Soldier Girl Page 3

  ‘You don’t think that wreck of a man could sire a child do yer? Didn’t you ever wonder about that? The old man had been at me for years, even before my mother passed on. That’s what ’e was like, see?’ She made a sinuous movement with her hips that made Molly’s lips curl in revulsion. ‘’E liked young girls, daint ’e, see?’

  Neither Molly nor Bert could speak. But at last Bert said, choking, ‘What – me an’ all?’

  ‘You an’ all, Bertie. The old man was your father as well as your grandfather.’ She delivered the words harshly, almost with pride. ‘That makes us all brothers and sisters then, don’t it?’

  Molly leaned on the table. Her father – no, not her father! – Joe was making coughing noises as if trying to speak. ‘I – I – I don’t . . . don’t . . .’ he began. No one took any notice.

  ‘But why . . .’ In her outrage the words were hard to form. ‘Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you keep him off me? You made me share a room with him even though I begged you . . .’ Her voice rose, but she swallowed, determined not to weep. What sympathy would she ever get? ‘You knew – you knew he was my father.’

  ‘Well, there was no stopping ’im, that was the point.’ Iris sounded indifferent now. This casualness was worst of all. ‘And anyroad, it gave me a rest from ’im. I told yer – ’e liked young girls. And you ’ad it easy. By then he was beginning to get a bit past it – not like when he was young. ’E never gave you a bun in the oven, did ’e? You just had the fag end of it, that’s all . . .’

  Bert turned away suddenly, but as he did so, Molly caught a glimpse of his face. His movements were taut with revulsion, but she realized he was very close to tears, that her brother, for the first time since infancy, was showing signs of vulnerable emotion. He snatched up the hessian bag and pushed past Iris.

  ‘Well, you ’ad to know sometime,’ she yelled at him as the front door closed behind him. She tutted. ‘What the ’ell’s the matter with ’im? And look at all this junk. How’re we s’posed to eat our tea? You get on with it, Molly.’

  Molly seized the set of teeth from the table and hurled them as hard as she could at Iris.

  ‘You can cook your own liver, you filthy old cow!’

  Forcing her feet into the shoes again and seizing her coat, she slammed out into the street. In the distance she could just make out the shape of Bert, disappearing round the corner.

  Four

  ‘Molly – Molly Fox! We’re going on our break – you coming or what?’

  Molly was still stacking the tin helmets, lifting them down from the rack on which they’d been sprayed and piling them one upon another.

  ‘Oh – sorry!’ She looked up, dazed. ‘I was miles away!’

  ‘Yeah – we could see . . . Come on. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

  Molly followed the other two girls out for a cup of tea. Even now, though years had passed since a childhood of being singled out for exclusion, she was still surprised to be included, that the other girls seemed to like her. All her young life she had got used to being left out, being the butt of jokes and name-calling, smelly little Molly Fox with her raw eczema skin, her strange clothes and whiff of wee. It had got a bit better as she got older, and she and Em had stayed friends after all their childhood troubles. Once she got out to work in the factory she found they accepted her, with her pretty looks and obliging nature. She had learned not to fawn on others to gain their affection, and she found she had a sense of humour – it worked especially well if directed against herself. None of them knew anything about her home, her life outside the factory, and she kept it that way.

  The girls took their mugs of tea and went and stood in the yard outside, where they could smoke as well, all of them dressed in thick navy dungarees, hair taken back in snoods. They all lit up, except Gladys, who patted her pockets, frowning.

  ‘Can yer spare us one, Mol? I’ve gone and left mine on the kitchen table.’

  Molly offered her packet of Silk Cut.

  ‘Ta. I’ll pay yer back.’

  ‘No need,’ Molly said easily.

  They leaned up against the blackened bricks of the factory, eyes watering in the winter sun and cold breeze, smoke snatched from between their lips. The talk as ever was about raids. Gladys, who was a giggler, regaled them with more of her family’s adventures with the Anderson shelter at the bottom of their handkerchief of a garden. Its construction had been an epic effort, her dad not being much on the practical side. The fact that they had a dog always seemed to be causing some trouble – it ate their tea when they dashed into the shelter, leaving the half-eaten meal on the table. And last night the dog – a manic terrier – got in the shelter with them and spent the night pouncing on their arms and legs, mistaking them for rats. Gladys, with her chesty laugh, was always full of stories and kept everyone cheerful.

