SUNDAY DINNER IN number twelve had been a much quieter affair than usual, with no happy laughter or even a bit of playful bickering. Instead, the atmosphere was nastily touchy, with everyone, apart from young Michael and Timmy, seeming to be either brooding about something or else ready to boil over into a row. Even an inoffensive remark about the tastiness of the carrots and a simple, polite request for more gravy were met with scowls and grunts. To make matters worse, the warm, sunny weather had turned hot and muggy, with heavy clouds hovering in the distance, threatening to move closer; the stormy atmosphere making the kitchen feel more sultry and crowded than ever.
So it was with a sense of relief, rather than a pleasant feeling of comfortable fullness, that everyone left the table, and with it a hefty portion of Nora’s usually fought over fruit pie still untouched in the dish – a previously unheard of event in the Mehan household.
When his mother had offered the pie round for the second time, Michael was sorely tempted to take another helping, but, in a rare moment of good judgement, he had decided that it was best to shake his head with a polite, ‘No thanks, Mum,’ as all the others had done. But, the sight of the gloriously sticky pie being put away in the food safe worried Michael’s sense of what was right, and it would play on his mind like a guilty secret until he could pilfer it later on.
Fruit pie, or any other food, was the last thing on Molly’s mind. She had barely noticed eating anything. All she could think of was how she was going to get out of the house to meet Simon Blomstein. With the mood her mum was in, she dreaded even mentioning that she had plans to go out for the afternoon. She was bound to have something that Molly had to do instead: an errand that suddenly had to be run or a job that couldn’t wait. And then there was her dad, she sighed to herself. And her nanna. They were usually easy to get around, but with their current frame of mind they could prove as difficult as her mum. Molly just couldn’t figure out what had got into them all and had spent the whole meal fretting about what she was going to do.
But Molly had been troubling herself unnecessarily about her mum. As soon as the clearing up was finished, Katie, without saying a word to anyone, carried one of the kitchen chairs out into the back yard and got stuck into tackling a pile of mending as though her life depended on it.
Molly was surprised to find that she didn’t have to worry about her dad or her nanna either. Pat took himself off to the front room, supposedly for a look at the paper, but more likely for a Sunday afternoon doze, while Nora, with a whispered warning to the youngest two about behaving themselves and not upsetting their mother, went across the street to check on what tales Phoebe and Sooky were peddling between them. She was all too aware of how quickly the neighbourhood grapevine could work, and the idea of those two telling tales about her Katie and Frank Barber had worked her up into a real froth.
That only left Molly’s brothers to mess things up for her, but not one of them appeared to give a tuppenny damn about what she was planning for the afternoon, so it was with real relief – and a stomach full of butterflies – that Molly ran upstairs to her bedroom to get herself ready for her outing.
Molly had the luxury of a whole room to herself. Liz Watts, the last of her family still to be at home with her mum and dad, was the only other girl of her age Molly knew who didn’t have to share a bed, let alone a room, with a gaggle of younger brothers and sisters. Even though Molly’s room was the little one at the back that overlooked the yard and faced the back of the flats above the shops in Chrisp Street, it could have been as small as the toot cupboard under the stairs and have faced a bare brick wall for all she cared. It was the privacy that Molly treasured.
Occasionally, one of the boys would complain about Molly’s privilege, but Nora would inform whichever of her grandsons was moaning that he was lucky to be sharing two bedrooms between only the four of them while she slept downstairs in the front parlour. And, if they didn’t stop their whining, they could all pile into the back room of number ten while she took the large front bedroom which was, after all, hers by right, and how would they like that? Just the thought was usually good enough to stop their griping.
Molly closed her bedroom door and sat down at the little dressing table her dad had bought her when times had been a bit easier. He had got it from a second-hand furniture man who traded under the arches near Club Row, and Molly had nearly fainted with joy when he had brought it home on a borrowed handcart. Second-hand it might be, and it wasn’t even particularly pretty, but it was hers, and Molly kept it polished with the care she would have lavished on a rare antique. Molly had learnt well from her mother to keep her things nice and to be proud of what she was lucky enough to have, but though she had always kept the mirror shining, she hadn’t spent very much time actually looking at herself in the glass before. She had been too busy raking the streets with Danny or fooling around with Liz, but she felt differently now. Today her reflection was a thing of intense interest.
Molly leant forward and examined her face for flaws. She had a look about her that was difficult to put an age to, and an air of someone who seemed to know about things, which, combined with the energy that was bursting from her, made her into a more than averagely attractive young woman, although she certainly wasn’t aware of the fact.
