“I might,” she insisted stubbornly. “And I certainly won’t if I don’t try. I know some people – quite a lot of people – through the agency. At least let me try.” She tilted her chin cheerfully. “I’m not giving up on the money I lent you without a fight, Jack Benton! I didn’t come down with the last shower of rain. I’ll make the bank see what a good proposition it is. You see if I don’t.”
He laughed, tiredly. “No harm in trying.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You just concentrate on getting better. Don’t fret. Everything will come right, you see.”
She kept her head high and her step brisk until she was out of the ward.
* * *
A week later Jack had a second operation. The doctor was very satisfied; the prognosis was good. “There’s no reason to believe, Mrs Benton, that your husband won’t make a complete recovery. But it’s going to take some time, I’m afraid. Rest is what he needs, rest and care. And we must stop him fretting if we can. It does him no good at all.”
Molly smiled. “Don’t worry, doctor, I think I have some news that will do him as much good as medicine. I’ll stop him fretting.”
Her news did more than that. Jack, and Annie, who was sitting on the other side of the bed, stared at her in total disbelief.
“How much?” Jack asked.
Molly grinned.
“Molly – oh, you’re an absolute wonder!” Annie cried in admiration, then lowered her voice as she drew a reproving “Ssh” from the Sister who sat at the desk at the end of the ward. “How on earth—”
“Not all in one go, of course,” Molly said a little hurriedly. “But it’s a start. We can invest in a couple of lorries and a couple of smaller vans and get back into business. We can use the undamaged warehouse. The hut will do for an office just for now. And once we get the rebuilding started, there won’t be a better-equipped or more up-to-date outfit in the area than Danbury’s. It’s an ill wind that blows no good at all. What we have to do is to make certain that we don’t lose too many customers and find ourselves having to start back at the beginning—”
“And who’s going to do that?” Jack asked.
“Why, I am, of course. Nancy’s offered to take over the agency for me, just while you’re off your feet. We can’t let the clients go, Jack, you must see that? We’d never get them back, bank loan or no bank loan. Now, what do you think about horses? Is there any point in—?”
“How did you get the loan?” asked Jack quietly.
“I went to the bank.”
“So did I”
Silence stretched a little awkwardly. Annie looked from one to the other.
“I – well, as a matter of fact I didn’t go to our usual bank. I went to a bank manager whom I knew, someone who’d used the agency in the past. It seemed more sensible. He was very sympathetic. He—”
“Sympathetic? A bank manager?” Jack’s tone was frankly disbelieving.
“Oh, for God’s sake, they are human, you know. What’s the matter with you? I thought you’d be pleased—” Molly let irritation show clearly in her tone. Across the bed Annie quirked her eyebrows.
Jack reached for her hand. “I’m sorry, lass. I was surprised, that’s all.”
On the way home in the bus Annie looked at her intently. Molly pretended to be absorbed in the scene outside the window. Annie dug her in the ribs, none too gently.
“All right, then, come on.”
“Come on what?” Molly was defensive.
“How did you do it? You don’t fool me with your wide Irish eyes, love. Where did you get the money?”
“From the bank, as I said.”
“And?”
Molly turned on her in a quick flash of anger, held the sympathetic green eyes for a moment and then looked away. “I put up the agency.”
“What!”
“I borrowed the money on the agency. It was the only thing I could do. The bank wouldn’t think of lending it to Danbury’s without collateral. The agency was all I had to offer. They’ve made it a – a transferable company loan, or something. It means that they’ve lent the money to me – to the agency, if you like – and I lend it to Danbury’s.”
“And if Danbury’s fails?”
“It won’t.”
“But if it does?”
Molly looked back through the window. ‘Then the agency goes too, I suppose. But it won’t, Annie. I’ll see that it won’t. If I have to work twenty-five hours a day I won’t see it fail. I’ve done it before, and I will again. I’ll talk every damned firm from Silvertown to Wanstead into using us, see if I don’t!”
Annie shook her head. “Jack won’t like knowing that you borrowed the money on the agency.”
