by Polly Heron
‘I don’t mind if I do,’ said Dora.
‘You’ll come, won’t you?’ Bernie turned to Molly and Norris. ‘You missed the dance, so you can’t miss giving the soon-to-be newly-weds a spot of nosh and something to drink their health with.’
‘Fish and chip shops don’t sell alcohol,’ Norris pointed out.
‘If we go to Rafferty’s, they have tables in the back and they’ll let us bring drinks in from the pub.’
‘Molly and I won’t join you for the meal, if you don’t mind,’ said Norris.
‘Norris!’ Molly protested, but she pretended to laugh, not wanting to spoil the happy atmosphere.
‘It’s a bit late in the evening for me.’ Norris patted his stomach, indicating some unspecified reason why late-night eating wasn’t desirable. ‘But we’ll walk with you and see you settled.’
Molly didn’t object. She had learned the hard way that one feature of a prolonged engagement was that the smallest suggestion of a public tiff led to hoots of masculine laughter and jokes about already being hen-pecked.
As they set off, Dora linked arms with her.
‘There’s going to be a big day trip to Southport. We’ll catch the early train and arrive mid-morning in time for a talk in one of the hotels about the archaeological digs going on in Egypt; then a posh three-course meal in the hotel; followed by a walk down Lord Street to see the shops; and the rest of the afternoon at the Pleasure Beach; then back to the hotel for a late tea before catching the train home.’
‘It sounds splendid.’
‘You’ll come, won’t you? And Norris. I’ve put your names down. Harry says me and him can go, but it’s to be our final fling, then we have to save everything for being married.’
The group arrived at Rafferty’s in a jumble of laughter and good humour.
Bernie nudged Norris. ‘Let’s go and get the drinks. What’s everyone having?’
‘You start putting the order in,’ said Norris. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute, after I’ve seen to the tables in here.’
He led the way into the chippy, with its busy, crackling sound of frying and its warm, vinegar-laden atmosphere. Mr Rafferty shook the frying-baskets and doled out chips into newspaper, deftly flicking all the crispy bits into a separate pile to be given at closing time to a half-starving family with the dad out of work.
Bypassing the queue, Norris marched into the dining area at the back. He pushed the tables together, sat Dora and Harry in pride of place, and prevailed upon Mrs Rafferty to fetch her best tablecloth from her sideboard and the candlesticks off her mantelpiece. Satisfaction stretched Molly’s smile. It was good to see Norris making an occasion out of it for the happy couple. When Bernie walked in, gingerly carrying a tray crammed with glasses, Norris came to the rescue, doling out the drinks. He even called for silence and made a toast.
‘Here’s to you, Dora and Harry. Molly and I are sorry we can’t stay, but we wish you all the best for your future happiness. Dora and Harry!’
‘Dora and Harry,’ everyone chorused, raising their glasses.
Mrs Rafferty appeared, brandishing a notepad. ‘Fish and chips all round, is it? Are you paying separately?’
‘Tot it up and give the bill to me,’ said Bernie. ‘We’re all mucking in to treat Dora and Harry.’
‘We’d best be on our way.’ Norris took Molly’s arm. ‘Have a wonderful time, all of you, especially you, Dora and Harry, and many congratulations.’ He shook hands warmly all round, then came to Dora. ‘May I kiss the bride?’
‘Oh, Norris, you are a one,’ trilled Dora as he leaned down and brushed a kiss on her cheek.
Molly’s smile was still in place, but something inside her had gone cold. She hugged Dora and kissed her. Smile, smile. Say all the right things. Smile, smile. As they eased their way out, cries of ‘Thanks, Norris’ and ‘Cheers, Norris’ filled her ears. Smile, smile.
‘Well, that was most pleasant.’ If Norris exuded any more goodwill, he would glow in the dark.
Molly’s smile dropped. ‘I’m sure everyone will remember you as the life and soul of the party.’
‘Think so? That’d be champion.’ Norris chuckled. ‘I like the thought of all the chaps and chapesses looking back in years to come and reminiscing about how old Norris got the party off to a spanking start.’
She tried again. ‘You didn’t put your hand in your pocket, Norris, not once.’
