Within moments of entering his office Molly’s preconceived notions of Mr Jenkins had been confirmed. Owen Jenkins did not simply have his doubts about young ladies working, he positively and obdurately disliked them. The office manager was a tall, thin-faced, austerely handsome man with a hard, narrow mouth and disappointed eyes. His person, like his office, was immaculately tidy, his voice light and almost toneless. Before his uncompromising and unfriendly gaze Molly felt herself shrivel like paper consumed by a flame. In the corner of the room were a small table and a chair, and on the table a typewriting machine and several sheets of paper. With teeth clenched so nervously that they ached from the pressure she settled herself to the test.
She need not have worried; despite Mr Jenkins’ thinly veiled disapprobation she passed, and she knew it, with flying colours; he could not fault her. He examined her work with an eagle eye, spoke in his fast, expressionless voice and then catechized her sharply upon what he had said, invited her opinion on several matters and then dismissed what she said with unsmiling dispatch. She held her nerves and her temper in check, spoke quietly and courteously, refrained, though she was never afterwards sure how, from throwing the inkpot at him. When she, battered but far from broken, finally emerged from the battlefield into the mushroom corridor she knew she had not let John Marsden down, and the thought gave her pleasure; though not as much pleasure as the discovery that she was not actually to work for Mr Jenkins but in one of the outer offices with a senior clerk, Mr Vassal, whose main attitude to Molly seemed at first one of mild confusion, but whose quiet and kindly nature was some antidote to the abrasive Mr Jenkins. She spent the afternoon learning her tasks and responsibilities, trying to remember names and faces. By the end of the day she was exhausted but not at all unhappy, her head like a child’s kaleidoscope of shifting patterns and impressions. As she donned her coat to leave, a group of young clerks passed the open door of the office, among them the lad who had taken her to Mr Jenkins. He smiled as he caught sight of her and lifted a cheery hand. “G’night. See you tomorrow.”
She nodded. “Good night.”
She belonged. Mr Jenkins or no, she belonged.
She went to sleep on the train and nearly missed her station.
* * *
By the end of the week she had made absolutely certain that not even Mr Owen Jenkins could give any good reason for refusing to employ her, and on Friday afternoon she was summoned into his office to hear her fate.
With hands not quite steady she brushed down her skirt, rubbed at but could not erase the inkstain on her finger, received a vague but kindly smile from “her” Mr Vassal, and went. Fifteen minutes later, after an interview in which Mr Jenkins left no doubt in either of their minds that he was certain that, sooner or later, his poor opinion of women in general was bound to be confirmed in her even though she had managed to avoid it so far, she emerged with the security of a permanent position with Josiah Richmond and Co. and a conviction that Mr Owen Jenkins was quite the most exasperating and unpleasant man she had ever come across. His inference that her continued employment with the company was due as much to John Marsden’s influence with its founder as to her own abilities did nothing to temper this feeling. However, for the moment at least, her predominant emotion was one of triumphant happiness. She had surmounted the first hurdle.
Later that afternoon she received her wages. Twelve and six. As good as a fortune. Last night she had had sixpence ha’penny left in her purse…
In the weeks that followed Molly worked hard and settled happily at Richmond and Co., despite Mr Jenkins and his iron-bound regime. Although the lack of anyone of her own sex in the office precluded any close friendship, she was on pleasant terms with most of her fellow workers. She particularly liked old Mr Vassal, liked him and pitied him, for his bumbling and sometimes downright incompetent ways earned him no favour from Owen Jenkins, whose contempt would not always be confined to the privacy of Mr Vassal’s own office. Molly took more and more upon herself; sometimes she wondered a little grimly if she were not doing more than Mr Vassal, but she did not truly mind. All of her efforts were made worthwhile by her growing feeling of independence; each Friday evening she laid the money for her rent on Ellen Alden’s kitchen table, and never without a wave of pride. She was saving, too; not much, but saving nevertheless. She was not herself certain why she scraped and saved in order to add a few coins each week to the growing pile that she kept in an Oxo tin at the bottom of her wardrobe; but when her shoes finally fell to pieces on her feet and she had to dip into the red tin to buy new ones she was furious and lived on scraps for a week, determined, penny by penny, to replace it.
