The carting business, Molly discovered with no great surprise, was even more than most a man’s world. A world of warehouses and cold stores, of docks and railway sidings, a world of cut-throat competition and tough business methods. Within a couple of weeks of the fire, armed with a list of Danbury’s customers that had been supplied from Jack’s and William Baxter’s memories, for all their records had been destroyed, she began the thankless and dispiriting task of visiting each one in turn, explaining, arguing, cajoling, all but begging. As she had feared, a lot of their business had either gone or was on the point of going to other carriers. Frozen meat could not wait while Danbury’s rebuilt, nor could cargoes of butter, tea, coffee, spices remain stacked in warehouses. Stubbornly she persisted, salvaging a little here, extracting a half-promise there, finding herself confronted by a variety of attitudes that ranged from the faintly sympathetic to the downright scornful. Her small, smartly-dressed figure was to be seen on the wharves and quaysides, in the warehouses and the railway sheds. She ran the gauntlet of rough and picturesque appreciation that her appearance in these traditionally male-dominated strongholds provoked with cool self-possession, she risked life and limb as she climbed steep flights of rickety steps in her restricting hobble skirt to sit in a dirty, paper-strewn office and try to convince an overworked and impatient transport boss that Danbury’s was not wrecked, that the new lorries would be on the road in days rather than weeks. Some took her seriously, most did not. The disparagement and thinly-veiled ridicule, the impatience, the sometimes sympathetic but always firm refusals to believe that a woman could possibly handle such a business, predictably made her more determined than ever not to give up. But it was hard at the end of an exhausting and often unsuccessful day not to worry, not to remember that every day that went by meant interest to pay, wages bills to be met; harder still to push to the back of her mind the fact that every penny wasted, every shilling unearned was a threat to her own business that she had fought so hard to establish. She saw little of the children – Sarah and Annie, with a minimum of fuss, had stepped into that particular breach – and she fell into bed each night, her aching brain still whirling with activity. She would admit to being discouraged to no one. She visited Jack, watched his steady progress, greeted with a bright, deceitful smile his enquiries as to how her efforts were progressing.
“—William Baxter’s been grand. He’s working for two to get the books in order. He’s never wrong. His memory’s amazing. I never find myself anywhere without every fact and figure I need at my fingertips. Lestor’s? Well, no, we didn’t get that one back, actually. But then, there was never any great profit in it, was there? We’re probably better off without them—”
And so, through a May that drizzled like November she trudged, and talked, and tried to ignore the spectre of ruin that marched at her shoulder. At the end of the month Jack was allowed home. The parlour was converted into a cheerful bedroom for him, and on Sunday afternoon the family gathered, bringing books and flowers and advice for the bedridden.
“He’s trying to do too much,” Molly said severely. “Tell him, Charley – if he doesn’t behave himself he’ll never get well.”
“She’s right, lad.”
“Aye. Mebbe so. But they’ll not keep me here for ever. Good as new I’ll be in no time.”
Later, Charley cornered Molly. “Don’t worry, our Moll. We’ll keep him still for you. You carry on. How’s it going?”
Her momentary hesitation was not lost on his sensitive ear. “Fine. Just fine.”
There was a good deal more bravado than truth in the words. As summer approached and the weather improved, in the same but lighter ladylike hobble skirts, sweeping hats and toe-constricting boots she continued to storm square mile after square mile of dockland, acres of railway yards. Hot, nervous, determined, she talked until she was hoarse, learned to swallow pride and strong sweet tea in the same gulp. But in that clear-seeing recess of her mind that she tried, most of the time, to ignore, she knew that she was not winning. Despite Edward’s enthusiastic help in the buying of the best and most adaptable transport that they could afford, despite William Baxter’s earnest help, despite her own back-breaking, soul-destroying efforts, Danbury and Benton, Carters were slipping inexorably towards disaster, and with it the agency.
“You’ll wear yourself out,” Nancy said worriedly one night.
“You could be right at that.” Molly pulled her boots off and lifted her tired feet to a chair. “God, I’d give anything to go straight to bed.”
“Why don’t you?”
Molly robbed her fingers through her tangled hair. “I can’t. I’ve got some figures to go through. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
“Oh?”
‘Tomorrow I beard a Mr Joseph Forrest in his den.”
“And?”
“And I either get a big contract for carting Mr Forrest’s frozen meat from London to all points north and south or—”
“Or what?”
“Or I admit that I’m neither use nor ornament to Danbury’s and quietly shoot myself.”
“Are you expecting to get it?”
“To be honest, no.” Molly yawned. “But don’t tell the Good Lord that. He’s on the side, so they say, of those who help themselves. Well, I’m trying at least.”
