by Polly Heron
Chapter Eight
MOLLY ALIGHTED FROM the tram into a mist of drizzle so fine it left a sheen of damp on her face. Would her bob survive intact? There needed to be only the merest sniff of rain in the air and all those clever layers put in by the hairdresser surrendered and her hair sprang out all over the place. She wanted to look her best this morning.
She drew her shoulders back as she walked into Albert Square, where the Town Hall looked older than it was, having been built when the Victorians had smothered everything in pointed arches and ornate buttresses, its grand clock-tower sweeping majestically towards the sky. It looked more like the setting for a Gothic novel than the centre of administration for the city and its suburbs.
Inside was all dark wood and tiled floors. Introducing herself at the reception counter, Molly was directed to the second floor. As she left the staircase and walked through the doors onto the landing, a corridor stretched ahead of her, most of its doors closed. Halfway along, a line of four wooden chairs stood against the wall, two of which were occupied, one by a middle-aged woman with a colossal handbag on her lap, the other by a thin man with an air of gravity, who wouldn’t have looked out of place answering the door in a stately home.
Molly walked along the corridor, conscious of her heels tap-tapping on the floor. She was wearing her good shoes, but would the cutaway bits to either side of the T-bars count against her? Gran said that cutaways, while acceptable for dancing in the evenings, looked tarty in the daytime. But the only other shoes she possessed were her work shoes, which were flat and clumpy and didn’t make her feel the way she wanted to feel today.
As she arrived alongside the chairs and the people who were presumably also here to be interviewed, a figure emerged from the room opposite – Mrs Atwood, dressed in a calf-length, olive-green dress with a sash of bottle-green buckled at her hip. The effect was well-groomed and tasteful while remaining plain enough to appear professional. Her eyes were true hazel, her hair light brown, but not mousy; rather it was a rich sepia colour. She wore it in a flattering chin-length bob, which fell smoothly, not just because it was nicely cut, but because it was the sort of obedient hair Molly would have killed for.
‘Please come in for a moment,’ said Mrs Atwood.
It was a large room – and it needed to be, with five desks in it, one at the front facing the other four, which stood in two rows of two, like a miniature classroom. Rays of May sunshine spilled through the windows, illuminating one of the desks – showing her the desk that would be hers? Don’t be daft.
‘I’m glad you applied,’ Mrs Atwood said softly before adding in a louder voice, ‘Let me tick you off the list. Now, if you’ll join Mrs Bracegirdle and Mr Stebbins in the corridor, we’re just waiting for Miss Oliver to arrive. You’ll be interviewed by Mr Taylor, who’s in charge of the local Board of Health.’
‘And by me,’ rang out another voice. ‘Kindly give out the correct information, Mrs Atwood.’
It was the posh lady from Mrs Rostron’s office. Today her glassy-eyed fox-fur bared its teeth on the shoulder of a cream wool costume of loose collarless jacket over a matching dress with a wide lacy collar that did her plump neck no favours. The tiny silk lily-of-the-valley adorning her hat quivered in indignation.
‘I beg your pardon.’ Mrs Atwood’s voice was composed, but her smile slipped. ‘I was unaware that you’d be joining Mr Taylor in the interviews.’
‘You’re aware now, so kindly inform the candidates that Mrs Wardle will interview them.’
She went to the desk at the top of the room, plucked a pen from the groove and bustled importantly from the room.
‘Perhaps I should inform Mr Taylor as well,’ Mrs Atwood murmured. She glanced at Molly. ‘You didn’t hear me say that.’
Goodness, what was going on here? Molly looked at the front desk, picturing Mrs Wardle behind it, in charge. It was all too easy to imagine Mrs Wardle very much in charge. And what of Mr Taylor?
She sat in the corridor, awaiting her interview. Another young woman arrived, was greeted by Mrs Atwood and sat down. The door beside the chairs opened and an older gentleman emerged. He had waves of white hair around the sides of his head and a closely trimmed beard over a jutting chin. Bright-blue eyes and a gentle curve to his cheeks – a kind face was Molly’s first impression; but there was a droop at the corners of his eyes and a crinkle in the line of his mouth that suggested frayed nerves.