He gave her a startled glance. ‘I didn’t hear anybody complaining.’
‘Of course not. They were all too chuffed with how you got the supper-table set up. But you were meant to go to the pub and help Bernie with the drinks.’
‘He managed all right. They lent him a tray.’
‘You should have gone with him and paid half.’
‘You said yourself I was busy getting the meal set up,’ Norris pointed out. ‘I even charmed Mrs Rafferty into putting her own candlesticks on the table. That was a special touch. A fish supper with candlesticks and Irish linen. Very posh.’
Molly chewed the inside of her cheek. He had an answer for everything.
‘I did Harry and Dora proud, though I do say so myself.’ Norris was all complacency. ‘I’d have expected you to be happy about it. You’re supposed to be so fond of Dora.’ He stopped walking and turned her to face him. ‘Shall I tell you what I think this is? I think Miss Molly Watson is succumbing to a bout of the sulks.’
She was utterly taken aback. ‘I’m not sulking.’
Norris waggled a finger at her. ‘That “surprised” voice tells me otherwise. Dora’s exciting day has put your nose out of joint, hasn’t it? A long engagement can be hard on the female of the species when she’s got her sights set on her gran’s veil and being carried over the threshold. But you’ll thank me for it one day, when we’ve got our substantial nest egg and Dora and Harry are still shacked up with your Auntie Faith.’
‘I’m not jealous of Dora.’
‘Good, because you’ve no need to be. If anything, she should be jealous of you. In all probability, she will be one day.’
‘How did we get onto this?’ Molly asked. ‘I only said I wished you’d spent a bit of money.’
‘Oh aye? And would anyone else have thought to prevail upon Mrs Rafferty to decorate the table?’ Tucking her arm firmly in his, Norris started walking again. ‘You saw how delighted everyone was. You can’t put a price on that, Molly, and I’m surprised at you for thinking money is more important.’
‘I never said that.’
‘Don’t fret. I know you didn’t mean any harm. I know you’re in a bit of a tizz.’ Norris’s voice was warm. ‘It’s a good job you’ve got me to take care of you.’
Molly felt the need to stand up for herself, but she was careful to speak lightly. She mustn’t reinforce the silly notion that she was in a tizz. ‘Really, Norris, you make me sound incapable of taking care of myself. I was clever enough to learn to drive, clever enough to learn to change a wheel; clever enough to leave home under my own steam.’
‘Yes, Molly,’ Norris said sombrely, ‘and look how that turned out. Everyone knows you set off for London, intending to win the war single-handed, and I daresay your parents were proud of you, and quite right too. But you and I both know you made a hash of things down south.’
It was hard to breathe. Her heartbeat slowed down, as if it might stop at any moment.
‘I’m not saying this to hurt you,’ Norris assured her in his kindest voice. ‘It’s a gentle reminder, that’s all. Sometimes you need to be reminded, for your own good. But that’s our little secret, isn’t it?’
Chapter Three
THE LAD WAS hanging about on the pavement when Molly left the shop with Mrs Upton’s wicker basket on her arm. He was just a youngster, maybe nine or ten, his pale, freckled face beneath a cloth cap that swamped his head. Molly smiled inwardly: he must have a mum like hers. ‘You’ll grow into it,’ Mum had said repeatedly when her four were nippers, thereby getting the most wear possible out of their cloth
es.
Wait a minute: he didn’t have a mum. He was in the grey uniform of the orphanage. What was he doing here? This wasn’t St Anthony’s patch. It was a fifteen- if not twenty-minute walk from there to here. And anyway…
‘Why aren’t you at school?’ she called.
The boy looked away as if he hadn’t heard, but she knew he had. When she had opened the shop door, they had looked straight at one another. The boy had a narrow, oval face with a dent in his pointy chin. It was a cheerful, eager face, or would have been but for a look of…was that wariness? Well, no wonder, if he was bunking off school.
‘Morning, Molly.’
‘Morning, Mrs Livesey.’
Molly smiled at her mum’s friend and when she glanced back, the boy had gone.