  Today, though, Molly was barely listening. She laughed when everyone else laughed, smoked, and drank the strong, sweet tea, but already she felt miles away from them all. As soon as she’d decided about joining up – the army, the ATS, that was the place for her – she felt different and strong, the strongest she’d ever been, as if she could do anything. What her mother had told her, the awful, revolting truth, was folded away in her mind, not forgotten, just pushed aside. Rather than wallowing in the shock and shame of it, instead she had picked out an escape route. She felt she was standing in a high place, way above them all, Iris and Joe, Bert, and William Rathbone, her dead grandfather, the whole foul bloody shower of them. But she was going to get out, oh yes she was! The way she felt now, she could stride across the world like a giant!

  Em’s family were still in the same house in Kenilworth Street where they had always lived, just down the road from the school Molly and Em had attended, and almost opposite the Buttons’ place, where Jenny Button was still struggling to run a bakery from the front room, using the brew house to bake in.

  When Molly stood on the Browns’ front step, it always brought back to her being seven or eight years old again and going round to ask Em to play out, always steeling herself against being rejected. It brought back vivid memories of knocking during those dark times when Em’s mom Cynthia was sent away to the asylum, when Em, a scared waif, would peer out through a crack in the door, terrified in case it was the School Board man. She’d been kept away from school to run the house for Bob and her brother and sisters when she was scarcely tall enough to see over the scullery sink. Molly wondered what state Cynthia was in now – she was up and down in cycles, had been ever since, poor woman. She never did anyone any harm though, just sunk into herself, and she was always all right to Molly.

  It was Em who answered her knock. She had very straight, mousy hair which she tried to tease into waves and curls, but by this time of day they were always dropping out and her hair fell in straight hanks on her shoulders. She was slim, like a reed, always fragile-looking and pale in the face. It was Molly who had grown up taller, big and robust-looking like Iris, but without Iris’s thuggish features.

  Em gave a wary smile. ‘Molly! All right are you? What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Just come to see you,’ Molly said. ‘I’ve got summat to tell yer.’

  She could see Em sizing her up and deciding she was sober enough to be let in. Molly had only the vaguest memory of what had happened on Saturday night, though she knew Em had been in it somewhere. But she was too excited to get embarrassed about that now.

  ‘You’d best come in,’ Em said, standing back to open the door. ‘I’ve not got long – I’m just getting my tea down me before I go on duty. It’s Molly!’ she added, calling through to the family. ‘She’s just popping in for a minute.’

  They went through to the back, where the family were all round the table – plus Norm, Em’s young man.

  ‘Hello, Molly,’ Cynthia greeted her kindly. ‘How’re you, love? We haven’t seen you in a while.’

  Cynthia was looking well, Molly saw, smiling back at her. She met Molly’s ga
ze; there was a pinkness to her cheeks and her dark brown hair was pinned up, the fringe waved back from her forehead. Things were all right. Over the years they had all learned to read the signs. When she was feeling bad, Cynthia looked pale, her face twisted with inner pain, her hair usually unkempt, and she would go silent, shut herself away, unable to look anyone in the eye.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Molly said, as Bob, Em’s dad, nodded at her. Sid, now sixteen, kept on shovelling his tea down him as if it were a race. Joyce, fourteen and always full of it, gave Molly a wink, and little Violet, the babby, aged nine, rather thin and like Em in looks, stared, fascinated by the sight of Molly.

  ‘D’you wear them to work?’ she asked, staring at Molly’s dungarees.

  ‘Yes—’ Molly twirled round, in a mocking pose. ‘Ever so flattering, eh?’

  Bob Brown stood up. ‘’Ere, I’ve finished. You can ’ave my chair.’

  ‘Oh – ta, if you’re sure,’ Molly said. Bob seemed thankful to be away. ‘I’m just going out for a bit. . .’ he said vaguely, and vanished pubwards.

