Without a Trace

by Lesley Pearse

  Part of Charley’s long-term plan was to become a civil engineer and, to that end, he attended night school twice a week. His ambition and tenacity must have come from the influence of the people he was billeted with during the war; few other local men who worked as hard as he did by day would think of going back to school in the evenings when they could be in the pub with their mates.

  To Molly, all this was very laudable, and she liked the fact that Charley seemed to be very serious about her, too. Yet men always expected their women to mould their lives around them, so he wasn’t going to like it when she told him later today that, tomorrow, she was taking the day off to go down to Rye for a job interview.

  She expected him to ask why she’d want to move away from Whitechapel and Constance when she already had a job she liked. As ambitious as he was himself, he wouldn’t think any normal woman would want a career.

  Molly had to go to the interview, or Constance would be offended after she’d gone to all that trouble to arrange it. And unless there was some serious drawback to the job, Molly had to take it. Not just to please Constance, but because she wanted far more out of life than cooking bacon and eggs in Pat’s Café.

  Yet how could she leave Charley when he made her legs turn to jelly and her heart almost burst when she saw him. And leaving him is what it would amount to, as she couldn’t imagine him promising to come down once a week to see her.

  Later that morning, as Molly made her way to the café, the misery of the icy wind and a few inches of snow was compounded by her falling over. She went down so heavily she thought she must have broken her leg and the pain made her cry. A man passing by helped her to her feet and offered some sympathy and, to her relief, her knee was just bloodied, and her stockings ripped.

  Pat was less than sympathetic. She was a hard-faced woman in her sixties, with iron-grey hair always covered by a turban-style scarf. Several of her teeth were missing, those remaining were like dirty gravestones and she always had a cigarette dangling from her lips. On quite a few occasions Molly had seen her drop ash into a cooked breakfast.

  ‘’Ow many times ’ave I told you to put socks over your shoes when there’s ice!’ she snapped at Molly. ‘It ain’t no good crying to me now ’cos you’ve fallen over.’

  Molly gritted her teeth, tempted to tell the woman she’d soon have to run the café herself if she got the job in Rye, but to do so would be a mistake, as Pat could be spiteful.

  It seemed to Molly a very long day. Her knee throbbed, people complained about everything and the air in the café was thick with cigarette smoke. When it finally got to three o’clock, Pat told her she wasn’t going to pay her for the next day.

  Molly hadn’t expected to be paid but, remembering all the times she’d stayed an extra hour when the café was busy without pay, she was hurt.

  She bit back tears and hurried out, disappointed that Charley hadn’t come in and concerned that he’d be worried if he didn’t see her in the café tomorrow.

  Making her way very cautiously down Myrdle Street, avoiding icy patches, she noticed an ambulance up ahead. Instinctively, she knew it was there for Constance.

  Throwing caution to the winds, she ran the rest of the way, her sore knee and the ice forgotten. She reached the house just as the ambulance men carried Constance out on a stretcher.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked frantically.

  Iris from upstairs put her hand on Molly’s shoulder. ‘They think she’s ’ad a stroke, ducks. I ’eard a thump and I went into ’er place and found ’er out cold on the floor.’

  ‘Are you a relative?’ one of the ambulance men asked.

  ‘No, but I live with her,’ Molly said. ‘Can I come with her in the ambulance?’

  ‘ ’Course you can,’ he said. ‘Hop in alongside her.’

  It made no difference that the ambulance man in the back with Molly said he thought it was only a minor stroke, the kind from which people recovered completely. Constance was chalk white, her mouth was twisted grotesquely and, although she had regained consciousness, she didn’t appear to be aware of Molly or her surroundings.

  The London Hospital was only minutes away, in Whitechapel Road, but it seemed to take for ever to get there. Molly held Constance’s hand between both of hers and talked to her, hoping her voice would bring her friend back to normal.

  But there was no response and, once the ambulance men had transferred Constance on to a hospital trolley and wheeled her inside, nursing staff took over and Molly was told to sit down and wait until her friend had been examined.

