Molly

by Molly (retail) (epub)

  Charley and Annie were talking quietly, seriously now. A name caught Molly’s attention, brought her sharply from her reverie.

  “Jake Aster? More trouble?” Her stomach had contracted painfully at the name. She still saw, in dark dreams, that graceful, threatening figure, felt the malice that sang in him for Jack.

  Charley shrugged. “Talk, that’s all. He has to, doesn’t he? It’s all over Silvertown and the docks that we took him apart and he couldn’t stop us. And the stories get wilder as they go. There’s plenty glad to see Jake done down, if only with a story. You can’t expect him to take it all lying down, can you?”

  “What’s he been saying?”

  “Oh, threats is all. And that’s how it’ll stay. There’s nothing he can do.” He looked from one solemn face to the other, wide grey eyes to green. “Don’t worry, the pair of you. Jake Aster can’t touch us.”

  Molly had never in her life been inside the dock gates; but she was not short on imagination. She saw huge warehouses, dark corners, long empty wharves, black, swelling water. “Are you sure?”

  “’Course I am. Now, come on lass, make yourself useful before you make your fortune and move up West. Pop the kettle on, eh? If I don’t get a cuppa soon I’ll be off down the pub for a beer.” He glanced slyly at Annie, but for once his volatile wife did not rise to the bait.

  “Be careful, Charley,” Molly said softly. “Be very, very careful.”

  * * *

  Molly could not decide which was worse: the hard pavements she walked, the hard chairs upon which she was kept waiting for hours on end, or the hard look in the eyes of a man who was not about to be convinced that a chit of a girl, however persuasive, knew more about running his business than he did.

  She walked her feet sore, talked her throat dry, learned to use sweet words and reason, to control her temper in the face of the most obdurate ill manners, the most flat and dismissive refusal to listen to what she had to say.

  And, at first, it seemed as if it all might be for nothing.

  She marched upon the Barking Road, Stratford Broadway, East Ham High Street, North and South. She visited small offices and large ones. She scrambled over piles of lumber, got coal-dust in her shoes, slipped and stumbled across the uncertain surface of many a stable yard. No concern was too big or too small for her attention. She was listened to, argued with, sometimes laughed at, and occasionally propositioned. She carried with her an old typewriting machine that John Marsden had lent her and which Charley fitted into a stout wooden box with a carrying handle. She swore, to Annie, that one arm was getting longer than the other. She had bad days, and very bad days. She had the occasional success. The money Sam had left her dwindled; her determination sometimes did the same; but she kept going, kept smiling, saved her tears for her chill, empty bed at night. One or two firms she visited were in fact already considering employing a typewriter and her demonstration convinced them. The first time it happened she had to restrain herself from running, singing, down the street; it felt as if God and His angels had come over to her side. Considerable interest was shown in her idea of a “pool” for smaller firms who might not wish to employ a girl full-time, though since this was something that could only be organized once the agency – which in a fit of sarcastic humour she had named “The Venture Employment Bureau” – was well on its feet, it was an interest upon which she could not immediately capitalize. Each day she left Danny with Sarah and set off like a mad prospector searching for gold, her equivalent of pick and shovel in the heavy box by her side, banging her legs uncomfortably as she walked. In the long hours she spent waiting in other people’s offices she amused herself by furnishing, in her mind, her own office… a splendid haven of deep carpets and expensive leather furniture to the door of which the world would one day beat a path.

  Such daydreams served at least to soften harsh reality. She spoke of them, laughingly, to Sarah and Nancy one night and was delighted to discover that Nancy, whose slow recovery from her ordeal had been almost as agonizing to those who watched it as for her who experienced it, was interested in, even enthusiastic about the Venture project. On the day that Nancy asked if she might be allowed to help with the agency work Molly, aware of the happiness in Sarah’s face, assured her that her assistance would be most welcome. It was the first time that Nancy had shown any interest in anything, and it seemed to indicate another step in her recovery. Only the bitterness deep in her eyes did not change.

