Molly's War Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Maggie Hope

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Copyright

  About the Book

  War, tragedy and a shameful secret …

  When Molly Mason’s father dies in a pit accident, she is left penniless and alone.

  She finds work in a local factory, and cheap lodgings. However, when Molly rejects her new landlord’s advances, his revenge is swift: she finds herself accused of theft and thrown in prison.

  As the prospect of war grows ever close, Molly finds herself fighting a more personal battle, trying to find anyone willing to overlook her scandalous past …

  About the Author

  Maggie Hope was born and raised in County Durham. She worked as a nurse for many years, before giving up her career to raise her family.

  Also by Maggie Hope:

  A Wartime Nurse

  A Mother’s Gift

  A Nurse’s Duty

  A Daughter’s Gift

  To my aunt, Mary Walker, one of the Aycliffe Angels, who worked in the Royal Ordnance factory there. Also my uncle, the late Sergeant Joseph Howe, Croix de Guerre.

  Though this book is a work of fiction I drew heavily on their experiences during World War II to create the atmosphere and background material.

  Chapter One

  1938

  ‘SING AS YOU go and let the world go by …’

  The high, sweet voice of Gracie Fields rang out over the clatter of the sewing machines on the factory floor and the girls in the long line on the belt bent over the cloth racing under the needles, singing along with her.

  Molly Mason finished yet another side seam and flung the pieces in the bin at her side. She hardly lifted her head to look as she picked up two more pieces and deftly fitted them under the needle. Enid Parker, the line overseer, was nearby, walking up the line collecting the bins of finished work to take to the next line where the shoulder seams were sewn.

  Molly’s fingers were a blur. She could sew this simple straight seam over and over, barely thinking what she was doing. Neither did she hear the wireless for she was thinking of clocking off time and if she would make her bonus this week. Oh, she needed it, it was the only way she could afford new winter shoes. The toes of her stockings were still damp and gritty because it had been raining at seven-thirty when she’d walked to the bus which took her to work and her old shoes let in the water.

  Consequently, it was a minute or two before Molly realised that the music had stopped. She looked up in surprise. It was only a quarter to five, there were fifteen minutes left of the working day.

  ‘We are going over to our news room at Newcastle for an important announcement,’ said the radio announcer’s plummy disembodied voice. The girls looked at each other. Had the war started after all? But what about Chamberlain’s visit to Munich? Peace in our time and all that? The thoughts raced through Molly’s head while her fingers holding the cloth stilled on the machine.

  There was a crackling noise from the wireless and all heads turned to the set, which was on a shelf on the wall above their heads.

  ‘This is John Grage, speaking from Newcastle. News is coming through of a major mining disaster,’ said another voice suddenly and Molly’s heart plummeted. It’s not likely to be Eden Hope, she told herself, we’re miles from Newcastle, even as the voice continued: ‘There has been an explosion at Eden Hope colliery, a mine near Bishop Auckland in County Durham.’ There was an audible intake of breath along the whole of the line. ‘A number of miners are trapped behind a roof cave-in. We are not at present able to ascertain the number of casualties. Further bulletins will be issued as more news comes in.’ After a moment the music started again, not Gracie now, more solemn, classical music.

  Enid Parker was standing by Molly, one hand on the pieces bin. ‘Your dad works there, doesn’t he?’ she asked, in an interested, conversational sort of tone. Molly stared at her.

  ‘Mine an’ all,’ Joan Pendle chipped in from the next machine. One or two other voices joined hers. ‘My dad’s off shift, thank God,’ someone else said.

  Mine isn’t. No, he’s not. He went to work this morning when I did. We left the house together, walked down the street, parted at the bus stop. For a second or so Molly didn’t know whether she had spoken aloud or not but then she realised the voice was in her head. The scene this morning ran through her mind. They had walked in silence as usual, Dad and her, a companionable silence, though.

  ‘Doesn’t he?’ Enid repeated, and this time Molly heard her. She nodded, but still didn’t speak. She had a feeling of unreality. Maybe this was just a dream, a nightmare. The classical piece was finished and Gracie was singing again, about her aspidistra.

  Molly’s dad liked that song, always hummed snatches of it while he was shaving. She shook her head. No, nothing could have happened to him, of course not. This was the first year he was back at work, the first year after the long lay-off of the depression years. The depression which had killed her mother, or so he always said though the doctor maintained it was meningitis. The depression which had sent Harry, her brother, into the army to escape from it. Harry was in India now, he and his mate Jackson.

  Dad’s hands had been too soft when he went back to work; they had blistered and bled and he had suffered intensely with them at first. Molly had treated them with methylated spirits to harden them. The cuts had healed now, in their place calluses. And Dad was bringing in a proper wage now, held his head high, even joked and laughed as he used to do. He was changing back from the dour, silent man he had become after her mother died.

