Molly's Christmas Orphans

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Molly's Christmas Orphans Page 9

by Carol Rivers


  After they gained access to the Commercial Road, the way seemed a little clearer and Molly began to relax. ‘Is Queen Victoria Street close to your headquarters?’ she asked.

  He took his gaze from the road briefly. ‘Not far away. I drive in each day, as my digs are over at Walthamstow.’

  ‘That’s a long way to come.’

  ‘You have to make the effort if you want to be part of the team.’

  ‘Do policemen get special allowances for petrol?’

  ‘It depends what squad you’re in.’

  Molly thought that remark sounded very much like a policeman.

  They resumed their silence again as he navigated the armies of road workers, Civil Defence, firemen and Home Guard.

  Molly stared out at the battered and bruised streets of London. Would the capital ever recover? So many towns and cities of Britain had suffered in the same way, but then she had also heard disturbing reports of the bombing raids by the British air force on Germany in retaliation. It was, she felt, tit for tat, with ordinary people like herself involved in warfare over which they had no control.

  She blinked hard as the nose of the car turned the corner of Poplar High Street and Cotton Street. This was where she would have caught the bus to Aldgate. Houses and shops had been flattened, while others had buckled or had no doors or windows, with wallpaper stripped away as if torn by a giant hand.

  And yet, Molly thought in admiration, people were out and about, scurrying like ants in order to put together the broken city.

  Even before they got to Aldgate, Molly was on the edge of her seat, gripping the dashboard of the vehicle he told her was a Wolseley. She had never been in a police car before. Although this one, she was given to understand, had been requisitioned for service, and was not in the best of conditions.

  The ride had been bumpy and several times the engine had stalled as the policeman tried to pursue a route over the hole-riddled streets. The air was filled with a thick yellow mist and made their journey even more perilous. The signs they were forced to follow often took them in circles. But it was when they arrived at the foot of Ludgate Hill and the car came to a stop that Molly saw the true extent of the bombing.

  Many of the ancient and historic buildings on either side of the road were still on fire. A putrid-smelling fog swirled around the famous dome of St Paul’s and its pinnacle. For a while they sat and stared in silence at the scene before them.

  Workmen were crawling through the ruins and attempting to clear the roads for traffic. People were evacuating the area, pushing carts, prams, barrows, all loaded with what they could salvage. Their children were tagging along, black-faced and tattered, trailing wearily over the rubble and stones. Noisy sirens and whistles joined with the clunk and rattle of machinery, and barring their way was a sign that warned, DANGER. ROAD CLOSED.

  Molly put her hands over her mouth. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

  ‘Up till now I thought there was a chance we might get through,’ said the detective, narrowing his eyes. ‘But it’s clear we shan’t. Wait here while I try to get some information from the road workers over there.’

  She watched him climb out and make his way over the rubble to a group of men working near a crane. Molly looked back to the outline of St Paul’s and marvelled that it was still standing. It was a miracle!

  Detective Constable Longman opened the car door and slid in beside her. ‘I have some rather bad news. There are diversions everywhere from Lombard and Fenchurch Street to Mincing Lane. And perhaps the worst news for you is that Queen Victoria Street was hit pretty badly.’

  Molly took a breath. ‘Did you ask about the Salvation Army headquarters?’

  ‘It seems that the building was one of the casualties.’

  Molly sat back, her body draining of energy. The Salvation Army was her very last hope. Now she would never find Betty and Len.

  ‘Mrs Swift, are you feeling well?’

  ‘It’s just a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘I think I had better find us somewhere to eat and drink.’

  ‘I’d rather you took me home.’

  The detective nodded, and starting the engine of the car, he began to reverse the Wolseley. Very soon they were heading in the other direction and back towards the East End.

  Molly’s head was spinning. Such a cruel twist of fate! And she had come so close! Tears brimmed on her lashes. She took a shaky breath, trying to force them away.

  The policeman glanced at her, then slowly brought the car to a halt once again.

  ‘Why have we stopped?’

