All The Days of My Life (29 page)

“I hope we'll meet again before the holiday's over,” I said.

“Hope so,” she said. She sounded warm enough not to be positively rude and that was enough for me.

As we walked quietly down the drive in the dark Sebastian said to me, “Quite taken with her, aren't you? I don't blame you. She's very lovely. I wouldn't try it on though. Tom did, apparently, and came to a sticky end. He told me what happened. He seems to have caught her in a cupboard, where she was sorting out some sheets – tried to play the wicked squire and got an ugly answer for his pains. From what he said it's only luck he isn't singing soprano in the village choir. Serves him right, of course. Quite honestly I was amazed he had the nerve to tell me his squalid anecdote.”

“I'm amazed he had the nerve to do it,” I said indignantly. “I mean – for God's sake –” I was full of chivalrous rage on Molly's behalf.

“Well, you never know how much encouragement she may have given him,” Sebastian said placidly. “But whether she did or whether she didn't, Tom Allaun's a very funny fellow. There are a lot of stories about him.”

“What sort of stories?” I asked.

“Stories not quite funny enough to repeat,” Sebastian told me. “Of the
News of the World
variety. Of course, you can't believe everything you hear.” Then he fell silent, not wanting to say more.

“I mean to say – she's married,” I persisted.

“Widowed,” Sebastian told me. “Or so Isabel says. There's something funny about that, too.”

“Poor girl,” I said. “What an oaf Tom Allaun must be.”

“Plenty of 'em about,” Sebastian remarked philosophically. Then he said, “Sh!” and stopped in the dark lane. I stopped too.

“Fox! Fox! Tally ho!” he cried and made a trumpeting noise. We chased the fox a hundred yards down the lane before it cut off through a hedge into a field. Then, still laughing, we trudged the last two miles back to the house. I still remember the fresh, crisp December air as we went through the wood, shining torches to show the path. The torchlight glittered over frosty twigs and leaves. We swung the lights round to catch the frost on the bare branches overhead. It was very still. I thought about the girl and, as we came out of the wood to cross the last field, the bells of Framlingham church began to chime in the distance.

“Midnight. Happy Christmas,” said Sebastian as we began to climb up the field to the house.

“Happy Christmas,” I said, still thinking of that lovely face in the firelight.

Meanwhile, in her old room on the first floor Molly lay in the same bed in which she had slept as a child, staring through the dark windows at the sky. Far away, over the black hills, shone a sickle moon and stars, clear in the cold air. Inside the room she could hear Josephine's light breathing in the cot, which stood beside her. There was no other sound. No wind stirred the trees. The sheep were silent in the fields. Not so much as an owl hooted in this Christmas Eve stillness. Once she thought she heard distant laughter; then that ceased and she lay awake in the darkness, worrying, but somehow half-asleep, as if the deep calm of the countryside had caught her. It was as if the world had ceased to turn, though she knew that in London the traffic would still be moving, hooters would sound at midnight, tipsy men and women would be getting turned out of pubs. In Meakin Street there would be footsteps, a cry as someone bumped into a lamp post, the odd shout, a snatch of song – and Johnnie, at Jimmy Carr's house, probably, would be, checking over the equipment behind drawn curtains while Jimmy's wife produced bottles of beer and sandwiches, making an effort to be calm and thinking of her two children upstairs in bed asleep. She would know that on Christmas Day she would be
alone and on Christmas night would get either a knock on the door, policemen asking where her husband had been all day, or footsteps on the stairs, Jimmy bursting in with a bag full of fivers and tenners, tipping them on the bed, saying, “Here you are, gel. Told you we could do it, didn't I?” Faced with ten years to be spent virtually as a widow, bringing up the children while Jimmy was inside – or fur coats and new toys and jubilation all round. She'd be biting her lip, all right, Mrs Carr, thought Mary, while the gang downstairs made jokes, checked the pickaxes and wound the blades round with rags to stop the noise, counted the detonators, fuses, snapped the torches on and off – and Molly lay in the silence, thinking, thank God I'm out of it, and still wishing Johnnie was there with her. She missed him all the time and wished she had stayed in London, where she could be sad alone and did not have to pretend to be all right. But knew that would have driven her mad – and so she slept, as Christmas Day arrived.

