Molly's War (8 page)

‘Come on, I mean it, I’m not just having you on,’ said Mr Jones, still not understanding. His tone implied he thought he was doing her a favour, Molly realised, and laughed the more, released tension making her a little hysterical.

‘Stop that!’ Mr Jones suddenly shouted. He crossed the room and slapped her hard across the face. Molly stopped laughing and stared at him. He slavered slightly, lips wet. ‘Now then, come to bed when I say, do you hear?’ He had raised his voice, was almost shouting. He caught hold of her arms and dragged her towards the bed.

‘No! Don’t be silly, I don’t want to!’ cried Molly, finding her voice and pulling herself free.

‘Don’t be so bloody coy and come to bed when you’re told,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you realise all the neighbours think we must be at it any road? If you didn’t want me you would have gone somewhere else when Betty went into hospital. Now come on, you’ve protested enough. Come to bed when I tell you.’

‘I’m not! I didn’t … I locked the door and you took the key. You must have forced your way in here tonight, I put the chair up against the knob.’

‘Bloody games. I’ve had enough,’ he shouted, and grabbed her again, practically throwing her on the bed with him on top of her. The breath was knocked out of Molly. He wasn’t very big but strong enough to hold her slight form down, her arms pinned. One of his hands was clutching at her hair, the other scrabbling at her breast. His face was close to hers. A drop of spittle fell on to her chin. She felt as though her hair was being torn out at the roots, the pain agonising.

‘This is what you want, isn’t it?’ he said hoarsely. ‘This is what you’ve been angling for ever since Betty went to hospital – wiggling your arse at me every time you went past me, looking at me with those big come-to-bed eyes. Well, now you’re going to get it, slut! Now …’

In a desperate burst of energy Molly heaved and managed to catch him off balance. He fell off her, teetering on the edge of the bed for a second and falling heavily on
to
the floor. As he fell his fingers dug into her breast and she cried out with the pain.

‘Stop that flaming noise!’ someone was shouting. There was a banging on the wall. Molly heard it as from a distance. She was too busy scrambling off the bed, grabbing her coat from the hook and covering herself. She stood at the doorway, poised for flight, then realised Mr Jones was saying nothing, lying on the floor beside the bed. Oh, God, had she killed him? Had he hit his head on the fender? No, he was moving, sitting up, groaning. He put a hand to his head and held it there for a moment before getting heavily to his feet.

Molly took a step through the door, the linoleum cold under her bare feet. She was wary of him but he did not look at her as he walked past her, nightshirt billowing round skinny ankles. At his own bedroom door he turned.

‘Get out of here, you slut! Take your things and get out. Never mind the rent, I want shot of you.’

‘It’s the middle of the night!’ gasped Molly.

‘I don’t care what time it is. You can sleep on the street for all I care. Get your things together now or get out without them. Either way, if you’re not out of here in ten minutes, I’ll throw you out.’

He stood there, holding his head and trying to look dignified, succeeding only in looking ludicrous so that Molly felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in her in spite of her predicament. Hurriedly she went back into her bedroom and closed the door, leaning on it and hiccuping
with
laughter. But it died almost immediately and tears took its place.

She dashed them away angrily and dressed before gathering her things together. She could only take her case, she thought. What about the bits and pieces she had brought from Eden Hope? Dumbly she put the parcel she’d received that morning, the one which had brought her such happiness as she hadn’t known for months, in her suitcase. It stuck up a bit, the case wouldn’t close properly. She’d have to be careful with it, she told herself. She’d have to leave her other things, her sewing basket and such. She carried the case to the door, paused and looked back. She had no idea where she was going, she realised. Could she turn up on Cathy’s doorstep in the middle of the night? No, she rejected the idea. After all, they had only just met.

Going back into the room, she picked up the marble clock from the mantelshelf. She couldn’t leave that. With the clock tucked under one arm and her suitcase, which felt as heavy as lead, in her other hand, she went downstairs. Mr Jones was waiting at the door.

‘I’ll come back for my other things.’

‘You will not,’ he replied. ‘I’ll get them myself and put them outside. If they’re not gone by morning I’ll take them to the tip.’

‘You can’t! I’ll get the polis …’

‘You’ll not, lass. It’ll be me that gets the polis,’ he said grimly, and gave her a push out of the door and on to the pavement. Molly dropped her case and grasped at the
clock
to stop it falling. The case burst open. She must not have closed it properly.