The month of December was tediously wet and foggy. Sam’s cough was racking; she noticed that he was often at home. They had seen little of each other since that awkward evening they had spent together, and such contact as was made was usually with Ellen present or, as before, on landing, hall or stairs.
Ellen’s attitude to Molly was pleasant enough. If the girl paid her rent, kept herself to herself, was clean and tidy, there was no particular reason why she should not stay. If the unfortunate, gypsy hair and the pale oval of her face were a little too extravagantly inviting of attention it was hardly the girl’s fault, any more than a hare lip or a club foot might have been. She did not, as Ellen had first feared, flaunt herself; on the contrary, as she worked longer and longer hours the eyes grew more tired-looking, the face thinner, that sudden, flashing smile was less in evidence and the pearly glow of skin faded a little.
As Christmas approached and the dark cold nights grew longer Molly discovered books again. She borrowed them mostly from Sam who was delighted to oblige – or bought them second hand from a stall in Liverpool Street, and devoured them night after night and all day Sunday. She hated the empty thought of the coming festive season so, typically, she absolutely ignored it, burying the thought in her fantasy world of books, telling herself that she had all that she needed there. Sam introduced her to the local lending library, where for a ha’penny she could borrow any book she liked. She was delighted, and so was he, for even his mother could not object to an occasional excursion to the library, and although their conversation on these occasions was almost entirely on the impersonal subject of books, it was better than nothing; at least he could watch the animated face as she talked, laugh when she laughed.
Christmas crept inexorably closer; it would not be ignored, though Molly obstinately did her best. One Saturday afternoon she arrived home to find Ellen and Sam preparing to go on a Christmas outing – they were taking the tram to Stratford Broadway to look at the decorations and shops, to visit the Christmas bazaars – and Ellen, softened by the season and encouraged with unusual subtlety by Sam, suggested that Molly might like to accompany them.
There was nothing in the world that Molly wanted to do less. She had been working all morning, had come in tired and cold and with a novel she had bought for a penny from the secondhand stall outside the station. It was wet outside, and almost freezing.
“I—” She hesitated, aware of clear pleading in Sam’s eyes, of dawning displeasure in his mother’s. “Thank you,” she said, “I’d love to come. If you’ll just give me a minute to change my jacket. This one’s wet—”
Cursing herself she ran to her room. As she took the dry jacket from the wardrobe she stopped for a moment to look sadly at the forget-me-not silk shirt and beautifully cut satin-trimmed skirt that hung beside it. What had possessed her to buy such things? They had never been worn. Nor, she reflected sourly, were they ever likely to be – in no good temper she slammed the door shut, watched herself in the mirror as she struggled into the jacket.
Damn Stratford Broadway in the rain! Damn Sam and his wretched mother! Damn Christmas!
She stopped, staring at herself, one arm awkwardly half-in a sleeve. Christmas. What was she going to do? Midnight Mass. Irish voices lifted in golden song, her father’s soaring exultantly above all until she thought she would burst with pain and pr
ide. Christmas dinner; always Christmas dinner, no matter how hard the times. Since that evening in the kitchen with Sam her homesickness had been buried, defeated by hard work and by her own refusal to take note of its existence. But Christmas…! Sam and his mother were going to Uncle Thomas, everyone in the office had been talking of their Christmas plans almost ever since she had joined them. Everyone with somewhere to go; everyone but her. What would she do?
She shoved her arm roughly into the sleeve. “Sleep!” she said savagely to her reflection. “That’s what you’ll do, my girl. Sleep!” and the thought of a day’s undisturbed rest almost cheered her.
* * *
Stratford Broadway, even in the drizzle, was a sight for sore eyes; against her expectations Molly was both impressed and delighted. They wandered along pavements thronged with crowds of happy Christmas shoppers, cheerful even in the rain. The shop windows were an enchantment, the magical essence of Christmas, candled and cribbed, dressed with greenstuff, smooth laurel and sharp holly. In one window a great cathedral cake, a miracle of spun sugar and snowy icing, drew an awestruck crowd. “Ooh, they won’t eat it, will they?” asked one youngster unbelievingly. Even further down the wide street came the sound of carols, enthusiastically played by a brass band; people sang as they walked, a girl in Salvation Army uniform shyly held out a collection box. Sam put his hand in his pocket and with obvious pleasure, beneath his mother’s approving smile, dropped a penny in the box.
