“’Tis the other side of the world,” she snapped sharply. “What has it to do with us? Can you think of nothing else? Is there nothing closer to home worth noticing?”
And indeed there was; for at the beginning of December came a pleasant if not altogether unexpected event – Charley announced, as happily as if no such thing had ever occurred before, that Annie had agreed to marry him. The occasion was marked by a party that went on till four o’clock in the morning, at which time Ben, standing astride the open garden gate with one foot on each gatepost and an upturned, fortunately empty, chamber pot on his head, brought the festivities to a close with a very unofficial version of ‘Rule Britannia’. Charley kissed Annie to loud applause, Nancy and Joe were seen for the first time in public to hold hands, and Harry, drawing Molly into the cold darkness of the garden, asked in mock anxiety if she thought proposals might not be catching?
She tilted her head to look at him in the darkness. “I hope not,” she said.
“Oh?” He was startled, slightly stung.
“I don’t want a share of Annie’s proposal,” she said softly. “If I’m to have one at all I’ll have one of my own, thank you.”
The shouting and singing by the front gate had died into cries of goodnight and a few last, laughing words of advice for the happy couple.
“I see.” He bent his head; his lips teased hers. “Fussy in Ireland, are we?”
“We are,” she said firmly.
A quick gust of December night-wind rustled the leaves around them, roughened their party-warmed skins. Molly shivered. He wrapped his arms about her and spoke into her hair, his voice suddenly totally sober. “I’ll make a terrible husband, you know. Terrible.” He was not joking.
From inside the house came the sound of Jack’s voice, calling Harry.
Molly smiled into Harry’s shirt. “Do you call that a proposal?”
He laughed with one of his quick swings of mood, stood her from him at arm’s length. “Oh, no. Didn’t I once tell you I’d do it in style?”
She nodded. “You did.”
“And so I shall, lass, see if I don’t.” His voice was serious again, the drink-flushed, high-boned face gleaming in starlight. “Just give me time.”
Jack was bellowing, impatient now, from the back door. “Ha – arry.” There was clearing up to be done.
“As much as you like,” said Molly softly, tempting fate beyond forbearance. “As much time as you like.”
* * *
Molly was given an unexpected treat that Saturday morning: Mr Jenkins was away on business and Mr Vassal had a niece getting married and was anxious to be away; so it was that Molly got to West Ham a couple of hours earlier than usual.
The day was cold; a gusting, swirling wind tormented the last of the fallen leaves. Molly held on to her hat as she battled around corners, her skirts plastered dangerously around her legs and ankles. Knowing that Sarah and Jack were away in Yorkshire caring for Sarah’s sister, who had been taken ill, and that Charley, inevitably, would be round at his Annie’s, she was looking forward to a quiet afternoon around the fire with Harry, Nancy and Edward. At the thought of the promised warmth and comfort she quickened her steps; as she rounded the last, gusty corner she heard her name called excitedly. She stopped, lifting her head, her blinking eyes stung by the dust-laden wind. Edward, his blond curls tossing like unseasonal buttercups in the breeze, his face alight with an excitement beyond the blustery weather, was dashing towards her. Behind him, her face a sudden picture of apprehensive dismay, was Nancy. Molly did not see her; her eyes were upon the child as he raced to her, shouting above the wind.
“Molly, Molly! Guess what!”
She caught his hands and swung him round, laughing. “What? What’s happened?”
“Edward!” Nancy’s voice, harsh and urgent, was nevertheless nearly lost in the wind. “Edward, don’t—”
“Harry’s going to join the army! With Ben. They’re going to fight the Boers—”
She released him so suddenly that he almost fell. He stumbled, righted himself, looked at her in surprise. He’d never seen anyone look so queer.
“Edward!” His sister, usually so gentle, grabbed his arm roughly and yanked him to her side. He looked from Nancy to Molly, his lip trembling.
