Sarah Benton watched them all, that summer, with tolerant affection and some few misgivings. She watched Annie wind Charley around her bony little finger, torment and tease him, order him from here to Christmas and back; but she saw too the look in the girl’s eyes, the contentment in Charley’s face, saw him weaned from dangerous company and was satisfied that these two were nothing but good for one another.
About her daughter’s happiness she was not so certain and, as none knew better than herself, with good reason. If Molly had noticed Nancy’s not-quite-hidden unhappiness, Sarah felt it in her own heart and knew as mothers always know that she could do nothing to ease it. Joe Taylor’s uncompromising attitudes did not make him an easy man to like. Respect, he commanded; and no one could complain of his behaviour, which was at all times rigorously well-mannered. But there was little warmth in the man; and he gave the unavoidable impression that his cold and logical decisions, once made, would never be tempered by circumstance. The thought disturbed Sarah. And while the others walked and picnicked, laughed and teased, kissed and quarrelled, Nancy and her Joe went soberly to church, talked of heavier matters than next week’s outing or the latest music hall song, and Sarah found herself wondering, not for the first time, at the caprices of human nature.
But if Nancy’s romance was a low-key affair, the same could in no way be said of Harry and Molly. Sarah watched the flame that grew between these two and was torn between the simple pleasure of seeing them together and the worried conviction that nothing so fierce could last. And her worry was more for Molly than for her own indestructible son. She wondered, watching them, if the girl were not perhaps blinded by bright eyes and laughter. Harry had not changed as Charley had; he was still the same restless, unpredictable and occasionally ruthless spirit. The strength of will that drove Molly had all of Sarah’s admiration, but she was certain that the girl had not yet discovered that it had no true parallel in Harry. That their temperaments were very similar was irrefutably true, but Harry had never felt the need for self-discipline, and that was a chasm between them that apparently neither had yet noticed. Yet even taking into account these differences, it was hard to believe, watching them together through the bright summer, that anything could come between them.
As summer drew into the last autumn of the century it was becoming more and more likely that Joe’s prediction of war in South Africa would be fulfilled. As the Boers, grimly patient, awaited the African spring grass that would feed the horses and oxen of the commandos, the British, too, slowly gathered their scattered reinforcements. Argument raged in Britain as in Africa, and feelings ran high. To any suggestion that the British Government’s handling of the situation in the Transvaal, their uncompromising demand for the vote for British Nationals in the Boer Republic, might be regarded in some quarters as high-handed and provocative, Harry, together with most of the rest of the nation, was scathing.
“A lesson’s what they need, and it’s what they’ll get. A few stretched necks.”
“The empire’s safe, then,” Molly said drily and with no smile from her place on the arm of Harry’s chair. “For hanging’s something the British Army needs no lessons in.”
“Irish rebel talk.” Harry slipped an arm about her waist, not noticing the sudden coldness in her eyes. “Just wait till you see the lads in their uniforms, then you’ll sing a different song. Nothing like a uniform for impressing the girls, eh, Charley?”
“Your brother,” said Annie to Charley, her eyes on Molly’s rigid face, “can be as thick as last night’s cocoa. It’s a good job you’re pretty,” she added to Harry in a tone as unfriendly as any that Molly had ever heard her employ. “Come on, Moll. Let’s go and help Sarah with the tea. The company’s better in the kitchen.”
At five o’clock on the eleventh of October 1899 the ultimatum issued by Paul Kruger to the British ran out and the Boers of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State moved on Cape Colony and Natal. Despite forewarnings the British were far from prepared, with only 15,000 regular soldiers ready to take the field in South Africa, and the 47,000 reinforcements under the command of General Sir Redvers Buller still on the high seas. The Boers wasted neither time nor advantage; before breath could be drawn the news came: Ladysmith, Kimberley and Mafeking were all under siege, and the army that was the pride of an empire had been boxed like chickens into crates. Popular pride was outraged, and the call was for Boer blood; but it was mostly the blood of Britain that spilled on the warm and thirsty soil of Africa at the outset, and as the war correspondents reported, their words, however carefully chosen, told of disaster, of engagements lost by lack of military forethought, won by the marksmanship and resource of the well-mounted, mobile Boer commandos. And patriotic temper and outrage began to build to a fever pitch.
During a bout of cold weather at the end of the month Molly caught a chill and was immediately and uncompromisingly ordered to bed for the weekend by Sarah.