  The manager, Mr Bolton, came on to the floor. The girls turned back to their work as he spoke to Enid Parker. Molly looked down at the piece in her hand but she was moving so slowly she never actually got it under the needle. Then suddenly all was quiet, the power had been switched off.

  ‘Righto, girls, you can go now,’ Enid called though it was only five to the hour. There was a buzz of conversation as the women bustled about, collecting their bags, going to the cloakroom for their outdoor things. But it was subdued. There was no light-hearted relief that the day was over, just solemn glances at the girls from Eden Hope.

  ‘Your dad will be all right, I expect,’ said Enid. ‘Go on now, Molly, the factory bus is going five minutes early, you don’t want to miss it.’ The floor was almost empty. Joan Pendle hadn’t waited for Molly even though they were next-door neighbours. But then, thought Molly, with that twinge of hurt puzzlement which she always felt when the girl ignored her, Joan wouldn’t wait for her, they had never got on.

  All the way home on the bus there was a ball of dread in the pit of Molly’s stomach. It wa
s no good telling herself that her dad stood a good chance of not being caught in the fall – after all, the mine employed 700 men, there were different levels being worked, why should it be the one where Bill Mason was working? It was no use. When at last the bus reached the village and stopped close by the pityard gates, Molly was first off to join the knot of people standing there.

  ‘Any news?’ ‘Which face?’ ‘How bad is it?’ the newcomers questioned, but before they could be answered there was a buzz of activity around the shaft. The driver of the green Union ambulance which had been waiting by the offices drove forward.

  ‘They’ve got someone out alive!’

  The cry went through the crowd, hope springing up in them all. Molly closed her eyes and prayed then tried to be glad that it was Mr Morley they were taking out of the cage, Mr Morley who lived in Eden Terrace. It was his son Jackson who was in India with Harry. Mrs Morley slipped through the gate and ran to the stretcher, went in the ambulance with him.

  ‘His back,’ the murmur went through the crowd as they made way for the gate to open fully and the ambulance to drive off. ‘His back and face cut open. His bonny looks will be gone now.’ The Morley men were famous for their good looks.

  A few minutes later the manager appeared, a list in his hand. The crowd fell silent, watching him intently. He spoke to someone in an expensive suit who looked incongruous in the pit yard. ‘The owner,’ the whisper went round, and everyone gazed at this alien to their community. The man nodded and the manager, Mr Hill, walked towards the group by the gate. Halting, he cleared his throat before beginning the roll call of the dead. William Mason’s name was halfway down the list.

  ‘You get a good night’s sleep, lass, and you’ll feel better.’

  ‘I’ll try, Mrs Pendle.’

  Molly closed the door after her neighbour and turned back to the empty house with a sigh of relief. She was grateful to Ann Pendle who’d done all she could for her in the days leading up to the mass funeral in Eden Hope Methodist Chapel, even gone to the inquest with her beforehand. (Accidental death, the coroner had said.) Ann had brought her broth afterwards which Molly had politely accepted but couldn’t eat.

  This was the first time she had been on her own since the disaster. It was very quiet, the only sound the ticking of the marble clock which stood on the high mantel over the mantel frill which Mam had embroidered before she died, three years ago now. Molly’s thoughts touched on that and skimmed away. Not now, she wasn’t going to think of that now. Rising from her chair by the fire, she picked up the rake and pulled small coals from the shelf at the back of the fire on to the flames, banking it as her father had always done before bed. She turned the mat away from the range just in case anything spat out, seeing in her mind’s eye Dad doing it. She turned the key in the back door lock and climbed the stairs to bed.

  ‘I’ll not be able to sleep,’ she said aloud, more to break the silence which was so profound she could almost hear it than anything else. Dad had been the noisy one, always whistling or humming something. ‘Little Old Lady’ or ‘The Lambeth Walk’ or that Fred Astaire song from Top Hat. He liked keeping the wireless on until last thing at night or until the accumulator batteries ran down and had to be taken to Eldon to be recharged. Except when he was on night shift. That was it. Molly would pretend he was just on night shift. Illogically she was comforted by that. Her restless, rambling thoughts shut off and she drifted into sleep.

  There was a letter from the manager of Eden Hope Colliery when she came downstairs next morning. It had a crest on the envelope and on the top of the single sheet of paper the words Hope Estates, all curlicues and fancy lines.

  Dear Miss Mason,

  On behalf of the owners and management of Eden Hope Colliery, I wish to convey the Company’s deepest sympathy for the loss of your father in the tragic accident which occurred last week.

  The Company will pay in full any funeral expenses. As Mr Mason had no dependants, being a widower with grown-up children earning their own living, there will be no compensation payable according to law. However, the Company is prepared to offer you £25, without obligation, to help you with removal costs.

  If you have any questions concerning the above, you may call at the colliery office at your convenience and I will endeavour to answer them.

