by Annie Murray
‘Sorry . . . Oh girl—’ She felt his tongue brush her left nipple. A mixture of desire and panic surged through her. Stop, she wanted to cry. Please – just wait. Slow down! She longed to love him, to give him everything, but as soon as he began touching her she knew it had all gone wrong. Already he was immersed in his need, could not hold back, but she froze and could not lose herself in it. Every touch brought back that poking, black-fingernailed touch from before. She could even smell William Rathbone, the unwashed mix of sweat, of urine-soiled clothes, her foul grandfather – father! She could not stay here, not in her head, being touched like that, like he touched her, even though Tony explored her gently and with love. No one should touch you there . . . She could not tolerate it. It was as if in her head she had disappeared somewhere else entirely.
‘You all right, darlin’?’ he asked, gasping. He was aware of her withdrawal, but was too excited to make sense of it. He gave a moan, moving over her. ‘Oh God, just let me, will you? You’re too much for me . . . Lift your legs . . .’
She held him as he lost himself urgently inside her, reaching his release in seconds with a strained cry. All she could think was what a strange business, and how detached she was, not being able to feel any emotion, or enter into it. She didn’t hold it against him. His own pleasure pleased her, the sight of his urgent frame moving over her, his sinking into her arms afterwards.
He nuzzled her neck as he came to, his warm breath on her skin.
‘Oh Molly – my Molly.’ He raised himself on one elbow, and was looking down at her. Her face was hidden in shadow, and she was glad. ‘You’re a marvel . . .’ He hesitated. ‘But you . . . ? Was it . . . ?’ He stopped, looking puzzled.
‘It was lovely,’ she reassured him, stroking his back. It wasn’t his fault, that much she knew. ‘First time and everything. I love you – you were lovely.’
When he had withdrawn from her he reached round, looking for the bottles.
‘Damn – dunno where I’ve put them. I’ll get the torch.’ There was a cone of light for a moment. ‘Ah – down here.’
Switching the torch off, he passed her a bottle and Molly drank, then they lay cuddled up in the hay, the last light of day dwindling outside. Tony gave a contented sigh, and Molly was happy now. This warm cuddling and closeness was what she needed. She lay with her head on his chest, her hand stroking his belly, with its thin line of hairs.
‘That’s the only soft bit of you,’ she said.
She felt laughter ripple through him. ‘I should hope so.’
‘When it’s all over . . .’ he began a moment later. So many conversations these days began like that, with dreams of the future, of a normal life.
‘What if we don’t win?’ she interrupted. ‘What if the country’s full of Germans?’
‘Maybe they’ll still need fishermen. Anyway, Churchill won’t let us lose, that’s what my mum says. She think’s Churchill’s up there with St Anthony and the Holy Family.’
‘We don’t seem to be winning much at the moment,’ Molly said. It was always bad news, warships being sunk like the Hood and the Bismarck, losing Crete and Tobruk.
‘But we’ll still be together, won’t we? Man and wife. We’ll rent us a house down here, and I’ll go fishing, and we’ll have . . . how many kids, eh?’
‘Four,’ Molly said firmly, thinking of Em’s family. When things were good in the Brown household, it was where Molly wished she had grown up. Then a terrifying thought forced her up. ‘You don’t think I could have a babby now – after what we . . . ?’
‘Nah – shouldn’t think so. Takes a while, doesn’t it?’
‘I s’pose . . .’ She had no idea, but lay down, choosing to be comforted. Of course she wasn’t going to have a baby.
They lay talking for a time, about the Blitz, how it had been for each of their families.
‘I still worry about them,’ Tony said. ‘London still gets it off and on. It was bloody terrible, the worst of it. One of those incendiaries came through our roof one night – thank God Mum had got a sand bucket ready. And at least we’ve got a cellar, not like some, all in public shelters and down the Underground. The pits. We could just be family even if it was cramped. Feels very quiet out here in the wilds, doesn’t it, another world? As if it’s not really happening. Where did your family go?’
‘They never bother. Dad can’t walk, see.’ ‘Dad’ – what else could she call Joe?
‘What – they just chanced it?’