“You get on home, my lass. Look at you. Just remember what happened last winter. You’ve got to look after yourself. Here—” she thrust a small bottle into the girl’s hands, “lemon and honey with a drop of brandy to help it along. I doubt your landlady’ll have anything. Harry, get along with you; get the lass home.”
And Harry, gratifyingly concerned, did. He saw her to the Aldens’ gate, kissed her sympathetically. “Do as Mam says, now. And look after yourself.”
She nodded miserably. “I’m sorry. I’ve spoiled the weekend.”
“Don’t be daft.” He lifted her chin with his finger, kissed her small red nose. “It isn’t the end of the world. I’ll have a night out with Ben and the lads. I did have a few friends before I knew you, you know.”
She leaned her aching head upon his shoulder, stifling misgivings. Harry’s friend, Ben Samson, she knew as a likeable, utterly reckless young man whose attitude of total irresponsibility tended to put at risk anyone within a half-mile of him. His influence upon Harry was not exactly a tranquil one. “I expect you’ll enjoy that,” she said, and then smiling goodbye went into the house and to bed.
He did enjoy it; enough to make him want to repeat the experience rather more often than Molly cared for, though she had more sense than to say so. A couple of weeks later he went out with Ben on a Friday night and swore, groaning, on the Saturday that he’d never go near the man again.
Molly laughed at the pale face and bruised-looking forget-me-not eyes. “Serves you right,” she said heartlessly. “What on earth did you get up to?”
“God knows. I think we must have finished up with a tot from every bottle in the place – wherever it was – and there was Ben, fresh as a daisy and ready to start again. He’s got the constitution of a carthorse, that one. I think he’s done it this time. I’m dying.”
The room was empty. Molly slid from the arm of his chair into his lap, her arms loose around his shoulders, her face in the hollow of his neck.
“Ouch!” His hand came up to her head, forced back her laughing face with its sharp white teeth and kissed her.
“You aren’t dying,” she announced with some certainty a few moments later, and was tumbled sharply to the floor for her pains. But despite her laughter his drinking bouts with Ben worried her.
All through November tidings of the war were called on street corners, and the newsboys did brisk business even though all the news was bad. The sieges were unbroken, the Boers’ hit-and-run tactics harried and defeated the relief columns as they marched in uncompromising military order through a wide and wild countryside that was totally alien to them. Molly ignored the war stubbornly, refused to discuss it, turned on Harry in an anger born of fear when he spoke with enthusiasm of the reported valour of the British troops defending Ladysmith, Mafeking and Kimberley.
“’Tis the other side of the world,” she snapped sharply. “What has it to do with us? Can you think of nothing else? Is there nothing closer to home worth noticing?”
And indeed there was; for at the beginning of December came a pleasant if not altogether unexpected event – Charley announced, as happily as if no such thing had ever occurred before, that Annie had agreed to marry him. The occasion was marked by a party that went on till four o’clock in the morning, at which time Ben, standing astride the open garden gate with one foot on each gatepost and an upturned, fortunately empty, chamber pot on his head, brought the festivities to a close with a very unofficial version of ‘Rule Britannia’. Charley kissed Annie to loud applause, Nancy and Joe were seen for the first time in public to hold hands, and Harry, drawing Molly into the cold darkness of the garden, asked in mock anxiety if she thought proposals might not be catching?
She tilted her head to look at him in the darkness. “I hope not,” she said.
“Oh?” He was startled, slightly stung.
“I don’t want a share of Annie’s proposal,” she said softly. “If I’m to have one at all I’ll have one of my own, thank you.”
The shouting and singing by the front gate had died into cries of goodnight and a few last, laughing words of advice for the happy couple.
“I see.” He bent his head; his lips teased hers. “Fussy in Ireland, are we?”
“We are,” she said firmly.
A quick gust of December night-wind rustled the leaves around them, roughened their party-warmed skins. Molly shivered. He wrapped his arms about her and spoke into her hair, his voice suddenly totally sober. “I’ll make a terrible husband, you know. Terrible.” He was not joking.
From inside the house came the sound of Jack’s voice, calling Harry.
Molly smiled into Harry’s shirt. “Do you call that a proposal?”
He laughed with one of his quick swings of mood, stood her from him at arm’s length. “Oh, no. Didn’t I once tell you I’d do it in style?”
She nodded. “You did.”
“And so I shall, lass, see if I don’t.” His voice was serious again, the drink-flushed, high-boned face gleaming in starlight. “Just give me time.”
