Molly's Christmas Orphans

by Carol Rivers

  Molly put the cup and saucer on the small bedside cabinet and gently shook her father’s shoulder.

  ‘Wakey, wakey, Dad.’

  One eye opened slowly under a bushy grey eyebrow. ‘Molly!’ He slowly sat up in his striped pyjamas, looking around him.

  ‘Well, bless my soul,’ he said, as if seeing the room for the first time.

  Molly lit the paraffin heater she had borrowed from Jean, then drew up one of the wooden chairs from the front room. ‘Happy Christmas, Dad.’ She kissed his cheek and he sighed as he gazed around him.

  ‘Happy Christmas, love. I can’t believe I’m home.’ He rubbed his eyes and looked around again as if he couldn’t take in what he saw. ‘Whoever would believe this? Where’s all the stock gone?’

  ‘Most of it we put on the new shelves Spot fitted in the shop. The remainder we’ve stored outside in the shed of the bicycle factory.’

  ‘Won’t it get nicked?’

  ‘Dennis put a lock on the door.’

  Bill grinned. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble. I wish your sister could see it.’

  ‘I hope Lyn and the kids won’t miss you too much.’

  ‘Doubt it. They’ve got enough family and friends to keep them occupied.’

  ‘Even so, I never thought you’d be here on Christmas Day.’

  Her thoughts went to last night and Oscar’s big car arriving outside the shop. He’d seemed very gloomy when they’d both helped Bill out, who was, not very effectively, trying to use a walking stick. Her brother-in-law paused only to give Molly the packages Lyn had sent, leaving swiftly with the comment that it was a great disappointment they couldn’t all be together on the most important day of the year.

  ‘Look, you’ve even got Mum’s photo on the shelf!’ exclaimed Bill.

  ‘Yes, and Cissy’s put all your personal effects over there by the commode.’

  ‘Where did you get that from? Buckingham Palace? It looks like a bloody throne!’

  Molly laughed. ‘We borrowed it from Mr Stokes’s supplies.’

  ‘Does the whole neighbourhood know I’m home?’

  ‘The customers will all be in to see you after Boxing Day.’

  ‘Oh, Molly, life is back to normal again. Why, you’ve even got a whopping big table over there with your mother’s chenille cloth and all them little decorations with our names on.’

  ‘Evie and Mark insisted on doing the drawings for you.’

  ‘They’re lovely kids, Molly. Gave me a right royal welcome. And that Cissy, well, she’s salt of the earth. Said she’s keeping me bed warm upstairs for me, the cheeky maid.’

  Molly sighed contentedly. They’d enjoyed a wonderful evening together last night before Bill had retired to bed. As Molly had anticipated, Bill and Cissy and the children had got on like a house on fire.

  ‘Ah, you don’t know how I’ve longed to be back,’ Bill confided as he drank his tea. ‘I miss the Smoke something rotten.’

  ‘As soon as you can get up those stairs, there won’t be nothing stopping you from coming home.’

  ‘It’s me hip plays me up, now.’

  ‘Can it be put right?’

  Bill gave her a long, wistful look. ‘We’ll see, love.’

  In the early light of the Christmas morning they sat in contentment; neither of them knew what the future held but Molly thought how special it was to enjoy this moment together.

  ‘What do you think of the new shop window?’ Molly asked eventually.

  ‘It’s better than it was before that bloody bomb dropped,’ Bill said ruefully. ‘But when are they going to fill in the hole in the road?’

  Molly shrugged. ‘There’s so many repairs to be done all over the East End. I suppose they’ll wait till the war’s over.’

  ‘Could be a few years yet.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, do you think so?’

  ‘Well, at least we’ve got a bit of muscle with the Yanks coming in after the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.’ He took another long and satisfying gulp of tea. ‘Now tell me, have you heard from that young man of yours?’

  ‘Dad, he’s not my young man.’ Molly blushed.

  ‘Well, have it your way. Is he still on the merchant ships?’

  She explained how Andy had been shipwrecked and rescued and how he’d taken the children to Southend. Her dad listened without comment until a smile slowly parted his lips when she told him about her journey to Romford and meeting Roger.

