Molly's War (7 page)

What letter? Molly wondered. Had there been a letter gone astray? For a minute she suspected Joan, but no, she wouldn’t do that. And why didn’t Harry know she was living in St Helen’s Auckland now? She had written to him, sent a Christmas present too. Molly shook her head and read on.

I don’t know when we’ll be coming back to Blighty but it can’t be long, not with the way things are over there. In the meantime, look after yourself and eat properly. You were always too thin, so don’t stint on food. And
don’t
go with any lads. You’re just a young lass, remember. And
I
know what lads are like, believe me. You’re my kid sister and I will be back soon to look after you. Think on it and be a good girl. You know Mam and Dad would expect it.

Your loving brother, Harry

P.S. I hope you like the shawl, pet. When we come home we’ll find a posh dance where you can wear it.

Molly had a grand bubbly feeling inside her. In one morning she had gone from black depression, where she’d felt completely alone and unloved, to a mood of bright optimism, which had once been her usual outlook on life but which she hadn’t felt since her dad was killed. She
carefully
folded the letter and put it back, glancing at the clock. Goodness, she only had five minutes to get back to her machine. It was amazing how fast half an hour could go. Promising herself she would save Jackson’s letter until the evening, she rushed back to the factory, completely forgetting that she’d had no dinner.

By six o’clock Molly was light-headed. The noise of the machines and the wireless still rang in her head as she crossed the road towards Adelaide Street. Calling at the grocer’s on the main road, she bought a couple of eggs. She would do herself scrambled eggs or an omelette, she thought. Her empty stomach ached almost as much as her head.

Mr Jones was in the kitchen, sitting by the oil-cloth-covered table and reading the
Evening Gazette
. Molly hesitated in the doorway.

‘Can I use the kitchen, Mr Jones?’ she asked. ‘I have to work an extra hour at the factory nowadays and I’ve just come in.’

‘Aye, go on then,’ he replied with a grudging sort of sigh. ‘I hope you’re not going to cook anything smelly?’

‘Oh, no, Mr Jones,’ said Molly, thinking regretfully of the onion lying in her cupboard which she had been going to put in an omelette. Scrambled eggs it was then.

He sat at the table, looking at her over a pair of reading glasses from Woolworth’s. ‘I’ve told you to call me Bart,’ he said mildly. Molly smiled vaguely. She couldn’t imagine calling him by his first name, not in a million
years
. And tonight, as soon as she had eaten, she would go to the newsagent’s and take the address of another house with a room to let, even if it cost ten shillings or more. She thought of the five-pound money order which Harry had sent with a warm glow of gratitude.

She whisked the eggs, cooked them in a pan on the fire, sat at the table and ate them with bread and butter rather than spend more time making toast. All the time she could feel Mr Jones’s eyes on her, though she kept hers on what she was doing. After she had washed up she escaped to her room, looked regretfully at the letter from Jackson and decided to leave it until she came back in. Feeling decidedly better with something in her stomach, she washed her face and combed her hair. This was a good day with the parcel coming and now she was going to find other lodgings, she was sure of it.

Going to her bedroom door, she realised the key was missing. She looked about on the floor, even turned back the rug, but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t outside on the landing either and it wasn’t in her bag. She couldn’t remember if she had used it to get in this evening. She racked her memory but knew she had been feeling slightly dizzy then. Everything before she had eaten was hazy.

Oh, well, she would find it eventually, she told herself. Now she had to go before it was too late. It was already seven-thirty and people didn’t like callers too late in the evening when they had settled down to listen to the wireless. Molly closed her door and hurried down the stairs.

‘Going to the pictures, are you, Molly?’

Mr Jones was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her.

‘No, just to see a friend,’ she fibbed.

‘I’ll treat you to the pictures one night, maybe on Saturday,’ he said with a benevolent air.

‘Hmmm.’ Molly couldn’t think of anything else to say. She turned smartly and went out of the door. No, you will not, she thought savagely as she walked down the street. If you think I’m going anywhere with you, you’re out of your head.

There were two addresses in the newsagent’s window. One of them in West Auckland, about half a mile away, the other in Front Street. Molly considered it worth the extra walking distance to be away from Adelaide Street and set off along Manor Road, past the ancient church and over the bridge which spanned the Gaunless river and into West Auckland. She found the house easily enough. It was in a small row of old two-storey houses with elegant Georgian fronts. There was a bell, too. She pressed it and heard it ring inside the house.

