Aw, man. He shook his head now, angry at himself. Life was good here, he had fallen on his feet, and he’d be stark staring barmy to throw it all away and go back. Ten to one she was married to Shane McLinnie, she might even have had a bairn or two now despite all her fancy talk of what she wanted out of life. Talk, it had all been talk - women were good at saying one thing and meaning another. And he knew a bit about women now, certainly a darn sight more than when he had left Sunderland at any rate. But none of them had meant anything, not even the first, a little sloe-eyed beauty who had crept into his bed one night in his date-picking days when her husband was away.
Damn it! He threw the bowl down onto a large rectangular piece of wood that served as a table where it spun crazily for a few seconds before coming to a shuddering halt. How did you get someone out of your head and your bones? He had tried, heaven knew he had tried, but that dark-eyed, pale-complexioned ghost refused to go.
If he had known then what he knew now things would have been different. The sun was beating down on his uncovered head, its heat considerable, but Davey was back in Sunderland on a cold snowy winter’s night. He should have moved heaven and earth to take her away from Shane McLinnie, played him at his own game, done whatever it took. Rosie had been like a lamb to the slaughter, that was the truth of it, and what had he done? Skedaddled off in a fit of wounded pride. He had been a fool. He’d left the gate wide open for McLinnie, damn it.
He raised his head sharply, his face - which looked a good deal older than his twenty-three years - grim and tight. He would go back. He had known all along that he would go back, hadn’t he, and it was time. Aye, it was time all right. But he was a different person to the young, bigoted northerner who had never ventured further than South Shields; he had changed. And no doubt Rosie would have changed too.
His eyes narrowed but his mind was made up. Whatever, this stage of his life was over and he had known it for some time, but first he had to tell Mohamed and that wouldn’t be easy. The old man had been good to him at a time when he had desperately needed it, and they had become close. He would stay until Mohamed found someone to take his place, but not a day longer. He was going home.
Chapter Eleven
‘What do you mean, she’s gone?’ Rosie had just got in from work and had had to battle her way home through frozen streets where the wind cut through you like a knife, and the little particles of ice in the wind had stung her face raw. And that after a day of gloom and doom when everyone had been feeling so low due to the terrible Scotswood disaster. Even Sally had been subdued, which was saying something, Rosie thought ruefully. With the older girl’s wedding day approaching at the end of April, Sally had been irrepressible the last few weeks. Even Mr Green had been helpless the other morning when Sally had serenaded the lads and lasses who had come to take the deliveries with a rendition of ‘Fascinating Rhythm’ whilst jigging about doing her own version of the Charleston. But the Scotswood flooding was awful, terrible, and when they’d announced yesterday that all hope was abandoned of rescuing the thirty-five men in the waterlogged mine in Newcastle twenty miles away, it seemed like the whole of Tyne and Wear had gone into mourning. And it had made her think of her da and the lads. And then she’d thought of Davey . . .
Rosie forced her mind back to Hannah as she realized she hadn’t received an answer to her question, and then, as Hannah’s face crumpled, she quickly drew her sister to her, saying again, ‘What do you mean, hinny? Where’s she gone?’ as another part of her mind, a quite separate, deeper part said, No, no, not that, not again. She wouldn’t put us all through that again.
The last two years had been turbulent ones for Rosie. Oh, not on the outside - on the outside life had gone on as it always had. She had continued working at the Co-op, taking more and more responsibility when it was offered to her until it was generally acknowledged she was Mr Green’s right-hand man, something her eleven- or twelve-hour working day reflected, along with her increased wage packet. But Rosie didn’t mind the long hours on her feet or the hard work, in fact rarely a day passed that she didn’t thank the Almighty for that portentous morning in March five years ago when she had first set foot inside the Store.
