Actually, Molly did have problems, but she was a bit more skilled than the boys at hiding the fact from her dad.
Molly was becoming increasingly troubled that things weren’t going how she had planned. She had presumed that her dad would be going down to Kent to see her mum and nanna and the little ones at the weekend, and that she would be left at home with the boys, probably on the understanding that she cooked their meals and kept the place in order. Then she would have the freedom to meet Simon and Bob and to come home whenever she felt like it, the idea behind her plan being that it would be the perfect opportunity to get to know them both a bit better and to decide which one she preferred. It had been all very well at first, seeing the pair of them, but things were becoming a bit complicated. She didn’t like lying, well, not lying exactly, but having to cover up all the time was against her usually open nature, so she had decided that she would sort it all out once and for all. But it hadn’t turned out like that.
Come the first weekend of her supposed liberty, her dad had plans of his own – and unfortunately they involved her. Pat had supposed that, unlike the performance he had with the boys, having to issue threats, in order to get them to go with him, Molly would be thrilled at the prospect of getting away from Poplar and spending Saturday and Sunday in the countryside with her mum and nanna. But it hadn’t worked out like that at all.
All of his three oldest children, Molly included, had made his life such a misery, particularly during the return journey and for the five days afterwards when their mother wasn’t around to hear them, that, come the second weekend, Pat had turned up outside Katie’s hop hut alone. He was worried enough about how he was going to tell her that he had only had two days’ work again, without bothering himself with those three and their moaning. But Katie had dismissed his money worries with a flap of her hand and a sharp telling off about his overreacting as usual. No, she was far more exercised with what her absent children were getting up to. The more she thought about it, the more frantic she became, until she finally worked herself up into a real lather, demanding to know what he had done to make them want to stay away, and yelling at the top of her voice about her husband’s irresponsibility in leaving her babies to fend for themselves.
Pat didn’t have the inclination, or the energy, to row about it, and had half-heartedly retorted that they were big enough and ugly enough to look after themselves. He thought it wise not to mention that he had had just about enough of the three of them and he was delighted that they had stayed back in Poplar. All he did add, and it was the truth, was that Molly had said she wanted to stay at home to clean the house out from top to bottom as a surprise for her mum’s homecoming, when hopping finished at the end of the next week. What he omitted to tell his wife was that their precious daughter had said she would do the housework as a way of saying she was sorry as she had been such a little mare to her dad about not going to Kent with him.
But when Pat arrived back in Plumley Street on Sunday evening, there was no sign of Molly or the house having been given even the briefest flick over with a duster, let alone the thorough going-through with a mop and bucket that she had promised. Nor was there any sign of Danny.
The only person who was at home was Sean; he was sitting in the kitchen, picking at a hunk of unappetising-looking bread and a piece of greyish cheddar that was more rind than cheese. He appeared totally unaware of the fact that he was surrounded by flies and the debris of what looked like every drink and meal the three of them had eaten since Pat had left for Kent late on Friday night.
Pat exploded with anger about the state of the place but Sean had nothing to say in his or anyone else’s defence. He just got up, leaving his bread and cheese on the table, and disappeared out of the back door and over the yard wall.
When Molly eventually came home, Pat was standing at the sink wringing out a dishcloth. He glanced over at the clock on the mantel shelf. It was a few minutes off a quarter to ten.
With very controlled movements, he folded the cloth into a neat rectangle and draped it over the now shining single brass tap. ‘Well?’ he asked, turning to face his daughter. ‘What’s yer story?’
Molly’s face flushed scarlet. ‘I went to the park with me friends. I didn’t expect yer back till later.’
Pat still sounded calm. ‘Yer was in the park till this time of night?’
‘I didn’t realise how late it was. Yer know what it’s like when yer get talking.’
‘And how about the promise yer made about doing out the house? A way of saying yer was sorry, wasn’t it?’ He leant back against the sink and folded his arms across his chest. ‘D’you know how long it’s taken me just to get this kitchen straight? It’d be nice, wouldn’t it, for yer mother to come home to this pigsty next week?’
Molly, if it was possible, went even redder. She pulled off her hat and threw it on the table, then took down her mother’s apron from the nail behind the door. ‘I’ll do the front room and passage now and I’ll do the rest every evening after work,’ she said, tying the strings tightly round her waist. ‘I really promise, Dad.’
Pat filled the kettle and set it on the stove. ‘So, who were yer with? And don’t tell me Lizzie, ’cos I went over the Wattses’ to see if yer was there.’
Molly dipped her chin. ‘I met a boy.’ Was she stupid? Why had she told him that?
Pat smacked his hand hard on to the draining board. ‘You just wait till yer mother hears about this.’
‘She was my age when she was seeing you.’ Molly gulped; why hadn’t she just kept quiet?
‘But she didn’t lie to her mother about what she was up to, did she?’
Molly said nothing.
‘Now, who is this boy? Do I know him?’
What could she say? Molly had seen Bob Jarvis the night before and had then spent all Sunday with Simon. Her throat was so dry she could scarcely get the words out. ‘Just a boy. I only just met him with some girls from work and we was all talking and . . . You know.’
‘Are you lying to me, Molly?’