“A very happy Christmas to you, Sir, Ladies. And God bless you.”
He ducked his head, pleased, his eyes sliding to Molly’s face. “Are you glad you came now?” She hadn’t fooled him.
There was no need to ask. It was impossible not to be affected by the atmosphere. Molly’s despondency had slipped from her; her wide eyes were shining with the reflection of the rain-reflecting Christmas lights, her face glowed like a child’s. Sam, as he had on the night of the hurdy-gurdy man, experienced a dangerous urge to reach for her hand; he moved around to the other side of his mother and took her arm.
They strolled down the Broadway, deafened by the rattling trams, smiling at the horse-drawn vehicles, ordinary carts dressed to carnival in festive decorations. They bought hot chestnuts and Sam and Molly laughed like children as they jumped them from hand to hand trying to peel them.
It was as they crossed the road by the station that in the midst of laughter Molly saw a pair of sad, young-old eyes, rat’s tail hair, a thin, grimy face. The little girl, inadequately clothed and with boots on her stockingless feet two sizes too large that made Molly wince to see them, was carrying a tray of odds and ends, calling inaudibly against the noisy crowds. Pushed and buffeted she was ignored by most passers-by, except as a nuisance to be avoided or cursed. Molly took out her purse. Ellen looked at her with dark, astonished eyes.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Here—” Molly beckoned to the child, holding out two pennies. The enormous, hunger-drawn eyes fixed upon the money. “I’ll take—” she searched among the worthless oddments, “—this.” She held up an absurdly ugly statuette, a plaster thing, chipped and badly painted, of a small boy and a dog. “Is this enough?” she said, holding out the twopence. The damp, dirty head moved in affirmation. She dropped the coins on the tray and straightened to find Ellen and Sam looking at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.
“And what,” asked Sam’s mother in a tone of immutable disbelief, “do you intend to do with that?”
Molly felt a nerveless, uncontrolled happiness rising. Oh, it had been so very long since she had felt so. “I intend,” she said very seriously, “to give it to Sam for Christmas,” and solemnly she held it out to him. For a nonplussed second he was caught between her apparent sincerity in offering the awful thing and the expression of outraged disbelief on his mother s face. Then he caught the smouldering light of mischief in her eyes and a grin wide enough to split his cheekbones spread across his face.
“And I,” he said, managing in the middle of a crowded pavement an extraordinarily adventurous imitation of a bow, “would be pleased to accept it.”
Their sudden laughter rang so loud that passers-by turned, smiling.
“Sam! Miss O’Dowd, please—” but the occasion and the atmosphere even overcame Ellen Alden’s sober nature and she could not but smile with them. It was that smile which tempted Sam to his mistake.
“Oh, Mother, wouldn’t it be nice – I mean, couldn’t Miss O’Dowd come to Uncle’s with us for Christmas. It doesn’t seem right to leave her on her own—”
Molly flinched, her laughter frozen hard upon her lips. Ellen Alden’s laughter might never have been; suddenly still, she regarded her son with suspicious and forbidding eyes. Molly turned sharply away to study, unseeing, a decorated window. Sam’s mother watched the colour lifting in the delicate profile, had a sudden vision of her niece’s blurred and unbecoming features.
“No,” she said in a tone which defied argument. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible, as you should know. Your Aunt Maude has quite enough to do.”
“But—”
Ellen held up a stony hand. “I’m sorry, Sam.” She inclined her head to Molly. “Miss O’Dowd, it isn’t possible.” Her voice was icy.
“’Tis no matter.” Molly broke in before Sam could protest, making a miserable situation worse. “Truly, ’tis no matter.” She was unaware that her accent had become more pronounced. “We never made much of Christmas at home.”
The pleasure had gone from the afternoon; the crowds jostled and pushed, the lights were suddenly tawdry in the rain, and though Sam, stubbornly clinging to the ridiculous statuette that Molly had given him, tried once or twice to start a conversation, they were all too quiet on their way home. And more than once Molly caught Ellen Alden’s thoughtful eyes moving from herself to Sam, alive with vague suspicion.