She woke later in a dull mood and, refusing Mrs Gates's offer to look after Josephine while she went to church with the others, said that she would stay behind and look after the dinner, as it baked, simmered and boiled over the gas on the kitchen range. She basted the turkey and roast potatoes, put water in the saucepan containing the Christmas pudding, made over a year before and left in a dark cupboard, gaining in fruitiness and alcoholic strength during another winter, spring, summer and autumn. She prepared the brussels sprouts, basted and put nuts and fruit into bowls. She slipped another spoonful of port into the Stilton, which stood, huge as a pramwheel, in the larder. She fed the dining-room fire with logs, and dodged Josephine who was delightedly trundling about with a doll propped in a small wheeled cart which had been piled with bricks. She smacked Mouser, whom she had left, with many tears, as a small ginger kitten and who was now a huge scarfaced creature, clever as the Devil and hungry as a dog.

As she put the ham he had dragged from the table back on its plate and began to knife off his toothmarks she heard the phone ring. She put the ham in the larder and went to answer.

It was Johnnie.

“We done it!” were his first words. “Done it fast. Home and dry!”

“I don't want to talk to you, Johnnie,” she said. “I'm glad you're OK but I don't want to talk to you.” She felt so unhappy that her voice broke and, hearing it, he grew confident.

“Molly,” he said. “I've got £25,000. Look – I'm sorry I hit you – I know I shouldn't've. It was the strain, gel. You must realize.”

“It's not that, Johnnie,” she said desperately. “But I've got to get out. I can't stand the life – there's Josephine –”

There was a thump from the kitchen. Josephine cried.

“I told you,” he said. “I'm going straight. I've got something lined up. Please, please come home. I love you.”

“I've got to go,” she said.

“I love you,” he said desperately. “Molly – don't go –”

“I love you, Johnnie,” she cried out and she could hear the despair in her own voice as she said it. She put the phone down and ran to the kitchen. The evil cat had opened the larder door which she had forgotten to catch. He and Josephine sat on either side of the ham. They were both gnawing it. Molly, her own voice ringing in her ears, saying, “I love you” as if she'd said, “Don't kill me,” screamed “No!” at Josephine and the cat and frightened them both… Then she began to laugh, drove them away from the ham, restored it, put more water in the saucepan containing the pudding, basted the turkey, the beef, the parsnips, the potatoes, threw another log on the fire in the dining room, brought the red wine from the pantry and uncorked it, washed Josephine's face and began to feel wonderful. Johnnie loved her. He was going to go straight, and by the time Mrs Gates came back she was singing.

“Well, then, Mary,” said Mrs Gates, coming in through the back door and taking off her hat. “You seem cheerful. Why don't you go into the drawing room for a drink with the others while I take it from here?”

“I'll stay by you, my dear,” said Molly Flanders. “But while we're at it we'll sneak a glass of master's port – that's what you have to do, isn't it?”

“It's been done,” admitted Mrs Gates.

“Just like feudal times round here,” remarked Cockney Moll, pouring two glasses of port and putting them on the kitchen table. “Happy Christmas, Mrs Gates,” she said, lifting her glass.

Mrs Gates raised her glass and with a curious look at her, said, “Happy Christmas, Mary, love.” Then gazing down to where the cat paced by her leg, purring and looking up at her with ferocious love, she said, “That cat's been up to something, of that I'm sure.”

The lunch was sedate but greedy. The pudding caught fire beautifully and Josephine, in her high chair, was so impressed that they lit it again, for her, before serving it. After dinner the others – Tom, Sir Frederick and an elderly couple called Hardcastle and their son
went into the drawing room, leaving Mary, who was helping to clear the table, behind with Mrs Gates and Isabel Allaun.

“Come and sit down for a moment, Mary. I've something to ask you,” said Isabel.

While Mrs Gates stood by the table, looking at both of them, Molly sat down and said, “What's it all about, then?”

