For a country girl it was no great effort to wake with first light. Molly lay for a moment listening to the clatter of cartwheels on cobblestones; the world outside was astir. Within the house all was still, and in a matter of moments she slipped from the bed, gathered her belongings and, boots in hand and with her heart thumping loud enough to wake the whole of London, loosened the knot from the door handle. She opened the door a crack: the windowless landing was dark; all the doors were shut and the rooms beyond them silent. The door swung a little, creaking, and she grabbed and held it, the silence rushing in her ears as she strained to detect any sign of disturbance. She slipped like a wraith through the shadows to the top of the stairs, freezing as a board groaned beneath her bare feet. Somewhere near a man coughed, bedsprings creaked. At the foot of the stairs the intricate pattern of coloured light thrown by the stained glass in the front door urged her on, and she moved soundlessly forward. As she set her foot upon the top stair a door near the landing was thrown open and a man’s voice boomed out, “What’s this, then?”
She had never in her life moved so fast. She was down the stairs in one flying leap, and then struggling frantically with the bolt on the front door. The man was starting heavily down the stairs behind her. The bolt crashed back, catching her fingers, and then she was out into the cold, early-morning street.
She ran until her breath gave out, though she knew the likelihood of pursuit to be slim; the man on the landing had been in his nightshirt, unlikely apparel for a chase through a waking neighbourhood. When finally she stopped she was panting painfully, and her feet hurt. She bent to pull on her boots, then straightened to look around her. She was in a narrow, winding lane, tiered high with windows and rickety balconies. From a doorway blank and irritated eyes watched, blinked, closed again in sleep. Peace was hard enough to come by. Stamping her feet firmly into her cold boots she set herself to walking, shivering, in the sharp dawn air.
Several random turnings later she emerged from the maze of cramped and dirty streets into a wider cobbled thoroughfare in which there was already considerable activity. Several market stalls were set up; men and women called cheerfully to one another. Near to where Molly stood was tethered an old horse, his rough hide steaming in the chill air, jaws working contentedly in his nosebag while an enormous darkly handsome young man unloaded fruit and vegetables from the cart. As Molly stopped, leaning for a moment on the wall, cheeks bright with cold and exertion, the young man looked up and, smiling cheerily, called out, “Mornin’.”
“Good morning to you,” Molly replied, watching as he swung a huge sack effortlessly from the cart to the ground.
“Lookin’ for something?”
She nodded, returning his smile. “Breakfast.”
“No problem. Down the street a ways, see?” He pointed. Molly saw a steamed-up window, a low, dark doorway. “Old Mother Randolph’s place. Best breakfasts in Whitechapel.” He ran his eyes over her appreciatively and winked.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Try the pork pies.”
She did, the rich and meaty pie and dark, sweet tea giving rise gradually to a sense of confidence and well-being that she had not experienced since she had stepped on board the Kerry.
A girl was waiting on the tables, a bright-eyed beauty with expressively arched eyebrows, a wry mouth and a mass of blonde hair. Her tongue was as sharp as her movements as she threaded swiftly around the tables, balancing cups and plates like a music-hall artiste, avoiding outstretched hands and deflecting suggestive compliments with equal ease. It was a game regularly played, part of an early-morning ritual, Molly realized, listening from her quiet corner and watching with admiration as the girl flitted, smiling, around the room, bestowing upon each admirer an equal share of pungent charm, never favouring one above another and ready to slap hard at a too-persistent hand. Well-worn jokes were bandied back and forth with a gusto enhanced by familiarity; everyone, it seemed, knew everyone else, and first names were the rule. These were the market traders, Molly guessed, up since midnight and waiting for the profitable day to start. An outsider, she sat quietly nibbling at her second pie, cheered by the friendly atmosphere.
Deciding on another cup of tea, Molly waited until she could catch the handsome waitress’s eye and then lifted a hesitant hand. The girl smiled and nodded and came across the room towards her. As she passed the table next to Molly’s, around which sat a particularly boisterous group of young men, a ruddy-faced lad with a shock of fair curls reached blithely for her waist. He was obviously as surprised as anyone else when she failed to dodge him and, more by luck than judgement, found herself sitting on his lap. The roar that followed nearly brought down the ceiling.
“What’re you going to do with her now you’ve got her, Tiny?”
“You’ve got more of a lapful there than you bargained for, you silly bugger—”
“Look out—” a smothered explosion of laughter, “—here’s Johnny. You couldn’t have come at a better time, John. Maggie’s taken a fancy to Tiny—”
Molly’s eyes followed the others’ to the door, where stood the man who had directed her to the best breakfast in Whitechapel. The breadth of his shoulders filled the doorway and he had to bend to enter the room. He was laughing with the others, but his eyes upon Maggie were hard and questioning and there was a dangerous tilt to his head.
