by Polly Heron
‘I can appreciate that. What war work did you do?’
‘Clerical work and driving army bigwigs about, down in London.’
‘When the war ended,’ said Mrs Atwood, ‘I thought the world would become a better place – fairer, you know – but in many ways it’s slipped back to the way it always was.’
‘That’s true. It’s not exactly a land fit for heroes.’
‘There’s a lot to be done, plenty to be modernised. The new Boards of Health have a lot of work ahead of them and some aren’t fully staffed yet. Personally, I have a special interest in orphanages.’
‘Did you grow up in one?’
‘No. I was adopted when I was a baby, so you could say I was one of the lucky ones.’
‘And now you want to make things better for other children in need of care.’
‘It all comes down to attitude. That’s my opinion, anyway. It’s not just a matter of having the money or the will. You have to have a good heart. Take this place, for instance. Why do you suppose it’s called St Anthony’s?’
‘Lots of schools are named after saints, so why not an orphanage?’
‘But why St Anthony in particular? Do you know what he’s the patron saint of? Lost things. Not even lost children, just lost things. That tells you a lot about the prevailing attitude when this place was set up.’
‘That was years ago.’
‘And there are still plenty of people with the same attitude, but I have the impression you’re not one of them. Look, I mentioned that some Boards of Health are still recruiting and that goes for the division I’m in. There are a couple of posts available. It’s paid work, not voluntary. You might want to give it a go.’
‘Me?’
‘I assume there’s no Mr Watson in the picture or you wouldn’t be out at work; and – no offence – but a girl who’s got what it takes to head to London to do her bit for the war isn’t the type to have no choice other than shop work.’
Molly opened her mouth to say ‘I’m engaged’, but what came out was: ‘I haven’t got the right experience.’
Mrs Atwood shrugged. ‘Personally, I think attitude is more what it’s about. Not that I would have any say in whether you got a job, you understand. You mentioned clerical work; that’s important. You have to be able to keep records and so forth; and if your skills need brushing up, there’s a business school right here in Chorlton. Forgive my bluntness, but I assume you’re a surplus girl. This business school is particularly for surplus girls.’
‘I read about it in Vera’s Voice.’
Mrs Atwood smiled. ‘So did I. I was working in London at the time. I applied for the position at the Board of Health here, but my office skills were very basic, so I wrote to the Miss Heskeths’ school and got taken on.’
‘What about…? I mean, are you a widow?’
‘A war widow, yes. Like so many.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Atwood spoke in a calm, almost flat voice, as if she had said it a hundred times before but had never got used to it. ‘The business school isn’t far from here, actually. It’s in Wilton Close – do you know it? It’s on the far side of the recreation ground.’
‘I know where the rec is. How do you attend the business school if you’re working?’
‘The ladies run it as a night-school. Oh, look, here’s the hot-potato man.’
Molly looked round. ‘It’s Bunny.’ She watched him using the wooden handles to manoeuvre the cart with the boiler on top. Once it was in position, he lowered the handles and the legs touched the ground.
‘Bunny?’
‘I can tell you’re not from round here.’ Molly smiled. ‘Everyone knows Bunny. He’s always out and about.’
‘He’s offered to give every child a hot potato,’ said Mrs Atwood.
‘How kind.’ Molly kept her smile in position even though it nearly killed her. A delicious salty potato for every child – what a treat. If only her own treat could have lived up to expectations.
‘The children are about to be led out,’ said Mrs Atwood. ‘Are you going to take a seat?’
‘No, I’ll stand at the back. I need to be able to go inside to fetch the sweets.’
‘I’ll go and park myself. I enjoyed meeting you, Miss Watson. Maybe we’ll bump into one another again.’
It was most unlikely…unless Molly applied for one of the jobs Mrs Atwood had mentioned. And why would she do that?