A light came on in the bedroom of the next-door house, the window opened and a man stuck his head out.

‘What the hell is all the racket about?’ he shouted. ‘I have to go to work the morn!’

‘I’m sorry, Joe, really I am,’ said Mr Jones, and Molly was amazed at his change of tone. He sounded conciliatory now. ‘It won’t happen again. It’s this thieving lass I took in off the streets. She’s been pinching the wife’s things!’

‘I have not!’ Molly cried, shock and disbelief making her shout. ‘I haven’t touched anything –’

‘What’s this then?’

Mr Jones was bending over the open suitcase. When he stood up he had a bangle in his hand. It sparkled in the light from the open door.

‘Do you see this, Joe? Do you see it?’ He held it up and Joe nodded.

‘Aye, I see it. It’s that gold bangle your wife was so proud of, isn’t it? Why, the thieving little bitch!’ He leaned further out of the window and glared at Molly.

‘I didn’t take it, really I didn’t,’ she said. She looked from the neighbour’s face to that of Mr Jones. He had a nasty little smile playing round his lips; his eyes were filled with vindictive glee.

‘You’re my witness, Joe. You saw me take it out of the case, didn’t you? I knew she had it somewhere, I missed it out of the dressing-table drawer tonight so I tackled her
about
it. If she’d give it me back I’d have let her off, but she’s a hard-faced little slut, you know. Will you watch her, Joe, while I go for the polis?’

Molly was struck dumb. She stood there, her open case at her feet, the marble clock under her arm. She looked down at it. It was one o’clock in the morning. Surely this was just a bad dream? It couldn’t really be happening, of course it couldn’t. She closed her eyes tight, prayed that she should wake up then opened them again.

Someone had taken a firm hold on her arm. She almost dropped the clock. It was the man from next door.

‘Now then, don’t you think you can get away,’ he snapped. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d done this before, arriving here out of nowhere and trying to take honest folk down.’

‘I didn’t – I haven’t!’ moaned Molly. Up the street other windows were opening. Some front doors even had people peering round them.

‘What’s going on, Joe?’ someone shouted.

‘It’s this lass that was lodging with Bart,’ he explained, speaking loudly so everyone could hear. Molly felt herself shrinking inside with the shame of it. ‘She’s been pinching stuff from him, that’s what’s going on.’ His fingers dug painfully into her arm again.

‘I haven’t! I didn’t!’ cried Molly, but hopelessly now.

‘May the Lord save your lying little soul,’ someone shouted piously. ‘Make you see the error of your ways.’

‘I did nothing!’ she screamed, beside herself now with
an
anger which rose up inside her and burst out. ‘It was him! He got into my bed … he …’

‘Eeh, I tell you what …’ said a woman from up the street. She came walking down towards Molly, a coat on over her nightie, old shoes thrust on her feet and her hair done up in steel curling pins. ‘I tell you what … folk like her’ll say owt but their prayers. An’ who would’ve believed it? She looked a meek little thing, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Aye, but you’ve been found out, haven’t you?’ The woman thrust her face close to Molly’s. ‘You didn’t think you would, did you? Lasses like you should have their fingers chopped off, that’s what I think!’ She folded her arms across her enormous chest and nodded her head to emphasise her words.

‘I didn’t do it! It was him, he got into my bed!’ shouted Molly, and a growl went up amongst the crowd which was now gathering round.

‘Will you listen to her? Will you?’ one man cried. ‘Isn’t that what they all say when they’re caught? Blame it on the fella. Oh, aye, it must have been
his
fault. Tried to take you down, did he? An innocent little virgin, are you? I just bloody well
bet
you are!’

The crowd murmured agreement, their mood growing ugly. They moved forward, hemming her in. Someone grabbed her other arm, the one holding the clock, and she dropped it.

‘Me mam’s clock!’ she cried, and pushed and shoved, taking Joe by surprise so that he let go of her and she bent
down
on the pavement, crying over the clock as though the world had come to an end.

‘It was me mam’s,’ she cried brokenly. ‘Look at it now, the marble’s all chipped. I bet it won’t work neither.’

The old woman laughed. ‘It’s only an old clock,’ she said. ‘You won’t be needing a clock where you’re going, me lass.’

