Molly

by Molly (retail) (epub)

  She let out a sighing breath. “What time?”

  “Say, four?”

  “All right. I’ll try. The seat by the big tree.” She put the phone down.

  “Trouble?” Nancy asked as she walked back into the kitchen.

  Molly shook her head. “Tate’s, to say that they’ve closed down completely. Nothing’s moving. They want us to hold on to the work were doing for them.”

  Nancy yawned. “I thought they rang yesterday about that?”

  “They did. This was just confirmation.”

  “You’d think they’d got something better to do, wouldn’t you? Here, drink your pop before I do. Blessed weather. I could drink the Serpentine.”

  * * *

  He was waiting, watching for her. She was nervous.

  “I can’t be long,” she said. “I’m supposed to be going down to see Annie. She hasn’t been feeling well.”

  Playing children shouted, the only ones who seemed unaffected by the enervating heat. Dust shimmered, the streets around the park were strangely still.

  Molly sat down beside him, glancing around her. “What was so important?”

  He caught her hands, drew her round to face him and kissed her. “A favour,” he said. “A very special favour.”

  She waited.

  “Am I right in thinking,” Adam asked softly, “that Jack is a close friend of Ben Tillett’s?”

  “They’ve known each other a long time, yes. They were quite close at one time. Jack admires Ben—”

  Adam’s long fingers drummed on the back of the wooden bench. “Didn’t you tell me that Jack is already paying his carters over the union rates?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing moves in or out of the docks without Tillett’s say-so, right?”

  “Adam—”

  “And Jack’s men must owe him allegiance, rather than their union? They’ve nothing to lose by breaking the strike, have they?”

  “What cargo of yours is stranded in the docks?” she asked flatly.

  “Clever girl. I knew you’d see it. Butter. Tons of it. It’d be running out of its barrels if I hadn’t – persuaded—” he smiled, “someone to slip it into cold storage for me. It must be worth a fortune now, in the hotels and restaurants of the West End. Butter’s like gold. I’ve lamb in there too. There’s big money to be made, if we’re quick, and Jack will get his share, I promise you. If he can get round Tillett, persuade him to – Molly! Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Get away from me,” she said.

  He caught her arm, angrily, before she could walk away.

  “Molly, be reasonable. I’ll cut Jack in for fifty per cent. What he gives Tillett out of that is up to him. Think what he could do with what he’ll have left. It’d set his business up for life, and no strings.”

  She turned on him. “What makes you think, Adam Jefferson, that every man in this world is for sale to the highest bidder? You want to buy Ben Tillett? Well, go ahead and try, but do your own dirty work and don’t ask others to do it for you. And I hope to see it when they scrape the pieces off the pavement.”

  “There’s a price for every man. Don’t fool yourself.”

  “But Ben Tillett’s is not in money, thank God. And neither is Jack’s.”

  He caught her by the shoulders, pulled her close to him, his fingers moving on her arm, harshly caressing. “And yours?”

  A child nearby giggled, and fled as Adam glared.

  She dragged herself away from him, “My price is paid, Adam. It’s finished.”

  “I’ve heard that before. Until you want something. Need something.”

  “No. Not this time.”

  “Be careful what you say.” His anger was barely contained. “No woman walks away from me twice.”

  She looked at him through the shimmering haze of heat. Fine beads of sweat stood on his brown skin, fury fired the lines of a face that she knew she would not forget to the end of her days.

  She turned from him.

  “Molly.” The voice behind her was quiet, and threaded with rage. “I mean what I say.”

  A child with a hoop clattered past, shouting. Another almost ran in to her as she walked steadily, blindly, towards the park exit.

  * * *

  The streets were extraordinarily quiet. Men gathered on corners, leaned on walls. Plastered all over the Bentons’ shop window were notices – no butter or eggs – no bacon – tea rationed to two ounces per customer.

  Charley, as always, raised an alert head as the shop bell tinkled. “May I help you?”