Mrs Rostron came outside and took her seat on the front row. Then the children filed out in silence, a long line in grey, starting with the oldest. They all sat cross-legged in rows on the ground. The smallest children were led out by a nursemaid in a blue dress with a white apron and a second nursemaid helped her chivvy them into position. When everyone was settled, Mrs Rostron nodded and a fiddle-player stepped forward and started to play a lively jig. The dancers marched out, the boys in white shirts instead of grey and the girls – oh, the girls! No wonder Molly’s little helper had been envious. There were six girls, each in a dress of a different colour, light blue, pale green, soft yellow, shell-pink, lilac and cream. After their regulation grey dresses with white pinafores, they must feel like princesses; and judging by the round eyes of the children watching them, they looked like princesses too.
The children took their places around the maypole. One of the boys had the job of unfastening the ribbons and walking from dancer to dancer, handing them out. Then there was a pause in the music. From somewhere came the count of ‘One, two, three’ and the dance commenced, boys skipping in one direction, girls in the other, winding in and out, changing direction, the ribbons going up and over, down and through, as the children made the intricate shapes of the dance, until in the end the ribbons were wound close to the maypole and, with a final flourish by the fiddler, the display ended.
Hurrying indoors, Molly picked up the tray with the treats for the dancers. Warmth radiated through her. The children more than deserved their reward. She took the tray outside, standing back while Mrs Rostron made a speech thanking the audience and the dancers.
‘…and Miss Watson is here with a special treat from Upton’s to thank the dancers for their hard work. The rest of the children were supposed also to receive some sweets, but unfortunately—’
‘Oh, but—’ Molly began before the brief glare she received from the superintendent silenced her.
As Mrs Rostron continued and the children cast glum looks at one another, Molly handed the tray to one of the nursemaids and hurried back inside. If she came back with the rest of the sweets, Mrs Rostron would be able to correct her error and the children would cheer up.
As she headed for the dining room, she almost bumped into a man coming round the corner. She jumped back.
‘I’m sorry,’ she began – then stopped. Stopped moving, stopped speaking. Her throat constricted.
The man was carrying a tray; and not just any old tray, not the kind of tray you had in a dining room to put plates on, but a tray from a sweet shop. A penny tray, no less – a full penny tray, with white mice and chocolate-covered nuts and fruit jellies encrusted with sugar, mint balls and marzipan hearts and violet delights, gobstoppers and strawberry dreams and packets of aniseed balls. He must be a sweet shop-owner who had heard about the theft from Upton’s and had decided to step in where Upton’s had failed. Yes, she was glad the children would have such a wonderful of selection of sweets to share, of course she was. And, yes, that was more important than anything else, but even so… Compared to the splendour of this fellow’s penny tray, her measly bits of cut-up bootlaces and midget gems would make Upton’s would look mean and ridiculous. Molly’s heart shrivelled under the disappointment.
‘Stand aside, please.’ She was taken aback by how cold she sounded, but she couldn’t help it. If she stayed here another minute, she might shed tears for all the good intentions that had been flattened by the day’s events. ‘Just…just stay put while I share out these sweets. Then you can be as flashy
as you like.’
Chapter Five
THE SAVOURY SMELL of bacon lingered in the air as the front door shut behind Dad and Tom. Mum always sent them off with a hearty breakfast sticking to their ribs, while toast and marmalade was good enough for her and Molly. Dead on quarter past seven, Dad and Tom set off, Mum seeing them on their way from the front door.
‘Another couple of years, our Molly,’ she said, coming back into the kitchen, ‘and you’ll be seeing Norris off to work with a good breakfast inside him.’
‘Do you think he needs it? He’s a clerk, not a builder.’ Molly put the butter dish and milk jug on the larder shelf. ‘I don’t imagine he requires bacon and black pudding to set him up for the day.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’ Mum stacked the plates, cutlery on the top. ‘I meant two years isn’t long to wait.’
Molly shook the tablecloth outside the back door. ‘I suppose not, when we’ve already waited three.’