  Molly slid onto the chair beside Joyce, who grinned at her and moved her father’s plate away with its smeared remains of gravy. Sid was wiping up the last of his with a piece of bread.

  Em had sat down again next to Norm, who Molly thought was looking at her warily as well. I suppose he thinks I’m a bad lot, Molly thought. Drunk and disorderly. She didn’t take to Norm. There was something so goody-goody and stuffy about him – and those ears! They were prominent and pink from the cold.

  ‘All right, Norm?’ she said teasingly. ‘Caught any bank robbers today?’

  ‘There aren’t many out there robbing banks,’ he said stiffly. He was only nineteen but seemed ten years older.

  ‘Shame,’ Molly said. ‘Be a bit of excitement for yer wouldn’t it?’

  ‘D’you want a cuppa, Molly?’ Cynthia asked. ‘Rinse up yer dad’s cup for her, will you Joyce, you’re nearest.’

  As Joyce sorted out Molly’s tea, Cynthia asked, ‘Your mom and dad all right, are they?’

  Molly knew what everyone must think of Iris so it was kind of her to ask. She shrugged. ‘Much as ever.’

  ‘So – what’ve you got to tell us?’ Em asked. ‘I’ve got to go in a minute.’ Molly could see she and Norm were holding hands under the table, all sweet like a pair of little lovebirds. She felt a stab of jealousy – even if it was Norm, old car-door ears. They seemed so sure of each other, as if they’d been married for years already. Not like George – or any of the other blokes she’d walked out with for that matter. The thought of George’s face in the pub swam before her for a moment but she pushed that away as well. It had been full of loathing and disgust. That was the end of that then. Another one. They all seemed to go the same way in the end.

  ‘Well—’ Molly sipped her tea slowly for effect, then sat back. Violet was staring at her as if willing her to speak.

  ‘I’ve decided – I’m going to join up!’

  ‘What, you?’ The words burst mockingly from Norm, Mr Superior, Norm the normal PC Plod.

  Everyone was staring – even Sid had looked up and stopped chewing his last bit of bread.

  ‘Yes, me,’ Molly snapped back. ‘I’ve decided. I’m going up the recruitment office, soon as I’ve got a minute.’

  ‘Join up as what?’ Em said, also sounding disbelieving, Molly thought savagely, as if they didn’t think she was capable of anything at all. And Em moved her shoulder a bit closer to Norm’s, as if to show she agreed with him.

  ‘The army. I dunno as what yet, do I? I s’pose they’ll tell me.’

  ‘ I wanna join the army,’ Sid scowled. ‘And they won’t let me.’

  ‘You’re too young, Sid, don’t talk daft,’ Em said in her matronly way. ‘And anyway, the firm needs you.’ Sid scowled even more. ‘You’re Reserved Occ anyway.’

  ‘I could lie,’ he said. ‘About my age. I’d make them let me go.’

  ‘You gunna wear a uniform then, Molly?’ Joyce asked, excited.

  ‘I expect so.’ She was grateful to Joyce for bringing the conversation back to her.

  ‘Well,’ Cynthia said, as if trying to take all this in. ‘What’s your mother said about this?’

  ‘I ain’t told her – yet.’ She had no intention of telling Iris either, but she’d had to tell someone because she was excited, and it made it seem real. ‘Don’t say anything to her, will yer?’

  Cynthia shook her head. ‘Course not, love.’

  They all knew what Iris would think about losing her lifelong skivvy.

  ‘What about your dad?’ Em asked.

  The words he’s not my dad rose to Molly’s lips but she bit them back. Blood poured into her cheeks. And it was then she wondered if they all knew. If everyone had always known, if it was obvious to anyone who had eyes that Joe Fox could not have sired two children. Shame pumped through her veins. But she didn’t see it in their eyes, saw only concern for a crippled man with a monstrous wife.

  ‘Molly can’t stay home for ever,’ Cynthia said. ‘She’s go to make her own life. Good for you, Molly love.’

  Molly glanced gratefully at her.

  ‘It’s Jenny and Stanley who’re going to feel it.’ Cynthia nodded towards the opposite side of the street. ‘Have you told them?’