She leant closer to the mirror and stared. She supposed that all the strange new things she had been feeling lately meant that she was growing up. It was like when she and Liz had both suddenly decided to have their hair bobbed, a daring decision made on their way home from work one Friday, which had caused ructions in both households, the lopping off of their long hair being seen as too adult a decision for either to take without first getting permission. The girls had both been thrilled with the results, but Molly wasn’t so sure now. She liked the way the thick auburn waves framed her blue eyes, but she would have liked to have scooped her hair up into a ribbon, the way she used to, and have it falling in curls around her shoulders. Still that was her – making wild decisions then regretting them afterwards. It was no good moping about it, and it was no good sitting there staring either. If she didn’t get a move on she’d be late.
Molly opened the bottom drawer of the dressing table and took out a little flannel bag from beneath the pile of clean underthings. With a quick look towards the still closed door, she opened the pouch and took out a tube of lipstick and a box of Phul Nana face powder. She and Liz had treated themselves to the illicit cosmetics in Woolworth’s a couple of weeks before, and considering the fuss about their up-to-date hairdos, both girls had wisely chosen to hide their newly purchased make-up. But they had experimented with it in secret, creeping up to Liz or Molly’s bedroom whenever they could. They hadn’t quite got the hang of making themselves look like Merle Oberon yet, but they were definitely getting better at it.
With a slightly unsteady hand, Molly slid the lipstick from its case and spread a thin layer of red across her mouth. Not satisfied with the results, she tried to straighten up the wobbly line, rubbing at the worst bits with her finger and then dabbing a generous amount of powder over the resulting pale pink smudges. She narrowed her eyes and studied the effect.
With a sigh she took her hankie from her dress sleeve and wiped the whole lot off again, then hid the make-up pouch and the stained hankie back in the drawer – another bit of hand washing she’d have to do before her mum noticed. She needed a lot more practice before she could present her sophisticated new image in public, so, until then, the world would have to brave Molly Katherine Mehan as she was: red-haired, bare-faced and freckled. And with a growing store of secrets in the bottom of her dressing-table drawer.
Since they were old enough to whisper behind their hands, Molly and Liz Watts had always shared secrets such as the make-up, and now they were sharing another, far more grown-up one. While Molly had told her nanna, maybe a little recklessly she now thought, that she was seeing two boys, only Liz knew who they both were, and she had promised not to tell anyone. Molly definitely didn’t want anyone, particularly Danny, to find out about Simon Blomstein. She just knew her brother wouldn’t approve of him, and could imagine how bonkers he would go if he discovered she was seeing what he’d call a posh sort of bloke – meaning one whom he thought had it easy in life because he had an uncle with a bit of money who’d give him a job whether he deserved it or not. To make it worse, the job was what Danny would consider soft sort of work, where you used your brain rather than your muscles. One of the reasons Danny grafted so hard for Joe Palmer was that he’d never have anyone saying he was soft or a sponger; a man should earn his living, not have it handed to him on a plate.
But there was something else Molly feared Danny would disapprove of, and it had a lot to do with how Bob Jarvis had acted when he’d seen her speaking to Simon: good Catholic girls definitely weren’t meant to go around with Jewish boys . . .
Before she let her mind begin leading her along that thorny path, Molly stood up. It was nearly twenty past two according to her tinny little bedside clock, and if she didn’t get a move on it wouldn’t matter who approved or disapproved of who or what, she’d be so late that there would be no meeting at all. Simon would have turned right round and gone home again.
As Molly neared the corner of Preston’s Road and Poplar High Street, the place where she had agreed to meet Simon, all sorts of doubts began to flood into her mind. Usually so confident and full of herself, Molly began to feel sick. Suppose she didn’t recognise him? What would she do? She had this vision of a bloke of about nineteen, maybe twenty, with dark eyes and dark hair, but that could be a lot of people. And then say she didn’t like him? Or say he was a murderer, or one of those blokes who lured young women into the white slave trade just like old Phoebe Tucker and Sooky Shay were always going on about? But, worst of all, there was the awful possibility that he wouldn’t turn up at all and she would be left standing there like a lemon, with passers-by knowing full well that she’d been stood up and she’d have to go through the humiliation of strangers feeling sorry for her.
She now felt so confused that she didn’t know whether the thought of Simon turning up was worse than the thought of him not being there, nor could she decide whether all this going out with boys was worth the bother. And then there was Bob Jarvis and Danny and what they’d have to say if they found out. She wasn’t exactly Bob’s girl, but she had sort of started seeing him, and he was Danny’s mate. And he had paid for her to go to the pictures and she was seeing him again next Saturday. And she did really like him.