  ‘Because I really do think you need a drink. A brandy would be best, but there’s a coffee stall over there. Come on, let’s get some fresh air.’

  Before Molly knew it, he was opening her door and helping her out.

  They sat on rough wooden benches with mugs of hot coffee, in the gassy-smelling air. Around them, the evidence of the bombing repeated itself: buildings still burning and sand and water pails stacked every few yards. People were trying to get back to some kind of normality, as they pushed, pulled or drove their belongings away from the flames.

  Molly sipped the hot coffee and sighed. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘That’s helped.’

  ‘I think this last raid by the Luftwaffe might have been the enemy’s last push over the city for a while.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Keep it under your hat, but our intelligence tells us that Britain has turned out to be a much tougher target than the German High Command supposed. We’ve calculated they’ve lost a lot of bombers and there may be a respite for us until the Axis regroups again.’

  ‘Should you be telling me this?’

  ‘No, perhaps not. But you seem very upset.’

  Molly looked down at her coffee. ‘I am. It was vital I got to Queen Victoria Street. I’ve been searching for two people, members of the Salvation Army, who would take care of Mark and Evie, the children I’m looking after.’

  ‘Where are their parents?’

  ‘Their mother died in the bombing last year and their father is in the merchant navy.’

  The detective nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you knew the parents well?’

  ‘No, not at all. I met Andy Miller in the hospital on the night Dad was hurt. He was there to identify his dead wife.’

  ‘And you offered to take care of his children?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Molly asked, turning her questioning gaze on him. ‘This is war, Detective Constable. Look around us. People have no homes now, they’re desperate, frightened and confused. I have both my home and my livelihood. So it’s up to me to do the very best I can for others.’

  He stared at her for some while before raising an eyebrow. ‘Very commendable. Is that why you took Cissy Brown in too?’

  Molly put down her mug. ‘I’d like to leave now.’

  He looked startled. ‘Please finish your drink. I was just interested.’

  ‘Policemen are always interested,’ Molly said bluntly. ‘But not always for the right motives.’

  ‘We aren’t the enemy, you know. And, if you’ll let me, I can demonstrate the fact.’

  Molly was suspicious. Had he planned to bring her here and get round to asking questions about Cissy? She said nothing, turning the possibility over in her mind. But she was very surprised when he next spoke.

  ‘If you’d like to give me what information you have on these Salvation Army people, I’ll check our records for you. I can’t promise anything and it might not be particularly quick, but I might be able to turn something up.’

  Once again, Molly found herself torn. What should she do? On the one hand her hopes of finding Betty and Len had vanished today, and on the other, there was this new offer of help. Should she take it?

  ‘I can give you their names: Betty and Len Denham, once of the East India Dock Road. I was to meet a Mr Grey this morning, a clerk who would give me their new address.’

  ‘The name is somet
hing to go on. I’ll check with our records office and see what I can find.’ He smiled. ‘I’d like to restore this copper’s reputation.’

  Molly stood up. ‘It’s getting late. I must get back.’ She didn’t want to get too friendly. But she did want to grasp the one last chance she might have of finding the Denhams.

  In the coming weeks, Molly often thought about that day at the coffee stall. Had she been too quick to judge the policeman? Perhaps he really could help? Or was he just inquisitive? It was very strange, however, that he always dropped Cissy’s name into the conversation.

  As the days passed, her doubts were confirmed when he failed to show up. She knew she had been naive to tell him what she had. Though there was one thing he had told her that had turned out to be right. The nightly invaders had not returned in force, and London was licking its wounds – at least for the time being.

  One morning at the end of the month Molly received a short letter from her father. She’d written to him several times but this was his first reply. ‘I’m not doing so badly,’ she read aloud to Cissy as they stood in the shop:

  A woman comes in to make me exercise. Supposed to do me good, they say. I’ve got my own room and can see out to the garden. There’s doors I can get the wheelchair through. But how I miss home! The newspapers say the blitz is over. But the Hood went down with many lives lost. What next? Write again soon and tell me all your news.