  They had arrived at the hospital around four in the afternoon, but at eight thirty that evening Molly was still waiting. Each time she’d asked how Constance was she was merely told she was ‘stable’ and that she would be told when the patient was fit to receive visitors.

  Molly could see how busy the hospital was: every few minutes either an ambulance arrived with a new patient, or people staggered through the doors with anything from a head wound to a sick child in their arms. For much of the time it was bedlam: people shouting for attention, children and babies screaming, and some of the adults getting angry that they were being pushed aside in favour of someone else.

  Molly had lost count of how many times she’d heard a nurse explain that they examined the most urgent cases first, but that didn’t satisfy everyone. One man who appeared very drunk and who, judging by the blood pouring down his face, had been in a vicious fight, smashed a chair against the wall because he was left unseen too long. He was taken away by the police, and Molly wondered if there was a doctor at the police station who would patch him up.

  She heard the young parents of a small boy rushed in by ambulance wailing; they clung to each other and her heart went out to them, but she couldn’t manage even a few words of sympathy, because all she could think about was that Constance might die. Even if she did survive, she might be paralysed, or unable to speak, and that was just as bad in Molly’s opinion. The prospect of death set her thinking once again about Cassie’s death, and how she still hadn’t done enough to try to find Petal.

  It had just turned nine when, to her surprise, Charley turned up. He had a sprinkling of snow on his coat, and the frantic way he was looking around said it was her he was looking for. She rushed over to him, and he hugged her tightly. ‘I only just found out about your friend,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get to the café till five, and Pat said you hadn’t been your usual cheery self. But I couldn’t call round at Myrdle Street straight away, as I had to go to night school. So I popped round the moment I got out, and the woman upstairs told me what had happened. How is Constance?’

  Molly explained that she was still waiting for news. ‘I keep thinking that the longer I wait the better the news will be,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure it works like that. Did Pat really say I wasn’t my usual cheery self?’

  ‘No, she actually said you were a bleedin’ misery all day, but then she’s not the kindest or most sympathetic of women. But you’ve been here for hours – have you had anything to eat?’ he asked.

  Molly shook her head glumly. ‘I didn’t like to leave her,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a fish-and-chip shop just over the road. I’ll tell one of the nurses we’re popping out and that we’ll be right back.’

  Molly felt more optimistic when they came back to the hospital. She wasn’t sure whether it was because Charley had listened to her fears about Constance, or just that she’d eaten and had a cup of tea. They sat down again to wait for news, and Molly blurted out about her interview the next day. ‘I can’t possibly go now, but Constance will be disappointed in me if she gets better and finds out I didn’t.’

  Charley didn’t respond immediately. He looked like he was deep in thought.

  ‘If you don’t go tomorrow, they’ll give the job to someone else,’ he said. ‘And you’ll always think that you might have missed the best opportunity of your life.’

  She hadn’t expected him to say that, and she didn’t know how to
reply.

  He took her hand in his, lifted it to his lips and gently kissed it. ‘If I’m to be totally honest, I’d like you to stay right around the corner from me, where you are now. But you’re worth far more than a job in Pat’s Café, and you don’t belong in Whitechapel at all.’

  She glowed at that, and was just about to ask when she’d see him if she went away when a young nurse came towards them. ‘Sister asked me to come and get you,’ she said.

  ‘She’s on the mend, then?’ Molly asked.

  The nurse acted like she hadn’t heard. Molly looked at Charley questioningly. ‘Is it okay for me to come, too?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the nurse replied, proving there was nothing wrong with her hearing. ‘Sister wants a word with you before you go in, though.’

  Alarm bells began to ring in Molly’s head, and she hurried after the nurse, with Charley coming on behind.

  The nurse led them to the ward sister’s small office, which had a window looking on to the ward, but most of the cubicles’ curtains were drawn, so they couldn’t see Constance.