‘Now then, what’s going on here?’ a new voice said, and the crowd melted away as if by magic. Molly was left bending over the clock, trying to fix the glass door back on for it had come off in the fall. Miraculously, it hadn’t broken. She hardly heard what was being said by the men above her. The door on the clock went back on, albeit a bit crooked. She stood it carefully on the pavement and turned to her suitcase, pushing her things back into it, trying to get them even so she could close the lid. The catch wouldn’t work at first. She tried and tried with it and at last it clicked into place. She nearly cried with frustration. She should have a belt round it, she thought, that would work. One of her father’s belts, that was it.

The policeman bent down and pulled her to her feet.

‘It’s no good taking on like that, lass,’ he said mildly. ‘You’ll just have to come along o’ me now. I want no fuss, mind.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Molly. Suddenly she was exhausted, couldn’t fight any more, feeling like a bird in a trap.

‘Well, where do you think? The police station in
Bondgate
. You can’t go pinching things and get away Scot free, you know. A night in the cells will do you the world of good.’

On the pavement, the clock began to chime, its tone sweet and silvery. It chimed six times. ‘See what they did,’ said Molly, more to herself than the policeman. ‘That can’t be right. It’s not six o’clock, surely?’

‘The lass is off her head,’ Bart Jones remarked.

‘Never mind that. You’re coming along an’ all, I want a statement from you. You, too, whatever your name is.’ He nodded at Joe.

‘I have to go to work the morn!’

‘Me an’ all,’ said Joe.

‘That’s matterless, you’re coming down to the station,’ the policeman said calmly. ‘Come on, the Black Maria’s at the end of the street.’

‘Why, yer bugger!’ said Joe, glaring at Molly. ‘I could be fast asleep in bed if it wasn’t for you. A fella’s just doing his duty and now I’m going to lose a morning’s pay for it. What’s the world coming to, I ask you?’

‘It’s the law,’ said the policeman. And, picking up Molly’s suitcase, led the way down the street.

Chapter Eight

AT LEAST SHE
didn’t have to worry about where she was going to sleep, thought Molly. She sat on the hard bed in a police cell in Bondgate and looked about her in total disbelief. How could this have happened? The cold struck through the bare stone walls but she didn’t feel it; she didn’t feel anything. There was a barred window set so high up the wall it was impossible to see through, a metal door with a peephole which denied her all privacy, a battered table and a chair.

‘Lights out in five minutes, lass,’ a policeman said through the peephole. ‘If I were you I’d try to get some sleep.’ He sounded quite kindly, she thought, and opened her mouth to appeal to him but he had gone. She could hear his footsteps retreating down the passage.

She looked at the bed. A hard flock mattress. A lumpy striped pillow with no pillowslip. A brown blanket, clean but worn almost away in patches. She took off her shoes, thought about removing her dress but decided against it. She lay on the bed, covering herself with the blanket. Her mind felt blank, she couldn’t even think. She stared at the
door
. The light from the bare bulb in the middle of the ceiling shone in her eyes and she closed them against the glare. The next minute it was suddenly dark, a dense blackness relieved only by bars of lighter grey near the ceiling and coming from the window.

‘Dad,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Dad.’ She needed him here so much but he was dead. And then a moan she hardly recognised came from her lips. ‘God help me. Please, God, please.’

She became aware of noises. Someone in the next cell was drunk. He was singing a song from the Great War. ‘Mademoiselle from Armentieres’, that was it. Someone else, a woman’s voice it was, shouted, ‘Stop that ruddy racket, will you?’ And a policeman walked in heavy boots outside the door.

‘Quiet in there!’ an authoritative voice shouted and the drunk was quiet for a few minutes then started up again with ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’.

Suddenly Molly was desperate to pass water. There was a lavatory pan in the corner. She got up and went over to it, moving hesitantly in the dark, her hands out in front of her, feeling her way. She sat on the lavatory, finding herself at first unable to use it. There was no seat and the cold of the pottery pan bit into her. At last she managed and made her way back to the bed, stubbing her toe on the leg. The pain was agonising. She fell into bed, pulled the blanket over her head and sobbed and sobbed, shoulders heaving. No one was going to help her, no one at all. She was
completely
alone. Eventually the storm of crying passed and she fell into an uneasy sleep.