  Love, Dad

  ‘Poor sod,’ remarked Cissy as they waited for the first customer of the morning. ‘Stuck out in the back of beyond.’

  ‘Sidcup’s very pretty.’

  ‘Yeah, but it ain’t the East End.’

  ‘I’d like to go out and visit him.’

  Cissy shrugged. ‘You know I’ll look after the shop. Jean can bring the kids back after school and I’ll give them tea. You could even stay a night with your sister.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  Cissy shrugged as the bell over the door tinkled. ‘Well, it’s up to you.’

  Molly smiled at Liz Howells who plonked her shopping bag on the counter. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘No, what?’ Molly and Cissy said together.

  ‘Our navy’s sunk the unsinkable Bismarck and took revenge for the Hood. Didn’t stand a chance. Over a thousand crew gone to the bottom.’

  ‘War is a dreadful thing,’ Molly said, thinking of Andy. Was he, too, at the bottom of the ocean? Her stomach tightened as she considered the children’s fate. What was to become of them?

  ‘You look a bit peaky, Molly,’ Liz said as Cissy served her.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘How are those two kids? Is there any news of their dad?’

  Molly shook her head.

  ‘What you gonna do if he don’t turn up?’ asked Liz as she gave her ration book to Cissy.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Molly was glad when another customer came in. She hoped the store would be busy today – and then her imagination wouldn’t run riot.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cissy was serving in the shop, hoping she would find time to have a quick fag and a swig from her flask. She didn’t need the drink but it was comforting. Not that Molly would have approved. Still, Molly wasn’t likely to be back till after teatime. At least she hadn’t had to bother with trains or coaches. That snotty-nosed Oscar had called to collect her in his posh car. He hadn’t even bothered to get out, but kept the engine running as he waited.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ said a newly registered customer who had been into the shop several times before. ‘Lovely weather for June, ain’t it?’

  ‘So they tell me.’ Cissy placed her hands in a businesslike fashion on the counter. ‘Now, what’s it to be?’

  ‘Give us a bit of kindling, will you? Me bloody fire keeps going out. It’s the nutty slack that does it. Makes a terrible stink.’

  ‘You don’t need a fire in June, chum,’ Cissy retorted as she went to find a bundle of wood.

  ‘Wait till you’re old and decrepit like me. You’ll need a fire up your arse every day.’

  Cissy laughed at the language and returned to the counter. ‘Anything else?’ She pushed the wood across the surface.

  ‘What you got to offer?’

  ‘You cheeky bugger. Nothing. At least not what you’re thinking about.’

  One light-blue eye, slightly lower and almost crossed with the other, twinkled at her. ‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’

  ‘It’s written all over your ugly mug.’

  He laughed loudly and pushed back his navy-blue cap. ‘Can’t help me good looks, sweetheart. God threw the mould away after he made me.’

  Cissy liked a bit of banter and when this customer came in, she got it in full. He was a lot older than her, but not too old. Probably in his mid forties. So there’d be about twelve years or so between them. It was a long time since she’d had a laugh with a bloke who could take insults in his stride. He never bought much, though, and she had a feeling he only called by to give her a bit of aggro. Once or twice he’d had a small dog at his heels, a rough-looking terrier that seemed to be watching her every move.

  ‘Well, cough up,’ she demanded. ‘I can’t waste me time gossiping with you.’

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, dropping a shilling on the counter. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘I’ll get rich on that, won’t I?’ Cissy rang it up and threw the pennies back at him. ‘Not enough for a pint, even.’

  ‘I could make it enough.’ The smiling, blue-eyed cockney tilted his head. ‘What about a quick one at the Quarry after you finish?’

  Cissy’s smile faded. She’d thought he was a bit different. But no, all the chat was just to pull a stroke. ‘No, thanks. Now bugger off.’

  ‘What have I said?’

  ‘Too much, that’s what.’

  ‘How many more bloody bundles of kindling do I have to buy to get you to come out with me?’