“He isn’t going to know!” Molly was fierce. “Not from me, and not from you either. And neither is anyone else. Nancy knows, and so does William Baxter, our chief clerk – he had to, for he handles the books. But as far as the rest of the world is concerned I’ve borrowed the money on Danbury’s, and that’s that. And if I want to work like a lunatic to get the place going again, it’s maybe because I am a lunatic. No one will be surprised at that. Don’t dare to say anything, Annie. I’ll never forgive you.”
“I won’t,” Annie said peaceably, and then after a short silence added, “You’re right about one thing, though. You are a lunatic.” She turned a laughing face to Molly. “But then aren’t we all, one way or another? I can talk.”
“Something in particular?” Molly asked, interested.
Annie grinned. “Something very particular. I’m pregnant again.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The carting business, Molly discovered with no great surprise, was even more than most a man’s world. A world of warehouses and cold stores, of docks and railway sidings, a world of cut-throat competition and tough business methods. Within a couple of weeks of the fire, armed with a list of Danbury’s customers that had been supplied from Jack’s and William Baxter’s memories, for all their records had been destroyed, she began the thankless and dispiriting task of visiting each one in turn, explaining, arguing, cajoling, all but begging. As she had feared, a lot of their business had either gone or was on the point of going to other carriers. Frozen meat could not wait while Danbury’s rebuilt, nor could cargoes of butter, tea, coffee, spices remain stacked in warehouses. Stubbornly she persisted, salvaging a little here, extracting a half-promise there, finding herself confronted by a variety of attitudes that ranged from the faintly sympathetic to the downright scornful. Her small, smartly-dressed figure was to be seen on the wharves and quaysides, in the warehouses and the railway sheds. She ran the gauntlet of rough and picturesque appreciation that her appearance in these traditionally male-dominated strongholds provoked with cool self-possession, she risked life and limb as she climbed steep flights of rickety steps in her restricting hobble skirt to sit in a dirty, paper-strewn office and try to convince an overworked and impatient transport boss that Danbury’s was not wrecked, that the new lorries would be on the road in days rather than weeks. Some took her seriously, most did not. The disparagement and thinly-veiled ridicule, the impatience, the sometimes sympathetic but always firm refusals to believe that a woman could possibly handle such a business, predictably made her more determined than ever not to give up. But it was hard at the end of an exhausting and often unsuccessful day not to worry, not to remember that every day that went by meant interest to pay, wages bills to be met; harder still to push to the back of her mind the fact that every penny wasted, every shilling unearned was a threat to her own business that she had fought so hard to establish. She saw little of the children – Sarah and Annie, with a minimum of fuss, had stepped into that particular breach – and she fell into bed each night, her aching brain still whirling with activity. She would admit to being discouraged to no one. She visited Jack, watched his steady progress, greeted with a bright, deceitful smile his enquiries as to how her efforts were progressing.
“—William Baxter’s been grand. He
’s working for two to get the books in order. He’s never wrong. His memory’s amazing. I never find myself anywhere without every fact and figure I need at my fingertips. Lestor’s? Well, no, we didn’t get that one back, actually. But then, there was never any great profit in it, was there? We’re probably better off without them—”
And so, through a May that drizzled like November she trudged, and talked, and tried to ignore the spectre of ruin that marched at her shoulder. At the end of the month Jack was allowed home. The parlour was converted into a cheerful bedroom for him, and on Sunday afternoon the family gathered, bringing books and flowers and advice for the bedridden.
“He’s trying to do too much,” Molly said severely. “Tell him, Charley – if he doesn’t behave himself he’ll never get well.”
“She’s right, lad.”
“Aye. Mebbe so. But they’ll not keep me here for ever. Good as new I’ll be in no time.”
Later, Charley cornered Molly. “Don’t worry, our Moll. We’ll keep him still for you. You carry on. How’s it going?”
Her momentary hesitation was not lost on his sensitive ear. “Fine. Just fine.”