Nancy stared at Molly, watching the white flame of rage kindle in the wide-set grey eyes as Edward’s words finally registered in a brain made unreceptive by shock. “Molly, oh, Molly, love, I’m sorry. He shouldn’t have told you like that. We weren’t expecting you. Not yet. It didn’t occur to me that we’d meet you. I should have told him not to—”
“What has he done?” The sharp question cut across her friend’s words; and Nancy knew that it did not refer to Edward.
Miserably she said, “He was out with Ben and the others last night He came back—” She stopped.
“Drunk,” Molly supplied expressionlessly, the clenched fury in her eyes the only life in a bone-white face.
Nancy’s shoulders drooped. “Well, you know how – Molly, you have to talk to him yourself. It isn’t fair on either of you that you should hear it from me.”
“Where is he?”
“At home.” Nancy jerked a head back over her shoulder.
The wind buffeted them, their skirts streamed out like dark funeral banners. Without a word Molly walked past them and away down the street towards the Benton house. Nancy watched the rigid back with pain in her eyes.
Edward, his dampened spirits recovered, swung on her hand. “Come on, Nance. You said you’d buy me a cake.”
Very quietly Molly let herself in through the back door. The frozen shock that had clutched her was loosening gradually, being replaced by a more painful burning anger; she could barely breathe as it spread through her veins, pounded in her ears. The scullery was empty, as was the living room beyond, empty and warm from the lit range, the December darkness through the small window throwing gloomy shadows around the unnaturally quiet house. She pushed open the front room door; the fire was laid, ready but unlit in the black, polished grate; the window rattled in the wind; the air was chill and slightly damp. Harry was not there.
From the room above came a stirring, the vaguest creaking movement.
She climbed the dark stairs noiselessly, pushed open the bedroom door.
He sat upon the side of the bed, his brown and honey head bowed to his hands; despite the chill he was wearing only trousers and his feet were bare. The bed was rumpled and untidy and the room smelled unpleasantly. As the door swung back against the wall he straightened, wincing, the brilliant eyes for a moment unfocussed, the face bleached of colour. He looked very sick. She slammed the door and watched him flinch.
“What’s this I hear?” Her voice was soft, ineluctably hard, “Going for a soldier, are we?”
He could not look at her. He ran long fingers through thick and tangled hair. “Who told you?”
“What does it matter who told me?”
“You must have known I might.”
“I did not.” Every quietly enunciated word dripped an acid disbelief. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
He did not reply, but rubbed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes. The buffeting wind outside was carrying rain now, hurling it against the windowpane like showers of pebbles.
He stood up, his eyes steadier, his head lifted. She felt the defending rage slip from her; she ached to touch him and was afraid that he knew it. This time it was she who turned away. She walked to the window and stared sightless at the streaming glass. She felt him come up behind her, braced herself against his hands on her shoulders.
“Molly, you have to try to understand.”
She did not turn; her voice was even and expressionless. “Understand? I understand. I understand that you and Ben Samson found a message at the bottom of a whisky glass last night I understand that the man’s a lunatic and that when you’re with him you’re no better. What’s the plan? Are the two of you going to relieve Mafeking double-
handed? For God’s sake, Harry, are you a child to get yourself talked into such a thing? Do you even know what you’re doing?” She turned to face him at last, no longer caring to hide the tears. “A soldier, Harry? You? A murdering, red-coated bastard of a soldier—?” Her voice choked in her throat.
He stepped back from her, staring, then laughed suddenly, the sound sharp and harsh. “And I thought you were worried about me.”
“I am!” She had known her mistake as she spoke, but had been powerless to stem the bitterness. “How can you doubt it? I love you, Harry, I love you; you know it I’d give my blood for you if you needed it, every drop. How can you think of throwing it all away? This war has nothing to do with us; there is no threat to us in it, win or lose. Why should you risk your life – and worse? Why?”