‘Answer that, Jimmy,’ a female voice called and a moment later the heavy front door opened and a boy of about seven poked his head round. He stared at Molly.

‘What do you want?’

‘Can I speak to your mam?’

He closed the door and she could hear him shouting at the top of his voice behind it.

‘Mam! Mam!’

‘Who is it, Jimmy? I’m busy with the baby, you know I am.’

‘It’s a lass.’

‘Ask her what she wants,’ the woman yelled back at him.

The door opened again. ‘What do you want?’ he asked again. ‘Mam wants to know.’

‘I’ve come about the room. Can I come in?’

The door closed for a moment again as he held a shouted conference with his mother. Then, ‘Aye. Howay in then,’ he said and Molly crossed over the high step and into a hall with a high ceiling and varnished dado rail, the floor covered with a worn carpet runner, a piece of coco-matting acting as a door mat. There was a smell of meat pudding from the back of the hall; a door which must lead to the kitchen, Molly surmised, stood beside the narrow staircase. The smell reminded her of her mother somehow. A pair of roller skates lay on their sides just inside the door and a shabby pram stood to one side of the hall.

A woman was coming down the stairs, sandy hair like the boy’s drawn back from her forehead, cheeks rosy beneath laughing blue eyes.

‘Come on in,’ she said, striding forward and holding out her hand. ‘I’m Cathy Grimes and this tearaway is Jimmy.’ Her handshake was firm, her smile friendly. ‘After the room, did you say?’

‘Yes. I’m Molly Mason. I work at the clothing factory in St Helen’s.’

The room which Cathy led her into was large and airy, with a bay window through which rays of a sinking summer sun shone, speckling the air with dancing dust motes. There was a leather suite, shabby and with sagging cushions, an ancient sideboard and corner cupboard. It had a lived-in air, unlike most of the sitting rooms Molly had known. Most mining families spent their time in the kitchen-cum-living room, the sitting room kept tidy for visits from the minister or other important personages.

‘Run along and make sure your sister’s all right,’ Cathy said to her son, reaching out a hand and tousling his hair.

‘Aw, Mam,’ he grumbled, but went all the same, and Cathy motioned Molly to a seat and perched on an armchair herself.

‘You don’t live with your family, then?’ she asked. ‘Not had a fight with your dad, have you?’

Molly’s throat constricted. ‘No. My dad’s dead, my mam an’ all.’ She coughed, put a hand to her mouth. ‘Dad was killed in the disaster at Eden Hope.’

‘Eeh, I’m that sorry! Take no notice of my big mouth, love. Look, I’ll just get us a cup of tea then we’ll have a talk and I’ll show you the room.’

‘Don’t make it just for me,’ protested Molly.

‘I’m not. Believe me, after seeing to the kids’ teas and struggling with the little ’un – he’s cutting a tooth, poor bairn – me own tongue’s hanging out.’

Molly looked around when Cathy left the room. The wallpaper was faded. In one place there were crayon marks which someone had attempted to wash off. But there were a couple of nice prints on the wall, one of High Force in Teesdale, the water tumbling over the falls in full spate. The other was an engraving of Stephenson’s Locomotion No. 1. Cathy came back in with a tea tray as Molly was studying it.

‘My man’s an engine driver,’ she volunteered. ‘He’s daft on the old engines.’ She poured tea and handed Molly a cup and saucer. ‘He’s away a lot, on the London run. That’s why I wanted a lodger, a woman for preference. Company, you know. That and the money, of course. I’d best tell you it’s ten shillings a week. We had to spend some to get it ready, you know, it’s a new bed.’

‘I can manage ten shillings. As I said, I’m in regular work. I’d like it here, I like children.’ Molly sounded too eager, she knew she did.

Cathy laughed. ‘You haven’t seen the room yet! It’s in the attic, mind. And when you’ve been pestered a bit by my lot, you might change your mind about kids. Come on, I’ll show you the room.’

There were three flights of stairs and then a shorter one to a door at the top of the house. Inside the room was large and airy, with a dormer window looking out over the green and the roofs of Post Office Square.

‘Oh, it’s fine,’ breathed Molly. It was too: a single bed with a bright patchwork coverlet, even a square of carpet
on
the floor. There was a wash stand with basin and jug, and a walnut dressing table. There was a gas fire on one wall with a meter by the side.

