by Mary Wood
As if she was experiencing it for the first time, the smell that had become familiar to her – sweaty bodies and cheap perfume, mingled with the cooking of low-cost cuts of meat and fried stale bread – turned her stomach.
‘Sit down, lav, you look at the end of your tether.’
‘I am, but you’ve cheered me. Good old Ruby. I’m so glad she’s safe.’
Dolly brought two steaming mugs of tea over, and put one in front of Molly and one in front of Trixie. ‘Here, get this down yer. Yer look awful, Molly. Has some bleeder clocked yer one, then?’ Without waiting for an answer Dolly turned to Delilah. ‘You can fetch yer own bleedin’ tea, and pay for it.’
Delilah didn’t protest, but got up and went to the counter. Dolly didn’t follow her. ‘She can bleedin’ wait. What happened, girl?’
‘I bumped into a wall, Dolly.’
Dolly turned away, the remark she made said more in jest than showing she was offended. ‘Yeah, pull the other one – it’s got bleedin’ bells on it. But I get the idea, and I’ll say no more.’
Molly caught hold of Dolly’s apron and stopped her progress. ‘You know how it is, Dolly. The less you know, the better. Now, do me a favour and keep Delilah away from us for a while. I’ve things to talk to Trixie about.’
Dolly huffed.
‘Don’t mind her. Let’s talk.’
‘There’s a lot I have to say. But, Trixie, I’m so pleased about Ruby. If I could, I’d jump for joy and scream out to the world that one of us has broken free, I would.’
‘I know. I feel the same. So, what about Del? That was a turn-up for the books, weren’t it? Fancy her turning out to be Martha Gardner, eh?’
‘And you believe her, Trixie? Really believe her? Cos you know what she’s like.’
‘I do. I knew there was something about her, but could never put me finger on it. It’s her all right. Me and her were best mates at school. That’s when we turned up at school, of course.’ Trixie’s cackling laughter sounded good. Molly felt a sudden pang about leaving. She was going to miss Trixie.
When Trixie sobered, she asked Molly, ‘What about you, eh? Are yer going or not, Molly?’
‘I am, Trixie, and right now. I got me money, and a few more quid that Delilah has lent me. But you know she wants to go an’ all?’
‘Yes. And I think it’s a good thing. Are yer willing to help her, like we did Ruby? I’ve already spoken to me mate in Scotland and she said she’ll take one more, but that’s it.’
‘I was going to call me Aunt Bet, but I’ve thought better of it. Del will have to make her own way. She’s got plenty of money. She’ll have to stay in a bed-and-breakfast. I daren’t take the chance. As it is, I’m afraid for me aunt. Eva mentioned her when she questioned me over Ruby, but I would only admit to helping Ruby get a taxi. With them not being sure, I don’t think they’ll try to find me aunt; but with me gone, they might. I’m not letting Delilah know anything about her, just in case.’
‘Does Eva know Bet’s in Birmingham?’
‘I think so, but it’s a big city, and travelling there ain’t easy, so I’m hoping they won’t pursue their search for any of us there. Eva and the others can’t afford the time, anyway. And if Del keeps her word, then they’ll be banged up before they can plan revenge for later on. I just have to take a chance on that.’
‘Are you going there, Molly?’
‘No.’ She told Trixie of her own plans.
‘Well, I can just see you in uniform, girl. Good luck to yer, and I hope yer find Flo. She were a good sort. Not sure about the ARP’s missus that yer on about. If she was one of them we came across, she’ll be a sour-faced bitch just doing what she has to. Not the angel her husband told yer she was.’
Trixie got up then and assured Molly that she’d do her part. She was to fetch the coat from the back of the cafe, organize the food from Dolly and contact her mate to bring his taxi round to the back, to take Molly and Delilah.
As she sat alone, Molly’s nerves kicked in and her body began to shake. How would it all pan out? What would it be like sleeping rough? David came to her mind and she daydreamed about him. I’ll go to his house first. If he’s there, he’ll help me. She dared not even hope this would be true, but at least it gave her something to cling to. Then another thought occurred and she sent up a silent prayer: Please let me find Flo.