  “It’s me, Charley. Is Annie around? Nancy said she wasn’t feeling too well.”

  “She’s in the back, resting. Molly? Something wrong?”

  “Nothing. The heat, that’s all. It’s getting me down.”

  “You and the rest of the world.” He lifted the counter flap. “Come on through. She’ll be pleased to see you.”

  “What’s wrong with her? Is she ill?” She spoke automatically. She hardly remembered getting here, did not know what to do to ease the wracking pain. She only knew that, no matter how much she wanted to, she should not cry. The death of secret things must necessarily be mourned in secret.

  Charley laughed. “No, not ill. Just – well, go on in. Let her tell you herself.”

  Annie most certainly did not look well. She was sitting in a deckchair in the little yard beyond the open windows, her feet resting on a stool, her always pale skin translucent and sheened with sweat.

  “Annie? Aren’t you well?”

  Annie’s lovely face lit like a lamp. “I feel sick,” she announced with something very close to pride. “I feel very sick. Oh, Molly, isn’t it bloody marvellous?”

  “Sick? What are you talking about?”

  Annie laughed. “You’re slow today, Moll! I’m expecting a baby! Didn’t you guess? I thought everyone had. Oh, Molly, I’m so happy – Moll? Don’t cry, love. It’s me that’s supposed to weep, isn’t it?”

  But Molly could not stop now. She dropped to her knees beside a surprised Annie, and in her bony arms sobbed as if her heart would break.

  Part IV

  Spring 1913

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Annie’s second child, Michael Harold Benton, was born in the early spring of 1913, a brother for Arthur Charles who had arrived almost exactly a year before.

  “Easy as falling off a log,” Annie said with panache. “Now that I’ve started it’s like a penny-in-the-slot machine. You watch – I’m going to finish up like the Old Lady Who Lived in a Shoe.”

  In the year between the two births the divisions in the country had deepened. Strikes and lockouts had paralyzed not only the capital but the whole of the country. British soldiers had been used against British workers and seeds of bitterness had been sown that would not easily be rooted out. They had flowered in more strikes, in fire-raising, in riots and in sabotage. Women too, urged on by the WSPU, embraced a new militancy. They broke windows, set fire to buildings and to letter boxes, assaulted politicians and policemen, and when arrested promptly went on hunger strike. The means used forcibly to feed them revolted even those who agreed with neither their aims nor their methods. Yet stubbornly the banners were raised, stubbornly the stones were thrown, stubbornly the women got themselves arrested again.

  A little while after Michael’s birth, in mid-March 1913, John Marsden died. It was not unexpected, his health had been failing for some time, yet still it saddened Molly painfully to know that she had lost such a friend. She knew the debt she owed the man, of help and encouragement. She attended his funeral in Southend, one of only half a dozen mourners, and afterwards was informed by John’s solicitor that the Venture Agency was now entirely hers.

  She sat that evening in the train that clattered and rocked its way back to London, staring unseeing from the window, her mind’s eye a kaleidoscope of memories; above all she remembered that first day in John Marsden’s office, could almost feel the pinch of those awful shoes, see John’s c
raggy face as he glowered at this latest female to invade his privacy. As she walked from Stratford Station out into the bustling Broadway she realized suddenly that she could not face the thought of going straight back to The Larches. She needed a walk, someone to talk to, to shake off the oppression of the occasion. She turned her steps towards Danbury’s, and Jack.

  She heard the commotion, saw the billowing, acrid smoke that rose into the pastel spring sky long before she reached the yard. Her footsteps quickened. A horse-drawn fire engine rattled past her, bell clanging with strident urgency. She began to run.

  The street in which the yard was situated was cordoned off. Excited crowds were gathering, shepherded by policemen. Panic-stricken, Molly pushed and shoved her way through the crowd, ducked under the rope.

  “’Ere, wait a minute, Miss. You can’t go down there—”

  Danbury’s buildings were ablaze. The street was clogged with people, with firemen, with fear-crazed horses.