She walked briskly round the shops, buying some veg from the greengrocer, a couple of cutlets from the butcher and a box of Shredded Wheat at the grocer’s. The weekend’s temperatures had subsided back to normal and May Day was mild and fine. It was easy to stride out in this weather, but Molly always put on a smart pace, even when it was as hot as Hades. She wouldn’t take advantage of Mrs Upton’s invalid state by dawdling when she was sent on errands.
Returning to the shop, she walked through to the back to put away her purchases. Mrs Upton lay on the bed, propped up against a pile of pillows and cushions. She hadn’t been upstairs since 1919, poor love. She got dressed every day and usually sat in the armchair, but sometimes, like today, she lay on the bed. Without a word, Molly put the kettle on and tipped a couple of drops of eucalyptus oil into a bowl, adding boiling water. The pungent, cleansing aroma flooded every corner of the room. Making space on the bedside table, Molly slipped a crocheted doily onto the surface and placed the bowl on top.
Mrs Upton took a series of small sniffs, like an animal scenting danger. Then she breathed a sigh and relaxed, her thin frame spreading as her muscles unclenched. ‘Thanks, love.’ The influenza had left her with a raspy voice, as if she was permanently on the brink of a stinking cold, though she swore she felt fine, just weak.
Molly smiled to hide her concern. ‘I’d best get back behind the counter.’ Mr Upton didn’t like her to spend too much time in the back.
In a gap between customers, Mr Upton said, ‘Hand me the collecting-boxes and I’ll count the money.’
‘I was going to leave the boxes out until three.’
‘Squeezing the last farthing out of folk?’
‘The whole point is to raise as much as possible.’
A few more farthings and ha’pennies made their way into the boxes, mostly into the maypole box, as the usual Monday crowd came in for their weekly quarter of Maynard’s Wine Gums or Pontefract cakes. Shortly after twelve-thirty, a handful of children from the elementary school clattered in. These were the half-timers, who, once they turned twelve, were allowed to have jobs in the afternoon. This lot had got into the habit of popping in for gobstoppers and Black Jacks every Monday before starting work at one.
‘I’ll see to them,’ said Molly, leaving Mr Upton to serve old Mrs Lofts.
Glancing over the children’s heads, she noticed the lad from earlier, hovering at the back. He was older than he looked if he was a half-timer, but then, it was often difficult to gauge people’s ages. So many children were undersized through being underfed and it was common for working-class women to age well before their time. The Watsons were lucky that their family firm had always ticked over nicely.
Molly was kept busy doling out bootlaces and packets of Rowntree’s Pastilles, accepting payments, giving change and making sure no one slipped a fruity chew into their pocket. She didn’t serve the boy with the orphanage uniform, but that made sense. Orphans wouldn’t receive pocket money. She took the final payment and the children bustled towards the door, the orphan in the lead. He opened the door, looking back as he did so. His eyes met hers. His were blue – and scared? Anxious? He tore his gaze away and ran outside. The gaggle of youngsters followed, bursting out into the sunshine, chattering and messing about, stopping just this side of rowdy, the brass bell jangling wildly as the door was hauled shut. The bell quietened and the usual calm atmosphere crept out from behind the sweet-jars.
‘Thank goodness they’ve gone,’ said Mrs Lofts. ‘They shouldn’t be allowed in, if you ask me.’
‘It’s just high spirits,’ said Molly.
Would it be cheeky to ask a customer she hadn’t served to pop in a coin for the orphans?
Her glance went to the boxes. She froze, tiny chills making the hairs stand up along her arms. One of the boxes was missing.
Her breath caught. The orphanage boy – the way he had turned and look at her. Had he swiped the collecting box?
With a heavy block of disappointment wedged tightly inside her chest, Molly crossed the orphanage’s tarmacadamed playground and mounted the stone steps to tug on the old bell-pull beside the door. She felt foolish as well as disappointed. Last time she had come here, she had run up the stairs to Mrs Rostron’s office, bubbling over with her happy plan to treat the children on May Day. She had known then that Upton’s would get just one chance at this. There were other sweet shops nearer to St Anthony’s and, after the resounding success that her plan was undoubtedly going to be, they would be fighting one another to be allowed to do it next year; except that Molly’s plan wasn’t going to be a resounding success after all, not now that one of the boxes had been stolen.