She loved her job: the warm and friendly feel that was a hallmark of the Co-op’s dealings with staff and customers alike; the way shoppers felt comfortable to stand about and gossip in what was virtually a meeting place for many housewives; the company of Sally and the other staff, and even delivery and divvy days when they were all rushed off their feet. And events like the local flower show or the Hendon carnival at Hendon Burn, when all the staff would get together and dress up some of the delivery carts and cart horses - Damsel and Daisy being two firm favourites - and turn themselves into harlequins or Red Indians and the like, were pure magic.
And in her spare time there were the weekly excursions to the cinema with Flora and Sally to look forward to, or sometimes the three girls treated themselves to cream cakes and a pot of tea at Binns cake shop and restaurant in Fawcett Street. And once or twice - on the rare occasions they felt they could afford it - they would take the horse cab in Thomas Street to the Winter Garden. Rosie didn’t know what she enjoyed most out of those times, being driven along in the cab by the driver who sat in the front, the rim of his top hat worn and thin so the yellow cardboard underneath was visible, or the hours spent at the Winter Garden when they would wander, arm-in-arm, round the beautiful turreted glass conservatory and view the tropical plants and flowers, the aviary and the pond full of goldfish.
Her other evenings were spent either at her little treadle sewing machine, bought from Turner’s pawn shop, making the family’s clothes and brightening up the two rooms with pretty new curtains, covers and cushions, or in Zachariah’s sitting room. His latest tuition had been a study of Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, and Rosie had ached at the tragedy of The Knight’s Tale, and found herself somewhat shocked at the bawdiness of The Miller’s Tale, much to Zachariah’s secret amusement.
Along with Chaucer, they had followed and discussed in depth the ignominious demise of Britain’s first Labour government in 1924 under Ramsay MacDonald which had survived for just ten months, Zachariah insisting that Labour’s ship had been scuttled deliberately by foul play by the Conservative Party whom he hated with a vengeance. ‘The country’ll regret gettin’ rid of ’em, you mark my words, lass. Look at the McLinnie lads, standin’ idle on street corners along with some of Sunderland’s finest, an’ the shipyards sinkin’ deeper an’ deeper, an’ the mines an’ all. The dole queues are the only things that are thrivin’ these days. Aye, the writin’s on the wall plain for everyone to read, we’re runnin’ headlong into disaster.’
Rosie agreed with him, but in stark contrast to the increasing number of unemployed beginning to gather at every street corner and swelling the soup kitchens, she had never been busier. She washed the family’s clothes and bedding and endeavoured to keep her mother and the girls looking clean and well turned-out in the continual fight against poverty, and she fought alone, as Jessie declined further into apathy and drunkenness.
Rosie had hoped with all her heart that the incident which had occurred when Molly was thirteen would shock both her sister and her mother into changing their ways, and with Molly all the outward signs would indicate that this was so. But try as she might - and Rosie did try - she just couldn’t bring herself to believe that the pliable and amenable girl who had materialized in her sister’s frame the morning after the rescue - and after Rosie had followed her instincts and burnt the eiderdown and the white lace dress - was for real. She’d paid a visit to the East End to see what she could uncover when Molly had refused to reveal anything of what had occurred in the previous twenty-four hours, but she had been too late. Ronnie Tiller had done a moonlight flit and left owing her grandmother several weeks’ rent. It was an unsatisfactory conclusion to a deeply disturbing series of events, but there was nothing more that could be done, in view of Molly’s insistence that nothing had happen
ed at Charlie Cullen’s establishment and that she was perfectly all right.
But something that stemmed from that night’s happenings continued to cause Rosie more disquiet than everything else put together. And she couldn’t talk about it to anyone, not even Flora, much as she would have liked to. It had happened in those few seconds before she had left Zachariah’s sitting room, when she had taken his hands and looked deep into the piercing blue eyes. It was as though all the unsettling feelings she had been having for months had crystallized in one heart-jolting moment and she had understood, as she’d mentioned Janie’s name, why the thought of the other woman had bothered her so much. She liked him. She liked him very much, and not just as a friend or companion either. It had sent her scurrying upstairs in a state of panic at the time and she had lain awake most of the night convincing herself she was mistaken. But she wasn’t. And he viewed her as - what? A friend? A pupil? Worse, someone in need of his charity? And even worse than that, a daughter substitute?