‘Yeah. Think so.’ She didn’t want to talk about them. ‘And they weren’t the only ones . . .’ Instead, she told him about Mr and Mrs Button, how kind they had been to her, what had happened, until she was sobbing.
‘She was like a mom to me – she kept an eye on me. My mother’s cruel, she’s no good. But Mrs Button took me in and looked after me.’
Tony held her tightly, stroking her. ‘Blimey.’ She could tell he was shocked, moved. He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll look after you, babe. Promise.’
‘I know you will.’ She kissed his chest, then shivered. Her head was beginning to ache. She wiped her face on her tunic, which she had discarded nearby. ‘It’s getting cold. I s’pose we’ll have to go.’
‘We’ll come back here though. It’ll be our place, won’t it?’
He reached round for the torch so that they could find their clothes, and planted it in one of the bales of hay, at an angle, so they could dress easily. As he stood up, the light fell across him.
‘Tony!’ Molly said, staring. She knew she’d felt something strange. ‘What’s that – on your back?’
He turned to face her.
‘No – turn round again.’
‘Oh,’ he said airily, his back to her. ‘That.’
‘Who in the hell did that to yer?’
His buttocks and lower back were streaked with the scars of deep welts.
Tony rubbed his hand over them. ‘Oh – my slug trails. I told you.’ His tone was light, sardonic. ‘Those religious paragons at that school.’
‘Bloody hell, Tony – I thought they were, well, priests and that?’
‘Some were, not all of them. But most of ’em were twisted perverts, I can tell you.’
He pulled his clothes on. ‘Sod ’em, that’s all. Past history.’
‘I mean, we all got knocked about, but that. . . !’
‘Yeah – well that’s how we learned about our loving Jesus.’
‘Christ.’
‘Yes, that’s him. Ten out of ten.’
‘But your mom and dad – did they know?’
He looked at her as if she was mad. ‘No – of course not. Look, I don’t think you understand. My mother thinks priests are gods almost. You don’t criticize them – not to her. They know all the answers and that’s that. And Dad – well, he just follows her lead. I told you – they’re good Catholics. If the Church says black is white, you say it too.’
‘Oh, sweetheart . . .’ He stood stiffly as she held him, full of fierce sorrow at his bitterness. For a moment he was rigid, angry, then he relented and kissed her back.
‘We’ve got each other now,’ he said. ‘You and me, Molly. That’s what counts.’
‘Yes—’ She hugged him, fierce with love. ‘You and me.’
Twenty-Two
Molly wanted to slow down time. The end of July meant that Tony would be leaving the camp, his battery would be re-posted – they did not know where. Although she was longing for that time to come because they were hoping to have some leave together, after that, when would she ever see him? The thought was almost unbearable.
Ruth’s three-week Kiné training course in Wales had ended and she had gone. Molly was relieved. Ruth despised her, she knew, and she was a snooty reminder of her early ATS days, when she had found it so hard to fit in. Honor was still there, but she was a different kettle of fish altogether.
One lunchtime she came into the mess to collect her food, chatting to one of the other ATS girls in the line. It was a scrag
-end stew that day, and Molly had to admit, it didn’t look inviting. She was very unfussy about food, but even she didn’t fancy eating it! There were groans and disparaging comments when everyone caught sight of the greyish bony mess and the grey boiled potatoes to go with it.
‘I say,’ one of the new Kinnys quipped, ‘perhaps we’ve all been sent off to a prisoner of war camp by mistake?’
‘Ha, ha,’ Molly said dryly. Along the line she saw Honor coming towards her, laughing. She seemed so different these days, so much stronger, more definite in herself.
‘Hello, Molly!’ she greeted her. Even her voice was firmer. ‘Hey—’ She leaned over the counter, talking almost in a whisper. ‘Guess who’s turned up?’
Enjoying this, Molly hissed back, ‘Who, then?’
‘The Gorgon!’
Molly drew back. ‘You’re having me on!’
‘No – she’s here all right. And she’s been promoted. Sergeant in charge of General Duties ATS – you, in other words!’
‘Flipping ’eck,’ Molly grimaced. ‘That’s a turn up for the books!’