Jack was bellowing, impatient now, from the back door. “Ha – arry.” There was clearing up to be done.
“As much as you like,” said Molly softly, tempting fate beyond forbearance. “As much time as you like.”
Molly was given an unexpected treat that Saturday morning: Mr Jenkins was away on business and Mr Vassal had a niece getting married and was anxious to be away; so it was that Molly got to West Ham a couple of hours earlier than usual.
The day was cold; a gusting, swirling wind tormented the last of the fallen leaves. Molly held on to her hat as she battled around corners, her skirts plastered dangerously around her legs and ankles. Knowing that Sarah and Jack were away in Yorkshire caring for Sarah’s sister, who had been taken ill, and that Charley, inevitably, would be round at his Annie’s, she was looking forward to a quiet afternoon around the fire with Harry, Nancy and Edward. At the thought of the promised warmth and comfort she quickened her steps; as she rounded the last, gusty corner she heard her name called excitedly. She stopped, lifting her head, her blinking eyes stung by the dust-laden wind. Edward, his blond curls tossing like unseasonal buttercups in the breeze, his face alight with an excitement beyond the blustery weather, was dashing towards her. Behind him, her face a sudden picture of apprehensive dismay, was Nancy. Molly did not see her; her eyes were upon the child as he raced to her, shouting above the wind.
“Molly, Molly! Guess what!”
She caught his hands and swung him round, laughing. “What? What’s happened?”
“Edward!” Nancy’s voice, harsh and urgent, was nevertheless nearly lost in the wind. “Edward, don’t—”
“Harry’s going to join the army! With Ben. They’re going to fight the Boers—”
She released him so suddenly that he almost fell. He stumbled, righted himself, looked at her in surprise. He’d never seen anyone look so queer.
“Edward!” His sister, usually so gentle, grabbed his arm roughly and yanked him to her side. He looked from Nancy to Molly, his lip trembling.
Nancy stared at Molly, watching the white flame of rage kindle in the wide-set grey eyes as Edward’s words finally registered in a brain made unreceptive by shock. “Molly, oh, Molly, love, I’m sorry. He shouldn’t have told you like that. We weren’t expecting you. Not yet. It didn’t occur to me that we’d meet you. I should have told him not to—”
“What has he done?” The sharp question cut across her friend’s words; and Nancy knew that it did not refer to Edward.
Miserably she said, “He was out with Ben and the others last night He came back—” She stopped.
“Drunk,” Molly supplied expressionlessly, the clenched fury in her eyes the only life in a bone-white face.
Nancy’s shoulders drooped. “Well, you know how – Molly, you have to talk to him yourself. It isn’t fair on either of you that you should hear it from me.”
“Where is he?”
“At home.” Nancy jerked a head back over her shoulder.
The wind buffeted them, their skirts streamed out like dark funeral banners. Without a word Molly walked past them and away down the street towards the Benton house. Nancy watched the rigid back with pain in her eyes.
Edward, his dampened spirits recovered, swung on her hand. “Come on, Nance. You said you’d buy me a cake.”
Very quietly Molly let herself in through the back door. The frozen shock that had clutched her was loosening gradually, being replaced by a more painful burning anger; she could barely breathe as it spread through her veins, pounded in her ears. The scullery was empty, as was the living room beyond, empty and warm from the lit range, the December darkness through the small window throwing gloomy shadows around the unnaturally quiet house. She pushed open the front room door; the fire was laid, ready but unlit in the black, polished grate; the window rattled in the wind; the air was chill and slightly damp. Harry was not there.
From the room above came a stirring, the vaguest creaking movement.
She climbed the dark stairs noiselessly, pushed open the bedroom door.
He sat upon the side of the bed, his brown and honey head bowed to his hands; despite the chill he was wearing only trousers and his feet were bare. The bed was rumpled and untidy and the room smelled unpleasantly. As the door swung back against the wall he straightened, wincing, the brilliant eyes for a moment unfocussed, the face bleached of colour. He looked very sick. She slammed the door and watched him flinch.
“What’s this I hear?” Her voice was soft, ineluctably hard, “Going for a soldier, are we?”
He could not look at her. He ran long fingers through thick and tangled hair. “Who told you?”
“What does it matter who told me?”
“You must have known I might.”
“I did not.” Every quietly enunciated word dripped an acid disbelief. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
He did not reply, but rubbed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes. The buffeting wind outside was carrying rain now, hurling it against the windowpane like showers of pebbles.