  ‘You’re quite a girl, Molly. The spit of your mother.’

  ‘I wish she was here, Dad.’

  ‘So do I, love. So do I. But I tell you one thing. She’d be the first to take those kids under her wing and help you out. And there’d be no question about their future while their dad was away.’

  ‘I’m so glad you said that,’ Molly replied, feeling relieved. She had taken on a big responsibility in removing them from Len and Betty and Roger’s care. She only hoped that Andy would prefer them to be with her rather than evacuated to strangers.

  ‘Does Andy know his kids are safe?’ her father asked.

  ‘I’ve written and told him. Though when he’ll get the letter I don’t know.’

  Bill nodded thoughtfully. ‘Level with me, girl, this lad means a deal to you, don’t he?’

  Molly couldn’t lie or even pretend. Her dad would see through her straight away. ‘I’m trying to work it out in my head, Dad,’ she told him quietly. ‘I loved Ted dearly, but in a different way. I can’t explain this attachment I have to Andy and his family, even to meself. I don’t know if he’ll survive the war. What will I do then? Lyn says the children need to be found homes – proper homes – by the authorities. But as evacuees they’ll be just two names, sent to people who don’t know them and who might not really care.’

  ‘When this gammy leg of mine is back to normal and I can get up those bleedin’ stairs, I’ll be home like a shot to help you.’

  ‘Can’t wait for the day,’ Molly said, wondering if that day would ever come.

  Christmas was exactly how Molly had imagined it would be. The one exception was that Andy was absent – not that she had held out any hope he would be home for Christmas. But with Evie and Mark there wasn’t a dull moment. Though they didn’t have a tree, as they were so scarce and very expensive, their presents were placed on the table, ready to be opened after Bill was presentable.

  The morning was filled with laughter and excitement, especially when Spot arrived with the chicken, stuffed and ready to be cooked in the oven.

  ‘I suppose it stuffed itself before popping its clogs?’ was Cissy’s wry comment as they all inspected the plump white bird.

  ‘It’s from me cousin’s cousin who’s in the trade,’ replied Spot, tapping the side of his nose.

  Molly thought how smart he looked without his cap for once. His wiry dark hair was newly trimmed and neatly combed, showing his widow’s peak to its best advantage. Wearing a white shirt and trousers, complete with a striped waistcoat, he’d even tucked a red handkerchief in his top pocket. He’d brought bottles of ale too, once again provided by the cousin’s cousin, and enjoyed them with Bill while the women and children went upstairs to cook dinner.

  ‘Can we open our presents now?’ asked Mark as they watched Molly peel the potatoes and scrape the carrots.

  ‘Not till the bird’s in the oven.’

  ‘Where’s its head gorn?’ said Evie, kneeling on the chair and poking her finger into the parson’s nose.

  ‘Watch it don’t bite,’ laughed Cissy as Molly opened a bottle of cheap sherry and poured two glasses full to the brim.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Cissy,’ said Molly, ‘and it is a very happy one for me.’

  ‘I’ll second that. Chin, chin.’

  While the meal was cooking, everyone sat with Bill in the glory hole, with continual refilling of the glasses, and the air became thick from the smoke of Woodbines and the familiar smell of her father’s Three Nuns tobacco.

  ‘Where did you pinch this lot?’ asked Cissy, admirin
g the presents Spot had brought for them: nylons for her, a powder compact for Molly, a tin of Empire Shag for Bill and a game of snap for Mark and Evie.

  ‘I traded with the GIs,’ Spot shrugged innocently. ‘They had a bit of trouble with vermin at their base, so me and Nibbles solved their problem.’

  Molly had heard her customers’ tales of trade between the British and the American GIs at the base just outside the city. It appeared to be true.

  ‘Can we open these?’ asked Mark, gazing at the brown paper parcel on the table with his name written on the top.

  Molly nodded. ‘There’s a surprise for you too, Evie.’

  She watched with pleasure as Mark unwrapped a small red metal fire engine. The paint was a little faded but it had only cost twopence at the market. She knew Mark loved his little car, which he had kept safe all the time he’d been away. Evie, as usual, brought a smile to everyone’s lips, as she shared her chocolate toffee with Nibbles.