  “Sorry, Miss.” The policeman’s hand was firm on her arm, “You can’t—”

  “My name is Benton. Mrs Benton. My husband runs Danbury’s. Where is he? Jack Benton. Where is he?”

  Nearby one of the great carthorses reared, massive forelegs flailing. Even in her distress she could not help but see that only very few of the horses were there. And none at all of the new vans and lorries.

  ‘Well – I’m not sure, Madam. Perhaps you’d better—”

  Molly was gone, threading her way through the firefighting appliances that lined the road. She tripped over a hose. A fireman grabbed her arm and almost threw her out of the way. The hungry flames roared into the clear evening air that shimmered with the heat as the fire licked on ancient woodwork, crept around old, patched roofs and windows. A cloud of dense smoke, driven by a gust of wind, rolled into the street. Molly doubled up, coughing and choking, her eyes streaming. As they cleared she saw that a familiar figure sat on an upturned box not far from her, his head bent almost to his knees as he struggled for breath. She flew to him.

  “George! George, where’s Jack? Where’s Jack?”

  He lifted his head, could not speak. His eyes were red and running with water; his breath was coming in great, wheezing gasps. A big policeman bent to touch his shoulder. “The ambulance is here, Mr Danbury. I think you’d better come.”

  “Where is Jack?” she screamed it against the vicious crackle of flame, the shouts and commotion around them.

  “You Mrs Benton?” the policeman asked, sympathy in his eyes.

  “Yes,” she shouted above the pandemonium. “Yes, I am.”

  “I think you’d best come with us, Mrs Benton. Your husband’s already been taken to the hospital. He was trapped on the top floor, and had to jump. Hurt his legs—”

  “Look out!” With a fearful crash the roof of the biggest warehouse caved in, sending a sheaf of flying sparks into the air and causing a red-hot blast to swirl around the street. Somewhere a horse was screaming, an awful, almost human sound that tore the nerves. The firemen had given up the unequal fight for the stables and warehouses. Their hoses were all turned on the dilapidated building that adjoined the stable block and had been Danbury’s offices, with storerooms beneath. Steadily the water played upon brick walls that were already scorched where the fire leapt hungrily from shattered windows and loading-doors, curling around the cracking brickwork, gay as red and yellow bunting in the evening sunshine.

  * * *

  It was some hours before she was allowed to see Jack for any length of time. Molly walked the waiting room floor, unable to rest. The others came in turn – Sarah, Annie, Nancy, Edward – but it was as if she could see no one, hear no one until that moment the doctor appeared in the waiting room door.

  “Mrs Benton?”

  She was on her feet in a moment. “Yes.”

  “Your husband has recovered consciousness, Mrs Benton. He’s still in some pain, of course, but that should ease soon. We’ve given him something for it. If you’d like to see him for a very few minutes—?”

  “Is he going to be all right?”

  The doctor patted her shoulder. “Yes, Mrs Benton, he is. Though the left leg is broken in two places and the right in one. We have removed some splinters of bone. I have to say that, in the circumstances, he’s come off comparatively lightly. He’ll be off his feet for some considerable time, of course. Some considerable time.”

  “And Mr Danbury?” she asked, quietly.

  The doctor hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Very bad, I’m afraid. His chest was weak to start with – I fear he will be an invalid for the rest of his life.”

  “I see.” She followed him along the antiseptic-smelling, cream-tiled corridor and into the ward where Jack lay, his thick hair singed and frizzed, an ugly burn bright against his cheekbone, crossing the old scar. One of his hands, resting on the white cover, was bandaged.

  “Well,” Molly said taking his free hand with her own, “here’s a mess.”

  His usually bright eyes were blurred with pain and medication. “How’s George?” he whispered.

  She hesitated. “Not so good, I’m afraid.”

  He turned his head on the pillow. She squeezed his hand. “This is quite like old times. Last time you lay in a hospital bed you asked me to marry you, remember?”

  He smiled.