  This was a different ward sister to the one who had been on duty when Molly first got to the hospital. Sister Jenner was older, perhaps mid-fifties, and stout, but with a round, soft face that seemed to radiate compassion.

  ‘Sister Constance has rallied a little,’ she said. ‘We are cautiously hopeful, as she knows where she is now and she’s managed to ask for you, Miss Heywood.’

  Molly beamed at the sister. ‘That’s wonderful. I don’t think she knew me when I came in with her.’

  ‘It’s progress, but you’ll find her speech is badly affected by the stroke. Now, is this your young man?’ she asked, looking at Charley.

  Molly introduced Charley.

  ‘Sister Constance is clearly very fond of Miss Heywood,’ she said to him, ‘so it will help to reassure her that her young friend is not entirely alone while she’s in hospital, which I’m afraid might be for some time. Don’t be shocked by her appearance, or too concerned if she suddenly falls asleep, and I would ask that you only stay for ten minutes at most, because she needs rest.’

  She led them to the last cubicle in the ward. As she drew back the curtain Molly had to bite her lips not to cry out because Constance looked so dreadful. The pallor, she had expected, but not the way her face appeared to have caved in, leaving her jaw and cheekbones sticking out like a skeleton’s.

  ‘Molly,’ Constance murmured. ‘Come closer. Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘I couldn’t be afraid of you,’ Molly said, going right up to her and taking her hand. ‘But you gave me quite a turn today. This is Charley, the man I told you about. He’s come to see you, too.’

  The ward sister’s words had made Molly feel hopeful again. All the time she’d been waiting, she couldn’t help but think how awful it would be to lose Constance. She was the one who’d helped her when she was at her most desperate; she’d shared her home, her food, become her friend, and made Molly feel loved.

  She hoped she could soon find a way to express her gratitude.

  Charley went to the other side of the bed and took Constance’s other hand.

  ‘I’d have liked to have met you for the first time under better circumstances,’ he said. ‘But I hope when you get home again I can call on you. Molly speaks of you so highly.’

  It looked as if Constance was trying to smile at Charley, but it was more like a grimace. ‘It’s good to put a face to the man Molly talks about,’ she managed to get out, pausing after each word as if struggling to form each one. ‘She tells me you are a gentleman, so I hope you’ll look out for her for me?’

  ‘You don’t need to ask me, Sister Constance,’ he said, bending to kiss her hand. ‘I’ll do that willingly. But you must tell her she has to go to the interview tomorrow and take the job if she likes it. You know Whitechapel isn’t right for her, don’t you?’

  Constance’s pale-blue eyes fixed on to his face. ‘Yes, Charley, I do. But she’s got a habit of thinking too much about what other people want. We have to set her free from that.’

  ‘You hear that?’ Charley looked across the bed at Molly. ‘Sister Constance wants you to go.’

  The old lady turned her head towards Molly. ‘I do. I’m going to miss you, but I want you to have a good life.’

  Her eyelids drooped down suddenly and Molly was so alarmed she rang the bell for the nurse. She came scurrying in but smiled when she saw Constance.

  ‘She’s only dropped off.’ The nurse turned to Molly and Charley. ‘Talking will tire her, but she’ll remember that you visited. Her friend Reverend Adams is waiting to see her, so you should go home now and come again tomorrow.’

  It was eleven o’clock when Charley got Molly home to Myrdle Street.

  ‘Will you come in?’ she asked.

  He put his arms around her and held her tight. ‘That wouldn’t be an appropriate thing to do tonight, as much as I’d like to. Besides, you’ve got to do what she said and go for that interview tomorrow.’

  Molly smiled weakly. ‘She’s going to need a lot more help when she comes out of hospital. I’m going to feel really bad about leaving her.’

  ‘She has dozens of friends in this area who will all come to help her, and the church will find a nursing home for her if she can’t manage alone. Now, I’ll be around tomorrow night about seven to see how you got on at the interview. Just take one day at a time, Molly. Things always work out when you don’t over-think them,’ he said, tilting her face up and bending to kiss her. ‘Now go to bed and try to sleep. Good luck for tomorrow.’