  As the weeks slipped by and those first, drudging days of effort began at last to pay dividends, Molly’s hopes began to appear a little less pretentious. As word of her activities spread, people did start coming to her. By late spring she knew that in the Venture Employment Agency she had a service for which the demand was only just beginning, and with the groundwork done she was ready to advertise. But she could not, she knew, do that while she was still working from Annie’s kitchen table. One bright spring day, therefore, she visited John Marsden, dressed to kill, armed and ready for the battle she was certain was about to be joined.

  “I need a room,” she said flatly. “An office.”

  There was a short silence. In two years John Marsden had changed not a whit; he was cantankerous as ever, still looked permanently as if he had lost a shilling and found sixpence. He glowered from beneath craggy brows.

  “Do you indeed?”

  “I do. And if were to be – partners—” she said, emphasizing the word, “in the Venture Employment Bureau then I think it’s time you put four walls and a ceiling in it, to match my worn out feet and laryngitis. Seems only fair to me.”

  John Marsden leaned forward, unsmiling. “And to me. Congratulations, girl. I never thought you’d do it.”

  Molly felt as if someone had pulled the chair from beneath her. The man’s lips, under his grizzled moustaches, twitched. He reached into a drawer in his desk and tossed her an envelope.

  “Here.”

  “What is it?”

  He turned his eyes to heaven in quick exasperation. “And she calls herself a businesswoman! Your commission, girl, your commission. Working for nothing, are you? We’ve had so many firm offers I’ll be running out of girls.”

  “Well put that in the advertisement!” Molly exclaimed. “Let me think… ‘Qualified Lady Typewriters’ – no – ‘Qualified and Efficient Lady Typewriters Urgently Needed for – for Reputable Employment Agency’. How does that sound?”

  He nodded.

  She jumped to her feet.

  She had done it. On her own. Her own simple, commonsense idea, her own efforts. The work was hard and carried with it in the beginning quite as much disappointment as success, and the rewards were small. But nothing could daunt her now; she was ready to work herself to a shadow to make a success of the agency. Above all she was happy; happier, she sometimes thought, than she had ever been before in her life, even with Harry. And shivered as she thought it, wondering if she were tempting the gods.

  “And where do you think you’re off to in such a hurry?”

  “To the offices of the Stratford Express.”

  “Not so fast, not so fast.” He stood up, grumbled his way out from behind the desk. “Don’t you want to see your own office first? It’s been ready for a week.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Charley Benton straightened his back painfully. The day had been hot, the evening was sticky; his shirt lay where he had flung it earlier across a barrel, one of a stack alongside a warehouse wall. He reached for the garment and struggled into it, sweat and dirt making the operation both difficult and uncomfortable.

  “Christ, I’ll be glad to get home tonight. Anyone seen Jack?”

  “Saw ’im earlier on, down on number two. They’re loadin’ the South American – the Carlotta.” His companion swung a dirty jacket over one shoulder. “Comin’ fer a pint before the off?”

  Charley shook his head, not without regret. “Sorry, Ted. I promised Annie I’d give our Jack a message for Mam. She’ll skin me if I don’t do it.�
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  The other man chuckled. “That’s what I like to see. A man boss in ’is own ’ome.”

  “Garn!” A third man, who had been sitting on the ground, his back to a barrel, his legs stretched out before him as he made the most of a few minutes’ rest in the sun after a hard day, scrambled tiredly to his feet and slapped Charley good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Take no notice, Charley. ’E’s jealous, is all. ’E’d give ’is eye teeth to be ordered about by your Annie!”

  Another small group of men – stevedores from Jack’s gang – trooped together along the quayside, their heavy boots clattering on the wood. The sun, though low, still shone benignly, gilding the rippling water with gold, warming metal and stone, drawing into the air the smell of tar and of oil; the strong tang of cinnamon lifted from the bales stacked further along the waterfront.