There was a good deal more bravado than truth in the words. As summer approached and the weather improved, in the same but lighter ladylike hobble skirts, sweeping hats and toe-constricting boots she continued to storm square mile after square mile of dockland, acres of railway yards. Hot, nervous, determined, she talked until she was hoarse, learned to swallow pride and strong sweet tea in the same gulp. But in that clear-seeing recess of her mind that she tried, most of the time, to ignore, she knew that she was not winning. Despite Edward’s enthusiastic help in the buying of the best and most adaptable transport that they could afford, despite William Baxter’s earnest help, despite her own back-breaking, soul-destroying efforts, Danbury and Benton, Carters were slipping inexorably towards disaster, and with it the agency.
“You’ll wear yourself out,” Nancy said worriedly one night.
“You could be right at that.” Molly pulled her boots off and lifted her tired feet to a chair. “God, I’d give anything to go straight to bed.”
“Why don’t you?”
Molly robbed her fingers through her tangled hair. “I can’t. I’ve got some figures to go through. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
“Oh?”
‘Tomorrow I beard a Mr Joseph Forrest in his den.”
“And?”
“And I either get a big contract for carting Mr Forrest’s frozen meat from London to all points north and south or—”
“Or what?”
“Or I admit that I’m neither use nor ornament to Danbury’s and quietly shoot myself.”
“Are you expecting to get it?”
“To be honest, no.” Molly yawned. “But don’t tell the Good Lord that. He’s on the side, so they say, of those who help themselves. Well, I’m trying at least.”
“No one,” Nancy said with feeling, “could deny that.”
* * *
Mr Joseph Forrest’s office was large and comfortable and reflected perfectly the temperament of its tenant. It was warm, businesslike, friendly. After the cold, partitioned, rubbish-strewn offices to which she had become accustomed, Molly found the comfort a relief. She liked both the room and its occupant on sight. Joseph Forrest was a grey-haired, portly gentleman of late middle age. His face was a kindly contoured map of fine lines and folds, his skin the burnished colour of a man who spends a good deal of time in the open air. His dark eyes were very shrewd.
“Well, Mrs Benton,” he said, steepling his hands before him, “I have to be honest with you. I’m really not sure. It doesn’t sound to me as if you actually have the organization—”
“Mr Forrest, I—”
“—to cope with our volume of work. We have a very particular problem, as I’m sure you will appreciate.” He studied for the space of a second the small, strong, disappointed face with its wide, smoky eyes and its halo of curly dark hair. “However,” he added.
Molly was used to “howevers”. She looked up with a caustic gleam in her eye. “However?”
“However, we do have a contract that has not yet gone to tender. One that might interest you.”
She waited.
“It is not such a big one, nor so profitable as the meat,” he said, spreading well-tended hands before him, “but it would be easier for a firm such as yours to cope with.”
Molly, with dignity, stood up. She had heard this before, many times. “Don’t tell me,” she said, “baby’s bottles. Embroidery silks? Something, anyway, that you consider fitting for a carting concern run by a woman?” She was at the door before his voice stopped her.
“Fruit,” he said. “From the docks to the retailers. Small amounts, short distances. Small profit margins, too, but plenty of them if you’re ready to work.”
She stopped, turned. “I’m sorry, Mr Forrest. That was unforgivable.”
He shook his head.
“May I sit down again?”
“Of course.”
An hour later they were established friends. She knew of his young wife and their adored baby daughter, the house they owned in Westcliff-upon-Sea, his passion for sailing and the outlines at least of the fruit contract.
“It’s my partner whom you need to see, really. A very go-ahead young gentleman, just back from the United States. He has the facts and figures of the fruit side of things. Could you come tomorrow? Say – ten thirty?”
Molly mentally rearranged her day. “Of course. I’ll see you then.”
* * *
She was ten minutes early. She walked the dirty, busy streets for those minutes, determined not to seem too eager. She walked through the ornate revolving door at exactly twenty-nine minutes past ten and then took the lift to Mr Forrest’s office. He was delighted to see her.
“Mrs Benton! Come in, come in. Would you care for tea?”
“Yes, please.” She glanced round. The office was empty.
“My partner will be along in a moment. As a matter of fact I’ve only just managed to contact him. He’s been in Liverpool, on a matter of business. But I left a message – ah.” There had come a sharp rap on the door. “This will be him. Come in.”