‘Yes, well, quite!’ Honor laughed at her expression. ‘I knew you’d be pleased!’
‘Oh well – I don’t s’pose she’ll remember me, any’ow.’
Smiling, Honor picked up her mess tins of grey gloop without complaint. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t count on it, Molly!’
Molly felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness at the thought that Phoebe Morrison was around somewhere in the camp. It wasn’t long before she ran into her. Later that afternoon, in the distance she caught sight of the unmistakable dumpy, determined figure of her new sergeant stumping along one of the paths. Molly’s heart started to beat faster. She had a strong, childish longing to be noticed. The two of them coincided at one of the corners, which were marked with large, whitewashed stones. Nervously, Molly glanced at her. Don’t be stupid, she told herself. She’s trained hundreds of new ATS in her time. You’re nothing special. Why would she remember you?
As they met, Molly gave the required salute and went to walk past.
‘Fox? Is that you?’ The dark eyes scrutinized her.
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ Molly said, blushing.
‘Thought so.’ Her tone was abrupt, as usual, but almost friendly. ‘How’re you getting along?’
‘All right, Sergeant. Thank you.’
‘Good – what’re you doing here – cook?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Well the messing here is dreadful. I’m sure some pigs are faring better. Not that I can blame you single-handedly for that, since you’re not even cooking for me.’
‘No, Sergeant.’
A hint of a smile twitched at Phoebe Morrison’s lips.
‘Jolly good. Dismiss.’
Molly departed, relieved not to be in trouble for anything.
‘Pigs,’ she grumbled. The pig bins behind the kitchen contained the slop of all the leftovers. Nothing was to go to waste. ‘Bet they show a bit more gratitude an’ all.’
She soon saw Phoebe Morrison again, to request leave.
‘You don’t seem to have any leave on record that’s been taken,’ the sergeant said. ‘No leave after basic training?’
‘No, Sergeant.’
Molly stood bolt upright in front of the desk in the gloomy hut, her heart beating hard. She had to have leave – just had to! What if the Gorgon turned her down?
‘Did you not want to go home, Fox?’
‘No.’
Sergeant Morrison waited, staring up piercingly at her as if expecting an explanation for this aberrant behaviour, but none was forthcoming. ‘I see,’ she said at last, looking down at the ledger in front of her. ‘Well, we can spare you for three days, I’m sure. The cooking couldn’t possibly be any worse in your absence . . .’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
‘That was not a compliment.’
‘I know, Sergeant.’
A twinkle came into Phoebe Morrison’s eyes. ‘I’m beginning to think you have a sense of humour, Fox.’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’ For goodness’ sake, Molly thought, stop beating about the bush and tell me if I’ve got leave or not!
‘Right – well, you can have three days, beginning on the thirty-first. Back by the end of the weekend. Come to me for a travel warrant before you go.’
Molly’s heart soared, her face breaking into a grin.
‘Oh ta, Sergeant – I mean – thank you ever so much!’
Phoebe Morrison watched Molly’s exuberant figure almost skipping out of the hut, no doubt to go and tell some young beau that she could join him. Her amusement was tinged with considerable envy. How nice to be the sort of girl who ever had a young beau! Phoebe Morrison was not, and had never been, that sort of girl. Even man she seemed to get along with never asked her out or showed interest in any other way. They treated her more like one of them, which she knew was her own fault, but she couldn’t seem to do any different. She was too gruff and off-putting with them.
Standing up, she closed the ledger in front of her and got ready to busy herself with the mind-boggling muddle that the quartermaster seemed to have got into. Thank heavens for the army, she thought. Molly Fox wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to pay visits home. And the army had got her out of that dead-end clerical job that she had seen herself stuck in for the rest of her miserable life – marriage not a likely rescue. It had given her something to do, something with a purpose. And thank goodness again that they’d sent her out here, away from London, or anywhere within easy reach of home, with its invalid smells, Father’s silences, and Uncle Horace.