‘Hello, Molly.’
Startled to hear her name, Molly collided with a middle-aged couple who had been strolling towards her. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled in apology and then, with her nerves sending her blood beating in her ears, she turned to see who had spoken to her. She could hardly bear to look. Was it him?
She knew immediately that it was. And she also knew that he could never be a mad axeman, or a kidnapper waiting to pounce on her and ship her off to some sheik’s harem in the moonlit sands of a faraway desert – he was far too handsome. Maybe it would have been a bit of all right if he had planned to whisk her off somewhere on the back of a camel; he was smashing.
‘Hello, Simon,’ she said, her voice cracking slightly. ‘I ain’t kept yer waiting, have I?’
‘No, of course you haven’t. It’s me, I was worried I’d be late, so I got here a bit early, that’s all.’ He laughed. ‘I must’ve been here for half an hour. I reckon all the passers-by thought I’d been stood up.’ He paused. ‘But I didn’t care, I didn’t want to risk missing you.’
Molly lowered her eyes; she could feel him looking at her. ‘That’s really nice of yer. Thoughtful.’
They stood there for a moment, Molly peering up at him through her lashes, thinking how good-looking he was, and he smiling down at her as though they had known each other for ages.
Simon suddenly grinned, showing teeth more even than Molly had ever seen before, and as white as his stiff shirt collar that contrasted so handsomely with his olive skin. ‘I ran all the way,’ he said with a throaty chuckle. ‘I’ve only just about got my breath back.’
Molly felt herself blush. She wasn’t used to such consideration from anyone, let alone a boy. Her mouth felt dry and she had to swallow before she could speak. ‘Yer must’ve fagged yerself out.’
Simon shrugged amiably. ‘I’m all right. I keep fit with all the running around I have to do for my uncle.’
Molly nodded feebly, unsure as to what to say next – not a usual problem for her.
Simon didn’t seem to notice her rising panic and continued to speak easily. ‘Much of a walk to this foot tunnel, is it?’ he asked.
Molly’s surprise made her forget her nerves. ‘Ain’t yer never been through it before?’
‘No, and I’ve never been to Greenwich either. I’ve only lived in the East End for a few years. I used to live in North London with my aunt, but when I left school I needed a job so I came to live with my uncle’s family in Whitechapel.’
‘You ain’t got a mum or dad, have yer?’ The idea of being an orphan intrigued Molly; hers was a romantic image of foundlings and mistaken identities that she’d got from the cinema and from reading penny romances.
Simon stared down at his feet. ‘They died when I was a baby. There was an accident.’
Molly reached out, and before she realised what she was doing she was holding Simon’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, I should learn to mind me own business, shouldn’t I? I’ve got such a big mouth, every one says so.’
He raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you haven’t got a big mouth. I think you’ve got a lovely mouth.’
‘Blimey, now that’s something no one’s never said to me before.’
‘I can’t believe that.’
‘And I can’t believe we’re standing here in all this dust and muck when we could be walking through the grass in Greenwich Park.’ Molly began running along Preston’s Road, pulling Simon behind her. ‘Move yerself then, there’s a number fifty-seven coming along. That’ll take us right down to the bottom of the Island. It’ll be worth the tuppence each to save our legs for hiking up that great big hill. You just wait, you ain’t never seen nothing like it. Nothing in yer whole life.’
Just fifteen minutes later Molly was leading Simon down a winding iron staircase and into the mouth of a big, tiled pipe of a tunnel that took them right beneath the bed of the Thames and across to Greenwich on the south side of the river.
As they emerged from the lamp-lit mustiness of the foot tunnel into the strong summer light of the riverside, the far horizon to the west was growing heavier with storm clouds and the afternoon heat was becoming even more stickily oppressive, but Molly didn’t notice either; all she was aware of was that she and Simon were still holding hands.
Fascinated, Simon looked back across the river and then along the bankside. Piles of boxes and pallets were waiting to be loaded or shifted into the warehouses, carts and trucks that crowded every available inch of space. Even on a Sunday afternoon the bank was bustling with people and activity, and on the river itself there were boats and barges, skiffs and tugs, all bobbing up and down in the wake of the paddle steamers, carrying crowds of laughing day-trippers up river towards Westminster and the elegant delights beyond, or down river to the estuary and the less sophisticated pleasures of Southend-on-Sea.