‘Mrs Bracegirdle, please.’
He waved the first candidate into the office. Molly shifted in her seat, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable. She had a considerable wait in front of her: the curse of being at the end of the alphabet. Mrs Atwood had left the door to the big office open and Molly had a clear view of the wall-clock, its pendulum and weights hanging solemnly below the silvered dial with Roman numerals, so she knew exactly how long Mrs Bracegirdle’s interview lasted: twenty minutes. When Miss Oliver’s turn came, she was also in there for twenty minutes, as was Mr Stebbins.
At last it was Molly’s turn. She was shown into a smaller office, containing a single desk, though there were two chairs crowded behind it, one of which was occupied by Mrs Wardle.
‘Please take a seat, Miss Watson,’ the man invited her.
‘There’s no need.’ Mrs Wardle looked Molly up and down. ‘I have encountered this person on a previous occasion and I regret to say she failed to create a favourable impression.’ She flicked her hand dismissively at the same time as looking down at a sheet of paper in front of her. ‘You may depart.’
‘Mrs Wardle!’ exclaimed the man. ‘Miss Watson’s application was sound and she deserves to be interviewed.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion. And if you had permitted me to scrutinise the applications, as I wished, we needn’t be in this position now.’
‘Of course, if you have met Miss Watson before, you ought to excuse yourself from these proceedings to ensure impartiality.’
‘Certainly not.’ Mrs Wardle cast her eyes heavenwards, setting her lily-of-the-valley bobbing. ‘Oh, very well. Sit down, if you must.’
Molly sat, wiping her face clean of all expression. The man took his place behind the desk.
‘I am Mr Taylor and I’m newly in charge of the Board of Health for the area to the south of the city centre, and this lady—’
‘I am Emmeline Wardle. My extensive knowledge of the difficulties faced by, and in many cases caused by, the dregs of society, has been gleaned from years of supporting my husband in his charitable works and it will be of enormous value to the Board of Health as it takes over the responsibilities of the various Boards of Guardians. The person appointed today will be answerable to me.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Mr Taylor.
Mrs Wardle ignored him. ‘Perhaps you would like to start, Miss Watson, by explaining what you imagine a sweet shop worker has to offer.’
‘I’m used to dealing with people of all ages in a polite, pleasant manner.’
Mrs Wardle made a sound that, if she hadn’t been a lady, might have been called a snort. ‘You think that’s all there is to it?’
‘The Board of Health will have a lot of work to tackle. New ways must be found to assist those in need – more compassionate ways.’
‘Compassionate? You evidently don’t grasp the nature of the people involved, the feckless, the lazy, incompetent with money, requiring guidance in all aspects of their lives.’
Molly lifted her chin. ‘Not everyone in need is like that. I’m sure most are decent folk down on their luck; war widows, soldiers whose lungs were destroyed by mustard gas, honest people who hate to be dependent but who currently have no choice.’
Mr Taylor leaned forward. ‘You said more compassionate ways are needed.’
‘I believe so. Going to the workhouse used to be a source of terrible shame. Wouldn’t it be preferable to support people through their darkest times in their own homes, so they can maintain their daily routines and keep their self-respect intact?’
‘Sel
f-respect?’ said Mrs Wardle. ‘Gratitude and a proper humility would serve them better.’
Molly fought against a feeling of disillusionment. Was this the attitude of the Board of Health?
‘You mentioned self-respect,’ said Mr Taylor. ‘Do you see this as important?’
‘Yes, sir. I don’t mean in a big-headed way,’ Molly said quickly before Mrs Wardle could cut in. ‘I think that the proper sort of pride can bolster people through difficult times. I believe that one feature of providing assistance has always been the shame attached to it. A person in need who is treated with courtesy and understanding might be persuaded to see, not the shame, but the rightness of being helped; the rightness of the community helping them get back on their feet.’
Mrs Wardle sniffed – well, that was to be expected. As for Mr Taylor, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking, but he wouldn’t look her in the eye.
‘I see no need for further questions,’ announced Mrs Wardle. ‘Do you, Mr Taylor?’
Mr Taylor mumbled something and rose to his feet to show Molly out. ‘Thank you for attending,’ he said as he opened the door.