  When the Turners arrived, the children went upstairs to play and the serious business of making merry got under way.

  It was while Spot was singing ‘Danny Boy’ that someone knocked on the back door. Thinking it might be Mr Stokes or Liz, Molly was very surprised to find the policeman standing there.

  ‘A merry Christmas,’ Detective Constable Longman said. He looked quite different in a smart dark-blue suit and cheerful tie. ‘The constabulary are distributing these this year to help relations with the community.’ He handed her a white envelope.

  Inside Molly found a cartoon of a snowy policeman, reminding the public that their safety was a matter of the utmost importance, even during the Christmas holidays. ‘Thank you,’ she said politely, ‘but the law don’t need to worry about my safety. As you can hear, I’ve people staying with me and we’re having a family party.’

  He looked over her shoulder curiously.

  ‘Is there anything else you want?’ Molly kept the door closed behind her.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact there is.’

  I knew it! thought Molly, immediately on the defensive. He was after something and had expected to catch her off guard on Christmas Day.

  ‘I thought perhaps you would like to know,’ he said in a smooth tone, ‘that we have apprehended a number of criminals during a West End burglary. One of them is Ronnie Hook, a man we believe was connected to the attack on you and Miss Brown.’

  Molly stared at him. ‘Why should you think that? I’ve no idea who this man is.’

  ‘One of his gang said that Ronnie Hook knew Miss Brown and was after her, and forced him to rough her up.’

  Molly managed to look surprised. But inside she felt like jelly. What did this mean for Cissy?

  ‘Hook and his men have been arrested and charged,’ the detective continued, ‘for running illicit gaming houses and a string of brothels.’

  Molly met the policeman’s stare. Was he trying to trap her? ‘So why should either Cissy or I be interested in this?’

  ‘I just thought you should know.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to see that justice has been done,’ Molly said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘And if this Hook is put away, he’s one less criminal for you to have to catch.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.’

  She stepped back and opened the door a little. The noise of laughter echoed out. ‘I must go now as I’m about to dish up dinner.’

  ‘Is your seafaring friend celebrating with you?’

  ‘Why should you want to know?’

  ‘Just asking, that’s all.’

  Molly stepped back inside. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, without wishing him a happy Christmas. He was still in the yard, snooping around, when Molly closed the door.

  ‘Who was that?’ Cissy asked when Molly walked back in.

  ‘Come upstairs and I’ll tell you.’

  In the kitchen, Molly showed Cissy the card. ‘I forgot to show you this. The copper left it in the shop.’

  ‘That bluebottle? The slimy bugger!’

  ‘Yes, but listen to this. He told me Ronnie’s been arrested for running a string of brothels and bookies.’

  ‘What!’ Cissy’s grey eyes flashed in alarm.

  ‘One of Ronnie’s men confessed to attacking us at the cinema.’

  ‘So I’m rumbled, am I?’ Cissy could only splutter.

  Molly shook her head. ‘Quite the opposite. Think about it carefully, Cissy. They’ve got a loose connection to Cissy Brown, not you – Lena Cole. Ronnie didn’t spill the beans. He couldn’t, unless he wanted to incriminate himself.’

  ‘But Cissy was a pro too.’

  ‘But can the copper prove it? Not on the word of a thug. He’d have arrested you without delay if that was so.’

  ‘Oh, Gawd, so Ronnie’s going down?’

  ‘Yes, we have nothing more to worry about, Cissy. We’re in the clear.’

  Cissy’s eyes filled with tears. She mumbled something then fell into Molly’s arms. Together they jumped up and down until the children heard them and came in to see what the noise was.

  ‘What you two doin’?’ demanded Evie, her mouth covered in chocolate.

  Molly stopped, breathless, and swept her up into her arms. ‘We’re celebrating, that’s what we’re doing!’ she exclaimed. And together with Cissy, Mark, Simon and Susie, they all began to sing ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’, as they danced round the kitchen in hokey-cokey style.

  Molly was so very happy. She knew she would never forget Christmas Day 1941.

