The Surplus Girls' Orphans Read online

  Polly Heron has worked as a librarian specialising in work with schools and children, an infant teacher, a carer and a cook. She lives in Llandudno in North Wales with her husband and two rescue cats, but her writing is inspired by her Mancunian roots. She enjoys reading, gardening, needlework and cooking and she loves living by the sea.

  Also by Polly Heron

  The Surplus Girls

  Published in paperback in Great Britain in 2021 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Polly Heron, 2021

  The moral right of Polly Heron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Paperback ISBN: 978 1 78649 969 1

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 970 7

  Printed in Great Britain

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  To Vivienne,

  wherever you are

  Chapter One

  MOLLY FOLDED OVER the tops of the cone-shaped white paper bags, gathering them in front of her on the counter. ‘That’s tuppence ha’penny, please, Mrs Preston.’

  ‘There you go, love.’

  Taking the proffered tanner, Molly opened the till, dropping the coin into the little wooden compartment with the other silver sixpences and sliding the change up the smooth sides of other boxes into her palm before counting it into Mrs Preston’s hand.

  ‘Your Nora’s children are lucky to have a generous grandma like you.’

  She wasn’t buttering Mrs Preston up, even though she intended to ask for a donation. It was the simple truth. Mrs Preston’s grandchildren were presented with a quarter of dolly mixtures each – each! – every Saturday afternoon.

  ‘Aye, well, you can’t take it with you,’ said Mrs Preston.

  Molly beamed. She couldn’t have hoped for a better opening. ‘Then I wonder—’

  ‘What’s this box for?’ Mrs Preston prodded one of the collecting-boxes.

  ‘Upton’s is collecting for the orphans.’

  ‘At St Anthony’s? Why’s that, then? No one from your family works there, do they?’

  ‘No, but we’re all used to seeing the children round and about in their grey uniforms, aren’t we? Someone told me they’re doing maypole dancing in the orphanage playground on Monday, so I asked to see Mrs Rostron – she’s the superintendent – and asked if Upton’s could provide sweets – you know, to make the occasion a little more festive.’

  ‘Why have you drawn a barber’s pole on’t box?’

  Molly laughed. ‘That’s not a barber’s pole. It’s meant to be a maypole. So much for my artistic skills! I’m asking folk if they wouldn’t mind popping in a farthing or a ha’penny if they can spare it, to buy sweets for the maypole dancers.’

  ‘As a reward.’

  ‘That’s right; and the other box is for sweets for the rest of the orphans.’

  ‘That’s a kind thought of yours, Molly, and I’m sure it was your thought, not Mr Upton’s. Here’s a penny.’

  ‘A whole penny? I don’t want you to think I’m being cheeky.’

  ‘Take it, love, and I’ll leave it to you to decide which box it goes in or whether you split it between the two.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate it – and so will the children.’

  ‘Well, if you can’t help your fellow man…’ Mrs Preston slipped her bags of dolly mixtures into her wicker basket and left the shop, setting the brass bell jingling above the door.

  Molly considered, then dropped the penny into the plain box. Folk seemed readier to donate a bit of copper into the maypole box and, yes, it would be nice to reward the young dancers for their efforts, but it didn’t feel right to leave out the others, which, let’s face it, was most of them. It was Mr Upton who had decreed there must be two boxes – well, no, what he had said was that the money should be just for the dancers, but Molly had got round that by adding the second box.

  It might be the tail-end of April, but it was as hot as the height of June. Would it stay like this for the maypole dancing on Monday afternoon? She pulled down the blind on the side-window, where sunshine glared through, putting the bootlaces and broken chunks of inferior chocolate on the farthing tray in danger of gluing themselves together. The sugar mice already had a sheen on them. The shop’s twin smells of wood and sugar thickened the hot air.

  With a lull between customers, Molly quickly assembled a couple of dozen paper bags. Fold, fold, twist, flatten. She could do it in her sleep. She had been doing it in her sleep since she left school. She had thought, while she was away down south during the war, that when she returned home, she wouldn’t be happy in Upton’s any more, would need work that was more stimulating; but that had been before her life had changed for ever. When she finally came home, it had been a relief to be invited back to Upton’s. It was somewhere safe, familiar, undemanding; a place where she could, with no effort, behave normally on the outside even while she was reeling with shock and despair on the inside.

  It was nigh on three and a half years since peace had been declared. Her unhappiness had subsided into a lingering ache tucked away in a corner of her heart. Sometimes she searched the faces of people in the street, looking for a sign, a clue, a flicker of something in their eyes, a brief twist of sorrow about their lips. Pretty well everybody had suffered at least one loss, thanks to the Great War, but were there other people who kept a special corner of their hearts for a grief they could never share with the world? She couldn’t be the only one – could she?

  The bell danced as the door opened. Dora came in, her hated curls bubbling out from beneath her cloche hat. Her face was all smiles as she clung to Harry’s arm. He was beaming his head off too.

  ‘I know we’re not meant to barge in on you while you’re at work,’ said Dora, ‘but I couldn’t wait. Look!’ She let go of Harry. ‘Harry’s bought me a ring.’