Somehow she knew that if she did, everything would be all right. Why she felt this, after only a few minutes with Flo, she didn’t know. But just thinking about Flo’s lovely smiling, concerned face gave her more hope than even thinking of trying to find David did.
Huddled in the taxi some forty minutes later, Molly asked the driver to take them to the station. On the way, her heart bled at the sight of the raging fires engulfing her beloved London. It seemed that it was almost razed to the ground, with more buildings in a state of collapse than standing. People milled around looking lost, where once they had been in a familiar place. Firemen still battled to douse the flames, and a newsboard proclaimed that fifteen of them had been killed, many trying to save St Paul’s Cathedral. Alongside it was a picture of St Paul’s dome standing out amidst the black smoke and flames. The headline, which was almost obscured, read: ‘Churchill orders: Save St Paul’s at all costs.’ But at what cost?
Molly said goodbye to Delilah when they dropped her off at the station. Her voice held no emotion as she wished her good luck. Part of her still hated the woman and was untouched by her moving story. Yes, Delilah had been wronged, but what she’d caused had far outweighed that. Molly thought of the many beatings Ruby had endured, and of her own beating – and all because Delilah had wanted to save her own skin and ingratiate herself with the vile Gus. Her body shuddered at the appalling thought of the two murdered girls, and Delilah saying she was to blame. She didn’t deserve any sympathy, but Molly didn’t wish her harm, either; she just wanted her out of her life.
‘Where to now, love?’
‘Poland Street. Thanks.’ If he reported back to Trixie, then Trixie would know it was near there that she’d met the ARP and that he lived nearby. The last thing she wanted was to raise Trixie’s suspicions. She’d do anything to have her by her side, but this was something she had to do alone. As the taxi swung round, something that had been on Molly’s mind caused her to change the instructions. ‘Wait a minute. Before that, will you take me to Park Lane – it runs down the side of Pymmes Park in Edmonton? I know it’s about nine miles away, but I’ll pay you.’
‘It’ll be more than that, in this lot. Half the bleedin’ roads are blocked. I’ll have to make a few detours.’
‘That’s all right. I might drop off to sleep, but will you wake me when you’re approaching Edmonton? Thanks.’
Snuggling down, Molly tried to quieten the butterflies in her stomach, but she couldn’t deny the hope dancing around her body. It took a while for her to get into a position that gave her the least pain, but eventually she did and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of David.
The dream turned to a nightmare when Randy, the cab driver, woke her. Edmonton as she knew it had gone. She looked out at her town – because that’s what those who lived there looked on it as: a town within the borough of London – to see it all broken. Hitler had all but destroyed it. Molly’s heart pounded a plea around her mind: Please let David’s house be standing. She thought the same of her own house and hoped that her dad, for all he’d done to her, was safe, but she dared not take a detour to Sebastopol Road to check.
Church Street and the shoe shop were mostly intact. As they passed by she read ‘Phyllis’s Shoes’ on the sign that had once said ‘Gould’s’. This gave her a good feeling. Good for you, Phyllis.
Directing Randy away from the side of the park where dear Hettie had lost her life, Molly clenched her fists tightly together. She could hardly breathe. As the street came into full view, she gasped with the pain that tore through her. David’s house lay in ruins. ‘Oh God, no!’
‘You all right, lav?’
‘Can I do sommat for yer, lav?’
‘Yes. Would you go to that house to the left of the ruined one and ask if they know where David Gould is, please?’
Randy didn’t protest. Molly stared after him and watched the woman who answered shake her head. She felt her heart plummet and heard a cry escape from her own lips. No, no – please . . . no!
Getting back in the car and slamming the door before speaking, Randy turned towards her. His face told the story. ‘Sorry, lav. David Gould is missing in action, presumed dead.’
Molly crumbled.
‘Don’t take it like that, lav – there’s always hope, with the missing. That old girl said that he was hit over Italy. He could be in a prisoner-of-war camp. They get treated all right in them, they have to be – it’s the rules of war. The old girl said she only knows about it because a telegram lad came next door, and the maid took the message. It was the maid that told the old girl what had happened. I asked where the maid was, and she said she’d sailed to America just after that, to be with the Gould family.’