Only slightly ruffled, Maggie detached herself from a now scarlet-faced Tiny and nodded to the newcomer. “Mornin’, Johnny.”
Molly was aware that the atmosphere of the room had changed subtly. Chairs scraped upon the tiled floor, someone cleared his throat, and lurking now beneath the surface of good humour was a faint charge of violence. Tiny’s hand, almost unthinking, was still fast upon Maggie’s wrist. Under Johnny’s cool gaze he released the girl hastily. For a fine-balanced moment nobody moved.
“May I have another cup of tea, please, and a pie?” The soft, Irish voice, practised at breaking silences more dangerous than this one, was perfectly composed. “Coming up, love.” The murmur of voices rose and the moment had passed. Molly, aware of covert glances, dropped her own gaze to the table and concentrated resolutely upon preventing the rise of blood to her cheeks. She was therefore unprepared when the chair beside hers was dragged backwards by a large hand and Johnny, all six feet and some inches of him, settled himself with a certain amount of care upon it “You’ve got some gall for a little ’un,” he said, grinning.
She lifted clear eyes, refused to pretend misunderstanding. “I’ve a brother who looks just like that when he’s about to start a fight—”
The grin widened. “Can’t say I wasn’t thinkin’ of it.”
“Well, I like my breakfasts peaceful, thank you. If I want a circus I’ll pay for a ticket.”
He laughed. He was looking at her in open appraisal, taking time over his assessment of the delicate transparency of her skin, the wilderness of curly hair, the shadowed lavender of eyes that would not waver from his, though a faint colour warmed the bones of her cheeks.
“You’ll know me, I should think,” she said with the asperity of embarrassment, “if we should bump into one another again?”
Behind him Maggie was making her way towards their table, a tray of toast and tea expertly balanced. When she reached them she thumped the tray on the table and reached for a chair.
“Time for me own breakfast. Might as well eat with you as on me own.” The softness in her eyes as she looked at Johnny gave the lie to her uncaring tone. He did not look at her, but continued to stare at Molly.
Maggie poured the tea. “Don’t mind ’im. ’Is mother never taught ’im manners.”
Johnny sat back on the perilously swaying chair, his hands spread on his knees. “Not long off the boat, then, eh, Irish?” he said with a certainty that might have provoked her.
She shrugged. “Four o’clock yesterday morning.”
He picked up his cup. “That’s what I thought.” His bright, dark eyes watched her as he drank. “Ever bin to London before?”
She shook her head.
“What you plannin’ on doin’?”
Molly, unwilling to admit even to herself that she had no clear answer to that question, said tartly, “I’m planning on drinking my tea.” Johnny gave a shout of laughter, slapped the table with a hand the size of a carpet beater. “By Christ, I like you, Irish. That I do.”
Maggie leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her lovely face cupped in her hands. “Gawd, girl, you must ’ave some idea?”
“I thought – perhaps—” Molly stopped. The truth was that until now all her energies had been channelled into getting herself to London. Exactly what she might do when she got there had been something for later consideration. “I have to find work, and somewhere to live,” she said, and even in her own ears her voice sounded rather less than confident. She was watching Maggie; she did not see the speculative light in Johnny’s eyes.
Maggie sucked crumbs and butter from long, none-too-clean fingers. “That’s easy, duck,” she said, off-handedly. “Go into service. Work an’ lodgin’s both, that way.”
“No.” The sharp finality of Molly’s tone startled them. “No,” she said again more quietly, “that’s not what I had in mind at all. I was thinking—” memories of the bright glitter of the Regent Street windows crystallized suddenly in her mind, “—I thought perhaps I might get work in one of the big stores—?”
“Hah!” Maggie exclaimed with pure disgust. She sat back inelegantly, her hands on her knees, shaking a bright, knowing head.
“What in Gawd’s name makes yer think that bein’ a bloody slavey in a posh shop’s any better than bein’ in service? You just try it! Take it from one as knows, love. Shop work’s bleedin’ murder. Workin’ six in the mornin’ till eleven at night, at the beck an’ call of any bugger that’s got sixpence to spend, fined ’arf yer wages if yer so much as dare to try to take the weight off yer feet fer a minute – an’ better digs to be found in the work’ouse, I can tell yer. It’s a mug’s game, that. Shops is fer one thing, and one thing only: spendin’ brass. Preferably someone else’s. I’m tellin’ yer – you’d be better off in service.”