She tidied a few things – pens, blotter, ink – putting off the next job. The girls under her command often unsettled her, but none more so than Molly Fox. There was something about the girl that was – naked, that was it! The way she was large, exuberant, astonishingly handsome (more than just sweet and pretty, the girl was handsome), sexual in a raw way, but also an intensely vulnerable person, was deeply unsettling to Phoebe Morrison. The girl made her feel powerfully envious and protective all at once. She must keep an eye out and see who the chap was that she was seeing – check what type he was. She tutted at herself. If he was unsuitable, what exactly did she think she was going to do about it? Molly Fox was evidently far more worldly than she was in that department.
Leaning against the desk, she mused for a moment, seeing a cluster of lads in uniforms running past, packs on their backs. They were undergoing punishment for something. Her mouth twisted sardonically. She hoped it hurt them.
She thought about Molly, rushing off eagerly to her chap, somewhere in the camp. Men. Men. The staircase up to Uncle Horace’s attic – ‘We’ll have our game of chess now, Phoebe’ – the fusty green travel rug on his bed, its tassels tickling her nose as he pressed her down, shuddering, on her front. She still didn’t know how to play chess. If only Mother hadn’t been so ill, everything would have been different. That was the only attention from men she was ever likely to get.
Twenty-Three
‘You have told them, you promise me?’
Tony chuckled, reaching up to her as she climbed out of the carriage at Paddington. ‘How many times’ve you asked me that already?’ He took her hand, squeezing it, swinging his canvas bag over his other shoulder. ‘Of course I’ve told them. I’m coming home with my fiancee. I sent them a wire.’
‘Well that doesn’t mean they’re happy about it,’ Molly said uneasily. She clutched her bag tightly to her. ‘It’s a bit sudden for them. They might not like me. They’ll think I’m rough . . .’
Tony stopped abruptly, causing a man behind him to curse at him, and pulled Molly close, an intense expression in his eyes.
‘Look – they’re not like that. They’re nice – they like people and they’ll like you, honest! If you tell our ma that you’re prepared to “go over to Rome”, as they say’ – this was said in a satirical tone – ‘they’ll love you for ever.’
Molly’s butterflies calmed a li
ttle. ‘You sure?’
‘Yes. Now come on!’
She started to relax, looking round her to take in the busy spectacle of the station, with its elegant arched roof. Among the crowds, a large number were wearing khaki like them, and everyone seemed to be in a hurry. She drew in a deep breath, coal dust and cigarettes mingled with the summer air.
‘I’m so glad I joined up!’ she said, with sudden passion. Tony looked round at her. ‘If I hadn’t, I’d still be stuck in that factory, those same old streets. And now I’ve seen so many other things, the sea and all these places, and I’d never’ve met you, would I?’
Again, his arm pressed hers and he smiled. ‘No – thank God you did.’
Everything felt exciting. Next came the new experience of the Underground, the mysterious, rumbling journey, then flowing out with the crowd, back up the steps and into the sunlit street. Tony laughed at her shocked expression.
‘See – it’s not that glamorous, is it?’
She had still had a dream in her mind, a city made of pearl. Instead, all around her were blackened buildings, their profiles broken by bombsites, and a sense of squalor and neglect. Very like home, in fact. Except the scale of it was bigger, and grander.
‘God,’ she said, dismayed.
Tony squeezed her arm. ‘See – told you we aren’t posh.’
In a side street, he led her towards a dark little shop with newspapers on racks outside and so many advertisements for Tizer, Oxo, Woodbines, Cadburys and Players Weights in the windows that it was surprising any light got in at all.
‘Here we are – come and say hello to my dad. We live just round the corner.’
The newspaper headlines were all about Russia, Molly noticed. The door was wide open, and inside the shop was very cramped, shelves lined with packets and tins, candles and scrubbing brushes, and racks with all sorts of useful things – string, pins, hooks and eyes, brown paper – and a counter all squeezed in. The shop smelled musty, with a strong whiff of camphor.
Somehow, in a cramped space at the front of the shop, they had found room for a chair, its seat and back covered in aged leather, sagging like an elephant’s skin. Bending over the chair, Molly saw a burly man, and perched on the seat, a boy of about nine. The woman watching from the other side was clearly his mother, since the wisps of hair showing at the edges of her scarf were of the same pale auburn as his.