She lifted and turned her head, froze as the door swung open to reveal a slight, smiling, sparely elegant figure poised in the doorway.
“Adam,” Mr Forrest said, “Come along in. How was Liverpool?”
“Liverpool, as always, was dirty,” Adam Jefferson said, “but profitable, I’m glad to say.” Not by a flicker did he betray the slightest emotion or recognition.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Come and meet the young lady I told you of. I didn’t mention her name, did I? Mrs Benton, Adam Jefferson, my partner. Adam, this is Mrs Benton.”
They looked at one another. “As a matter of fact,” the light, husky voice said quietly, “we’ve met. Mrs Benton and I are old friends.”
Molly stood up with considerable care. Her legs were trembling. She extended a perfectly steady hand. “Mr Jefferson.”
He moved into the room with all the grace she remembered, yet something about his step was different. His face was hard as stone, the faint, polite smile did not reach his eyes. He took her proffered hand for the most fleeting of moments, the very least that good manners required, and then let it go. She clasped both hands firmly before her and sat down again, very straight.
Joseph Forrest did not seem to notice anything amiss. “Mrs Benton is running her husband’s carting business at the moment, Adam, while he recovers from an accident. There was a fire. Nasty business. You may have heard?”
Adam shook his head very slightly. He had moved to a chair and stood leaning gracefully against the high back, his eyes and attention upon Joseph Forrest. “I didn’t, no.”
Joseph Forrest shook his head, tutting. “Terrible thing. Terrible. Still—” he said, smiling in fatherly fashion at Molly, “it could have been worse. Your husband, my dear, must feel he is a very lucky
man to have such a woman as you behind him. Very lucky indeed.”
Molly felt the beginning of a mortifying rise of colour into her cheeks. Adam turned his head and the dark glance flicked over her, sardonically, just once. He almost smiled. Molly sat very still, her every effort bent upon resisting the temptation to march over and slap him, hard. Then the memory of the time that she had done just that washed over her and her cheeks flamed again.
“I thought, Adam, that you might show Mrs Benton over the store? With your agreement I intend to let the fruit contract go to Danbury’s—?” He waited for a moment. Adam lifted a narrow, nonchalant shoulder in agreement. “Adam’s our expert, Mrs Benton. That’s why I poached him away from several other interested parties, eh, Adam?” He turned jovially to Adam. “Don’t forget to show Mrs Benton the loading bay that Danbury’s will be using.”
“I hardly think, Joseph,” Adam said quietly, “that Mrs Benton will be driving the lorries herself.” He let a small silence develop before he added, the slightest acid edge of sarcasm in his voice, “Or will you?”
She met the goad of his eyes, and for one fiery moment the spark of her temper flared at his unpleasant smile. “No, Mr Jefferson,” she said coolly. “Someone taught me a long time ago to let others do the job that they do best. My – our – drivers are extremely competent. I’ve no intention of doing a hard-working carter out of a job.” She stood up.
“Goodbye, Mr Forrest. And thank you.” She turned to Adam. “Shall we go?”
Adam turned and walked to the door, and Molly, following him, realized suddenly the difference in him. He was limping, very slightly. He still carried himself straight and gracefully, but there was a marked irregularity in his step. On the carpeted landing he pressed the button for the lift and the machinery whirred efficiently. He stood staring straight ahead. Molly, beside him, found herself suddenly bereft of words. She watched the smooth action of pulley and cable through the latticed gates as the lift moved up the shaft towards them. The silence between them was tangible, stony. As the lift car stopped before them with a gentle jolt Adam threw back the gates, stood waiting for her to precede him, perfectly mannered. She stepped inside. He followed; the gates clashed. As they moved smoothly downwards she glanced in the ornate mirror that decorated the side wall of the lift. Multiple reflections of herself and Adam receded into infinity. For one second she allowed herself to study him – the set of his head, the sharp clarity of bone, the straight, hard mouth. She turned away. The lift came quietly to rest. They stepped into the main entrance hall of the building, an impressive marble hall, carpeted and furnished as much like a hotel as a place of business.
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