“Because,” he said, and it was as if every ounce of energy he possessed were in his eyes, willing her to understand, “because I can’t spend my whole life pushing about bloody stupid bits of paper and counting bags of stinking sugar. I can’t. Because there’s got to be more than this.” He gestured at the tiny room. “Ben says—”
“Ben says! Ben says?” Her voice was threaded with fury. “What the hell does Ben know about it? Do you know what soldiers do, Harry? Have you thought about it at all? They kill! That’s what soldiers are for. To kill. And not just each other, either, don’t fool yourself about that. What do you think South Africa will be like, Harry? What do you think is happening there? Rows of smart little toy soldiers marching up and down to fife and drum with brave flags flying? They are fighting across a land where people live. Do you think there is never a woman or a child who gets in the way? Never an old man who can’t move fast enough to get away from the bullets? And do those brave soldiers care, do you think? What do you think they do to Boer women who have information they need? Ask them nicely for it? Think, Harry, think! Have you seen what happens to a man with a bullet in his stomach? Has Ben? Are you ready for that?” She saw it then, through the tears; the fear in his eyes, quickly mantled; remembered his stance when she’d entered the bedroom and knew beyond doubt that he had thought of these things and was afraid. She took his hands, clinging like a child. “Please, Harry, please, please. Don’t go. Let Ben go alone if he’s so set. Don’t go, don’t leave me. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t!”
He gathered her, sobbing, into his arms, rocked her gently until the spasm of weeping had passed. In the silence the sound of the rain that was now drumming steadily on the window filled the room. As she calmed she became aware of her hot, wet face on the smooth and cool skin of his chest. She closed her aching eyes; his fingers trembled in her hair, on the nape of her neck. Though her sobs had ceased the tears still ran, sliding down her cheeks as the rain slid down the window, and she as powerless to stop them.
He drew her to the bed, sat her upon it like a child, crouched before her and held her hands, the bright lines of his face lifted to her in the gloom. “I want you to understand.”
“You don’t have to go,” she said stubbornly, sniffing. “No one can make you. You don’t have to go.”
“I promised Ben. We said we’d join together.”
“But you haven’t actually signed on yet?”
He shook his head.
“Well then.”
He bit his lip, shook his head again, indecision in his eyes. “I promised.”
She sensed a balanced irresolution, some softening of his determination; leaning forward she kissed the straight mouth, pulled him to her. Off-balance he tumbled onto the bed beside her, his lips still on hers, and suddenly his hands were on her breasts, moving across her belly, fumbling with her clothes. Her body was like wire strung taut and singing; she helped him, trembling, with the buttons of her jacket, then her blouse, baring her breasts for him, holding and caressing the honeyed hair as his strong tongue found her nipples. She was still breathing in odd, sobbing gasps. He pulled away from her and sat up, burying his face in his hands in a violent movement.
She lay still, watching him; his shoulders were bunched as if against pain.
“You’d better go,” he said, and even through the muffle of his hands she sensed the dangerous edge to his voice.
She calculated and accepted the risk; something she never later forgot. “No.”
He turned in mixed anger and pleading. “For Christ’s sake, Moll. This won’t help. You have to leave me to make up my own mind.” His eyes ran over her breasts, lifted to the pale light of her face in its frame of wild black hair. She neither moved nor spoke; her die was cast and she would stick by it. She watched the rage and frustration growing in his eyes and a small flame of fearful excitement flickered within her.
“If you won’t go,” he said at last through clenched teeth, “then I will.” He stood, towering above her, his every move a shout of anger, his face a blaze of violence.
In between one breath and another she ceased to care, ceased almost to remember what had brought her here, was aware of nothing but the aching hunger and thirst that the sight of him inflicted. Following an instinct older than anger, she moved, sliding her body further onto the bed until she lay, her arms loose above her head, her body relaxed and supplicating, her eyes, silvered with excitement and fear, fixed upon the man’s face.