He stood up, his eyes steadier, his head lifted. She felt the defending rage slip from her; she ached to touch him and was afraid that he knew it. This time it was she who turned away. She walked to the window and stared sightless at the streaming glass. She felt him come up behind her, braced herself against his hands on her shoulders.
“Molly, you have to try to understand.”
She did not turn; her voice was even and expressionless. “Understand? I understand. I understand that you and Ben Samson found a message at the bottom of a whisky glass last night I understand that the man’s a lunatic and that when you’re with him you’re no better. What’s the plan? Are the two of you going to relieve Mafeking double-handed? For God’s sake, Harry, are you a child to get yourself talked into such a thing? Do you even know what you’re doing?” She turned to face him at last, no longer caring to hide the tears. “A soldier, Harry? You? A murdering, red-coated bastard of a soldier—?” Her voice choked in her throat.
He stepped back from her, staring, then laughed suddenly, the sound sharp and harsh. “And I thought you were worried about me.”
“I am!” She had known her mistake as she spoke, but had been powerless to stem the bitterness. “How can you doubt it? I love you, Harry, I love you; you know it I’d give my blood for you if you needed it, every drop. How can you think of throwing it all away? This war has nothing to do with us; there is no threat to us in it, win or lose. Why should you risk your life – and worse? Why?”
“Because,” he said, and it was as if every ounce of energy he possessed were in his eyes, willing her to understand, “because I can’t spend my whole life pushing about bloody stupid bits of paper and counting bags of stinking sugar. I can’t. Because there’s got to be more than this.” He gestured at the tiny room. “Ben says—”
“Ben says! Ben says?” Her voice was threaded with fury. “What the hell does Ben know about it? Do you know what soldiers do, Harry? Have you thought about it at all? They kill! That’s what soldiers are for. To kill. And not just each other, either, don’t fool yourself about that. What do you think South Africa will be like, Harry? What do you think is happening there? Rows of smart little toy soldiers marching up and down to fife and drum with brave flags flying? They are fighting across a land where people live. Do you think there is never a woman or a child who gets in the way? Never an old man who can’t move fast enough to get away from the bullets? And do those brave soldiers care, do you think? What do you think they do to Boer women who have information they need? Ask them nicely for it? Think, Harry, think! Have you seen what happens to a man with a bullet in his stomach? Has Ben? Are you ready for that?” She saw it then, through the tears; the fear in his eyes, quickly mantled; remembered his stance when she’d entered the bedroom and knew beyond doubt that he had thought of these things and was afraid. She took his hands, clinging like a child. “Please, Harry, please, please. Don’t go. Let Ben go alone if he’s so set. Don’t go, don’t leave me. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t!”
He gathered her, sobbing, into his arms, rocked her gently until the spasm of weeping had passed. In the silence the sound of the rain that was now drumming steadily on the window filled the room. As she calmed she became aware of her hot, wet face on the smooth and cool skin of his chest. She closed her aching eyes; his fingers trembled in her hair, on the nape of her neck. Though her sobs had ceased the tears still ran, sliding down her cheeks as the rain slid down the window, and she as powerless to stop them.
He drew her to the bed, sat her upon it like a child, crouched before her and held her hands, the bright lines of his face lifted to her in the gloom. “I want you to understand.”
“You don’t have to go,” she said stubbornly, sniffing. “No one can make you. You don’t have to go.”
“I promised Ben. We said we’d join together.”
“But you haven’t actually signed on yet?”
He shook his head.
“Well then.”
He bit his lip, shook his head again, indecision in his eyes. “I promised.”
She sensed a balanced irresolution, some softening of his determination; leaning forward she kissed the straight mouth, pulled him to her. Off-balance he tumbled onto the bed beside her, his lips still on hers, and suddenly his hands were on her breasts, moving across her belly, fumbling with her clothes. Her body was like wire strung taut and singing; she helped him, trembling, with the buttons of her jacket, then her blouse, baring her breasts for him, holding and caressing the honeyed hair as his strong tongue found her nipples. She was still breathing in odd, sobbing gasps. He pulled away from her and sat up, burying his face in his hands in a violent movement.
She lay still, watching him; his shoulders were bunched as if against pain.
“You’d better go,” he said, and even through the muffle of his hands she sensed the dangerous edge to his voice.
She calculated and accepted the risk; something she never later forgot. “No.”