In the following weeks she had been alert for anything - a gesture, a look, his tone of voice - that might indicate he felt something for her beyond friendly affection, but there had been nothing. And lately, in the last few months, she had given up looking. She’d tried to tell herself that what she felt was deep gratitude, but then, when she considered the circumstances of that night and the fact that he might have been hurt rescuing Molly, she knew it was more than that. She didn’t know if it was love, exactly - if it was, it was nothing like the seesaw of ecstasy and pain she had felt for Davey - but it certainly wasn’t mere gratitude or friendship either. It confused her, it bewildered her, but such was the feeling that it induced her to refuse the tentative advances of other lads, who appeared little more than bairns beside Zachariah. She wanted to meet someone; Sally had Mick, and Flora was halfheartedly courting Peter Baxter now, but the thought of seeing someone just for the sake of saying she’d got a lad didn’t appeal, even if she had been tempted once or twice lately.
Now, as Hannah remained huddled against her, Rosie said, ‘Have you told Zachariah she’s gone?’
‘No, he’s out, an’ Mam said to wait till you got back anyway. There’s . . . a letter. A little lad delivered it a while back.’
‘A lad?’ Rosie put Hannah from her and looked into the child’s tearstained face. ‘Who? What lad?’
‘I dunno. He just come to the front door an’ Mam said she took the letter an’ he’d gone. It was just afore I got back from school.’
‘All right.’ Rosie straightened her back as though throwing something off. ‘Let’s go and see this letter.’
It was brief and to the point.
I’m going away where you won’t find me, Molly had written in her round, childish scrawl, and I’m not coming back. I’m sorry but I can’t stand it here any more - by this Rosie wasn’t sure if Molly meant Sunderland in general or her home and job as a packer at the kipper-curing house, something the beautiful dainty Molly had loathed since day one in spite of the fact that she had been very fortunate to secure it with the desperate unemployment in the area - and I’ll go mad if I stay. I’m not clever like you, Rosie, and I want nice things before I’m too old. I love you but don’t try to find me. This is for the best, I know it is. Goodbye, Molly.
Goodbye, Molly? Rosie stared at the paper in her hand and then turned to look into the softly lit room she had struggled to make so nice. It felt as though all her efforts over the last few years - the back-breaking hours at the little sewing machine, her scrimping and scraping to give the girls little treats for Christmas and birthday presents, her endeavours to give Molly a pleasant and pretty environment - had been for nothing. She had gone. She wasn’t a little bairn any more and she had chosen to leave, and she had a pretty good idea how Molly was considering getting those nice things of which she had written.
‘I’ve told Hannah Molly’ll be back when it gets dark an’ she’s hungry.’ Jessie was raising a glass of beer to her lips as she spoke and her voice was already slurred. ‘She’s nowt but a bit bairn.’
No power on earth could have stopped what followed. The feeling that boiled up in Rosie was a conglomeration of fury and bitterness and even hate, and it enabled her to speak the words whose very truth made them sword-thrusts into the heart of the woman who had borne her.
‘Don’t you realize what this means? Are you so far gone that all you can see is the bottom of that glass?’ she asked weightily as she walked across the room to stand in front of her mother’s chair. ‘She’s gone and she isn’t coming back, Mam. She has planned this. And she is no bairn, not Molly.’
‘What are you sayin’?’
‘You know what I am saying.’
‘May God forgive you! Aye, may the good Lord forgive you because I won’t. To say that our Molly, your own sister, could . . . Aw, I can’t say it. It would foul me lips.’