‘No, Dad.’ Molly snatched the broom from the corner by the hearth. ‘I’ll get started on the front room.’
‘No, you don’t . . .’ Pat began.
Molly was sure that it must have been her silent prayers, because at that very moment, when she was sure her dad was prepared to throttle the truth out of her, they heard the front door crash back on its hinges and the sound of someone stumbling along the passage.
‘What the bloody hell’s happening now?’
Danny appeared in the doorway. He had an idiotic grin on his face. His usually neat collar was awry, his dark curly hair looked as though it’d been combed with a lavatory brush and there was a smear of blood at the corner of his lip. The stench of stale beer and tobacco was all about him.
Pat ran his hands through his hair. ‘Thank Gawd yer mother ain’t here to see this,’ he said distractedly. ‘Now, get out of my sight, the pair of yer. I’m gonna kip in next door, and when I come in here tomorrow morning, all I can say is that you two had better be ready for work, and this place had better be in a state fit for decent people.’
Molly waited for the sound of her nanna’s street door being slammed shut, then she hauled her brother up the stairs and shoved him on to her parents’ big double bed. Then she ran back down to the kitchen to get a bucket in case Danny was ill in the night.
As she pulled off her brother’s shoes she had two reasons to be grateful for the state he was in: not only had he taken his father’s attention from what she had been up to, but he was in no condition to ask her any awkward questions either. With a bit more luck, if she got stuck into the cleaning now and made sure that she had a decent breakfast on the table first thing, her dad would calm down a bit and she would have had the chance to get her story straight.
Danny suddenly opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and puffy from drink. He blinked slowly, then grinned. ‘I’ve been out with Bob,’ he slurred. ‘Me best mate, that feller.’
Molly didn’t say anything, but was thankful for the information; now she wouldn’t make the mistake of saying she was with Bob Jarvis when her dad asked. She wiped the blood roughly from Danny’s lip with her hankie, then pushed him on to his side as she struggled to get him out of his jacket.
‘Thinks the world of you, Moll,’ Danny mumbled, barely audible from where Molly had turned his face into the pillows. ‘He’s been telling everyone that you’re his girl.’
Molly cringed as she visualised what Danny would have to say if he found out she was two-timing his mate. She rolled him on to his back again.
‘There’s a bucket by the side of the bed,’ she said to him, folding his jacket.
As she put it down on the brocade-covered stool, she looked at the collection of framed photographs of the family that her mother displayed so proudly on her dressing table. Molly felt her cheeks burning again as a pale, monochrome image of her mother smiled out at her with such tenderness and love. Molly swallowed hard, determined, dreadful as she felt, that she wouldn’t cry.
She closed the door to her parents’ bedroom and stood on the dark landing. Everything was such a mess. Why hadn’t she done what she’d been planning for weeks? Why hadn’t she sorted it all out when she’d had the opportunity?
She knew why: she didn’t want to. She liked them both, Simon and Bob. How could she be expected to make up her mind when they were so different?
There was Bob, so arrogant and full of himself. He didn’t seem to care what she thought about anything, but he could thrill her with just a look, and when he actually touched her . . . She shuddered with pleasure at the memory of his fingers playing up and down her cheek.
And then there was Simon, so gentle and kind. He was interested in everything she had to say, and he wasn’t exactly slow when it came to kissing either.
She went into her own room and closed the door behind her. She couldn’t even think about starting the clearing up now. No, she’d have a good night’s sleep and then she’d get up really early and start on the housework tomorrow first thing. That’s what she’d do.
She let her clothes drop to the floor where she took them off, tugged her nightgown roughly over her head, then climbed between the sheets and pulled the eiderdown up under her chin.
With a slow sigh, she closed her eyes and reassured herself that things had a way of sorting themselves out. They always did. Everyone knew that. Didn’t they?
9
SINCE KATIE HAD come home from hopping, the atmosphere in number twelve Plumley Street had been going from bad to worse; as the days grew shorter so, it seemed, did Katie’s temper. She really was beginning to feel desperate. It was as though she was not only losing control of herself – moaning and shouting all the time – but also of her family.
The situation had become progressively worse since that first Sunday afternoon when she had arrived home in Poplar with a bit of money in her purse, her head full of stories from Kent, and happy plans as to how she would make them all laugh with her tales. She was going to have them in stitches over the things that Phoebe and Sooky had got up to, make them gasp at all the strokes that Timmy and Michael had pulled, and have them giggling, and a bit shocked, at the scrapes Nora had wound up getting herself involved in. But Katie quickly realised that her homecoming wasn’t going to live up to her expectations. Instead of the gales of laughter and spluttering, disbelieving chuckles she had hoped for, she was met instead with solemn faces, and a whole series of feuds, battles and sulks, most of which she couldn’t understand, even though they were going on under her own roof.
There was Pat and Molly: they had been rowing over something or other that had left them barely able to look at each other, let alone speak, but neither of them would tell her what it was all about. Katie had decided to ask Danny what was going on, but he was never around long enough for her to corner him; he was either out with Liz Watts, which seemed fine with everyone, thank goodness, or he was disappearing off with his new friends, which definitely wasn’t all right with Pat. The very mention of Danny’s pals set Pat’s teeth on edge; again no one was prepared to explain why. And as for Sean, he still hadn’t found himself a job and was acting just as rudely as before, but, if it were possible, he was being even more secretive about where he took himself off to all the time and was more cranky than ever when confronted.