‘I can’t believe we’ve only come across the river,’ said Simon, shaking his head in wonder. ‘All this.’
‘Wait till yer see the park,’ Molly said, again hauling him along behind her. This time she led him through dingy side streets lined with soot-stained terraced houses. ‘Yer’ll love it. There’s views that’ll take yer breath away.’ She glanced sideways at him, her eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘All over London yer can see – miles and miles and miles. Yer feel like yer standing right on top of the world.’
Practically every hot step they took from the river to the park, there was something that Simon either wanted to stop to admire or to ask Molly questions about. Most of the time she didn’t know the answers, particularly those about the big buildings that Simon said he was sure must be something to do with royalty and that he intended looking up in some book or other when he got home. She had never known anyone before to be so interested in everything and anything that presented itself. All Molly wanted to do was enjoy the fresh air, lick the ice-cream cone that Simon had brought her from the stop-me-and-buy-one man on his trike, and just bask in the pleasure of Simon’s company. But, if that meant listening to him going on about buildings and kings and queens, then that was all right with her. He could have been talking about how his uncle’s printing machines worked for all she cared, just so long as he carried on holding her hand and smiled at her whenever he caught her eye.
When they reached halfway up the hill, even with all her energy, Molly was exhausted by the heat and the climb. ‘Come on, let’s have a sit-down,’ she said, jerking her head towards a huge chestnut tree. ‘I’m flipping tired out. And I’m so hot.’
They leant their backs against the hard, knobbly trunk and stared down the hill towards the river, watching it sparkle, darkly silver, in the few starkly etched rays of sunlight that were managing to find their way through the now almost completely flat, leaden grey sky.
‘You always like this?’ Molly asked, concentrating on sucking a drip of the now liquid ice cream that was seeping through the hole she had bitten in the end of her cone.
‘Like what?’ Simon asked, squinting his eyes as he tried to focus on her face in the dappled shade.
‘Sort of, I dunno, nosy like me, I suppose. But not about people like I am. About things and about what’s going on and that.’
‘Don’t you want to know about things?’
Molly considered for a moment as she ran her tongue along the sweet, rough pattern on the side of the cornet. ‘Never really thought about it to tell yer the truth. I mean, I’ve always wanted to know about what’s going on in Plumley Street.’ She looked round at him. ‘That’s where I live, off Chris Street, with me family. And about me mates, of course – I wanna know how they’re getting on. And there’s the warehouse, you know, where I work. But all that’s always been, sort of, enough for me to think about. I suppose I’ve never really had the need to know much more about anything else. The rest of the world kind of passes me by.’
She crunched the last of her cone and licked the remaining drips from her fingers. ‘My dad’s interested in things. He’s in the union down the docks and he reads the paper from front to back and back again. And he’s always telling me to be quiet and stop chatting so’s he can listen to the news on the wireless – we was the first in our street to get one.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m just stupid, eh?’ she added, beaming at him.
This time Simon didn’t return her grin. ‘No, you’re not stupid, Molly, you’re lucky,’ he said. ‘Not needing to worry about things and having friends to care about. I envy you.’
Molly sat up straight. ‘What, you ain’t got no friends?’
Simon plucked a blade of grass and pulled it between his teeth. ‘I’ve moved around my family so many times, so often, I’ve not been anywhere long enough to make any. Not really.’
Molly sprang to her feet and held her hand out to him. ‘Well, yer’ve got yerself a friend now,’ she said, surprising him with the strength of her grip. ‘Come on. On yer feet. Now we’ve had a sit-down I’m gonna take yer to the top of the hill and show yer the best view of London yer’ve seen in all yer life. And yer can get that collar and tie off and all. Yer look like a turkey cock how red yer’ve gone.’
The rest of the afternoon passed in an easy blur of talking and laughter, with Molly doing most of the talking and each of them having a fair share of the laughs. And when Simon checked his watch after the first fat drops of stormy rain began to fall, Molly was thrilled to hear that it sounded like genuine regret when he said they should be thinking about getting home.
They ran, holding hands, down the grassy hill back towards the river, Molly refusing Simon’s jacket, clutching her hat in her hand, not caring what happened to her hair.
‘I love the rain,’ she shouted, lifting her face to the sky, as the thunder began to rumble in the distance. ‘My nanna used to sit on the street doorstep with me on her knee and tell me that the raindrops hitting the tarry blocks was soldiers marching up and down the street to keep me safe from the storm.’