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter Twenty

  Eight months later, August 1942

  It was a hot August day late in the month and the warning siren had just sounded. All Molly’s customers had scuttled from the shop, cursing the Luftwaffe for its untimely appearance once again. The Baedeker raids in the spring, so called because the enemy had vowed to bomb every historic building in Britain marked with three stars in the Baedeker travel guide, were still fresh in everyone’s mind.

  Molly turned the sign to CLOSED and hurriedly locked the doors. She and Cissy chose to remain at home now, rather than go to Jean’s Anderson. Mr Stokes had installed a Morrison shelter upstairs in the front room. Not that they’d used it much. Neither of them liked being squashed flat in the long, narrow wire-mesh cage with the reinforced steel top.

  ‘Hurry up,’ called Cissy as Molly bolted the back door. ‘I’ve made us a cuppa. Let’s drink it before those swines fly over.’

  Molly hurried up the stairs. Infrequent daylight raids had disrupted life again and the wireless reports were still frightening to listen to: repeated warnings that there could be more intensified attacks on the East End.

  ‘Can’t hear any planes yet,’ Cissy said as Molly entered the kitchen. ‘Should we go down and fetch the kids from Jean’s?’

  ‘No. They’ll all be in the Anderson. Safer there than here.’

  ‘Let’s drink our tea, then. I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Molly sat at the kitchen table. On it were two mugs, filled with steaming brew, and in the middle of the table was a pre-war shoebox in which all the letters were kept. Two were from Andy and very short. He wrote that he was safe but didn’t hold out much hope of having any shore leave as he was so far away. He’d received Molly’s letters and said how relieved he was the children were in her care. That was all, so Molly assumed that some of his letters had been censored. Another letter was from the Denhams giving an address in Cardiff. Several more were from Bill and Lyn.

  As the post was so infrequent, Molly kept them all in the shoebox just to remind them how lucky they were that there was still a postal service, however irregular.

  ‘So, what is it?’ Molly said as she sat anxiously listening for the ominous drone in the sky. She didn’t like being separated from the kids when the sirens went. In term time, the school took them into the underground shelter, but hopefully this was a false alarm, when the bombers flew in another direction.

  ‘Have you noticed anything l
ately?’ Cissy said, with a faint blush on her cheeks.

  ‘Like what?’ Molly asked.

  ‘I dunno. Just anything.’ Cissy wore an impatient expression.

  ‘Well . . .’ Molly hesitated, her thoughts still on the children. ‘Mark is growing so fast, he’ll be up to my shoulder soon. Simon’s cast-offs don’t fit him any more. I really should get him new clothes for school next week. I thought about going to the market—’

  ‘It’s not about Mark,’ Cissy interrupted sharply.

  ‘Well, Evie is still tiny—’

  ‘It’s not about Evie, either.’

  Molly frowned. ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘I’ll give you a clue. You’re looking right at it.’

  Just then, the noise everyone dreaded, of approaching aircraft, sounded in the distance: a faint rumble turning very quickly into thunder. Both women glanced up and, abandoning their tea, made a dash to the front room.

  Sweeping the green chenille tablecloth from the solid steel top of the Morrison shelter, Molly and Cissy climbed inside. They lay next to each other, listening to the roar of the Luftwaffe’s engines and the fire of the British guns beneath. There were distant explosions, all vibrating through the wire mesh of the cage.

  Molly thought about the children in the Anderson and wished she had run down to Jean’s to be with them. It seemed their lives were constantly ruled by the warning siren and the threat of bombardment.

  As the fleet of planes passed over they lay as still as possible, every nerve tensed as the ground trembled and shook. Cissy let out a stifled groan.

  ‘What’s up?’ Molly asked in concern.

  ‘Dunno.’ Cissy squirmed and wriggled and eventually snatched at the wire mesh, trying to get out of the shelter.

  Molly called after the disappearing rear end. But all she saw was a pair of flat lace-ups running towards the door. She knew her friend hated the Morrison, but to deliberately leave it during a raid was reckless.

  Scrambling out of the cage, Molly hurried along the passage to Cissy’s bedroom. Her friend was on her knees hanging her head over a pail. She retched and heaved, then looked up at Molly.