Molly could only stare through tear-filled eyes.
‘Look, lav, why don’t you let me take you to the hospital? You’re injured, and now with this shock.’
‘No. I’ll be all right. Just take me to Poland Street. Thanks.’
How she wished she could go to hospital. They’d tend to her, make her comfortable and give her a fresh bed to lie in, but they’d also want to know who she was and where she came from.
As darkness fell, the siren wailed. Molly curled up as best she could, wrapped in her blanket in the cellar of a bombed-out house. It was so close to the one she had been thrown out of on Christmas Eve that she worried, when she found out, that she would be seen by the man and he’d remember that she’d stolen a present from under his tree. But the house was the only one where she could access the inside and make her way to the cellar.
Cold seeped into her bones, but it couldn’t touch the heart of her. That was wrapped in grief. Now she was alone and in darkness, her mind had fully taken in what she’d discovered. Missing, presumed dead . . . Missing, presumed dead. No. Nooo!
19
Flo
A Home of Their Own
The usual noises of the Garity family, in whose house she was billeted, filtered through the thin walls and wooden floor of Flo’s bedroom. She looked at her watch: seven-thirty. She wasn’t due to go on her shift until four this afternoon, having worked until midnight the night before. She was so tired, but now she doubted that she would sleep. The two boys, one twelve and the other ten, who never spoke to her, no matter how much she tried with them, didn’t seem to care how much noise they made. She was sure one of them had kicked the door deliberately, and that had woken her. Now she could hear them arguing and their mother shouting at them, ‘You’ll wake that girl if you’re not careful. Shut up!’
That girl. You would think, as this is me fifth week here, she’d use me name. Flo wondered if she would ever feel welcome, or be made welcome by this family. What she heard next made her cheeks flush. ‘Why do we have to have her here anyway, Mum? She’s common. Freddie’s mum’s got a posh girl who can talk proper.’
‘Shut your mouth, Frank, or I’ll clip your ear for you.’
‘He’s right, though, Mabel.’ Her husband’s deep voice carried just as far as his wife’s high-pitched one. ‘I can’t understand a word she says. What’s the navy doing, recruiting a girl like her?’
‘Don’t you start, Mick. I’ve enough with the boys. She’s a nice girl, if you’d all just give her a chance. It’s how them from up north speak – she can’t help that.’
This soothed Flo a little, but the embarrassment she felt at being discussed in this manner made her not wish to leave her room until the male members of the family had gone out. That wasn’t easy, though, as she was dying for the lavatory, and she’d need to go through the kitchen to get out to the back yard, where the only toilet was.
Through the gap where the curtains didn’t meet, ice glinted on the windows. Flo shivered at the prospect of the bitter cold she would have to face, but she’d rather die of the cold than use the pot under the bed. Gathering her housecoat, she put it on over her pyjamas.
A feeling of utter misery and loneliness crept over her. If Mrs Leary knew how she was treated and the conditions she lived under, she’d be down here like a shot, wielding her frying pan to sort out the menfolk of this house. This thought made her smile, and suddenly her lot felt a bit brighter. There’s a war on, lass, so you’ve to get on with it.
The kitchen door creaked as she opened it. The lively banter ceased. ‘Eeh, I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt or owt. I just need to go out the back.’
The boys giggled and their father lifted his newspaper to cover his face. Mabel Garity hurried over to open the door for her. ‘Go on then, love, though mind yer don’t slip. And don’t worry if it don’t flush, as it’s frozen up. I’ll put a bucket of water down it when you’re done.’
The sound of their laughter as she closed the door cut through Flo. It was cruel and mocking, and even though Mabel had spoken up for her, hers was the loudest. How am I to bear it here?
Trying to keep warm under the bedcovers, after returning to her room, Flo got stuck into the crossword from the day before. She and Simon bought a copy each of The Times every day, and the next day competed as to who had filled in the most clues. At first Flo had won every time, but Simon was competitive and had redoubled his efforts, so now she had a job to beat him. Maybe, with the time she had on her hands today, she could complete it.
A knock on the door disturbed her. ‘I’ve some porridge left, if you’d like some, love.’
