Molly

by Molly (retail) (epub)

  She ran down the short flight of steps behind the other two, heard Dolly’s voice behind them, sharp and vicious, presumably to the older woman. “One word out of you, one word, and I’ll ’ave yer eyes.”

  The storeroom was little more than a cupboard, and the door did not shut properly. They squeezed in, stood with pounding hearts listening to the approach of footsteps on the creaking stairs.

  “Isn’t this a bit silly?” whispered Nancy.

  Ellie shook her head grimly. “Not from what I’ve heard of Bernie Anderson it isn’t. Sssh!”

  The steps came nearer. Molly tried not to think about the wide-shouldered, striding figure she had seen from the window. It couldn’t have been. There must be thousands of big, dark men in this part of the East End. Yet she trembled, strained her ears as men’s voices came very close.

  “Yer drive an ’ard bargain, I’ll say that fer yer.” A cracked and wheezing voice, short of breath, making heavy weather of the stairs.

  “The only kind.” The words were easy, quiet. And familiar? Was the voice familiar?

  Their footsteps passed the storeroom door, went on up the steps to the room above.

  “’Ello, girls. Workin’ ’ard? That’s the ticket, that’s the ticket—”

  Finger to lips Ellie led the way onto the dark landing and the three girls fled down the stairs to the street.

  * * *

  She faced him in fury, the shock and the fear still sick in her.

  “How could you? Adam, how could you? Why didn’t you tell me when we were talking about it?”

  “Molly, you’re being totally unreasonable. I run a business. I leave others to run theirs.”

  “A business! You make it sound like a respectable tailor’s shop! Have you got any idea what those places are like? Have you?”

  He shrugged. His mouth was a harsh and angry line. “Of course not. Why should I have? I wouldn’t get within five miles of them. And neither should you. You’re being quite ridiculously emotional about the whole thing.” Adam stood up, the movement abrupt. “Why the hell did you go if you couldn’t take it? You can’t tell me that you didn’t know what it would be like? Nor that you were naive enough to believe that a firm like ours didn’t use sweated labour?”

  “Women, little children, working for ha’pennies. Living in squalor. Starving. Bullied by brutes who exploit their weakness so that you and I can make a handsome profit.” She did not know if it had been Johnny Cribben who had passed so close to her on the stairs. The mere possibility was enough. “Adam, how could you use them so?”

  “Me? You make it sound as if I personally stand over them with a whip! Have you gone crazy or something? You’ve lost all sense of proportion—” He was really angry now. They faced each other, blazing, ready to hurt. “I buy and I sell. Full stop. Where the stuff comes from, how it’s made – that isn’t my problem. If people are stupid enough to let others exploit them, then I’m not crying for them. We’re all exploited, make no mistake about that. But some of us have the guts and the intelligence to do something about it. I’m not in business as a charity, for God’s sake! If you’re going to turn into a Joan of Arc at this stage then you can take your banners elsewhere. You won’t convert me. I work, and I work damned hard. I’m in business to—”

  “—make a profit,” she finished for him contemptuously.

  “Damned right. Who are you to shout? Your money’s in it too, isn’t it? You didn’t enquire too closely when I doubled your investment in a year—”

  She stared at him. “My money? Danny’s? Invested in that despicable business?”

  He said nothing.

  She made a short, bitter sound, almost laughter. “I might have known it. That money. Ellen’s godforsaken money. What good can come out of it?” She picked up her gloves. “I want every penny of it back. No profit. Just the original investment.”

  “As you wish.” His voice was the crackle of ice.

  “I want any profit that has been made given to Ellie Boston to help those women.”

  “That you will have to do yourself. I’ll have no part of it.” He might have been speaking to a stranger.

  “Very well.” She walked to the door.

  “Molly,” he said, very quiet and very cold.

  She stopped.

  “Don’t ever try to interfere with my business life again.”