Molly glanced at the wall-clock in the office opposite. Her interview had lasted half as long as those of the other candidates. That said it all, didn’t it? She might as well leave. The sooner she returned to Upton’s, the sooner she could start earning some money today. Mr Upton wasn’t pleased about this interview. Well, he would be pleased enough when he heard she had fallen flat on her face.
She ran downstairs and was almost at the bottom when a voice called her.
‘Miss Watson! Wait!’ Mrs Atwood came hurrying after her. ‘Didn’t you realise you were meant to hang on? Please come back. Mr Taylor wants to speak to you.’
‘Really?’ Molly started up the stairs. ‘He barely said a word during the interview.’
‘That’s his way, I’m afraid. He’s no match for Mrs Wardle. You’d never think he’s in charge. He has to do things behind her back.’
Mr Taylor’s door was shut. Molly knocked and went in. Mr Taylor was alone. She caught a hunted look on his face before he relaxed and smiled.
‘Take a seat. I’m glad Mrs Atwood caught up with you.’
‘Did you want to ask more questions?’
‘No. You wrote a very good letter of application and acquitted yourself well in this interview. You’ve obviously considered what this position could involve. You’re – well, you’re not old fashioned in your outlook. I believe you to be the sort of person the Board of Health needs and I’d like to offer you the post.’
Surprise rippled across Molly’s skin.
‘Will you accept it?’ Mr Taylor leaned forward encouragingly.
‘Well – yes, but…’
‘Good. That’s settled.’
Behind Molly, there was a cursory knock and the door opened.
‘I’m ready to discuss the candidates, Mr Taylor,’ said Mrs Wardle. ‘What’s she doing here?’
Mr Taylor shot to his feet. ‘Ah – Mrs Wardle, ladies, would you excuse me for a minute? I just have to… Miss Watson, while I’m gone, would you care to give Mrs Wardle your good news?’
Jacob and Mikey had to set off for school before anyone else at St Anthony’s, because of walking to Stretford. To begin with, Jacob had groaned at the early start, but ever since Mikey had rescued him from that mob, he had relished the chance for the two of them to be together. Mikey was a decent sort. Why had he never seen it before? He knew the answer to that: Thad.
Walking beside Mikey along Edge Lane, Jacob tried to keep in step, but Mikey was taller and he had to lengthen his stride. Suddenly, Mikey did a quick double-step that took him unawares; then Mikey pushed Jacob’s cap forwards and ruffled his hair. Jacob made a grab for his cap before it could fall off. If Thad had done that to him, it would have been a form of bullying, but coming from Mikey, it was fun.
‘You all right, squirt?’ Mikey said ‘squirt’ in a cheerful voice, not like when Shirl said ‘Jemima’.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘No one bothering you at school?’
‘Not since you stopped them.’ Jacob lifted his chin. He was proud of his brother.
‘Everything all right at St Anthony’s?’
‘What’s this about?’ asked Jacob.
‘Just making sure you’re all right. You seem a bit worried sometimes.’
Jacob felt a chill at the back of his neck. ‘I’m fine.’
But he wasn’t. He didn’t think he would ever be fine again.
Would today be a delivery day? That was what it was called, delivering, which sounded ordinary and casual, helpful even.
And it wasn’t so bad. Yes, it was. No, it wasn’t. It was dead easy. You took a small parcel, more of a packet, really, small enough to fit in your pocket, from Stretford to Chorlton. Given that the school was in the part of Stretford closest to Chorlton, and the orphanage was at the end of Chorlton nearest to Stretford, that wasn’t far, not when you thought about it. He had been paid too, which had come as a surprise.
‘Here’s the parcel. Put it straight in your pocket,’ Shirl had instructed him the first time after that horrendous occasion after he had been knocked about and robbed. ‘Take it to Chorlton Green and sit on a bench. A bloke with a blue neckerchief will come and sit there too. He’ll have a newspaper to read. Slide the packet onto the bench in between you without looking at it. That’s all there is to it, pipsqueak. Think you can manage that? The bloke will fiddle around with the paper and a packet of fags, then he’ll go; and if he happens to leave a tanner behind on the bench, well, don’t go chasing after him to give it back.’