  Charley walked back up Myrdle Street to Whitechapel Road in deep thought. Would she go tomorrow? Or would a misplaced sense of duty make her stay?

  He knew the East End had a habit of sucking people in and keeping them there. Sister Constance was a fine example. Molly could so easily go the same way, involving herself in saving people, be it drunks, tarts, criminals or the very poor. She had made a couple of pointed remarks about her father that had made him think the man was a bully, so it was possible he’d already trained his daughter for martyrdom. If so it would be second nature to her to feel obliged to take care of anyone who needed it.

  She let Pat at the café treat her like a slave, and he had sensed that Molly had already half formed a plan in her head that she would take care of Constance when she was released from hospital. He couldn’t let her do that; she was worth more than what she had now, and a job in a decent hotel could be the making of her. If she channelled all those special qualities she had into making guests feel they were the most important person in the world, she’d rise to the top in no time.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Molly felt a pang of trepidation as she looked up at the George Hotel.

  It was a lovely old inn, probably dating back to the eighteenth century, its front covered in mathematical tiles. She wondered what they represented and thought she would ask. She imagined that the building must have an interesting history; it could even be haunted. But it wasn’t that which scared her. She wasn’t sure she was good enough to work in such a place.

  Rye was a medieval walled town perched up on a hill and surrounded by windswept marshes. People in the West Country tended to think all the best towns and villages in England were there but, in Molly’s opinion, Rye was the prettiest, quaintest town she’d ever seen and far exceeded anything the West Country had to offer. As she’d walked from the station up the narrow cobbled streets with their sweet little houses with bow windows and shiny brass on the front doors, she felt she had gone back a few centuries in time.

  The sun had come out while she was on the train and, though it was still very cold and windy, the first thing she noticed as she stepped off the train was the fresh smell and the quiet. She’d got so used to London’s soot-laden air, the noise of the traffic and the nasty smells that she’d virtually forgotten what fresh air or quiet was like. There was some traffic, of course, on the main road down by the station but, compared with
Whitechapel Road, it was like a country lane.

  Already, without knowing anything about the job, she wanted to live here. She understood, too, why Cassie had mentioned this town so often in her journal.

  Before going in the door to reception, Molly took a deep breath and braced herself. She hoped they didn’t ask her to take off her royal-blue coat. She knew it looked chic with the matching beret and that it suited her, but the black sheath dress she was wearing underneath looked cheap. It had been cheap, she’d bought it from the market, but it hadn’t created the sophisticated image she’d intended.

  She walked up to the reception desk and said to a red-headed woman sitting behind it, ‘I have an appointment with Mrs Bridgenorth. My name is Molly Heywood.’

  As she had expected of such an old building, it smelled a little fusty, and the patterned carpet had seen better days, but the hotel had a good feeling about it. It was almost like coming home. She nearly laughed at herself for thinking that, for she’d never ever felt there was anything special about going to her real home.

  The receptionist spoke to someone on the phone then smiled at Molly. ‘Mrs Bridgenorth has asked me to show you into the library and bring you some coffee. She’ll be with you as soon as she can.’

  The library was a small, book-lined room made cosy by a blazing fire. It wasn’t large enough for anything more than a couch, two button-backed chairs and a couple of side tables. Everything, including the books, looked very old and shabby, but Molly thought that, on a cold day in winter, it would be the perfect retreat.

  The receptionist came back with a tray, coffee in a pot, hot milk and a plate of ham sandwiches. ‘Mrs Bridgenorth thought you might be hungry after leaving home early to catch the train,’ she said. ‘Tuck in. She won’t be long.’

  Such consideration for her well-being touched Molly; she was hungry and it was also lovely to be in such a warm room. Since moving to Whitechapel, she couldn’t remember ever being really warm.