* * *
On the day before Christmas, in honour of the season, the staff of Richmond and Co. were told they were to be given a whole hour off; the office was to be closed at five o’clock. An atmosphere of raggedly suppressed excitement built all day, an atmosphere in which Molly felt she had very little share. She smiled and returned seasonal good wishes pleasantly enough, but her heart was not in it. When the hour to leave had arrived she quietly cleared her desk, smilingly wished everyone a happy Christmas and walked with heavy heart into the dreary wet night.
* * *
Number twenty-six was empty when she at last reached it, having fought her way through merry crowds of last-minute shoppers and early-start revellers to get there, empty and cold and utterly devoid of life. Nothing of Christmas here; she scowled and told herself defiantly that she did not care. She lit the ready-laid fire, piling on the coal until the bright and comforting flames leapt in the chimney, sheaves of sparks flying into the darkness. It was not until then that she noticed, lying on the table, a clumsily-wrapped parcel with a sprig of holly tucked awkwardly into its folds. Sam. His the forethought that had laid the fire ready for a match, his the almost endearingly inept touch in the inefficiently wrapped parcel. She picked up the package, and the paper fell away to reveal a book, brand new and smelling tangily of leather. She held it to the light and smiled; the only book that could truly have cheered her, the book that she remembered from clandestine happy lessons with Mary Livingstone, the book she had mentioned just once in passing to Sam as being the book she loved most, and had laughed as she’d said it, thinking to make light of a silly passion for a children’s book, expecting scorn. But Sam’s inner ear, sensitive to every tone of her voice, had recognized the truth, and here in her hand was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, a beautiful edition bound in dark blue leather with tooled, gold lettering on the cover and heavy, shiny pages that crackled as she turned them, their golden edges glittering in the moving firelight The pictures were protected by leaves of fine tissue which rustled beneath her fingers; serious, straight-haired Alice followed the white rabbit, spoke solemnly to the Mock Turtle, stamped he
r foot at the pack of cards. It was the loveliest book that Molly had ever seen. She took her present to the fireside, settled herself into the chair, opened the book.
“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank…”
Her Christmas was saved.
Chapter Nine
The last New Year of the century came in on a blast of brutally cold weather; the water froze in the pipes, the bleak, black-iced mornings made it hard to creep from bed, the sharp wind cut cruelly through clothes that were never intended to withstand such Arctic temperatures. Halfway through January Molly developed a cough that almost rivalled Sam’s; the man in the chemist’s shop tutted in a fatherly way and gave her some linctus, which she took when she remembered it, which wasn’t very often. There was, she could not help noticing, some considerable strain between Sam and his mother; it appeared that over Christmas something had happened that had not pleased Ellen Alden, although Molly had no inkling as to what it might have been. She sensed, however, that Sam was avoiding her, guessed that he was under some duress from his strong-willed parent and made no move that might make his – or her own – life more difficult. She managed gracefully to thank him for his present at a time when Ellen was out of earshot, and detected the gratitude in his eyes for the thought. The previous, slight softening of Ellen’s attitude towards Molly was gone; there were now no extra cups of tea, no friendly pieces of cake, and Ellen and Sam had almost always finished their meal and pointedly moved into their sitting room by the time Molly came in at night.
As January drew to a close her cough grew steadily worse and the cold weather showed no sign of a break. It snowed; not the soft and pretty flakes of fantasy but nasty, stinging, wind-blown particles of ice that flayed the face and caused one to slip on the hardened ground. Molly began to experience little, stabbing pains in her chest when she hurried or got out of breath, and the cold seemed to make her permanently tired. For two nights running she had not had the energy to shop for food and again she plodded miserably home, climbed thankfully into bed without eating and slept through an uneasy, dream-filled night to awaken next day with a foul mouth and a head that splintered each time she coughed or set foot to the ground. She paid another visit to the chemist, was given powders for her headache and trudged to work. On the fourth day she lifted a head that felt as if it were filled with molten wax to find Mr Vassal’s eyes fixed worriedly upon her.
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