Despite the cold a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin. He tried to move, tried to force himself from her, but might as well have been nailed where he stood. Still he remained obdurately standing, refusing to touch her. He caught the sharp gleam of her teeth through her parted lips, bright in the dim light. She moved slowly, languidly beneath his angry eyes; her hands lingering over her own breasts, touching lightly the raised and reddened tips; a dark sweep of lashes drifted over shining eyes. Choked by an undefeatable wave of love and fury he reached for her.
* * *
He would not lift his head, nor turn. He lay on his stomach, his forehead hard upon his crossed arms, the strong curve of his back outlined sharply in the grey light from the window. She lay on the pillows beside him and watched him quietly, wanting to touch him, to soothe the knotted tension of his muscles, knowing beyond any doubt that she could not. She was drained and aching; blank fear walled part of her mind. Yet there was a kind of happiness. No matter what he decided, no matter what he took from her now, he could not take the feel of his body, the sound of his wild voice as she had known it in the last few minutes. Part of him at least was hers.
The silence stretched on; she made no move to help him. Something within her was dully certain that she had lost.
He lifted his heavy head at last, in the shadowed eyes some look of peace. “We’ll get married,” he said quietly. “Now. Before I go. Ben’ll have to wait.”
She felt as if a hot blade twisted somewhere inside her. “No.”
He moved impatiently. “Don’t be daft, lass.”
“No. I won’t do it. Don’t ask me.”
He was staring at her now, angry disbelief growing in his face. “You don’t have any choice. You’re not trying to tell me that you don’t want to marry me?”
“You know I want nothing more. But I won’t marry a soldier. I will not.” The total and tired lack of emphasis on the words added to their force. She turned her head away. “If you go with Ben – if you wear that uniform – you’ll not see me again.”
He sat up jerkily, swung his legs to the floor. “Don’t talk such bloody rubbish.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“I do! I do! Christ, woman, can’t you understand that? We shook on it, shook hands on it. In front of the others. I gave my word—”
“I’m surprised,” she said, slithers of ice suddenly in her voice, “that you didn’t mingle blood like true brothers in adventure.”
“Bitch.” The dread was there again, unacknowledged, gnawing. What had he done? She was right, and he knew it in his soul. To kill or be killed. Why hadn’t he thought of that the night before when, in face of Ben’s gay eloquence, it had all seemed so different, so much a game? To de
feat the fear he spoke rougher than he intended. “I won’t ask twice. Stop being so bloody awkward. You’ve no choice, I tell you. We can get married in a couple of weeks. The Boers can wait that long, and so can Ben. You can stay here with Mam and the others till I come back—”
As he spoke she was dressing calmly, obstinately suppressing the trembling of her hands and body. “No,” she said again, flatly. She felt sticky and uncomfortable; empty.
“Moll, for God’s sake—” The misery in his voice stilled her for a moment, then she steadily continued dressing. He watched her helplessly. “Don’t force me to a choice—”
She did not answer, reached for her jacket. Her silence maddened him, made him tremble. “If you go through that door you don’t come back. I warn you.” He took a deep, shaking breath. “So now it’s your choice, not mine. I’ll marry you – I want to marry you – I love you for Christ’s sake—” she turned sharply from him, not to show the spasm of pain that caused “—but I won’t leave Ben in the lurch. I can’t.”
Something blazed in the space behind her eyes; perfectly calm she walked around the bed. “Don’t come near me,” she said, “in your fancy red butcher’s uniform. I’ll spit on it. I wish you joy of your killing.” And with the air between them acrid with bitterness she left him.
* * *
She had not truly believed he would let her go. Against all reason she listened for his voice calling her back, strained her ears for the sound of his running footsteps above the rain. Back in her room she huddled over her fire, too hopelessly miserable for tears, waiting for the knock that would tell her that he had come.
But the wet and endless day turned to winter’s night and there was no sign of him. Not the next day, or the next. She ate nothing, hardly slept; she snapped back at Owen Jenkins and was sharply reprimanded for it. She did not care. A week passed, then another.
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