  Molly stared at the letter, uncomprehending. There was an unrecognisable scribble for signature. She felt no alarm but was dimly aware that she would have to do something about this. Go to see Mr Hill, that was it. She glanced at the clock. It was nine o’clock, she could go today, Friday. If she didn’t she would have to put it off until Monday and she was going back to work then. She had to, they wouldn’t keep her job open forever.

  Glad of something positive to do, Molly put the letter down on the table. She stirred the fire and grey ash fell through to the box underneath. There was a hint of red so she added a few sticks from the box by the fire, raked cinders on top and a few good lumps of coal. Then she filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring.

  Ten minutes later, sipping milkless tea, she picked the letter up again and read it through once more. Three hundred pounds was the usual compensation for a miner killed in the pit; she knew that, had heard the men discussing it. It had not occurred to her that she was no longer a dependant because she was working at the factory. And in the back of her mind she had known she would have to move, that the house would be wanted for a working miner, oh, yes, she’d known that. But she had put off facing the knowledge until after the funeral; hadn’t been able to think beyond that.

  The tea tasted acidic on her tongue, churned in her stomach. She would have to eat something, she thought, and found the heel of a loaf, buttered it and spread on blackcurrant jam. Methodically, she chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed. She was not angry or upset at the letter, just felt disconnected, as though it was happening to someone else.

  She felt vaguely angry at Harry, her brother. He was three years older than she was and should have been here to see to things. But, no, he was in India. India! He probably didn’t even know yet that Dad was gone. Though how could he, she hadn’t written to him? She was being unfair, she knew it.

  Sighing, Molly rose from the table and cleared away the breakfast things. She washed and dressed in her grey costume, the Sunday one, the only one she had really. There was nothing for it but to wear her old shoes, she hadn’t got into West Auckland for last week’s pay yet. She brushed her straight brown bobbed hair and clipped it over her right ear with the tortoiseshell slide which Mam had bought for her years ago when she was still at school. She didn’t have another. As an afterthought she pulled on her velour hat with the brim and gazed in the mirror of the press. Did it make her look older? She decided it did. Picking up her handbag, imitation leather and cracked now but all she had, she went out of the door and down the yard, turning to where the black path led off, a shortcut to the pit used by generations of miners.

  ‘It is the agreed policy of the Owners’ Association,’ said Mr Hill. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid it is all I can do.’ He looked away from the slight young girl sitting before his desk. She reminded him of his own daughter, away at the Friends’ School in Great Ayton now, and the comparison made him slightly uncomfortable. The two girls were of an age. He dropped his eyes before Molly’s direct gaze and walked to the window, staring out across the yard to the stack of new pit props just come from Norway.

  ‘You have a brother in the army, don’t you? Have you written to him yet?’

  ‘He’s in India,’ said Molly. ‘Won’t have got the letter yet. In any case, he can hardly get back from there by next week, can he?’

  The manager coughed, bit his lip, sought for a handkerchief in his trouser pocket and held it to his lips to conceal a momentary shame. But there was nothing he could do. He turned back to the desk.

  ‘Take the cheque, my dear,’ he said. His tone, which had been business-like up until then, sounded softer. ‘I’m sure someone in the village will take you in.
Or why don’t you get a room closer to your place of employment? Think of the bus fare you would save.’

  He meant to be kind, she knew. He had sounded almost fatherly. And Molly couldn’t bear it suddenly. She jumped to her feet, picked up the cheque and stuffed it in her bag though she would rather have stuffed it down his throat.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Hill,’ she said. ‘I’ll manage fine.’

  ‘Got a plan, have you?’ he asked, relief showing in his face. ‘Oh, good, you –’ He broke off as she turned on her heel and hurried to the door, banging it shut behind her. Oh, well, he thought, he certainly didn’t need to worry about that little madam. That was all the thanks one got for trying to be kind.

  Molly began to walk back along the path. Oh, Dad, she cried silently, what am I going to do? On impulse she cut off to the side and made her way to the cemetery, to the fresh-turned earth of the new graves. The flowers were already beginning to wilt, she saw, even the large wreath of white lilies which had come from the owners. Her own bunch of dahlias was lasting better, she thought, and bent to straighten a large sunshine-yellow head. Dad had loved his garden, the dahlias were his pride and joy. He had grown these himself. She bent down and moved the bunch into a more prominent position, pushing the lily wreath to one side. There was going to be a big memorial one day, there was a subscription fund already.

  ‘Dad?’ she said tentatively. ‘Mam?’ For she was laid in this grave, too, though there was no headstone. It was something Dad had been going to do once he was back at work. ‘As soon as we’re back on our feet, pet.’ Though, of course, that couldn’t happen now.

  After a minute or two Molly became aware that it had started to rain. She walked away, slowly at first then briskly, out of the cemetery and down the path to the houses. There was no sense in catching pneumonia on top of everything else. And besides she had work to do, a new life to arrange.

  ‘Don’t let the buggers get you down,’ Dad was always saying, and by heck, she’d be blowed if she did.