“We're very fond of you here, Mary, as you know,” Isabel Allaun said, and although her face retained its normal cool expression, although the grey-blonde hair piled on her head still looked immaculately placed, the long hands on the white tablecloth did not move. She went on, “It has been a great pleasure having you here. Mrs Gates has loved it, too. I know that. And Josephine is so sweet – well, to cut a long story short, we wondered if you would like to stay on. This was your home for a long time and seeing you here again has made me realize how much a part of it you were. As you'll see, this isn't a kindness on my part. Sir Frederick is failing, that must be obvious to you. The burdens on me are greater. And none of us here are getting any younger. If you could stay and help Mrs Gates and me we would both be so delighted. We could offer a small wage. You would have Josephine with you – it might suit everyone.” And, for such a determined woman, she looked at Molly quite shyly.

Molly was dumbfounded. She said, “It's very kind of you – very kind. It's such a shock – I can't make up my mind. Can I have a few days to think?”

“Of course,” said Isabel Allaun. “I didn't expect you to make up your mind on the spot. You see – you could even get a part-time job. Mrs Gates would love to look after Josephine.” Mrs Gates nodded. “I'd love to,” she said. “In the end it would be like having you back when you were a child, Mary.”

Mary sniffed and said, “Well – I feel all over the place. I don't know what to say.”

“Don't say anything then,” said Isabel Allaun. “I must go into the drawing room. Come along when you're ready. I'm pleased that at least you're thinking about it.”

After she had gone, Mrs Gates, picking up a pile of dessert plates, said, “Nice thing for you, Mary. A fresh start. It can't be easy in London with everybody knowing what happened to your husband.”

“Yes,” said Molly Flanders. “A nice thing.” But she knew already she was on her way back to Meakin Street as she followed Mrs Gates
along the corridor to the kitchen. She had to decide between a quiet, hard-working life in the country and the challenges, adventures and variety of the city, between a life for herself and her daughter among people who loved her and her handsome gangster, about, he said, to go straight. And there was no choice. Two days later she had turned down Lady Allaun's offer and was hoisting Josephine and herself aboard the train for London.

Three hours after that she and Johnnie were locked together on the sofa in Meakin Street while Josephine hammered on the door to get in, wailing, “Umm. Umm. Umm.” It was no use waiting for the child to go away. Johnnie had pulled the curtains together and seized her. Mary, laughing, had let him push her back on to the sofa and had torn at his clothes while he tore at hers. She had cried, “Johnnie. Johnnie. Johnnie,” as his hands touched her body, as he finally entered her. Afterwards he said, “I'm back, Mary. I'm not going away any more.” And she said, “I know you're not.” For a moment she looked into his eyes, into his head. She said, “Oh, Johnnie. I'm happy now. I feel so bad when you're gone.” Then she got off the couch and let in the little girl.

“Can't let the kid see this sort of thing too often,” remarked Johnnie, pulling on his trousers.

Molly said, “I love you.”

That night, sitting in the crowded club while Jimmy, Allan and Johnnie flashed their fivers about – the money, mostly from shops and market stalls, had been in used notes – Molly, tiddley by now, with a strap from her dress falling down over her shoulders, laughed and joked with the rest, even Arnie Rose, whom she usually ignored as much as possible, because she was so afraid of him. This time, in a dinner jacket and black tie, he was making an appearance – something like that of a boss at the firm's Christmas party, for obviously the Roses had funded the bank robbery. He and Johnnie were clapping each other on the back and swapping jokes and Mary joined in. As she sat there he put his hand on her bare shoulder and, peering obviously down the front of her dress, said, tightening his grip on her shoulder, “Oh, I like the feel of this. This is very nice, this is.” Molly thought he sounded as if he were sitting down to a couple of pork chops. Trembling internally at his touch she said, “Please don't squeeze me till I'm yours, Mr Rose,” looking saucily up at him through the smoke and itching to shrug his hard, damp hand from her flesh. In a moment, she thought, she would flinch, too obviously, from the grip of the man
described a few weeks earlier in
The People
as ‘London's King of Crime'.

“Got to check the goods before buying in this world,” Arnie Rose said expansively, waving the big cigar he held round the room. A blob of ash fell on the table. “But judging by sight and feel – Molly – you're a prime bit of stuff, you are.”