“No one,” Nancy said with feeling, “could deny that.”
Mr Joseph Forrest’s office was large and comfortable and reflected perfectly the temperament of its tenant. It was warm, businesslike, friendly. After the cold, partitioned, rubbish-strewn offices to which she had become accustomed, Molly found the comfort a relief. She liked both the room and its occupant on sight. Joseph Forrest was a grey-haired, portly gentleman of late middle age. His face was a kindly contoured map of fine lines and folds, his skin the burnished colour of a man who spends a good deal of time in the open air. His dark eyes were very shrewd.
“Well, Mrs Benton,” he said, steepling his hands before him, “I have to be honest with you. I’m really not sure. It doesn’t sound to me as if you actually have the organization—”
“Mr Forrest, I—”
“—to cope with our volume of work. We have a very particular problem, as I’m sure you will appreciate.” He studied for the space of a second the small, strong, disappointed face with its wide, smoky eyes and its halo of curly dark hair. “However,” he added.
Molly was used to “howevers”. She looked up with a caustic gleam in her eye. “However?”
“However, we do have a contract that has not yet gone to tender. One that might interest you.”
She waited.
“It is not such a big one, nor so profitable as the meat,” he said, spreading well-tended hands before him, “but it would be easier for a firm such as yours to cope with.”
Molly, with dignity, stood up. She had heard this before, many times. “Don’t tell me,” she said, “baby’s bottles. Embroidery silks? Something, anyway, that you consider fitting for a carting concern run by a woman?” She was at the door before his voice stopped her.
“Fruit,” he said. “From the docks to the retailers. Small amounts, short distances. Small profit margins, too, but plenty of them if you’re ready to work.”
She stopped, turned. “I’m sorry, Mr Forrest. That was unforgivable.”
He shook his head.
“May I sit down again?”
“Of course.”
An hour later they were established friends. She knew of his young wife and their adored baby daughter, the house they owned in Westcliff-upon-Sea, his passion for sailing and the outlines at least of the fruit contract.
“It’s my partner whom you need to see, really. A very go-ahead young gentleman, just back from the United States. He has the facts and figures of the fruit side of things. Could you come tomorrow? Say – ten thirty?”
Molly mentally rearranged her day. “Of course. I’ll see you then.”
She was ten minutes early. She walked the dirty, busy streets for those minutes, determined not to seem too eager. She walked through the ornate revolving door at exactly twenty-nine minutes past ten and then took the lift to Mr Forrest’s office. He was delighted to see her.
“Mrs Benton! Come in, come in. Would you care for tea?”
“Yes, please.” She glanced round. The office was empty.
“My partner will be along in a moment. As a matter of fact I’ve only just managed to contact him. He’s been in Liverpool, on a matter of business. But I left a message – ah.” There had come a sharp rap on the door. “This will be him. Come in.”
She lifted and turned her head, froze as the door swung open to reveal a slight, smiling, sparely elegant figure poised in the doorway.
“Adam,” Mr Forrest said, “Come along in. How was Liverpool?”
“Liverpool, as always, was dirty,” Adam Jefferson said, “but profitable, I’m glad to say.” Not by a flicker did he betray the slightest emotion or recognition.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Come and meet the young lady I told you of. I didn’t mention her name, did I? Mrs Benton, Adam Jefferson, my partner. Adam, this is Mrs Benton.”
They looked at one another. “As a matter of fact,” the light, husky voice said quietly, “we’ve met. Mrs Benton and I are old friends.”
Molly stood up with considerable care. Her legs were trembling. She extended a perfectly steady hand. “Mr Jefferson.”
He moved into the room with all the grace she remembered, yet something about his step was different. His face was hard as stone, the faint, polite smile did not reach his eyes. He took her proffered hand for the most fleeting of moments, the very least that good manners required, and then let it go. She clasped both hands firmly before her and sat down again, very straight.
Joseph Forrest did not seem to notice anything amiss. “Mrs Benton is running her husband’s carting business at the moment, Adam, while he recovers from an accident. There was a fire. Nasty business. You may have heard?”
Adam shook his head very slightly. He had moved to a chair and stood leaning gracefully against the high back, his eyes and attention upon Joseph Forrest. “I didn’t, no.”
Joseph Forrest shook his head, tutting. “Terrible thing. Terrible. Still—” he said, smiling in fatherly fashion at Molly, “it could have been worse. Your husband, my dear, must feel he is a very lucky man to have such a woman as you behind him. Very lucky indeed.”