Had that orphan-boy taken it?
Along the passage from the superintendent’s office was a gas-lit alcove where Miss Allan had a desk with her clunky old typewriter. A cupboard squeezed in on one side, a battered filing cabinet on the other. Miss Allan had worked here since the 1880s – here, in this alcove off a dingy landing that smelled of beeswax and boiled vegetables. She must be on the verge of frostbite every winter and gasping for air every summer.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Miss Allan, sounding anything but. ‘Mrs Rostron is busy. Can you call back later?’
‘I’m on my dinner-hour and I have to get back.’
‘You’re attending the maypole dancing display, aren’t you? If you come early, you might be able to see Mrs Rostron then.’
At the end of the corridor, the door opened and Mrs Rostron appeared. ‘Miss Allan, do you have— oh.’ Mrs Rostron had the kind of eyes that missed nothing. Could she tell that Molly’s wonderful scheme had fallen apart? ‘Miss Watson, what are you doing here?’
Good manners be blowed. Molly hurried to the office, slipping inside.
‘I apologise for barging in, but this is urgent— oh. You have a visitor.’
‘Indeed I do, as I imagine Miss Allan informed you.’
Exuding displeasure, the superintendent closed the door and sat behind her desk, which was so tidy that it wasn’t until you looked carefully that you realised quite how many papers and files were on it.
On the other side of the desk sat a lady of Molly’s mum’s age or thereabouts, superbly dressed in a mouth-wateringly expensive costume of royal blue dress with a matching long-line jacket that encased her plump figure. She wore a fox-fur around her neck; the glassy-eyed head lay along one shoulder; and the front of her hat was adorned with a mass of tiny flowers that made her hat appear as pudgy as her face. Who was she? A patron?
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you.’ Molly gave Mrs Rostron’s visitor her most winning smile.
The lady, however, wasn’t won over. She turned her head away with a telling huff of breath, but not before she had run narrowed eyes over Molly in a way that made her feel thoroughly dishevelled.
‘This is Miss Watson from the sweet shop,’ Mrs Rostron informed her visitor, though she didn’t favour Molly with the lady’s name. Neither did she offer Molly a seat, even though her office contained two chairs for visitors.
‘I’m here concerning the money for this afternoon’s sweets,’ Molly began.
‘And you know my opinion of that,’ the visitor said to Mrs Rostron as though Molly weren’t present. She was we
ll-spoken, as befitted her expensive appearance, but was her refinement a little too ‘refained’? ‘Giving the orphans sweets for dancing sets a bad precedent. They might always expect to get something for nothing.’
‘It isn’t something for nothing,’ Molly exclaimed. ‘It’s a reward—’
‘It’s an advertisement for your shop.’
‘It’s a thank-you from the locals for the dancing display.’
‘Exactly: something for nothing. They shouldn’t receive payment for their dancing. And what of those who aren’t involved? I believe you intend to shower sweets on them also. How do you justify that?’
‘I wasn’t aware that I needed to.’ Molly’s spine was getting stiffer by the moment. ‘It’s simple fairness.’
‘Fairness, you call it? Now I’ve heard everything. It’s bad enough you want to indulge the dancers, when the privilege of performing should be enough, but to indulge the rest of the children for no reason whatsoever…’ With a glance at Mrs Rostron, who was listening impassively, she drew in her chin and her chubby throat bulged sideways. ‘I’ll say no more.’
Molly glared at her, then thought better of it. Whoever she was, she was important.
‘If you would kindly come to the point, Miss Watson,’ said Mrs Rostron.
‘One of the collecting-boxes has vanished. There are two, one for the dancers and one for the rest of the children. That’s the one that’s gone missing.’
‘Do you mean it’s been stolen?’ demanded the posh lady.
‘I’m afraid so. I can’t prove it, but it might have been a boy from here who took it.’
Mrs Rostron snapped to attention in her seat, her gaze locked on Molly’s. ‘Describe him.’
‘As I say, I have no proof—’
‘Describe him.’
Oh, crikey, what if she was wrong? ‘Nine or ten, thin face, freckles. Blue eyes.’ She lifted a finger to her chin. ‘A little cleft here. He was wearing a man’s cap.’