  ‘Save yer breath and yer lolly, chum. Now clear off.’

  The man studied her with exasperation. ‘You’re a hard nut to crack. I thought we was having a laugh.’

  ‘You thought wrong. Now, do I have to walk you to the door?’

  Her customer grinned. ‘Yes, please.’

  Cissy stared angrily at him. Then, marching round the counter and to the door, she tugged it open. ‘Out!’

  He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Blimey, what an offer!’

  Cissy pointed, mouthing the word again. She watched him walk out, tip his cap and bow ceremoniously. She noticed he had thick black curly hair, and though he was several inches shorter than her, he appeared to be a decent shoulder size as he took off his duffel jacket, swung it over his shoulder and strolled off whistling, with the kindling under his arm.

  ‘Bloody men,’ Cissy muttered, nevertheless studying the swagger and blushing as he turned back to catch her gaze.

  Ten minutes later she was drinking from the flask when the rear door creaked. She hurriedly pushed the drink into her apron pocket as a tall figure entered the room.

  She jumped back, fearful of who it might be.

  Then her mouth opened in shocked surprise as a familiar face greeted her.

  ‘Strike a light, I must be seeing things!’ Cissy gawped at the man, who she had last seen sporting a full beard and long overdue a haircut. He was now clean-shaven, and his dark hair was cut short to his scalp. His face was lean and his dark eyes looked almost black. But all in all, Andy Miller was still very much alive and kicking.

  ‘Hello, Cissy.’ He swung his kit bag to the floor and stood with his hands stuffed in his navy seaman’s jacket.

  Cissy sniffed loudly. ‘So you ain’t swimming with the fishes?’

  ‘No. Is that what you thought?’

  ‘What else, mate?’ Cissy scoffed. ‘Not a bloody word in six months.’

  ‘Where’s Molly? Where’s the kids?’ he asked, ignoring her comment.

  ‘Molly’s off seeing her dad at her sister’s and won’t be back till
later. The kids are at school.’

  ‘At school?’ He frowned, looking around him. ‘When will they be home?’

  ‘Dunno. Jean’s giving them tea today.’ Cissy put her hands on her hips. ‘Why ain’t you sent word to Molly?’

  ‘Couldn’t,’ he shrugged, just as a customer walked in.

  ‘Well, you’d better go up and help yerself to a brew,’ Cissy told him off-handedly. ‘You look like something the cat dragged in.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’

  ‘But don’t go snooping around while I’m not there.’

  To Cissy’s surprise, he laughed and said as he turned to go, ‘You ain’t changed, Cissy, not a bit. Tongue as sharp as me razor. They should put you on the wireless to frighten the enemy.’

  For once Cissy was speechless, although she managed to hide her smile as she served her customer.

  Molly had just eaten a lavish meal, or so it seemed, as farm-fresh eggs were so scarce – except in Sidcup, so Oscar had said. Lyn had served an omelette, yellow as butter, and fluffy, with a slice of cheese. Molly now felt very guilty. Cissy, Evie and Mark had shared two eggs several weeks ago and thought it the height of luxury.

  Now, as she sat with her father, sister and brother-in-law in their newly decorated sitting room, which Lyn explained had suffered with the decorator’s use of inferior wartime utility paint, Molly gazed at the comfortable sofa and matching chairs.

  The suite was covered in a floral material that cleverly reflected the view of the garden outside, through the large windows. The scattered rugs were placed strategically. Not an inch of rough brown lino could be seen. Her father’s room had been similarly decorated, and his bed faced the spacious patio outside where he escaped to smoke his pipe. Smoking was prohibited indoors, he had confided.

  ‘How far can you walk now, Dad?’ Molly asked as they drank tea from bone china cups.

  ‘Oh, quite far, love.’ He gave a sly wink to Molly which she translated as a slight exaggeration. ‘Mrs James likes a circuit of the garden every day.’

  Molly remembered that Mrs James was the physical therapist. ‘That’s very good,’ she said encouragingly.

 

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