‘I feel I know your family after all you’ve told me about them,’ Simon panted as he strained to keep up with her. He was fit but Molly seemed to have enough energy for two as she surged on ahead, looking like she wouldn’t stop until she reached the river bank. That was why he was so surprised when she stopped dead and turned to face him.
She looked mortified. ‘I’ve talked too much, ain’t I?’ She dropped her chin and tutted angrily to herself. ‘Dad’s always telling me to slow down and think before I open me gob.’ She lifted her eyes and looked at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said pitifully. ‘It’s just me. I can’t help meself.’
Simon gently wiped a raindrop from her cheek. ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry about.’ He touched his lips to the end of her nose. ‘I’ve never been happier.’
This time Molly definitely didn’t stop to think what she was doing. She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him smack on the lips, right there in the park in front of anyone who cared to look. Then, wide-eyed with horror at what she’d done now, she burst into nervous giggles and began running again towards the foot tunnel.
Simon caught up with her just as she ducked inside the dome-topped entrance building. He backed her against the wall. ‘Did you mean that?’ he asked.
She nodded up at him, closed her eyes and lifted her face towards his.
‘Good,’ he whispered.
They stood there, folded in each other’s arms until a loud chorus of whistles made them spring apart.
A row of tousle-haired, scabby-kneed boys were staring at them with undisguised curiosity. ‘Cor, I thought yer was eating each other for yer tea,’ one of the scruffy kids piped up, to the evident delight of his mates.
‘Yeah, making a right meal of it,’ offered another.
‘Clear off!’ Molly yelled.
‘Here,’ yet another butted in, bouncing his half-deflated football aggravatingly close to her feet. ‘I know you. You’re Micky Mehan’s big sister, ain’t yer?’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Molly sharply, gulping at the terrifying visions of what her mum would do to her if she found out that Molly had even been holding a boy’s hand, let alone kissing one she hardly even knew. And in public, during broad daylight.
‘Yes you are,’ the boy persisted, still bouncing the ball at her. ‘Yer Molly Mehan.’
Before he realised what was happening the boy was suddenly being hoisted by his ear, and almost off his feet, towards Simon. ‘Oi!’ he squealed. ‘Leave us alone, you, or I’ll tell me dad of yer. He’ll bash you up, he will.’
Simon bent forward and looked the boy directly in the eye. ‘The lady said she doesn’t know you,’ he said in a low, threatening whisper. ‘So, are you going to run off with your little friends and be a good boy or do you want me to give you something to really cry about?’ He let the child go and stood up straight. ‘Well?’
The boy rubbed his ear sulkily. ‘Come on,’ he said to his mates, making his way towards the iron stairway that led down to the tunnel. ‘I’ll have me own back on him, you just see if I don’t.’
As the last and smallest of the boys filed past Simon and Molly with a defiant scowl and a quick flash of his tongue, Simon grabbed him by his skinny shoulder. ‘Hold it, you,’ Simon said.
‘What?’ Now he was separated from his friends, the child’s rebelliousness was forgotten completely. Looking up at Simon with big, frightened eyes, he said plaintively, ‘It was them, mister, it weren’t me. I never meant nothing. Honest.’
‘I know,’ said Simon gently. He took a threepenny bit from his trouser pocket and put it in the astonished boy’s grubby hand. ‘Here, you and your friends buy yourself some sweets.’ He watched, a faint smile playing on his lips, as the now completely confused child, clutching the reward for he wasn’t sure what, ran off to tell his mates about their good fortune.
When Simon turned back to Molly, his own smile vanished. ‘Molly? What’s wrong? You’re not crying, are you?’
Molly shrugged, willing herself not to let the tears escape from her eyes. ‘No. I’m sorry, Simon, I just don’t want yer getting the wrong idea, that’s all. I ain’t ashamed of kissing yer or nothing but it’s me mum and dad. They’d kill me if they found out.’ She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. ‘I suppose I didn’t want nobody getting the wrong idea ’cos I ain’t the sort of girl who usually does this sort of thing. I dunno what got into me.’
‘I know,’ said Simon, gently running his fingers through her thick auburn waves. ‘Your hair,’ he said softly, ‘it’s like flames.’ He touched his lips to her forehead. ‘Come on.’
They walked slowly, not saying much, hand in hand, back through the tunnel. When they reached the other side of the river, despite the rain that was now coming down in sheets, Molly still didn’t want to hurry herself or even wait for a bus that would get them home more quickly. She knew she had to get back sometime, her mum would be bound to start wondering where she was, and she would have more than a little explaining to do when she did get home – especially now that she was soaked right through to her underwear – but she didn’t want their parting to come a moment before it had to. It would be all too soon anyway, because, unspoken though it was, they both knew that Simon would not be walking Molly all the way back to Plumley Street.