  ‘Not yet.’ The buoyancy and sense of triumph which had filled Molly all day started to seep away. Iris and Joe were one thing, but Jenny and Stanley Button, who had never shown her anything but kindness, were quite another.

  ‘Ooh Jenny’ll miss yer,’ Cynthia said. She saw Molly’s troubled expression. ‘But I tell yer summat else, Molly – she’ll be ever so proud of you. I bet you anything she will.’

  Five

  Soon Molly was out of the Browns’ and on the other side of the street, warmed by an unexpected embrace from Em. She had got up to see Molly out to the front door, prising herself away from Norm for a few moments.

  ‘Oh Molly – I hope you’ll be all right!’ She was quite emotional suddenly.

  ‘I’ll be all right!’ Molly laughed. ‘Anyway – they might not ’ave me! Even if they do, I don’t s’pose I’ll be away from here ’til after Christmas now at this rate.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re brave,’ Em said. ‘Only, you’ll have to behave, Molly – be careful with yourself.’

  Molly blushed again. Lowering her voice, she said, ‘Sorry about the other night. I don’t remember much about it to be honest with yer, but sorry if I got you into trouble or anything.’

  ‘No – I just took you home. You’d fallen over and were singing your flaming head off!’

  Molly had only the dimmest of memories about this, even though she had the bruises to prove it had indeed happened. She shrugged, embarrassed. ‘Dunno what comes over me sometimes.’

  Em smiled then, properly, the sweet Em who wasn’t a prim matron. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’re the end.’ She was smiling as Molly left and crossed the street.

  It took Jenny Button a few moments to answer Molly’s knock, though there came volleys of crazed barking from Wally, their wire-haired Jack Russell. When Molly first got to know the Buttons they had a gentle old dog called Bullseye, but he had long since passed away and a few years back they’d acquired Wally.

  Jenny Button had always been very large and took time to move about. Food was her comfort in the face of a sad life, with a crippled husband and no children of her own. Now entering her fifties, she still had dark hair, scraped up into a little bun at the back, but she was very broad in the beam, and struggled to catch her breath. As it was evening, she was not wearing her huge white apron for once. She appeared in a navy blouse and skirt, the waistline of which disappeared deeply into the folds of her body, making her look like a tightly strung parcel. When she saw Molly, the fleshy little mounds of her face lifted in delight, bunching round her deep-set eyes. Every year she looked more like one of her own currant buns.

  ‘’Ello, bab! My Stanley said ’e thought it’d
be you. “That’ll be our Molly,”’e said when you knocked on the door. Come in – ’ave yer got a minute? Wally stop that – get in ’ere!’

  ‘Yes, course. I’ve come to see yer,’ Molly said, with a pang. She knew what store they set by her visits. Ever since Molly had run away from home as a child they had always offered her a haven away from Iris. If Iris hadn’t insisted that Molly return home, and Molly hadn’t felt that Jenny had enough problems already with an invalid husband, she would have happily stayed there.

  Jenny Button waddled along the narrow passage to the sound of her own rasping breaths and Wally’s nails tapping on the lino. They passed the little counter from where she sold her bread and buns on the way to the back room where she and Stanley lived, in one cramped room. The upper floor of the house was hardly used. Stanley had had his legs blown off by a shell in 1917 and could not move unassisted from bed or chair.

  ‘Stanley!’ Jenny announced at full volume. ‘You were right, it’s our Molly!’

  Molly heard his exclamation of pleasure and felt even more wretched about what she had come to tell them.

  They entered the back room, which was, as ever, stifling hot – ‘I’m not having my Stanley catching cold’ – with a fire in the grate and a single-bar electric fire pumping out heat as well. It was always very stuffy and rather smelly, but Molly was used to it. It felt like home. She immediately took off her coat, smiling at Stanley Button, who was sitting up in bed, bald as a baby now and beaming at her in delight.

  ‘ ’Ello, bab!’ he chirruped, happily. ‘Ooh, you’ve brought a cold wind in with yer, I can feel it billowing by! What’re you up to, young lady?’

  ‘I’ve come to see yer, that’s all,’ Molly said.