  “Evenin’, Ted. Charley.”

  “How’s things, Charley boy?”

  “Fine thanks, just fine. Seen Jack, have you?”

  “You’ve missed ’im again, mate. ’E’s gone back to the Carlotta lookin’ fer you. You must have missed each other somewhere along the way.” He made to move on.

  Charley caught his arm. “Looking for me? On the Carlotta?”

  The man turned a sweat-streaked dirty face. “Yeah. You. You’re ’is brother, ain’t you?”

  “Aye, but—”

  The man shook his arm free and moved on, calling over his shoulder. “Me an Jack ’ad to see one of the officers earlier on, about the stowing – dangerous cargo and all. When we was coming back a kid stopped Jack and said as ow ’is brother Charley’d been lookin’ for ’im all over, an’ ’e’d see ’im back on the ship. So Jack went off. That’s all I know—” His voice echoed hollowly in the empty, pillared space of the warehouse.

  Charley watched the retreating backs with a frown, then turned and walked on out of the dim, shadowed building and once more into the bright, sea-smelling air. His footsteps bounced back from the high walls that edged the landward side of the wharf. They were faster now, a little urgent.

  He had sent no message to Jack.

  The Carlotta was berthed at an isolated point at the far end of the docks, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. Charley was almost running when he reached her. He took the steeply sloping gangway at some speed, his long, experienced stride taking in a dozen wide wooden slats at a time. On the deck he stopped, his sun-bleached head lifted.

  There could be no mistaking it; pungent, acrid, the faint smell of smoke.

  The wide space of the deck was empty, the working gear cleared and tidily stacked, ropes coiled, the paraphernalia of a seagoing vessel neatly stowed. The Carlotta had two great hatches, one closed and well-battened down; the other, the one they were loading, was open, chains and ropes running down through it from the enormous crane that overhung the ship’s decks from the quayside.

  It was from this open hatch that faint, living tendrils of smoke drifted and coiled into the clear evening air.

  “Jack?”

  No reply; no movement but the slight lift and fall of the deck beneath his feet. The fragile ribbons puffed and drifted, almost invisible. He should raise the alarm now, without delay. But Jack. Where in hell’s name was Jack? He ran to the unguarded edge of the hatch and peered into the dimness of the enormous hold. It was a cavern of shapes and shadows; the smell of smoke drifted strongly to him, but he could see no flame, and neither, yet, was the smoke very thick.

  “Jack? Jack, lad, are you there?”

  He heard the faint footfall behind him a fraction of a second before Jake Aster slammed hard into his back. But that split second was enough. Before the man hit him he had half-turned, stepped a little to the side, and the murderous intention of his attacker, to knock him over the edge and into the smoking hold, was at least partially frustrated.

  The knife Aster held spun noisily across the deck. The two men stared at each other, breathing heavily. “I got one of you bastards,” Jake said quietly. “Now I’m going to get me the other—”

  From somewhere below came a faint cry: Jack’s voice, Charley was certain. With a roar he launched himself upon Aster. Taken by surprise the slighter man could not withstand the violence of the charge. He teetered for a moment on the edge of the hatch, hugging his assailant to him, trying to retain his balance. With an immense effort Charley broke his grip, and with a cry Aster toppled helplessly backwards into a darkness that now rolled with dense smoke. But in falling he unbalanced Charley; the big man staggered and slipped over the edge, landing on hands and knees on the flat of one of the packing cases. Pain shot up his left shin, taking his breath, jolting his stomach unpleasantly. A billow of turgid smoke rolled over him and he choked, cursing. Somewhere in the far reaches of the darkness around him a tiny, angry flicker of light flared and died and flared again.

  He scrambled to his feet.

  “Jack? Jack!”

  A slight answering sound, a smothered, choking cough. Charley dragged his neckerchief from his throat and tied it around his nose and mouth, then balanced himself for a moment before he jumped into the narrow alley that led between the huge cases. His shin jolted again. There was, so far as he could see, no sign of Jake Aster.

