London’s East End, June 1940
‘Molly, love, the PM’s on the wireless! Come upstairs and we’ll listen to what he’s got to say. I’ve turned the shop sign to “Closed” so we won’t be disturbed.’
‘Someone’s bound to want serving, Dad,’ Molly Swift objected, narrowing her observant brown eyes at the busy street outside. ‘And it’s our customers who come first.’
‘Even if Winnie is addressing the nation?’
‘Even if it’s the good Lord himself.’
Bill Keen smiled ruefully as he approached his daughter, who stood weighing out the potatoes. Very slowly he took her arm and drew her round to face him. ‘I know all about our customers, ducks. Your mum and me ran this shop before you was born. So bugger the customers for an hour. Today it’s our chance to find out from the horse’s mouth just what’s going on over the Channel. France is where Ted is, fighting his heart out on the beaches. Your husband, my son-in-law, beloved to us both. So set aside your concerns for the store and its patrons and let’s go upstairs.’
Molly understood precisely what her father was saying. But it was these softly coated words she was reluctant to hear; it was far less painful to imagine Ted safe and sound instead of listening to the reports on the Home Service, or reading the upsetting headlines of the newspapers. It was bad enough the customers asking after Ted. She knew they meant well but, poor souls, many were already touched by tragedy. Sometimes they’d come in the shop to buy their ration of tea or jam or a slice of bacon if there was one available, and yet she could tell it was for another reason altogether. Women needed to share their losses. A flicker of hope would ignite in their eyes as they spoke of their soldier or sailor or airman – just as if he was standing there.
Molly had paused on many occasions since war was declared between Britain and Germany in September of last year, to listen to tales of separation and loss, some ending choked by tears, with heads bowed as the spirit of that brave departed soul faded. So she had given a kind word, a hug, a bit of discount here and there, or an extra helping out of her own ration as small compensation.
And always she’d kept the faith – her faith – that Ted, her living and breathing man, would return with his fellows of the brave British Expeditionary Force, not necessarily a hero or with the commendations that every man deserved in this bedlam of war, but alive! This was her prayer. Her hope. Her belief. And as long as she remained behind the counter, giving sympathy to others, she could go on in her world, believing in the very best possible outcome. This store was her and Ted’s livelihood, an extension of their combined efforts for the past five years. Surely it could never be taken away?
‘Molly, come now, ducks. It’s time.’ Bill Keen slipped his hard-working, capable fingers around his daughter’s arm and firmly drew her towards the stairs.
‘Dad, I’d rather not. I have the orders to set up.’
‘Orders can wait,’ her father objected as Molly racked her brains to get out of the uncomfortable request. Then, tilting his head to one side, he said softly, ‘Molly, you are my lovely girl and full of spirit when it comes to running this shop. Ted’s been away since November last and you’ve carried on valiantly. There’s not a customer you don’t serve with a smile and often a little bit extra. Oh yes, don’t think I’m a blind old codger, ducks. I’ve still got me wits about me, if not me hair.’
Molly smiled, embarrassed to know she’d been caught in the act. ‘It’s just they’ve got such sad stories, Dad. With all their men away and having to manage on their own—’
‘And so are you on your own,’ said Bill, cutting her short.
‘I’ve got you, Dad, don’t forget.’
‘Why, I’m barely able to lift a sack of spuds these days!’ he returned jovially. ‘When I sold you and Ted the shop five years ago, I was on me last legs.’
At this Molly laughed, her brown eyes lighting up and reflecting the colour of her thick chestnut hair coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck. ‘You were nothing of the sort,’ she disagreed. ‘You did us the biggest favour of our lives. You knew we had to get our teeth into something after . . . after Emily.’ Here she stopped and took a breath. The memories of her two-year-old daughter who had been so cruelly taken from them in the flu outbreak of 1935 were still raw, still bitter-sweet.
‘Right, chin up, lovely,’ Bill replied staunchly, for Molly knew he had mourned his granddaughter as keenly as she and Ted. ‘We’ll sit with our sandwiches and listen to Winston,’ he encouraged. ‘The papers say that 220 of our navy ships and 700 small craft are already sailed for the rescue. I wouldn’t mind betting the BEF boys will be climbing aboard this minute. First in, first out – stands to reason, don’t it?’