  She reached the door, opened it. “Adam,” she said with fierce clarity, “I promise that I will never interfere with any part of your life again. Ever.” And she shut the door, quiet and sharp, on his disbelieving face.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The following months saw, thanks to Molly’s efforts, growing success for the Venture Employment Agency, even at a time of growing industrial problems for the country as a whole and of rapidly increasing and chronic unemployment. She channelled every ounce of her energy into the agency, determined in these difficult times not to see it fail. But even she, preoccupied as she was, could not ignore the growing tension around her.

  Month by month during 1909 the political temperature of the country rose feverishly as the Liberal Government under its new leader Herbert Henry Asquith battled through its programme of social reform, fighting both Lords and Commons, facing bitter and acrimonious opposition from those with the most practical power in the land: that small percentage of people who controlled the vast bulk of the nation’s wealth, and who were not prepared to see the price of the reforms come from their pockets, no matter how well-lined. At the Treasury, David Lloyd George tried to push through his so-called “People’s Budget”. Old age pensions had been introduced for the first day of the new year – five shillings a week for people over seventy years of age. It meant security in old age, independence for many who had lived in the shadow of starvation and destitution. But the scheme had to be financed. The government set about the task of convincing the Lords that reform was inestimably preferable to revolution. Labour Exchanges were planned in an attempt to alleviate the ever-increasing employment problem, but as the dole queues lengthened, bitterness seeped through idle hours and the mass of the working people were stirring.

  Nancy was jubilant when, later in the year, the Trade Board Act established boards with powers to fix minimum wages for workers in many sweated industries. At political meetings up and down the country the old order and those who were attempting to challenge it clashed, sometimes violently. And, obstinately in the thick of the disturbances, often at the heart of them, were the suffragettes. Because of their success in disrupting political meetings women were banned from attending them; they therefore resorted to subterfuge and disguise, to any ruse that might lead to their voices being heard. They hid overnight in halls that had been hired for political meetings, and interrupted the proceedings from cupboards, from lavatories, from beneath the boards of the stage, denouncing Asquith, their sworn enemy, questioning Liberal politicians. They gate-crashed political gatherings dressed in their husbands’ or their brothers’ clothes – quite frequently with the men’s connivance and approval; they waylaid Asquith’s ministers wherever they might be found, at home, at work, on holiday. They threw bags of flour, rotten fruit, eggs and, occasionally, stones. They were physically ejected from meetings, lampooned, ridiculed, arrested. Yet for all that, more and more people were ready to listen. On occasion a crowd, instead of shouting down a disruptive woman, would cheer and encourage her. But the face of authority was turned implacably against them. Deputations were sent to the prime minister, who refused even to see or speak to them. They held meetings of their own, campaigned against Liberal politicians, all to no good effect. So action was stepped up as the year wore on, and the voices of those who still favoured orderly and peaceful protest were drowned in the growing militancy of women determined to be heard at all costs. They mounted an assault on the Houses of Parliament, smashed the windows of government offices; many were arrested and, on non-payment of fines, imprisoned. Refused the status of political prisoners they went on hunger strike and gaine
d early release. They broke more windows, disrupted more meetings, threw stones and bottles. Feeling against them hardened. Their actions now constituted a public menace rather than mere nuisance. The next suffragette hunger striker was forcibly fed. The uproar that ensued came not only from the women themselves, but the authorities, mistakenly convinced that no woman could endure such torture for long without breaking, continued the barbaric practice. Nancy embraced the new and more aggressive tactics wholeheartedly. In the course of the year she was twice arrested, once gaoled and released when she went on hunger strike, before the introduction of forcible feeding. The family, necessarily, resigned themselves to her activities. Nothing anyone could say would stop her. The rift between her and Jack widened; they were coldly polite when they had to meet, never spoke unless it was forced upon them by circumstance. When, in the late months of the year, the constitutional crisis deepened as the “People’s Budget” was thrown hook, line and sinker out of the House of Lords and an early general election became inevitable, each threw themselves into their separate campaign with a shared fervour.