  “Jack, where are you?” He had to lift the protecting cloth from his mouth to shout; the acrid taste of smoke was on his tongue, in his throat.

  He strained his ears; faintly he heard it “Here. Port side.” Pain-filled, short-breathed words, not so very far away. Charley blundered through the veiled dark. The fire had been set in more than one spot; glimmers and flashes lit the gloom, dancing shadows appeared above him, leaping like demons on the underside of the deck above.

  He found his brother at the end of the gangway formed by stacked lumber on one side and rows of crates on the other. He had pulled himself painfully upright; in the faint glow of the fire one whole side of his face looked to be an open, bloody wound. When Charley, too stunned even to curse, held out a hand to help him, Jack flinched away.

  “Chest—” he gasped. “Broken ribs – I think. – Get out, Charley. – Get out. – Explosives.”

  Not far from them fire cracked, something slipped and flared.

  Charley’s eyes were streaming, the air scorched his throat and lungs as he breathed.

  “Back to the hatch,” he said, coughing, “I’ll haul you up.”

  Jack shook his head; he was almost doubled up, only the stacked timber prevented him from falling. “Can’t.”

  “Bloody can.” With his teeth clamped into his own lip at the revulsed shudder of agony that went through his brother’s body as he did it, Charley bent, pulled Jack forward and over his shoulder and stood in one movement. Jack’s body gave one outraged convulsion and went limp, his arms swinging. With sweat rolling down his face, stinging his eyes, plastering his hair to his smoke-grimed skin Charley staggered towards the promise of the open hatch.

  It wasn’t far. Above him, dangling through the hatch, was the loading gear; chains, cables, ropes. And on one side the thing Charley had most hoped to find; a long rope, hanging free and running independently through a pulley just above the level of the deck.

  He lowered his burden; Jack doubled up, coughing excruciatingly. Not so very far away something moved; slithered, like a wounded animal.

  Charley wrenched a piece of planking from a crate, tied it with a few swift, skilful movements to the end of the rope; tied directly around Jack’s body it would crush his already damaged chest.

  “Explosives,” Jack wheezed. “Get out, Charley.”

  “Not without you. Get your arse off that deck and on to this.” Charley coughed viciously. “Hurry!”

  Jack pulled himself upright, clung to the thick rope.

  “That’s the ticket. When you get to the top just hang on. I can – follow – up the chain – pull you over the top—” It was becoming impossible to breathe.

  In the distance, at last, an alarm bell rang.

  With all his strength Charley began to heave on the e
nd of the rope. Painfully slowly Jack lifted, rising through the smoke towards the blessed patch of blue sky above. Behind him, twisted into the fire sounds, Charley heard a wheezing, anguished blasphemy.

  The makeshift swing spun as it rose, slowly one way, then the other. Jack slipped a little, grabbed for the rope: the shock ran into Charley’s fingers.

  Then at last the strain on his arms was released. Jack had pulled himself onto the side of the hatch; he lay now exhausted, half-in-half-out of the hole, his legs dangling in smoke.

  Charley let go of the rope and jumped for the thick chain that dropped into the hold from the wharfside machinery. With the heavy links under his hands he turned at last and looked at the man who was dragging himself to his feet just yards away. Jake Aster’s body was twisted, his face a scream of hatred and pain.

  Charley started up the chain. A moment later he was in the relatively clear air, swinging across the gap, dropping to his knees on the warming deck and dragging Jack up and away from the hole, which looked as if it led down to hell. He half carried his brother to the rail, away from the smoke that billowed from the hatch. Along the quayside men ran, shouting and waving their arms. A clatter of hooves, and a fire engine swayed around the corner. Charley propped Jack over the rail, grabbed a rope and turned to go back.

  “Charley! No!”

  “I’m not going back down there. But he’s just under the hatch. I can’t leave him there, Jack. I can’t. If he can manage I’ll try to pull him out.”