  She thrust out her hand. With a delighted exclamation, Molly caught her fingers and drank in the sight of three dark red stones in a line.

  ‘They’re only garnets,’ said Harry.

  ‘Don’t say “only”,’ Molly chided. ‘It’s beautiful. It suits you, Dora. Did you choose it or did Harry surprise you?’

  Dora gazed at it lovingly, cradling her left hand in her right. ‘We chose it together. Well, I chose it, really, but Harry agreed.’

  ‘I took her to Millington’s.’ Harry puffed out his chest.

  ‘They were ever so discreet,’ said Dora. ‘The man took Harry to one side to ask about prices and then he sat us beside the counter while he brought out a tray covered in velvet.’ She pouted. ‘I’d intended to spend all afternoon trying on every single ring, but I saw this straight away and—’

  ‘Goodbye to playing with all the other rings.’ Lifting the counter-flap, Molly came through and hugged her cousin. ‘You got engaged on Valentine’s Day – and now you’ve got your ring. It’s one excite
ment after another.’

  ‘We’re not like you and Norris,’ said Dora, ‘being sensible, saving every penny. We both wanted a party when we got engaged and we both wanted me to have a ring.’

  Molly would have liked a ring too, but it was way too late to say so. Besides, what girl wanted to ask for a ring? It wouldn’t have felt dignified. It wouldn’t have felt romantic.

  ‘We’re older than you,’ she said. ‘It’s not as exciting when you’re older.’

  ‘Blimey, Molly, you make yourself sound ancient.’ Dora giggled. ‘You’re twenty-seven, not ninety-seven.’

  ‘Oy, you.’ Molly pretended to slap her. ‘Stop yelling my age from the rooftops.’

  ‘There’s only us here,’ said Dora, ‘and Harry’s family now, as good as.’

  The door opened and they all looked round.

  ‘Here’s another member of the family,’ said Harry.

  Norris walked in, looking dapper in his sharp turn-ups and banded trilby, his brown eyes rather striking against his fair skin. His jacket sat well on him, adding a touch of breadth to his shoulders, though Molly thought he looked his best in cricket whites. She brightened. She might not have an engagement ring, but she had a fiancé with a decent job and good prospects. Good-looking too – and better-looking since she had persuaded him to shave off his moustache. She didn’t like moustaches. Prickly things.

  Her footsteps tapped on the floorboards as she went to draw Norris in.

  ‘Look. Harry has bought Dora an engagement ring. Isn’t it a beauty?’

  Cheeks flushing prettily, Dora offered her hand.

  ‘It’s second-hand,’ said Harry, ‘but that meant I could afford a better ring.’

  ‘Very dainty,’ said Norris.

  ‘Has Auntie Faith seen it yet?’ Molly asked.

  ‘We’re on our way home now,’ said Dora, ‘but Upton’s is on our way, so we couldn’t resist popping in. I was going to burst if I didn’t show somebody.’

  ‘I’m honoured to be first.’ Molly gave her another hug.

  ‘While we’re here,’ said Harry, looking across the counter, ‘let’s get something to help the celebrations along. A box of Milk Tray or how about some Sharp’s Super-Kreems?’

  ‘I don’t think Auntie Faith and Uncle Paul will need any help to celebrate,’ said Molly. ‘As for Gran, she’ll dance a jig on the kitchen table when she sees Dora’s ring.’

  Dora laughed and sneaked another look at her garnets. Molly’s heart warmed. She wanted her cousin to treasure every moment of this special day.

  ‘I want to,’ said Harry. ‘Back behind the counter, wench, and get serving.’

  Molly slid through the gap and let down the counter-flap. Moving past the shelves of glass jars of acid drops and pear drops, lavender lozenges and sugared almonds, she stopped by the display of tins of toffees and boxes of chocolates that most customers gazed at before purchasing a quarter of raspberry shapes or a Fry’s Turkish Delight.

  ‘Super-Kreems, please,’ decided Harry.

  Auntie Faith would have preferred Milk Tray to toffee, but Molly didn’t say so. She picked up one of the red tubs with its picture of the bowler-hatted, monocled chap with the improbably large head, placing it on the counter.

  ‘What are these boxes for, our Molly?’ Dora had wrenched her gaze away from her ring for long enough to spot the collecting-boxes.

  ‘I’m collecting for the orphans to have sweets on May Day and before you ask, that’s a maypole, not a barber’s pole.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Harry, ‘they’re doing their display on Monday after school, aren’t they?’

  ‘The maypole box is for sweets for the dancers and the plain one is for the rest of the children.’

  ‘I can see why you’d want to reward the children dancing in the display,’ said Norris, ‘but the others won’t have done anything to deserve it.’

  ‘It’s not a question of deserving,’ said Dora. ‘It’s a question of our Molly being kind.’

  ‘I’ve got a heap of change in my pocket.’ Harry spread it on the counter, slapping down a couple of coins that threatened to roll away. ‘Take what you need for the toffees and let’s put a tanner in each of the boxes. Here, Dora, you put them in.’

  ‘Harry, that’s very generous,’ said Molly. ‘Are you sure? It’s a lot of money.’