‘I hope you don’t mind paying for your own gas? We couldn’t afford …’

‘I’ll take it,’ interrupted Molly. ‘When can I move in?’

Chapter Seven

MOLLY WALKED BACK
to Adelaide Street in the gathering dusk, so happy she had to stop herself from skipping along. Cathy was very friendly and sympathetic; Molly had found herself telling her all about Eden Hope and her dad and Harry, away in the army in India.

‘I bet you have a boyfriend too, a pretty girl like you?’ she had said, teasing. Molly thought about Jackson. Not
really
a boyfriend, she had been too young when he went away. But still …

‘He’s in the army with Harry,’ she had replied.

Now she thought of Jackson’s letter, still unread. It was something to look forward to, she would read it in bed tonight. By, it had been a lovely, lovely day. And she was moving to Cathy’s at the end of the week, would give in her notice to Mr Jones now. It was a load lifted off her mind.

The house in Adelaide Street was dark, Mr Jones was out evidently. Well, she would tell him tomorrow. Molly let herself in and ran upstairs to her room. The door wasn’t quite closed. Had he been nosing around? She shivered,
hating
the thought of him touching her things. Closing the door after her, she put the chair under the handle. That should keep him out anyway. And in a few days she would be gone from this house forever.

In bed she opened Jackson’s letter. There wasn’t a lot in it and he had written similar things to her brother except for the last sentence.
‘We’ll be home soon, I promise you. Look after my best girl till then.’

He meant her! He had to mean her. Maybe it was just a saying but he had written she was his best girl, or that was what it meant. Molly slipped out of bed and checked the chair under the door handle. Was it strong enough? She wasn’t sure. But maybe she was worrying about nothing. She wouldn’t let it spoil this wonderful day. Putting out the light, she slipped under the covers and curled into a ball.

Today she had found a new friend, she thought drowsily. It was almost like being part of a family again. And there had been letters from the two men she loved most in the world and those lovely things from Harry. Everything was going right for her at last. The sun was shining on her, thank God. Molly slipped into sleep.

She was walking along the promenade at Roker, Mam on one side and Dad on the other. They were holding her hands. She had to reach up to them she was so small.

‘Look at that, Molly, will you just look?’ Mam cried, and she saw a small cottage all lit up around the roof, a
light
shining from the tiny window. The roof was orange and the walls white; roses climbed over the front door.

‘It’s a fairy house, Molly,’ said Mam, and she was awed and delighted for her mam read fairy stories to her every night before she went to sleep and she knew what a fairy house was. And as she gazed and gazed, a fairy flew round the front of the house, smiled directly at her and disappeared inside.

‘Howay, pet,’ said Dad. ‘We have to get on, the bus will be waiting.’ They were on a bus trip to Roker to see the illuminations. But Molly didn’t want to go. She tugged away from his hand and hung on to the railing around the little house. So he picked her up and carried her and suddenly she was frightened. It wasn’t really her dad … no, he was killed in the pit, wasn’t he? Who was holding her? Who?

She struggled to wake up and pull away, hit out at whoever it was and rolled out of bed and on to the floor. Dashing for the bedroom door, she tripped on the mat, almost fell, then blundered into something else. A chair? But she managed to keep to her feet and reached the light switch. Her hand on the door knob as the light came on, she glanced over her shoulder and there, just picking himself up from the floor, was Mr Jones, blinking in the light.

She could almost have laughed at the sight of him, his hair all awry and feet bare. He was dressed in a voluminous nightshirt. She had been going to flee out into
the
street but he looked so pathetic somehow that she stood still and gaped at him.

‘What did you do that for?’ he asked.

‘Never mind that, what are
you
doing in my room? How did you get in anyway?’ Molly looked at the chair, lying on its side. That was what she must have stumbled over. She couldn’t have put it under the knob the right way, she hadn’t even heard it fall.

‘Aw, come on, Molly, you know well what I want. A young lass like you, staying in a man’s house, just the two of us! Well, tonight’s your lucky night, I’m here to give it to you.’ He smiled, showing broken crooked teeth. ‘Howay, back to bed, it’s still a bit cold on a night. We might as well be cosy,’ he coaxed, and Molly began to laugh. She couldn’t help it. She laughed and laughed until tears streamed down her face. To think she had been nervous, not to say frightened, of this silly little man!