Mum paused in the scullery doorway and turned round. ‘What I really meant…’
About to fold the tablecloth, Molly paused. ‘What?’
‘I hope our Dora’s plan to get wed in September hasn’t put your nose out of joint.’
‘Why would it? I always knew I was going to be engaged a long time.’
Mum deposited the plates beside the sink. ‘There’s ten bob on the mantelpiece for you.’
‘What for? My birthday was weeks ago.’
‘It’s a contribution towards this day out to Southport. It’s not going to be cheap and I thought a bit extra would help.’
Molly crossed the kitchen and positioned herself in the scullery doorway. ‘Are you trying to make me feel better after the fiasco of the sweets yesterday?’
Mum shooed her aside so she could get back into the kitchen and collect the frying pan and the egg-coddler from the stove. ‘Can’t I treat my daughter if I feel like it? You know I slip Tilda and Chrissie a little summat now and then for the grandchildren. It’s only fair to give you a few bob an’ all.’
Molly slid an arm round her and kissed her cheek. ‘Thanks. You’re a love.’ She popped the folded tablecloth in the drawer, then picked up the teapot and swilled the dregs round. ‘Mum, what if I was interested in an office job?’
‘Well, I was surprised when you went back to Upton’s after the war.’
The teapot stilled. ‘You never said.’
Mum shrugged. ‘You’re old enough to know your own mind. You’re clever and I’m sure you’d have been capable of more, if you’d wanted it, but you didn’t.’
No, she hadn’t. Not then. She hadn’t felt brave enough or strong enough to try anything new.
Did she now?
She threw the red day-cloth over the table-felt that protected the table’s wooden surface. It ballooned and settled.
Mum put down the frying pan. ‘Are you thinking of it now? It’s not like you need to. You’re not one of these surplus girls you read about. You’ve got Norris to look after you. Eh, I remember how pleased we all were when you got engaged.’
Molly laughed. ‘Do you remember Gran saying “I can rest easy now”, as if it was all she’d been hanging on for before she popped her clogs?’
‘It’s what you want for your daughters and your granddaughters: marriage to a good provider. It was a weight off all our minds.’
It had been a weight off Molly’s mind too – or not so much off her mind as off her heart. Norris was a safe harbour and she was lucky he wanted her. What a relief it had been to have this opportunity to build a happy and prosperous new life. She had gladly gone along with everything he suggested. Did that mean it was her fault he now expected her compliance? As time had passed and she had felt better, stronger, in herself, she had lost the instinct to fall in with his every wish. Norris had taken to softening her up through small, persistent remarks against which it felt churlish to hold out.
At what point had softening her up transformed into wearing her down? And as for what he had said to her on Saturday night…
‘But then,’ said Mum, ‘if you do want to try office work, why not?’
‘Really?’ She hadn’t expected that.
‘Aye. Better to do it while you’re engaged than spend your married life wondering.’
‘Oh.’ Something inside her seemed to shrink.
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement of my capabilities.’
‘Is that what you wanted?’
What did she want? Was she considering changing her job? Going to the business school?
‘If you want to know what I really think,’ said Mum, ‘I’ll tell you. I think we all lost summat in the war. All of us: soldiers, civilians, the world over. All those poor lads who came home without an arm, without a leg, with bad nerves, with nightmares. Our Tom came home with silver hair.’
‘Oh, Mum.’
‘I’d give ten years of my life if I could set him free from whatever it was that did that to him. Everyone came home with or without something.’
She looked at Molly, an intent look that caused something to flutter in the pit of Molly’s stomach, followed by a feeling of emptiness.
‘What about you, our Molly? What did you come home with or without?’
He had better put a collar on – and a tie. Heck, it was like dressing for church. Aaron picked up the small drawstring bag into which he had tipped the money Danny had swiped, and slipped it into his jacket pocket, where it formed a heavy lump. He stepped outside into the cool morning air and set off for St Anthony’s. He liked this time of the morning, even in the depths of winter. Not too many people about.