  ‘It’s not every day a fellow buys his girl a ring from Millington’s.’

  Dora nudged him. ‘Less of the “girl”, if you don’t mind. I’m your fiancée.’

  Sliding one arm round her, he gave her a quick squeeze. ‘Best word in the English language, that.’

  ‘You daft ha’porth.’ But there was no disguising Dora’s pleasure. She dropped a sixpence into each box. There was a tiny chinking sound as each one landed on top of the coins already inside.

  Harry turned to Norris. Harry had such a cheerful, open face. ‘How about you, Norris? Have you got any change burning a hole in your pocket?’

  Norris smiled, but it was a tight smile. Perhaps he hadn’t yet got used to his clean-shaven upper lip.

  ‘The things I do to please you,’ he had said after he shaved off his moustache, his tone indulgent, as if he spent half his time giving in to her whims.

  ‘The things I do to please your Molly,’ he’d said to Mum when she admired his hairless upper lip.

  ‘Aye, she’s a lucky lass,’ said Mum. ‘There’s no denying it.’

  Norris removed his change-purse from his jacket pocket. It was made of dark leather, a flat semi-oval in shape. Norris opened it. Now it was an oval, one half with a leather cover beneath which were the contents, the opened half with a lip round the edge so that when the change was tipped out of the covered end, it was held safely. You could tip it as heartily as you pleased and the change wouldn’t fall out.

  Norris jiggled it slightly. Beneath the brim of his trilby, a frown fluttered across his brow. Please let him be generous.

  ‘What have we got here, then? A family reunion?’ Mr Upton came through from the back, where he had been having his afternoon tea-break with his invalid wife. She had survived the influenza after the war, but hadn’t been the same since, poor lady.

  ‘Our Dora came to show me her engagement ring,’ Molly explained, whereupon Dora waggled her hand at Mr Upton.

  ‘Very nice, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘And her fiancé has bought toffees to take home to celebrate.’

  ‘Super-Kreems: a good choice. I hope everyone enjoys them.’

  The door opened and three little girls bounced in.

  ‘I’ll see to these young ladies,’ said Mr Upton, making the children giggle, ‘while you see your visitors out, Miss Watson.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Upton.’

  ‘We haven’t got you into trouble, have we?’ Dora whispered, bustling to the door with Harry in tow.

  ‘Course not. He’s a good old stick, Mr Upton.’

  ‘Are you coming to the dance tonight?’

  ‘We’ll see you there.’

  Dora gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then looped her arm through Harry’s and carted him off for her garnet ring’s next appearance in the spotlight.

  Norris appeared by Molly’s shoulder. ‘When you’re ready,’ he murmured.

  He had come for his weekly packet of mints. When they got married, he was going to buy her a bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk every Saturday.

  ‘Eh, he’s going to spoil you rotten, lass,’ Gran was fond of saying.

  ‘She’s a lucky girl, especially at her age,’ Mum would agree. ‘There are plenty of girls left on’t shelf these days.’

  Aye, there were. Surplus girls, they were called. Molly had read about them in Mum’s Vera’s Voice, which had published a series of articles earlier this year. They hadn’t been woe-is-me articles, but cheerful, encouraging pieces about how surplus girls should plan for the future and get themselves trained up to do the most highly qualified work they were capable of, to give themselves a chance of a reas
onable salary in a world where women earned less than men simply because they were women. The most interesting of the articles had centred around a new business school here in Chorlton. Fancy sleepy little Chorlton having something as modern as that! Not that Molly needed any such thing, of course. Her future had been all mapped out by Norris – by Norris? With Norris. Her future was mapped out with Norris.

  She went back behind the counter, where Mr Upton was waiting for the girls to make their choice from the selection on the farthing tray. He was always patient with children.

  ‘They’ll be grown-up customers one day,’ Mrs Upton had told Molly on her very first morning, the day after she left school.

  ‘It’s one of the pleasures of running a sweet shop, watching your customers growing up and having little customers of their own,’ Mr Upton had added.

  Molly had gone home from her first day at work and repeated what the Uptons had said.

  ‘Customers having little customers?’ said Mum. ‘It’s not as though you’ll be there to see it, our Molly. You’ll be wed with little customers of your own long before then. Me and Auntie Faith both married at nineteen. You’ll do the same. Just you wait.’

  But when Molly was nineteen, the war started. She and Norris were walking out by then.

  ‘Don’t you fret about him marching off to war, Molly love,’ said Gran. ‘It’ll all be over by Christmas.’

  Except that it wasn’t. It dragged on and on. Molly knitted socks and mufflers and hemmed dozens of bandages; but after Passchendaele, in a blaze of patriotism, she took herself off to London to engage in what she hoped would feel like real war work. She was taught to drive and was attached to an office, her work a mixture of clerical routines and driving army officers to meetings.

  Afterwards, after everything, she came home and stepped back into her old life behind the counter at Upton’s, spending her day weighing a quarter of aniseed balls, a quarter of marzipan marvels, replenishing the farthing and ha’penny trays, breaking the dark slab of treacle toffee with the little silver hammer, and assembling gross upon gross of white, cone-shaped paper bags. Fold, fold, twist, flatten.