‘You mean…?’ Jacob had known what it meant, but what if he was wrong?
‘What d’you think I mean, pipsqueak? God, you’re thick, aren’t you? In fact, you’re worse than thick. You’re Jemima.’
Everything had happened as Shirl had said, including the appearance on the bench of the sixpence. Jacob had shuffled towards it, closing his hand over it and shifting it casually to his pocket. Sixpence! It was the first money he had had since his world went to the devil in a dog-cart. The children at St Anthony’s weren’t allowed to have money, even if they earned it like Mikey. He had to hand it over to Mrs Rostron and it would be given back to him – or to Mum – when he left.
Where could he hide his sixpence? The only place that was even vaguely private was the small cupboard beside his bed, but that was regularly inspected to make sure it was tidy. Eventually he had settled upon using a tiny crevice in the wall that ran round the orphanage grounds. The wall was smothered in ivy, but underneath that was solid brick. By squeezing his hand between the thick stems, he had discovered a crack in the brickwork that was as good a hiding place as any. Mr Abrams was going to clear the ivy, but that would take ages and, anyroad, he was going to start on Church Road and Jacob’s hidey-hole was round the corner on High Lane.
There was two and six in there now. Two and six! He had never known riches like it. Anyone who imagined he had benefited financially from being Thad Layton’s loyal follower was sadly mistaken. Whatever money they had gathered through one means or another had ended up in Thad’s pocket, apart from the odd copper, which Thad would chuck his way in an off-hand manner that was positively insulting, but which Jacob had had to pretend to take as a joke.
But now – now he had money of his own stashed away. But instead of planning what to get for himself, all he could think about was how much he wanted his mum. When she had dumped him and Mikey in the orphanage, he had hated her, but inside he had known it wasn’t her fault. It was Dad’s for scarpering and leaving his family high and dry.
Mum was a servant now, living in a smart semi-detached house, doing the cleaning and the shopping. Her big ambition was to take on the cooking an’ all. Soon after he had moved into St Anthony’s, Jacob had gone round there and banged on the back door and begged her to let him live with her. Blimey, he’d have kipped in the garden shed, if only he could be near her.
She had gone all weepy and had refused – well, she’d had to, he had known that, but it hadn’t stopped him feeling all churned up, which had somehow come out as defiance, which made Mum go all narky. He had turned to march away, only to hurtle back at top speed, chuck himself into her arms and sob his heart out. When he calmed down, Mum had taken him into the scullery to wash his face. Neither of them wanted him to return to St Anthony’s looking like a tear-stained sissy.
Now he had the chance to buy summat for Mum, and never mind the catapult and the comic he should be coveting for himself. Who would have thought that a bar of chocolate or a box of Rowntree’s Fruit Pastilles for Mum would take precedence? Only – what would Mikey say? Mum would be bound to tell him if Jacob gave her a present, and the orphans didn’t get pocket money. Mikey would ask all sorts of questions that Jacob couldn’t possibly answer.
Just like ‘You all right, squirt?’ was impossible to answer truthfully.
Would he see Shirl today? He never knew when a delivery would be required. He would be on his way home from school as normal – normal! What was normal about your stomach being so cramped with nerves that you could barely put one foot in front of the other? Would Shirl appear? Was he lurking around that corner? Behind that pillar-box? In that shop doorway?
As he headed to St Anthony’s at the end of the day, Jacob told himself over and over that maybe today wouldn’t be a delivery day. Hell’s bells and burnt toast, how had he got himself into this mess? At least it would be half-term next week and he would be safe from Shirl’s demands. Maybe Shirl would forget about him when the schools were off. Maybe he would never see Shirl again.
Oh aye, and maybe Thad had been an angel sent straight from heaven to act at all times out of the goodness of his heart.
A meaty arm swung round his shoulders. Jacob flinched, then tried his hardest to unflinch by pushing his shoulders back, but Shirl wasn’t fooled.
‘Cor, you’re a real Jemima, aren’t you?’ Shirl gave him a shake that flooded Jacob with recognition. Thad used to do things like that. A quick shake that looked like nothing to anyone watching, but if you were on the receiving end, it was a warning, a threat, a put-down. It made you feel two inches tall.