‘You stupid, stupid woman.’ Rosie was speaking quietly but her voice was heavy with such despair that it caused Jessie’s bloodshot eyes to open wide. ‘All that with Ronnie, the money and everything. Why do you think a man like that would give her money? But you wouldn’t accept it, would you, and not because of Molly. No, you were frightened that if you faced what she was up to it would interfere with your drinking yourself silly every night, and nothing must come in the way of that. Why do you think I’ve tried to keep such a check on her the last few years? Because I wanted to spoil her fun, is that it? She wasn’t having fun, Mam. And all the times I’ve talked to you and you have made excuses for her has led to this.’
Rosie flung her arm wide as she pointed to the window. ‘She is out there somewhere and she isn’t coming back. Oh, it’s no good talking to you! Drink yourself to death if that’s what you are bent on.’
She turned away and as she did so Hannah, who had been standing just inside the room, ran to her saying, ‘Rosie, Rosie, get her back. Oh, Rosie, please get her back.’
What would all this do to Hannah? Oh, she shouldn’t have gone for her mother like that in front of her. The guilt that swamped Rosie extinguished the fury, and she hugged the child tight to her, muttering soothing endearments into the small head as they swayed together in the middle of the room.
This wasn’t like before. It was a full minute later and there had been neither sound nor movement from the chair by the fire. Molly had made her decision, but she had to at least try to see her and talk to her, even if it was useless. Rosie’s glance took in the grey hen propped at the side of the rocking chair and she said quietly, as she put Hannah from her, ‘Look after Mam for a bit, hinny, all right? I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
It was gone midnight, and after her visit to Zachariah’s sitting room when she had asked him to make enquiries about Molly, Rosie had returned upstairs and dished up a dinner no one had eaten before putting Hannah to bed. She had said very little to her mother and her mother had said nothing to her, but neither had she taken another drink.
Rosie heard Zachariah return from his excursion into that other twilight world he had some understanding of just as the mantelpiece clock struck the half hour, and after a quick, ‘That’s Zachariah back, I’ll go and see if he has any news,’ which her mother acknowledged with an inclination of her head, she ran downstairs.
The door to his sitting room was open and he was waiting for her. He looked weary, weary and sad, as he waved his hand for her to be seated whilst saying, ‘Your mam an’ Hannah asleep?’
‘Hannah is. My mam’s still up, she wanted to wait for news.’
He raised his eyebrows at this, and Rosie said quietly, ‘She’s very upset, Zachariah. I shouldn’t have said all that earlier.’ She had related the conversation word for word when she had shown him Molly’s note and he had made no comment then, but what he said now was, ‘I disagree, lass, it was long overdue, besides which you are only flesh an’ blood,’ before he flung himself down in one of the armchairs by the fire, its bright warmth cheering after the icy cold and bitter wind outside.
‘You
look frozen, I’ll get you a hot drink.’
‘No, leave it.’ As she made to rise from the sofa the tone of his voice stopped her in her tracks, and she was conscious of thinking, I don’t want to hear this, I really don’t want to hear this, as she sank down again without another word and faced him, her hands clasped in her lap and her back straight.
‘I think I’d better tell you straight out, lass.’ And then he paused as though in refutation of his statement before he continued, ‘It’s what we suspected after that note. She was seen earlier, this mornin’ in fact, down at the quayside.’ ‘The same place you found her before,’ said Rosie flatly.
‘Aye. It appears she was knockin’ ’em up or that’s what it looked like. They sleep late in them places. But it must’ve bin her an’ she caused quite a stir by all accounts. Anyway, she was in there an hour or two an’ then out she comes with Charlie an’ a couple of the lasses an’ off they all went. None of ’em have bin back since.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘No one knows. Charlie’s got a good few broth--’ A moment’s hesitation and then, ‘Houses dotted around.’ Zachariah could have kicked himself for the slip.
Brothels. He had been going to say brothels and Molly was in one of those places. It was one thing to suspect the worst, it was quite another to have it confirmed so baldly, and now she was thinking of her da and the lads and saying in her mind, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’ve let you all down. Oh, Da . . .
Reach for Tomorrow Page 17