Molly felt the beginning of a mortifying rise of colour into her cheeks. Adam turned his head and the dark glance flicked over her, sardonically, just once. He almost smiled. Molly sat very still, her every effort bent upon resisting the temptation to march over and slap him, hard. Then the memory of the time that she had done just that washed over her and her cheeks flamed again.
“I thought, Adam, that you might show Mrs Benton over the store? With your agreement I intend to let the fruit contract go to Danbury’s—?” He waited for a moment. Adam lifted a narrow, nonchalant shoulder in agreement. “Adam’s our expert, Mrs Benton. That’s why I poached him away from several other interested parties, eh, Adam?” He turned jovially to Adam. “Don’t forget to show Mrs Benton the loading bay that Danbury’s will be using.”
“I hardly think, Joseph,” Adam said quietly, “that Mrs Benton will be driving the lorries herself.” He let a small silence develop before he added, the slightest acid edge of sarcasm in his voice, “Or will you?”
She met the goad of his eyes, and for one fiery moment the spark of her temper flared at his unpleasant smile. “No, Mr Jefferson,” she said coolly. “Someone taught me a long time ago to let others do the job that they do best. My – our – drivers are extremely competent. I’ve no intention of doing a hard-working carter out of a job.” She stood up.
“Goodbye, Mr Forrest. And thank you.” She turned to Adam. “Shall we go?”
Adam turned and walked to the door, and Molly, following him, realized suddenly the difference in him. He was limping, very slightly. He still carried himself straight and gracefully, but there was a marked irregularity in his step. On the carpeted landing he pressed the button for the lift and the machinery whirred efficiently. He stood staring straight ahead. Molly, beside him, found herself suddenly bereft of words. She watched the smooth action of pulley and cable through the latticed gates as the lift moved up the shaft towards them. The silence between them was tangible, stony. As the lift car stopped before them with a gentle jolt Adam threw back the gates, stood waiting for her to precede him, perfectly mannered. She stepped inside. He followed; the gates clashed. As they moved smoothly downwards she glanced in the ornate mirror that decorated the side wall of the lift. Multiple reflections of herself and Adam receded into infinity. For one second she allowed herself to study him – the set of his head, the sharp clarity of bone, the straight, hard mouth. She turned away. The lift came quietly to rest. They stepped into the main entrance hall of the building, an impressive marble hall, carpeted and furnished as much like a hotel as a place of business.
“This way.” Adam’s voice was clipped and cool. He took her lightly by the elbow and steered her through the busy hall to a small swing door at the rear of the building. Once through they were in a narrow, dirty alleyway, unevenly paved between high, blackened brick walls. Adam let go of her arm. Despite his disability he walked very fast. Molly hurried beside him, taking two steps to his one, stumbling awkwardly in her high-heeled boots on the uneven ground, gritting her teeth against asking her escort to slow down. The alleyway led them into one of the main commercial thoroughfares that skirted the docks. The wide road was a chaos of horse-drawn vehicles, trams, motor lorries, porters with carts and with barrows. Adam plunged straight across. Perforce, Molly followed. Halfway across she hesitated a little nervously as an enormous horse plodded in front of her, pulling a heavily loaded cart.
“Come on, Missis,” said an impatient voice, “what the ’ell you doin’? You can’t stop there.”
A tram bell clanged noisily. Molly felt her heel slip into one of the tramlines. She lifted her skirt and disengaged her foot, noticing as she did so that her best leather boots were badly scratched. She muttered fiercely beneath her breath. A firm hand took her elbow and Adam propelled her with some force to the other side of the road. Once there she shook herself free, exasperated. “Is there a fire somewhere?” she asked, with asperity.
He eyed her for a moment, his face expressionless. Around them as they stood the current of humanity swirled. Nearby a group of men, all dressed alike in shabby clothes, flat caps and mufflers, their feet encased in the enormous protective boots of the docker, leaned against the dock wall, smoking and talking. There were few smiles, no laughter, as these casual labourers, shoulders slumped, waited for the noon call-on in the faint hope that they might be luckier than they had been that morning. Somewhere a ship’s siren sounded. A long, clanking line of railway trucks pulled slowly past them and the traffic slowed as the trucks crossed the road towards the depot.
“You have to move fast round here,” Adam said in that distinctive voice she remembered so well, “or you’re dead. Or crippled.”
She glanced sharply at him, wanting to ask, knowing that she could not.
“No,” he answered the unspoken question easily, “I didn’t fall under a train. I had a motor accident, in the United States. Last year. Now – do you want to see the store or not? I haven’t much time, I’m afraid. I’ve an – appointment at twelve.” She did not miss the fractional hesitation and came to an immediate conclusion as to the nature of his appointment.