Then there was the money Katie and Nora had earned hop picking. Instead of being able to put it by for Christmas, as they usually did, they soon realised that every penny of it was needed to make up the housekeeping. Pat hadn’t been exaggerating the problem after all; the reality of the slump was now biting deep, snapping away at even supposedly indispensable workers like him.
To put the tin lid on the whole sorry mess, the very day after Katie had got back, Frank Barber had come over to see her. Unluckily he had chosen to turn up at the house before Pat left for what he had convinced himself would be another pointless journey to the docks.
Frank had come to ask Katie if she would do him a favour. He knew how busy she was, but someone had given him a winter coat for his little girl, and, if it wasn’t to drag round her ankles like a pair of drawers with no elastic, it needed altering. He had been going to ask Peggy Watts, he explained to Katie, but she had done so much for him lately, he didn’t like to impose on her again – not for a while anyway. Katie had told him not to worry, it was no problem at all, and she would willingly do what she could with the coat as soon as she had a spare moment.
Pat had said nothing while Frank Barber was in the kitchen talking to his wife, he just carried on staring into the mirror by the sink, shaving his chin and neck with slow deliberation, swishing the soapy razor around in the basin of hot water. But once Frank had left, the flare-up came. Pat had barely started shouting at Katie when everyone else in the kitchen – Rags included – made a hasty exit.
‘That bastard must’ve been hanging out of that window of his just watching for yer to get back home,’ Pat hollered, dashing his razor into the sink.
Katie folded the child’s coat over her arm, and took it over to the dresser, brushing past Pat without a glance or even an excuse me. ‘Don’t be so pathetic.’
‘Well, you tell me how else he knew yer was back.’
Katie turned round and looked at him. Very calmly, she said, ‘Are yer gonna stop shouting at me?’
‘I don’t believe this. Yer actually gonna start having a go at me?’ He jabbed himself hard in the chest.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’d be worth it. Yer never listen.’
Pat loomed over her, but, big as he was, Katie refused to be intimidated; she stood her ground. ‘I must have been stupid,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I couldn’t wait to get home to yer. I honestly thought yer’d be right pleased to see me.’
‘Well, I was, wasn’t I?’ Pat was now shaking with temper. He grabbed her, his big docker’s hands circling the tops of her arms. ‘What d’yer think we did upstairs last night? D’yer think I could do that if I wasn’t pleased to see yer?’
She tried to pull away from him but his grip was too tight. ‘Yer talking rubbish, Pat.’ Her voice wasn’t as steady now; he was really hurting her.
‘Talking rubbish, am I?’
‘Yeah.’ She made another, tremendous effort and pulled away from him, stumbling backwards into the dresser, knocking Theresa’s coat to the floor. She bent down to pick it up, then held it in front of her like a shield. ‘I told yer once before, Pat, if you ever raise your hand to me, I’m leaving yer. I mean it.’
His face contorted with dark fury. ‘You gonna leave me, are yer? Well, perhaps it should be me what leaves you.’ He smacked the flat of his hand hard against the wall. ‘I mean, why would yer want me round yer? I talk rubbish, I can’t earn enough to pay you yer wages, and let’s face it, yer wouldn’t miss me, now would yer? I mean, yer’d have plenty of bastard company.’
He shoved past her, stormed out of the kitchen and along the passage.
&nbs
p; Katie stood there, stunned. Had she gone too far this time? Why hadn’t she listened to her mum? She threw the child’s coat on the table, snatched up the packet of sandwiches she had made, and ran after him. ‘Pat,’ she called, ‘stop. Come back. Please. Yer can’t go out without drinking yer tea.’
He grabbed hold of the door latch, waited a moment, then looked over his shoulder at her. Tears were running down his cheeks.
Katie held up the sandwiches to him. ‘Yer left yer dinner on the table,’ she whispered.
He turned his back on her, stepped out of the house and slammed the door in her face.
It was a frosty, Saturday morning in December, with only nine days left before Christmas, but Katie wasn’t exactly in a festive mood. Stern-faced and silent, she was clearing away after breakfast, stacking the dirty bowls on to the scrubbed wooden draining board ready for washing up.
Katie Mehan’s family had always been everything to her, and yet most days lately she felt as though she was in the middle of a battle ground with her as the enemy. In fact, bitterly cold as the weather had turned, Katie was so fed up that, more than once, she’d wished she could have gone back to Kent, to have been miles away from the whole rotten lot of them; she would have preferred to freeze in the mean little corrugated iron hop hut than have to keep putting up with all this.
Although the meal was over, everyone else in the family, excepting Nora, who was having her usual lie-in to avoid the dreaded porridge, was still sitting around the table. And from the look of them, nobody felt inclined to move, for despite the mood in the kitchen being decidedly chilly, compared to the icy weather outside, at least the range kept the room warm.
Just Around the Corner Page 17