He turned in mixed anger and pleading. “For Christ’s sake, Moll. This won’t help. You have to leave me to make up my own mind.” His eyes ran over her breasts, lifted to the pale light of her face in its frame of wild black hair. She neither moved nor spoke; her die was cast and she would stick by it. She watched the rage and frustration growing in his eyes and a small flame of fearful excitement flickered within her.
“If you won’t go,” he said at last through clenched teeth, “then I will.” He stood, towering above her, his every move a shout of anger, his face a blaze of violence.
In between one breath and another she ceased to care, ceased almost to remember what had brought her here, was aware of nothing but the aching hunger and thirst that the sight of him inflicted. Following an instinct older than anger, she moved, sliding her body further onto the bed until she lay, her arms loose above her head, her body relaxed and supplicating, her eyes, silvered with excitement and fear, fixed upon the man’s face.
Despite the cold a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin. He tried to move, tried to force himself from her, but might as well have been nailed where he stood. Still he remained obdurately standing, refusing to touch her. He caught the sharp gleam of her teeth through her parted lips, bright in the dim light. She moved slowly, languidly beneath his angry eyes; her hands lingering over her own breasts, touching lightly the raised and reddened tips; a dark sweep of lashes drifted over shining eyes. Choked by an undefeatable wave of love and fury he reached for her.
He would not lift his head, nor turn. He lay on his stomach, his forehead hard upon his crossed arms, the strong curve of his back outlined sharply in the grey light from the window. She lay on the pillows beside him and watched him quietly, wanting to touch him, to soothe the knotted tension of his muscles, knowing beyond any doubt that she could not. She was drained and aching; blank fear walled part of her mind. Yet there was a kind of happiness. No matter what he decided, no matter what he took from her now, he could not take the feel of his body, the sound of his wild voice as she had known it in the last few minutes. Part of him at least was hers.
The silence stretched on; she made no move to help him. Something within her was dully certain that she had lost.
He lifted his heavy head at last, in the shadowed eyes some look of peace. “We’ll get married,” he said quietly. “Now. Before I go. Ben’ll have to wait.”
She felt as if a hot blade twisted somewhere inside her. “No.”
He moved impatiently. “Don’t be daft, lass.”
“No. I won’t do it. Don’t ask me.”
He was staring at her now, angry disbelief growing in his face. “You don’t have any choice. You’re not trying to tell me that you don’t want to marry me?”
“You know I want nothing more. But I won’t marry a soldier. I will not.” The total and tired lack of emphasis on the words added to their force. She turned her head away. “If you go with Ben – if you wear that uniform – you’ll not see me again.”
He sat up jerkily, swung his legs to the floor. “Don’t talk such bloody rubbish.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“I do! I do! Christ, woman, can’t you understand that? We shook on it, shook hands on it. In front of the others. I gave my word—”
“I’m surprised,” she said, slithers of ice suddenly in her voice, “that you didn’t mingle blood like true brothers in adventure.”
“Bitch.” The dread was there again, unacknowledged, gnawing. What had he done? She was right, and he knew it in his soul. To kill or be killed. Why hadn’t he thought of that the night before when, in face of Ben’s gay eloquence, it had all seemed so different, so much a game? To defeat the fear he spoke rougher than he intended. “I won’t ask twice. Stop being so bloody awkward. You’ve no choice, I tell you. We can get married in a couple of weeks. The Boers can wait that long, and so can Ben. You can stay here with Mam and the others till I come back—”
As he spoke she was dressing calmly, obstinately suppressing the trembling of her hands and body. “No,” she said again, flatly. She felt sticky and uncomfortable; empty.
“Moll, for God’s sake—” The misery in his voice stilled her for a moment, then she steadily continued dressing. He watched her helplessly. “Don’t force me to a choice—”
She did not answer, reached for her jacket. Her silence maddened him, made him tremble. “If you go through that door you don’t come back. I warn you.” He took a deep, shaking breath. “So now it’s your choice, not mine. I’ll marry you – I want to marry you – I love you for Christ’s sake—” she turned sharply from him, not to show the spasm of pain that caused “—but I won’t leave Ben in the lurch. I can’t.”
Something blazed in the space behind her eyes; perfectly calm she walked around the bed. “Don’t come near me,” she said, “in your fancy red butcher’s uniform. I’ll spit on it. I wish you joy of your killing.” And with the air between them acrid with bitterness she left him.
She had not truly believed he would let her go. Against all reason she listened for his voice calling her back, strained her ears for the sound of his running footsteps above the rain. Back in her room she huddled over her fire, too hopelessly miserable for tears, waiting for the knock that would tell her that he had come.