  Molly simply drowned herself in work. It was the only thing that came near to defeating the pain of the break with Adam. As the general demand for labour slackened she made certain that her girls were the best trained, the most efficient, the most likely to be chosen for a post. She drove herself hard, and as a reward saw the Venture Agency established, prospering and secure. She persuaded Jack to allow her to send the children to small local fee-paying schools, and she could never suppress a small lift of pride as they set off each morning, soaped and scrubbed and smartly uniformed, hair slicked down and books tucked tidily beneath their arms. Their reports were predictable: Danny, very bright but distressingly lazy and totally uninterested in his lessons; Meghan as clever as her brother but with an application and far-sightedness that he lacked, and a desire to shine that kept her always half a step ahead of her nearest rival; and Kitty, gentle, popular with the vast majority of the people about her – which could not always be said by any means of the other two – and hardworking.

  As another Christmas approached, the last of the decade, an air of excitement and festivity filled The Larches. On a shopping expedition Molly passed the Royal Hotel. She stopped a little way along the road, the strains of Strauss hurtful in her ears, staring into a toy shop window in which had been set up a miniature theatre, the flat, bright, cardboard figures blurring behind the rain-wet glass. This would be the second Christmas since she had seen Adam Jefferson. Surely the pain could not last much longer? Despite herself she still thought of him, could not prevent in quiet moments the assault of the memory of his aggressive vigour, his laughter, his loving. The wound had not healed cleanly. The separation had been too sudden, had come too soon. The festering ache was still there, more than a year later. Recovery was a slow business.

  They had a quiet Christmas. With Nancy staying with Sarah and Edward, only Charley and Annie were at The Larches for Christmas Day. While the women washed up after an absurdly enormous meal and the twins and Danny played absorbedly with a cardboard toy theatre, Charley and Jack sat with their feet stretched to the hearth in the parlour discussing the coming elections.

  “How do you rate Will Thorne’s chances in the election, then?” Charley asked.

  “He’ll get in all right. Not much doubt about that. Though it’s been a dirty campaign, one way and another. But they’ll not oust Will from West Ham.”

  Jack stirred the fire with the poker.

  “Word is,” Charley said after a moment, “that there’s trouble stirring. And that you aren’t the most popular lad in the world up some union alleys.”

  Jack shrugged. ‘You could say that.” Charley waited. “I’ve never made any secret of my views, Charley, you know that as well as anyone. I don’t hold with violence, political or otherwise. I’ll not be ruled by thugs, and I’ll not join them in ruling others. There’s no advantage for the ordinary working man in that lot. Revolution? They just want to exchange one tyranny – that’s their favourite word – for another. I’ll campaign for Will Thorne, a good Labour man, and by Christ I’ll see him elected. What we need is a strong Labour Party in the House of Commons. But I’ll have nowt to do with using strikes for political ends, nor with encouraging violence. They want the troops on the streets, those fellers; they’ll see their mates shot down. The ends justify the means. Not for me they don’t.”

  “There’s a lot who feel differently.”

  “I know it.”

  “If you two can’t find something better to talk about than that on Christmas Day,” Annie said disgustedly from the door, “then you can come and do the washing up while Molly and me sit with our feet up.”

  “Ask Jack to open the port,” Molly called from the kitchen. “The glasses are in the sideboard. I’ve just got some rubbish to take out to the dustbin.”

  A blast of wintry air met her as she opened the door. Head down against the cold, sleety rain, she ran through the dark afternoon to the corner where the dustbin stood. As she turned from it a flash of movement caught her eye and her heart jumped to her throat as a figure loomed from the shadow by the side of the house. Before she could move or cry out a hand was clamped over her mouth and a strong arm had encircled her shoulders and upper arms.

  “Be still.” The man’s voice was gruff. He smelled foul, and his breath was bad. After that first, stunned moment, she struggled fiercely, kicking, biting, tossing her head to free her mouth. It was a full minute before she realized that her captor was calling her by name.

