Soldier Girl
NNIE
M
URRAY
Soldier Girl
PAN BOOKS
Contents
December 1940
Molly was sitting on a bench at the back of the rowdy pub, squeezed in beside George, the bloke she was walking out with, and a bunch of others, nearly all men. She’d had so much to drink that all the faces were blurring into each other, like in a bad dream. Behind her, the windows were swathed in black. George was a pale, stringy man, his hair slicked back, eyes mean and glassy after all the drinking. His mood had turned ugly.
‘You’re not worth it. You’re no good, you ain’t,’ he snarled. ‘I want a proper woman, not a freak like you . . .’
Right
, Molly thought.
I’m off!
She stubbed out her cigarette and pulled herself up from the table, making it rock, the way her head was rocking inside.
‘Whoa – steady on, yer silly cow! You’ll ’ave everything going over!’
‘You off, Moll?’ a kinder voice asked from among the crowd. ‘Mind ’ow yer go. D’yer want someone to walk with yer?’
‘No,’ she managed to say. ‘Ta, Fred.’
‘You don’t want to go with ’er,’ George sneered. ‘You don’t know what yer might catch!’
Cursing under her breath, Molly pushed past George, holding on to the backs of chairs, desperate to get out now. The mocking voices followed her.
‘Look at the state of ’er!’
‘D’yer think ’er’ll make it ’ome?’
‘Crying shame ain’t it, with ’er looks? Could’ve been a beauty queen.’
Molly pushed the door too hard and almost fell outside, spilling light onto the pavement.
‘Get that door shut – we’ll ’ave that sodding warden round else!
Don’t you know there’s a war on . . . ?
’
‘It’s a miracle the siren ain’t gone off yet tonight . . .’
The air was damp and shockingly cold after the sweaty fug of the pub. Molly rallied and kicked the door shut so that the frame shuddered.
‘Bugger the lot of yer!’ she tried to yell. She wanted to shout a whole lot of other things which boiled up inside her, but all that came out was a mumbled stream of rubbish.
She felt terrible suddenly, her insides heaving. Thinking she was about to be sick she leaned back against the pub wall groaning, breathing in gulps of air to try and stop it. After a few moments the nausea subsided, but the sickness in her belly was nothing compared with that in her heart. The mocking voices echoed in her head.
Course, you only ’ave to look at that mother of ’ers.
George’s face, twisted with contempt. She closed her eyes, leaning into the pub wall. Loathing filled her: for all of them in there, for the mean, bomb-damaged Birmingham streets, the mizzling rain, and most of all for herself. Filthy, fast, ugly little Molly Fox. For she did feel small out there, all alone under the night sky. All alone with what Iris had said to her, what she’d blurted out that evening . . .
‘Must get along . . . I’m
not drunk
. . .’ she insisted to an invisible audience.
The street was deserted. The others in the pub were waiting for time to be called. Staggering, Molly felt her way along holding on to walls, rebounding off them as her legs took her in unexpected directions. A jittering finger of light passed by on the other side of the street and she realized it was a torch. For a second its light flickered over the white-painted edge of the pavement.
‘Hey you!’ she shouted. ‘You cowing well stop and listen to me!’ She wagged a finger furiously at the departing light. She didn’t know exactly what she wanted from them except that they should do what she ordered. But they were gone, ignoring her. Rage bubbled up in her, then seeped away, leaving her desolate. Thoughts came and went, but she couldn’t hold on to them.
It was too quiet. Houses were muffled in black. She caught the low sound of voices, the murmur of a wireless, then silence as she passed the deep darkness of the warehouses. More houses afterwards, where she grazed her knee on a jutting bit of wall, tearing her stocking. She yelped and cursed. Why was it so quiet? She’d better start singing, that was the thing. Forget. Forget everything.
‘When you wish upon a sta-a-ar!’ she bawled, lurchingly. ‘Makes no . . .’
Her foot went down into nothingness and her body followed, overbalancing and crashing down into the road. Her shoulder, then her hip, hit the ground hard.
‘Aaagh!’ Molly cried furiously. ‘What d’yer go and do that for?’ She let out a string of curses.
Rolling on to her back she examined the situation from this new angle. The ground was hard and wet, and something was digging into her, but it felt like a rest after trying to stay upright. She shifted, trying to get a bit more comfortable, and looked up into the gloom. Up there were the bloated barrage balloons to keep the evil black planes away. Bombs, bombs – but not tonight.
‘But there’ll be a raid – there will,’ she informed the street loudly. ‘Wipe us all out, punish us . . .’
Other stray thoughts popped out of her mouth and then more singing. There were things she had to say. Big things. Everyone had to know. She started singing ‘I’m Gonna Lock My Heart and Throw Away the Key’, loud and clear. She knew all the words, and put her heart and soul into it, broadcasting to the street at the top of her voice. It sounded fantastic – better than Ella Fitzgerald or Joe Loss’s band. She sang her heart out, so much so that she didn’t notice the shards of brick under her head and the hard road; she sang away the shadows, sang fit to burst!