But the wet and endless day turned to winter’s night and there was no sign of him. Not the next day, or the next. She ate nothing, hardly slept; she snapped back at Owen Jenkins and was sharply reprimanded for it. She did not care. A week passed, then another.
Then Nancy came, Ellen Alden announcing her arrival late on a dark evening.
Molly had heard the knock on the front door, but had long ago given up listening for the sound of Harry’s voice. When the sharp rap on her own door came, she jumped.
“Yes?”
Ellen Alden stood there unsmiling, “A visitor for you.”
Her heart leapt to her throat and she half-stood. Nancy’s eyes as she came through the door took in the stance, the half-expectant excitement. “It’s me, Molly,” she said gently.
The door closed behind her and the girls were left in the flickering light of the gas mantle, looking at each other.
“Does Harry know you’re here?” One last chance – he might have sent his sister, asked her to come.
Nancy shook her head.
“Then why have you come?” The sharpness of misery; Nancy bit her lip.
“I’m here because I can’t bear to see you two doing this to each other. Molly, you can’t let him go like this, without a word—”
“Go?” Her heart had stopped beating entirely.
“He’s leaving the day after tomorrow. For South Africa.”
Nancy’s own face was drawn with a sense of loss. She said into the silence, “He loves you, Molly, you know it. Oh, I know he’s a bit – hasty sometimes, a bit selfish. Aren’t we all? But he loves you. And I was so sure you loved him—?”
Silence.
“I was hoping I could persuade you to come home with me. To see him before he leaves?”
The pain grew worse. “No.”
“Oh, you’re as bad as he is! Is your blessed pride worth—”
“Pride?” Molly turned on her, blazing. Nancy stepped back. “Is that what you think? You think pride is stopping me? Don’t you know that I’d go on my knees to him if I thought it would make any difference? Don’t look to my pride, Nancy, for the cause of this misery, look to his.” She measured the other girl with her eyes for a moment, then said more calmly, “I’ll tell you what stops me, what lies between me and any man, Harry or no, who of his own free will takes up arms against another. Two young men, dead in the street. No. More than that Dozens of young men. Hundreds. Thousands. And all with someone to love them. Those two were just my own, so it hurts more. I’ve lived through a war of sorts all of my life. I’ve seen—” She stopped, something close to panic moving in her eyes. “It is wrong to impose your law with a gun. Wrong!” She smashed a hand painfully on the table. “How will Harry do it?” she whispered painfully, “how?”
Nancy let the whisper die into the shadows. “I don’t know about such things,” she said quietly, “I only see two people apart who should be together. Come home with me. He leaves the day after tomorrow.”
“If he wants me he must come for me. But not while he wears that uniform.”
Nancy shook her head sadly. “Never, then,” she said with certainty. “Won’t you even write to him?”
Molly shook her head. Nancy turned and walked to the door; she stopped with her fingers on the handle. “When he’s gone – will you come and see us sometimes? Mam asked me specially to ask. We all miss you. Our kid’s always asking where you are.”
Molly cleared her throat. “I expect so. But not yet. Not just yet.”
Nancy nodded and left her.
In the end, against her own better judgement, Molly spent Christmas with them, but for her it was not a success. The sight of Charley and Annie, Nancy and Joe, turned a knife in her no matter how she tried to deny it. Harry had been gone for a fortnight; no one offered news of him and she did not ask. Pressed to join them for New Year she refused gently.
“But Moll, it’s special this year. A new century.” Nancy caught her hand. “I hate to think of you on your own.”
“I won’t be on my own,” she lied, “Sam and his mother have asked me to join them.”
Perhaps the wish was father to the thought: on the day before New Year’s Eve Sam accosted her in the hall.
“We – M-Mother and I – wondered if you’d like to s-see the New Year – century in with us?”
“Aren’t you going to your uncle’s?”
He shook his head, grinning suddenly. “N-not even Mother can stand Uncle Thomas twice in one week. We spent Christmas with them.”
She hesitated.
“Please,” he said, and she smiled.
“All right. What time shall I come down?”
And so it was Sam who kissed her shyly upon the cheek – after he had saluted his slightly less austere than usual mother first – and wished her with no sense of irony or foreboding a happy and peaceful new century. Around them the bells pealed wildly their oddly ambivalent message – for bells can ring warning as well as celebration – and as the last moment of 1899 died and the hand of the quietly ticking clock slipped past midnight and into another hundred years, the changes had already begun.