Molly nodded, giving in as she had known she would, before unbuttoning her gabardine overall, looping it over the peg and mounting the stairs to the large and airy flat above.
Molly’s stomach clenched the minute she heard the cut-glass accent of the announcer. ‘The miracle of deliverance of Allied troops’ – as it was so delicately put – ‘is now in progress. The operation to bring back thousands of our retreating troops trapped by the German army in Dunkirk, is almost accomplished.’
Molly dared to breathe, though the word ‘almost’ hung like a scythe in the air, ready to fall. And then it came, the hidden facts, slowly fed to the public. The strategic operations were complete, but not before the Luftwaffe had reduced the town of Dunkirk to rubble and destroyed 235 vessels and 106 aircraft, claiming, so far, at least 5,000 lives.
To add to Molly’s confusion, it was revealed a further 22,000 Allied troops had been rescued from other ports: Cherbourg, St Malo, Brest and St Nazaire, including those from the battle-weary BEF units of which Ted was one. Was this the good news she had been waiting for?
‘God willing, he’ll be home soon,’ declared Bill as he sat with his knees spread, leaning forward in his armchair, making a concerted effort to listen to every syllable coming from the walnut-encased wireless set. ‘Hear that? Hundreds of boats, love – hundreds! All out there, braving the waves and the gunfire and stealing our lads from the clutches of the sea. Ted could plant his feet on English soil any time now.’
Sitting opposite in her late mother’s chair, Molly anxiously clutched the crocheted covers on each stout arm. The feel of them reminded her that if her mother was present this very moment, twelve years after her passing, she’d be offering her own brand of maternal wisdom that Molly missed and needed so much.
‘If only your mum was here,’ Bill said, echoing Molly’s thoughts as he patted his pockets, stood to search for his pipe on the mantelpiece, found it and stuffed it, unlit, into his mouth as he flopped down again. ‘She’d be down at the docks this very moment. Checking every face, seeing Ted well in advance of him seeing her.’ He laughed robustly, shaking his head, until slowly the smile slipped from his lips and he looked at Molly with questioning eyes. ‘It’s not too late for us to nip down to the water, love. Check along the wharfs. See where they’re disembarking. It’s said the Little Boats are bringing them back to nigh on every port in the country.’
Molly slid her hand to her neck, easing the tight muscles with her fingertips. She couldn’t wait to hold Ted in her arms, nor to savour the kiss he would lay on her lips when they met. She had no words to describe the expectation of her hopes and dreams. It wouldn’t be fair – it just wouldn’t – to take Ted away from sharing them too.
‘No, Dad. There’s a chance we might miss him. I wouldn’t want him walking into an empty store without the welcome he deserves.’
Molly averted her gaze and slipped back into the world she had created. A world of routine and reliability. A war might be raging, but she had her shop. Her customers depended on her and she depended on them. It was the only way she knew of existing in a world full of uncertainty.
She would be patient, listen a few minutes more to please her father, then go downstairs, put on her overall and turn the sign. Her customers would come in, one by one, or sometimes in groups, enjoying the meeting place as much as their purchases.
Then, towards teatime, her attention would be taken by a shadow. A figure. The man would come walking up Roper Street towards the shop’s front door. A familiar stride; the Blakeys on his boots scuffing the crowns of the pebbles . . . and she’d run out and into Ted’s arms and never – ever – let him go again!
‘Listen, Molly, will you, it’s him! The prime minister of England, by God!’
Molly stirred, only half listening, reluctant to emerge from her dreams. But the defiant words echoed through the speaker of the wireless and stole away her peace.
‘We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender . . .’
‘Never,’ Bill Keen agreed, with clenched jaw and raised fist. ‘Never!’
Suddenly an icy panic filled Molly. ‘Never’ was such a very long time. And how could she face this ‘never’ without Ted if, God forbid, Ted’s life was the price she had to pay for Britain defending her soil?