  “Molly, Molly. Little wildcat. You always were. Be still, me darlin’, be still.” The soft accent of Ireland. She stopped struggling and stood quiet, breathing heavily, her back still crushed against his chest.

  “That’s better, now. That’s a good girl.” He spoke as if gentling an animal. Warily he took his hard, dirty hand from her mouth. “I’m sorry, girl, I didn’t want to frighten you. But God’s truth, I’m enough to frighten anyone the way I look, and if you’d screamed—”

  She turned to face him. A tall man, lean, emaciated, his black hair a tangle, curly as her own, wet with winter rain. In a dark, unshaven face, his eyes were bright and wild. He was bigger than she remembered him, and with harshly bitter lines etched in the face she had known. She had last seen him twelve years before, his blood seeping into the gutters of a village street on a day that sometimes returned in nightmares.

  “Cormac?” she asked.

  Her brother’s teeth shone, white and wolfish in the half-dark. “Himself. Large as life and twice as hungry.”

  She reached a trembling hand to touch him. “But – where have you come from? How did you find me?” Like twins they had been, only eleven months between them and in and out of mischief together all their young lives. “Cormac! Oh, Cormac!” She was in his arms; he held her clamped to him, his face clenched against tears of his own.

  “I need help,” he muttered at last “Food. Shelter. Can you hide me, Moll?”

  “Hide you?” She pulled away from him, looked up into his face. “What now? What have you done?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Just get me in, girl, out of this cursed rain. I feel as if I’ve not been dry for a week.”

  “But it’s Christmas Day. I’ve people in – family. Will I tell them—?”

  “No!” He caught her arm, roughly. “No one. You’ll tell no one. It’s a hanging this time for sure if they catch me.”

  “But—”

  “No, I say. They’re English, aren’t they, this – family of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll not trust them. Have you not a shed – a cellar – anywhere where I’ll be dry and can sleep?”

  She thought swiftly. “I’ve better than that. But we’ll have to be careful. Go round to the front door. Wait in the porch. I’ll come as quick as I can. When I let you in go straight up the stairs, along the landing, up the steps at the end. There’s rooms in the attic. Comfortable rooms. A bed.”
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  “Jesus,” he said, and the heartfelt thankfulness in his voice brought stinging tears to her eyes.

  She watched him, listened to his uneven footsteps as he limped quickly into the gloom. Then she ran to the small flower bed that edged the path, pushed her hands into the cold, clinging mud, wiped them down her already bedraggled dress.

  Jack and Annie stared as she opened the parlour door. Jack half-rose from his chair. “Why, Molly love, what’s happened?”

  She wiped her wild hair back with a muddy hand. “It’s all right, nothing to worry about,” she laughed shakily. “Daft ha’porth I am. I fell over, in the garden. Danny left his toy engine on the path.”

  Annie hurried to her. “Are you sure you’re not hurt? You’re white as a sheet.”

  “No, truly, I’m all right.”

  “Here,” Jack said, handing her a glass of port that had been standing ready on the sideboard, “drink this.”

  Thankfully she sipped it. As warmth from the fire and from the drink crept through her body, her hand steadied. “Well, now,” she said, almost calmly, “I’d better go and change. I look like something the cat dragged in.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Annie was at the door.

  “No!” Molly saw Charley’s head move as he registered the sharpness of her tone. Wild with impatience she forced herself to smile. “Honestly, Annie, I’m not hurt. Stay and drink your port. I’ll be down directly. I’ve just to wash my hands and face and change my dress.”

  The long hall, with the lamps not yet lit, was shadowed and dim. From the closed door of the dining room came the sound of the children’s voices, raised inevitably in argument. Molly shut the parlour door firmly behind her, listened for a moment then sped to the front door. Cormac was propped against the side of the porch, shivering, his eyes closed.

  She pulled him into the hall, jerked her head silently at the stairs, closed the door painfully slowly to prevent its creaking. He was halfway up the stairs, swinging his stiff leg with practised speed. She hurried after him, shepherded him along the landing to the bottom of the short flight of steps that led up to the attic rooms.