Not really wanting any, Flo accepted, as she saw these small kindnesses on Mabel Garity’s part as trying to compensate for her family’s unfriendliness.
‘Ooh, it’s freezing in here, love. I’ve a fire lit downstairs and the menfolk have all gone. Come and park yourself down there and get warm, eh?’
‘Are you sure I’ll not be in your way?’
‘No, I’m busy with the washing in the kitchen. You can sit in the parlour, if you like.’
‘I’ll give you a hand. I’m good with a mangle.’
The kitchen in this house was never a welcoming place, and that wasn’t all down to three members of the household not wanting her here. The dark-green gloss paint of the walls resisted any water, and often ran with the droplets caused by condensation or steam from whatever was cooking. Today water ran off the walls as if it was raining inside, as Mabel’s washing boiled away in a copper in the corner, causing a damp mist to fill the kitchen.
Against the opposite wall to the boiler, and between the door that led to the stairs and the back door, stood a scrubbed, dull wooden table, which would have benefited from being covered in a pretty cloth, as Mrs Leary’s was. Its position prevented one side from being used, making it impossible for Flo to sit with the family to eat, so she was usually served on a tray, if her mealtimes coincided with theirs. The pot sink was a stone colour and rough to the touch, rather than gleaming white, as Flo was used to. The oilcloth on the floor and the two leather chairs, which stood each side of the cooking range, were dark brown, adding to the overall gloom.
‘Eat your porridge first. Then, if you’re sure you want to help, you can turn the mangle. I’ve sheets in the copper that are ready for rinsing.’
Flo had dressed quickly, donning a skirt and jumper of thick wool, and now felt hot and clammy in the damp atmosphere. Porridge was the last thing she needed, but she somehow managed to eat the lumpy, half-warm stodge. Thoughts of lovely creamy porridge and warm buttered toast, which had been the normal breakfast at home – all served in a cheery and bright kitchen, with Mrs Leary telling tales of the dream she’d had the night before – gave Flo a pang of homesickne
ss.
If it was just Mabel she had to cope with, Flo knew she could put up with everything else and even make a friend of the woman, but the rest of the family were never going to give her a chance. Somehow she had to find better lodgings for herself.
Sweat poured off her as she battled with the heavy handle of the mangle, which resisted the intrusion of the huge wet sheets with all its might, but Flo enjoyed the work and the chatter Mabel kept up throughout. It appeared that Mabel’s husband worked for the gas board and was exempt from being called up, but was always moaning, as he didn’t feel he was doing his bit and wanted to volunteer for the army. Mabel dreaded him doing so, but in a small way this lifted Mick Garity in Flo’s eyes. ‘Don’t mind him, you know,’ Mabel said. ‘He don’t seem friendly and welcoming, but he’ll come round, and once he does, so will the boys. The boys follow whatever their dad does, and on top of that, they don’t like sharing a bedroom and see you as the cause of them having to.’
‘I might not stay long . . . Me mate is looking for someone to share one of them flats that’s empty over the shops.’ Where this fib came from, Flo didn’t know. She’d seen a notice pinned to the board in the canteen at Bletchley that there was a flat going, but hadn’t given it a second thought until now.
‘Oh? Well, I can’t blame you. I could scalp that lot of mine. They’ve not made you welcome.’
‘By, I don’t blame them. It can’t be easy having a stranger thrust on you, especially one you can’t understand.’ Flo laughed and winked as she said this, and Mabel took it in jest.
‘Ha, you heard that then. Well, for what it’s worth, I like how you speak and could listen to you all day. I’m sorry you feel you can’t settle, but I wish you well. God knows what goes on up at that Park, but whatever it is, you’re doing your bit. You’re away from your family and friends, and that can’t be easy. I’m ashamed of my lot, but I don’t have much influence over them.’
Cycling to Bletchley Park much earlier than she needed to, Flo realized how hungry she was. Though the stodgy porridge had lain in her for a while, it was five hours since she’d eaten it, and the hard work of the mangling had given her an appetite. She had a ride of six miles to complete, but would get there by 2 p.m. She had plenty of time, so she decided she’d go to the canteen to have lunch and finish the crossword while she ate.