Molly had never met anyone like Simon before; being with him made her feel happier than she could ever remember. No, she corrected herself, not happier exactly; her family made her happy in their own special, noisy, rumbustious way. And being with Bob made her happy too; in fact, even though she had bristled every time he had been bossy and arrogant, which had been quite often during their evening together, she had actually been thrilled that he had cared enough about her to bother to tell her what to do. But being with Simon was, well, it was different. As they walked along in easy silence, she tried to work out what it was. It eventually dawned on her: Simon was treating her like she was special just because she was her, Molly Katherine Mehan, and not, as Bob had made her feel, that she was someone he wanted to own and make her into someone else, someone he would prefer her to be.
It was scary when she thought about it, someone liking her for who she was, when he really didn’t know that much about her. But she knew herself all right, and knew that she could be exactly what her dad called ‘a right little madam’ when she got a mood on her, and that was something she would hate Simon to see. She wanted Simon to think she was perfect, and there’d be a fat chance of that if he saw her bawling at her brothers at the top of her lungs, or shinning up over the wall at the end of the street, or worst of all, if he saw her actually fighting with Danny. She felt herself going red with shame just at the thought of it.
‘Are you sure you won’t take my jacket?’ Simon asked her. ‘You’re looking a bit flushed, I’d hate you to get a fever.’
‘I’m as tough as old boots, me,’ Molly said, shaking her heavy wet hair away from her face and trying to let the rain cool her burning cheeks.
‘I don’t believe that for a moment,’ he said.
They had just reached the point where Manchester Road became Preston’s Road. They both knew that they would soon be making excuses as to why they had to go their separate ways from the corner of Poplar High Street, the place where they would be in increasing danger of people they knew seeing them together, and not just little kids with footballs who could easily be accused of making up stories for mischief.
Paying no heed to the teeming rain, Simon stopped and turned Molly to face him. ‘I’m sorry, Molly, but I won’t be able to see you all the way home. All right if I leave you at the corner up there? I hate to do this, but I hadn’t realised how late it was getting.’
Saved from having to make up a story of her own, Molly smiled happily at him. ‘I reckon I can manage to find me own way from there, ’cos I ain’t exactly a delicate little flower, yer know,’ she said, unconsciously echoing her brother Danny’s sarcasm. ‘I told yer, tough as old boots, me.’
‘No matter what you say about yourself, I think you’re wonderful.’
‘Blimey,’ she answered for want of knowing what else to say.
‘So, before we both catch our deaths,’ he said, putting his hand in the small of her back and guiding her forward. ‘What time shall we meet next Sunday?’
‘Yer wanna see me again?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply.
She stopped and looked at him. Hurriedly banishing any thoughts of what Bob Jarvis would have to say if he found out about all this, she blurted out, ‘And I’d really like to see you again and all.’
‘We could go to Victoria Park if you like. I could take you on the boating lake. Show you my muscles.’
‘I reckon that’d be smashing.’
They stared at each other for a long moment, then Molly turned her head away and said nervously. ‘Look, don’t bother walking any further with me. I ain’t got far to go. Just leave me here. I know yer’ve gotta be getting home yerself, and, I don’t wanna sound like a little kid or nothing, but my dad, he really is ever so strict.’
Instead of thinking, as Molly had expected, that she was daft, Simon just laughed. ‘Sounds like my uncle.’
‘Honest?’
He laughed again. ‘Honest. And that’s why I didn’t mind when you pretended you were someone else to those boys. I knew how you felt. And I understand about having to keep things from your family sometimes.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ Simon took his handkerchief from out of his pocket and rubbed it over Molly’s hair. ‘And if you’re going home we’d better get you dried off a bit. You look a real sight with your hair plastered flat to your head.’
Molly pulled away from him.
‘Sorry, you say you’re the one who opens her mouth without thinking. That came out all wrong. What I should have said was that you look a really beautiful sight. And I’m honoured to be your secret.’
Simon shoved the wet handkerchief into his pocket, and, with a brief touch of his lips to her cheek, he sprinted off along Preston’s Road.
Molly stood and watched until he had disappeared round the corner into Poplar High Street.
Then, with a soppy smile on her face, she began to walk slowly home; her soggy hat in her hand, her dripping wet cardigan sagging from her shoulders and her shoes squelching every blissful step of the way.