Her performance drowned out the footsteps hurrying towards her along the road until suddenly a face loomed over her and she was so startled, she screamed.
‘For goodness’ sake –
shut up,
Molly!’ a voice said heatedly. ‘I could hear you a mile off. What the hell d’you think you’re playing at?’
The face came into focus and Molly recognized her old school pal Emma Brown, who lived somewhere round here. The face was topped by a tin hat of the sort Molly was turning out in the factory where she worked.
‘Hello, Em!’ Molly cried amiably, at the top of her voice. She giggled. ‘What’re you doing ’ere? And why’re you wearing one of them hats?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Molly, I’m a warden – you know that. I’m on duty! Now get up and stop making such an exhibition of yourself. You’ll keep half the street awake making that racket!’
Molly felt her arm being tugged determinedly, and she resisted, stung by Em’s commanding tone. Just because she was a stuck-up ARP warden these days, with her boring bloke and her perfect little life. Who did she think she was, bossing everyone around?
‘Come on, Molly – I’ve got to get you home. Get up!’
‘Don’t want to.’ Molly yanked on Em’s arm and almost pulled her down with her. She was bigger and stronger than Em. ‘I’m gunna stay here and sing. Can if I want to.’
‘No, you can’t!’ Em panted, trying to stay on her feet. ‘Just get up or I’ll have to get a copper to help! D’you want to spend a night in the cells?’
‘Oh, you mean nice, normal Norm, I suppose?’ Molly sneered. The boy Em was courting was in the police. ‘Gorgeous, dashing Norm.’
Em leaned down and snapped in Molly’s face, ‘Just get up, all right? Before I slap you one.’
‘I’m getting up – see?’ Molly tried to retain some dignity. She could sense that Em was not going to give up, and started staggering to her feet, mumbling resentfully. ‘You’ve always thought you were better than me, haven’t you? Always think you can look down your nose at me . . .’
‘Oh don’t be so
ridiculous,
Molly!’ Em finally lost her temper. ‘It’s not to do with looking down on anyone. What d’you expect me to do when you’re lying in the gutter drunk as a lord and caterwauling loud enough to wake up the whole neighbourhood? What the hell d’you think you’re playing at getting in that state?’
‘I dunno,’ Molly said, suddenly tearful. ‘Will you take my arm, Em? You’ve always been my best pal, you have. D’you know that? You were the only one I could ever turn to. You’re golden, you are, not like me – I’m dirty, I am. I’m disgusting. Soiled goods. Not like you – you’re golden . . .’
‘Yes, all right – just take my arm,’ Em said impatiently. ‘Let’s get you home. You can sleep it off and let’s hope you’ve got a bit more sense in you by the morning.’
Though Molly had not realized it when she had stumbled to the ground, she had done so close to the end of Kenilworth Street, where Em lived and was a warden. It was only a short walk, across Great Lister Street, to her own house.
‘Go on – get yourself to bed,’ Em said, seeing her to the door with weary patience. ‘You’re going to feel bad tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Em,’ Molly said, too loudly. She turned and tried to wave at Em and almost fell out through the door again. ‘You’re my best, best friend.’
‘Get to bed,’ Em said. ‘And try not to wake up the whole flaming house while you’re at it or you really will be for it.’
Em watched, intensely relieved as the door closed behind Molly. She straightened her hat – not the most comfortable of headgear – and set off, picking her way carefully along the road. With all the raids they’d had on Birmingham, everywhere was in such a state you had to watch your step. She tutted to herself. She’d only come along to have a word with the warden in the neighbouring street and ended up with all that pantomime of Molly’s!
As usual, Molly aroused in her a sharp mixture of emotions – fondness and sympathy mingled with impatience and a degree of revulsion. It had been that way ever since they were snotty-nosed kids together. Em was the popular one, the sensible one, while Molly was smelly and unkempt, always hovering on the edge of groups in the street or playground, struggling to be accepted. And was it surprising with a family like Molly’s? Em shuddered at the very thought of Iris Fox, Molly’s drunken, slovenly mother. As for that brother of hers, Bert, with his crooked, rat-eyed face. And the other men folk! Molly had never truly had a home, but had done moonlight flits from one bug-ridden back-to-back house to another to dodge the rent, scratching out a life somehow. When you thought about it, it was a wonder Molly wasn’t far worse. She had a good heart despite it all. But if she’d only take a bit of pride in herself – learn to speak a bit better, for one thing. Em’s mom had always nagged her to put her aitches on and watch her language. But what had Molly been on about tonight?
I’m dirty . . .
Em put it down to the drink. After all, God knew, she thought, heavy-hearted, they’d all had their troubles! Troubles which never seemed to end, and which in her own family had fallen heavily on her, with Mom’s mental state ever uncertain, always up and down, so that Em had grown up doubling as a mom to Sid and Joyce and Violet, trying to keep the family together, always having to be strong and adult before her time. It’s not as if anything had been easy for her, either.