-up pouch and the stained hankie back in the drawer – another bit of hand washing she’d have to do before her mum noticed. She needed a lot more practice before she could present her sophisticated new image in public, so, until then, the world would have to brave Molly Katherine Mehan as she was: red-haired, bare-faced and freckled. And with a growing store of secrets in the bottom of her dressing-table drawer.
Since they were old enough to whisper behind their hands, Molly and Liz Watts had always shared secrets such as the make-up, and now they were sharing another, far more grown-up one. While Molly had told her nanna, maybe a little recklessly she now thought, that she was seeing two boys, only Liz knew who they both were, and she had promised not to tell anyone. Molly definitely didn’t want anyone, particularly Danny, to find out about Simon Blomstein. She just knew her brother wouldn’t approve of him, and could imagine how bonkers he would go if he discovered she was seeing what he’d call a posh sort of bloke – meaning one whom he thought had it easy in life because he had an uncle with a bit of money who’d give him a job whether he deserved it or not. To make it worse, the job was what Danny would consider soft sort of work, where you used your brain rather than your muscles. One of the reasons Danny grafted so hard for Joe Palmer was that he’d never have anyone saying he was soft or a sponger; a man should earn his living, not have it handed to him on a plate.
But there was something else Molly feared Danny would disapprove of, and it had a lot to do with how Bob Jarvis had acted when he’d seen her speaking to Simon: good Catholic girls definitely weren’t meant to go around with Jewish boys . . .
Before she let her mind begin le
ading her along that thorny path, Molly stood up. It was nearly twenty past two according to her tinny little bedside clock, and if she didn’t get a move on it wouldn’t matter who approved or disapproved of who or what, she’d be so late that there would be no meeting at all. Simon would have turned right round and gone home again.
As Molly neared the corner of Preston’s Road and Poplar High Street, the place where she had agreed to meet Simon, all sorts of doubts began to flood into her mind. Usually so confident and full of herself, Molly began to feel sick. Suppose she didn’t recognise him? What would she do? She had this vision of a bloke of about nineteen, maybe twenty, with dark eyes and dark hair, but that could be a lot of people. And then say she didn’t like him? Or say he was a murderer, or one of those blokes who lured young women into the white slave trade just like old Phoebe Tucker and Sooky Shay were always going on about? But, worst of all, there was the awful possibility that he wouldn’t turn up at all and she would be left standing there like a lemon, with passers-by knowing full well that she’d been stood up and she’d have to go through the humiliation of strangers feeling sorry for her.
She now felt so confused that she didn’t know whether the thought of Simon turning up was worse than the thought of him not being there, nor could she decide whether all this going out with boys was worth the bother. And then there was Bob Jarvis and Danny and what they’d have to say if they found out. She wasn’t exactly Bob’s girl, but she had sort of started seeing him, and he was Danny’s mate. And he had paid for her to go to the pictures and she was seeing him again next Saturday. And she did really like him.
‘Hello, Molly.’
Startled to hear her name, Molly collided with a middle-aged couple who had been strolling towards her. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled in apology and then, with her nerves sending her blood beating in her ears, she turned to see who had spoken to her. She could hardly bear to look. Was it him?
Just Around the Corner Page 9