“If you’re too busy—” she said, stiffly.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He was mildly impatient. “If you’re going to work for us, as Joseph said, you’ll find it helpful to know how we operate. You’ll need to instruct your drivers. Are you interested or aren’t you?”
She pressed her lips very firmly together and nodded.
He led her through the great dock gates, where the policeman on duty touched his helmet respectfully. “Mornin’, Mr Jefferson.”
“There it is.” Adam pointed to an enormous, windowless brick-built building that stood like the fortress of a giant by the waterside. A great arch in the lower wall showed glimpses, in the electric-lit, cavernous darkness within, of bustling activity. Railway lines led from the arch out through the dock gates.
“There’s a station in there!” Molly said, wide-eyed.
“That’s right. A lot of our stuff goes out by rail. The docks are connected directly to the railhead. This way.”
He strode ahead of her. Men greeted him respectfully, eyed Molly with some curiosity. Of necessity she paused at the foot of the very steep steps that led up to the door of the building, cursing once again, silently, her fashionable but totally unsuitable hobble skirt. Adam turned and saw her dilemma. For the first time since they had met in the office, his smile was genuine. He came swiftly back down the steps. “Hold on.” Easily he bent down and lifted her bodily onto the first and highest of the steps. “There you are.” He turned from her and walked into the great, cathedral-like building, leaving her to follow.
Molly stared after the straight, arrogant back for a moment, truly hating him. Hating him for the cool, businesslike briskness, for his apparent lack of any emotion but impatience at this unexpected meeting that had shaken her to her soul, for having hands so strong and warm that it was as if they still held her. The bells of danger were ringing loudly in her mind. She hesitated. There was nothing to prevent her from leaving right now, forgetting about the contract. For herself, she knew surely, it would be the best and most sensible thing to do. But for Danbury’s? She had worked hard for this contract. Joseph Forrest liked her; she sensed it. Who knew what other work he might put their way if they handled this one well? If she walked away now, turned down the fruit contract for no admissible reason, what would he think of her? Of Danbury’s? He’d never use them again, that was certain.
Adam had stopped and was talking to a large, red-faced man who was dressed in a rag-bag of clothes over which was spread a huge, stained apron. He towered over Adam’s slighter figure – as indeed did almost every other man in the place. Why, she asked herself in irritation, didn’t that make Adam look insignificant? He looked back at her now, waiting with scarcely disguised impatience for her to join them. Now or never. Stay or go?
She lifted her chin and marched into the noise and activity of the loading bay.
When she got back to The Larches Jack had visitors.
“Charley brought them,” Nancy said.
“Union?”
Nancy shrugged. “I don’t think so. How did it go?”
Molly tossed her hat onto the desk. “We got it. The fruit carting contract. Good terms, too.”
“Marvellous! Jack’ll be pleased.”
“Mm. I’ll tell him later, when his visitors have gone.” Molly stood fiddling with the pens and pencils that were stacked tidily on the desk. “You’ll never guess who Joseph Forrest’s new partner turned out to be?”
“No?” Nancy was only mildly interested.
“Adam Jefferson.” Molly, with sinking heart, realized with what pleasure she spoke that name again, despite everything.
That brought Nancy’s head up. “Good Lord! I thought he’d gone to America or something?”
“He did. But he’s back. About to make a fortune in cold storage, or so he believes.”
“Well, well. You’d better keep your wits about you if he’s got a finger in the pie—”
When Molly joined Jack in the parlour later he was lying propped up against his pillows, surrounded by bits of paper. His enforced inactivity had caused him to put on a little weight. His singed hair had grown again, the burn on his face was just a slight pinkness against the ruddy skin. His eyes were bright and clear, and they lit up when Molly walked through the door.
She smiled. “I’ve brought you a present.”
“Oh, aye?”
She leaned close and kissed him lightly. “A contract to haul all of Joseph Forrest’s fruit imports within London and Essex.”
He opened his arms wide and caught her in a bear hug, rocking her back and forth. “You’re a clever little lass, and no mistake.”
She looked around for the first time at the papers scattered over the bed. “What’s all this?”
“Just something I’m working on with a mate of Charley’s. I’ll tell you later, if anything comes of it.” He leaned back on the pillows. “Are you at the yard tomorrow?”
She stood up, smoothing her dress. “As a matter of fact, I thought that I might just pop back to see Joseph Forrest. Nothing much, just a few details to be worked out—”
Later, seated at her dressing table with her hands to her burning cheeks, staring at herself in the mirror, she asked herself for the dozenth time why she had spoken the words. Why she had even thought them. There was no earthly reason for her to go near Forrest’s. Of course she would not go. Of course not.