He lived in a cottage a stone’s throw from Chorlton Green. It wasn’t the most convenient address for the orphanage’s caretaker, but while there was accommodation in the building for the female staff, there was nowhere suitable – namely, separate – for a man; so here he was in Soapsuds Cottage, so called because its first tenant had run the laundry up the road. The road was called Soapsuds Lane – well, not really. The Ordnance Survey people would be surprised to hear it. They and the Royal Mail and the folk who ran the census didn’t know it as Soapsuds Lane, but then they weren’t residents of Chorlton Green and its environs.
Soapsuds Cottage had been a ramshackle little place when he moved in, but one of the advantages of being a carpenter was doing your own repairs; and not just repairs but improvements. He still experienced a swell of pleasure each time he used the narrow spiral staircase he had lovingly constructed and installed to replace the old ladder that used to give access to upstairs. He had rehung the doors, replaced rotten floorboards and made good the furniture.
To the amazement of the neighbours, he had built a piece of trellis which he had attached to his south-facing back wall beside the scullery window; and up this he grew sweet peas and black-eyed Susans each summer. With the left-over wood, he built a piece of trellis for frail old Mrs Mulvey in the adjoining house and planted sweet peas for her. She swore that trellis was the only thing that kept her cottage standing.
Approaching St Anthony’s, Aaron walked past a length of the orphanage’s ivy-encrusted brick wall. Getting rid of that ivy was on his list of jobs for this year. Bunny had offered to lend a hand and Aaron wanted to get the children involved.
Letting himself in, he made a tour of the building, as he always did first thing. It wasn’t one of his duties to do so, but he toured the place last thing before he left and immediately he arrived to ensure all was well.
From the outside, the orphanage was a severe-looking building shaped like a back-to-front capital F, with ground-floor windows set too high in the walls for anyone to see out of. Inside, it was a rambling place, with steps up into this room and down into that one, rooms that led into other rooms, and no such thing as a long corridor: there were corners everywhere. It was as if, after designing the stark exterior, the architect had got royally drunk before he made a start on the floor-plans.
Breakfast was in ful
l swing, the dining room bright with young voices as the kids tucked into their porridge followed by bread and marge. The food here was plain grub, but no one went hungry and in that respect these orphans were luckier than some of the local children who lived with their families.
‘You’re looking posh today, sir,’ piped up Mikey Layton.
In the orphanage, he was Layton One and his younger brother was Layton Two. Aaron called them Michael Layton and Jacob Layton, much to Mrs Wardle’s disgust, telling her to her face that, as caretaker, his duty was to the building, not for the care of the children and he had no intention of being hidebound by heartless Victorian rules. Mrs Wardle had marched straight to Mrs Rostron, demanding to have him sacked, but Mrs Rostron had backed him up, though afterwards she had told him privately not to push his luck.
‘It’s not Sunday, is it?’ quipped Mikey.
‘It can’t be,’ retorted Aaron, ‘or you, Michael Layton, would have washed behind your ears.’
He proceeded on his way, leaving a ripple of delight behind him. Where was the harm in having a joke with the children? But there were some adults, mentioning no names, who couldn’t tell the difference between banter and backchat.
Mikey and Jacob Layton were new here, having arrived in tragic circumstances. When their father had abandoned his responsibilities and left his wife and children, the family had resorted to doing a moonlight flit to escape the bailiffs, but the cottage in which they had taken refuge had burned to the ground and the Laytons had been lucky to escape with their lives. The fire had left them with nothing. Mrs Layton was now a live-in maid in a house in Wilton Close and the two boys had been accepted here.
In view of all that, if a spot of light-heartedness helped them feel more at home, then why not?
Michael – or Mikey, as the other kids called him – was settling in well. A sensible lad, he seemed determined to make the best of things, which was admirable, but at the same time tugged at Aaron’s heart. Mikey Layton was a schoolboy. He should be mucking about and having fun. Instead he had lost his home and his family had been scattered.