Molly looked down at her small, grubby hands that were nursing her half-empty mug, her mouth set in a stubborn line.
Johnny moved his chair a little closer. “Ease off, now, Maggie. Can’t you see she’s made up ’er mind? She’s no one’s skivvy. Right, Irish?”
Molly nodded, trying to ignore the chill of apprehension that was creeping through her. She felt suddenly, desperately, lonely. She lifted her chin. “I’ll find something.”
“Well, ’course you will,” Johnny said encouragingly, his smile friendly, “there’s a million places. Sweatshops where you can sew yerself blind fer pennies, or take the skin off yer fingers makin’ boxes. Factories where you can choke yerself ter death makin’ Lucifers—”
“I can read and write. Figure, too,” Molly said doggedly. “That’ll help.”
Johnny’s sardonic eyes took apart, stitch by stitch, Molly’s shabby, much-darned skirt and shawl. “You can?” His disbelief was palpable.
Molly saw no reason to justify her claim. “Yes.”
Maggie laughed as she began to gather the dirty crockery from the table. “Readin’ and writin’, eh? There’s a thing. There’s a lot o’ call fer that kind o’ thing round ’ere, love. I don’t think.” Someone across the room called her name. “I’m comin’,” she yelled. “’Old yer bleedin’ ’orses. Will I be seein’ yer later?” This last was addressed, casually, to Johnny, but there was an intensity in her eyes that belied the tone.
Johnny ignored her. He had rested his chin on a massive fist and was regarding Molly thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you straight, Irish. I’m worried about you. Wanderin’ the streets of Whitechapel at five in the morning with no more idea than a newborn babe in a brothel.” He shook his head, slowly and soberly. “You’re bloody lucky you ’aven’t ’ad your throat cut. Or worse.”
“Johnny, I asked you—”
“Shut up, Maggie.” It was said conversationally. Bright colour stained Maggie’s cheeks. Johnny jerked his head in a dismissive gesture. Maggie slammed cups and plates noisily onto the tray and walked away, moving between the tables with a defiantly provocative swing of her hips that brought several appreciative glances but impressed Johnny not at all.
Molly sat in miserable silence, her earlier feeling of well-being completely evaporated. Dismay and discouragement nibbled at the edges of her mind.
“Tell you what,” said Johnny, his voice breaking her unpleasant reverie. “There’s a chance – just a chance, mind – that I might be able to ’elp you out. Just temporarily, like. If you’re interested, that is?”
She lifted her eyes to his broad, sharp-eyed face. “Help me out? How?”
“Ma Randolph – she owns this place – is a good friend of mine. Owes me a few favours, know what I mean? Now, I ’appen to know that Ma’s lookin’ for another girl, to give Maggie a bit of a hand. Sharp kid like you’d be just the ticket, I shouldn’t wonder. How about me havin’ a word in ’er ear—?”
Molly looked around her unhappily. “Work here?”
“Why not? Just till you get yerself sorted, o’course, find somethin’ better, like—?” His handsome face was intent and sympathetic. He smiled.
“Well, I—” Molly looked down at the table, her heart sinking. Where was the difference between working here and going into service? And yet – what else, at the moment, could she do? Could she turn down any offer of help?
Johnny leaned forward. “Just while you get yerself settled, eh? It wouldn’t be as bad as yer thinkin’, Irish. Me an’ the old lady, we’re like that—” he held up two crossed fingers “—she’d treat you right, knowin’ you were a friend of Johnny Cribben’s.” He paused and watched her, letting her own fears work on her. “Better think about it, Irish,” he added softly. “You can thank yer lucky stars you fell among friends. They ain’t easy come by in this part of the world. You got any goin’ spare?”
Molly bit her lip. The thought of setting off alone into the unfriendly streets of this unknown city to hunt for work and lodgings suddenly appalled her. The warmth of the room and the cheerful atmosphere offered comfort and safety, for a while at least. Just, as Johnny said, until she found something better.
There was a shout of laughter from across the room, obviously in answer to something that Maggie had said. Johnny grinned his wide, pleasant grin. “Look at Maggie there. Nobody’s drudge our Maggie, eh? I ask you – does she look hard done by?”
Molly had to laugh. “That she doesn’t.”
“Well, then, what’s yer worry? Give it a bloody try, eh?”
She hesitated for only a moment longer. “All right, I will. Thank you. Just till I can save some money and get myself straight—” The decision made, right or wrong, was like a weight lifted from her heart.
“That’s the girl!” He stood up and took her hand in his. “Come an’ meet Ma. She’s an old cow, sometimes, but her heart’s in the right place!” he said, and, shouting with laughter, pulled her in the direction of the kitchen.