  “Jack, how did it happen? How did the fire start?”

  He shook his head, tiredly. “I’ve no idea, lass. Have you been to see how much is left?”

  “No.”

  “Not much, I guess. Christ, I never saw anything go up so quickly. Was anyone badly hurt?”

  She shook her head. “Only you and George.”

  “And the animals?”

  She looked down at their clasped hands. “They saved some. But most are gone, I’m afraid. The firemen were too busy trying to get you out to save the horses.”

  “What about the new lorries? They’d been put away for the night in the empty stables—”

  “Yes.”

  “All gone?”

  “Yes.”

  He closed his eyes. “All gone,” he said, his tone of voice different.

  “No!”

  The blue eyes opened and she thought she saw the faintest quirk of a smile at the vehement word, but soon it died. He drew a long, sighing breath. “We have to face it, lass. With no lorries, no horses and no buildings there’s no Danbury’s. Not even you can conjure something from a pile of ashes.”

  “What about the insurance?”

  “We don’t have any.”

  “What?” She stared at him, appalled.

  “Not enough to make any difference, anyway. A few hundred. That’ll have to go to George. We can’t leave him destitute.”

  “I have absolutely no intention,” she said, trying to keep the sharpness from her voice, “of leaving anyone destitute. Least of all us. Why weren’t we adequately insured?”

  His eyelids closed wearily again. “I didn’t think we could afford it yet—”

  She bit back the obvious reply. Behind her a nurse hovered. “I really think we ought to be getting some rest, Mr Benton.”

  Molly stood up. “Well, it could be worse.” Her voice was bright. “The doctor says you’ll be all right. Just get yourself well. Concentrate on that. We’ll get Danbury’s on its feet again before you are, you see if we don’t. One way or another—”

  * * *

  Those words of bravado seemed doubly empty the next day as she stood with Annie surveying the still-smoking wreck of Danbury’s yard. The sodden heaps of ash smelled horribly, the skeletal buildings mocked any hope of repair. Only one small hut remained unscathed, and one of the smaller store houses whose roof was damaged but whose walls still stood. The two women stood for a long time in glum silence, which Annie broke with an optimistic but misguided, “Perhaps you could sell the land?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Molly turned from her impatiently. “What good would that do anybody? It looks as if George Danbury will never w
ork again. He needs an income. He won’t get that if we let the firm fold. What’s he going to live on if we give up? And Jack – Jack needs this place. He was beginning to make a success of it. Selling the land won’t give Jack the incentive he needs to get his legs working again, will it? No. What we need is to turn this shambles to at least some advantage. What we need is money. Even with the improvements that Jack had managed to make the yard was outdated, the buildings were falling down, the whole set-up was uneconomic. If we could just lay our hands on enough money we could start again – new equipment, new buildings—” She stopped. Annie was regarding her sardonically, head on one side.

  “You got that kind of spare cash?”

  Molly shook her head. Every spare penny she had had already gone into Danbury’s.

  “Then you got a fairy godmother stacked somewhere?”

  “There are such things as banks you know,” Molly said a little acidly, “And they’re there to lend money.”

  “They are?” Annie rolled her eyes. “You could have fooled me, love.”

  Jack put the same sentiment a little differently. “No chance,” he said, shifting in his hospital bed, “no chance at all. I tried them before, Moll, when we were hoping to expand. We’re already up to our eyes in debt – you of all people know that – and they wouldn’t even consider lending us more. It’s no good, Molly, you’re going to have to face it. Danbury’s is finished. We’ll be lucky to get out of it with a whole skin.” He looked drawn and dispirited.

  Molly appeared not to have heard him. “If I could get the money,” she said, slowly, “if I could just get enough to rebuild and get the transport we need – the place could be just about ready for when you’re on your feet again.”

  Jack smiled something like his old smile. “You never give up, do you?”

  She shook her head. “I never have yet. And I won’t now.”

  “You won’t get it, lass. I’m telling you.”