The Surplus Girls' Orphans Read online

  Norris came home as well and, after some discussion, they got engaged. It seemed the right thing to do – it was the right thing to do. Molly knew that. It was part of stepping back into her old life. She was lucky to have her old life still there, waiting for her, ready to enfold her and make her safe.

  Some girls were racing up the aisle, those that were lucky enough still to have someone to marry them, but that wasn’t Norris’s way.

  ‘I reckon a five-year engagement should do it,’ he told Mum and Dad. ‘We’ll save our nest egg first and I must work towards my promotion. That way, I’ll be in a position to provide Molly with the best of everything. I’ll rent a new house, with electricity. You’d like Molly to have electricity, wouldn’t you, Mr Watson, and indoor plumbing? Do you think she’d like a vacuum cleaner, Mrs Watson? I can’t have my wife beating the rugs, not in this day and age.’

  ‘Our Molly’s lucky to have found such a generous man,’ beamed Mum.

  ‘And don’t forget the bar of Dairy Milk you’ll get her every Saturday,’ Gran added.

  ‘As if I would.’ Norris beamed at Gran as if she had uttered a wonderful witticism.

  ‘Eh, our Molly’s a lucky lass,’ said Gran.

  That was what everyone said. Norris was good-looking and well-mannered and his generosity was a local legend.

  ‘Well, now, isn’t that generous?’ said Mr Upton. ‘These young ladies have a penny between them. They have each chosen a treat from the farthing tray and they want to give the other farthing to the orphans. Isn’t that kind?’

  Molly smiled at the children. ‘Which box would you like to put it in? The box for the children who aren’t dancing has less money and it’s for more children.’

  Mr Upton bristled. ‘Don’t influence them, Miss Watson. They probably want to give their farthing to the dancers – don’t you, girls? Don’t you like the thought of the children dancing round the maypole?’

  Yes, of course they did, the same as most people. At this rate, the other orphans would have to make do with low-quality chocolate chunks broken into tiny morsels and a bag of sherbet they could all stick one wet finger in.

  Norris turned to watch as the little girls skipped out of the shop, the brass bell tinkling merrily in their wake.

  ‘What about you, Norris?’ Molly asked. ‘Would you care to make a donation?’

  His smile changed. No, it didn’t. Not a muscle had moved in the vicinity of his mouth, the corners of which were still upturned, lips slightly parted, showing a glimpse of teeth.

  ‘I’ve already given,’ he said, ‘when Dora and Harry were here.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ Molly’s smile didn’t falter either. Except that it did – but only inwardly. ‘You were about to, then Mr Upton came in.’

  ‘Put you off your stride, did I?’ joked Mr Upton.

  Norris produced his change-purse once more. He opened it with a gentle shake, easing a few coins from one end to the other, where he could examine them.

  ‘Harry gave a whole shilling.’ Molly turned to Mr Upton to show she was addressing her remark to him, but really she was reminding Norris. ‘Sixpence for each box.’

  ‘Gracious, he is pushing the boat out today, isn’t he?’ said Mr Upton.

  ‘You wouldn’t think he was saving up to support a wife and family.’ Norris pawed at the coins in his change-purse. ‘Thruppence, I think.’

  ‘Thruppence for each box?’ asked Molly. It was worth a try.

  ‘For the dancers. Here. You put it in.’

  ‘Thruppence, eh?’ Mr Upton nodded complacently. ‘Very open-handed of you, if I may say so. Most folk have given a farthing or a ha’penny.’

  ‘Generosity should be tempered by common sense.’ Norris lapped up the approval. ‘You shouldn’t throw your money around – as Harry Turnbull would do well to learn. He spends like there’s no tomorrow.’ It was the darkest criticism Norris could level at anyone. He waggled an indulgent finger at Molly. ‘I know you were hoping for more than thruppence, but my first responsibility is towards you personally, towards your happiness and our future. Look after the pennies and the pounds will take care of themselves, that’s my motto. You appreciate my point of view, don’t you, Mr Upton?’

  ‘I do indeed, Mr Hartley. Be grateful for the thruppence, Miss Watson.’ Mr Upton made it sound as if she had been angling for half a crown.

  ‘Here’s tuppence for the mints, Molly,’ said Norris.

  ‘Thank you. And do you happen to feel like splashing out on a bar of Dairy Milk for your fiancée?’

  Norris’s head gave a little jerk, then he chuckled. ‘You are a card, Molly. Isn’t she a card, Mr Upton? Wait until she’s Mrs Norris Hartley. Then she’ll have a bar of chocolate every Saturday without fail. Now I must cut along. I’ll pick you up later as usual, Molly. Good day, Mr Upton.’

  ‘Good day to you, Mr Hartley.’ Mr Upton watched Norris leave the premises before turning to Molly. ‘Now there’s a generous fellow, if ever there was one. You’re a lucky girl, Miss Watson, and Mrs Upton thinks so too.’

  Chapter Two

  SITTING ON HER bed, with its faded patchwork quilt made donkey’s years ago by Grandma Watson when she was a bride, Molly flexed her stockinged toes, enjoying the pleasantly achy sensation after a day spent on her feet, before reaching to pick up her good shoes from the bedside mat. Beside her on the quilt lay the two discreet cuffs, each adorned with a silver buckle, which she had made to tart up her shoes for dancing.

  The first time she had worn her stylishly buckled shoes, she had pointed one foot for Norris to inspect, saying jokingly, ‘Look at my smart new shoes,’ fully expecting his admiration.

  Norris had paled before saying jovially, ‘The things ladies spend their money on! Fancy shoes that can only be worn on the dance-floor.’ He had turned to Mum. ‘I trust you’re going to give your Molly some lessons in managing the housekeeping before we get married, Mrs Watson,’ and everyone had laughed as if he had made a great joke – well, everyone but Tom.

  Then Molly had explained how the cuffs slipped onto her shoes, nestling in the instep underneath with the buckle showing on the top of her shoe, and how the buckles had cost a few coppers on the market (that was a lie: they had been a shilling each from Elizabeth’s, the wool and haberdashery shop on Wilbraham Road), whereupon Norris had laughed heartily and sworn she was a card for teasing him.

  ‘You’re a card, Molly. Isn’t she a card, Mrs Watson?’

  Folding the cuff around the T-bar of one of her shoes, Molly fastened the hooks and eyes on the side and jiggled the buckle into position in the centre. Shoes on, she stood and straightened her clothes before going onto the landing and leaning over the polished banister rail to call down the stairs.

  ‘Mum! May I use your looking-glass?’

  Mum and Dad’s room was at the front of the house, as befitted the master bedroom. The Watsons lived in a pre-war semi-detached house in a quiet close off Cavendish Road, not far from the premises of the family’s thriving building company of Perkins and Watson, itself a stone’s throw from Chorlton Station. Grandad Watson, who had started the firm with his friend, had worked like a Trojan, ploughing every penny back into the business and never thinking to move his family out of the two-up two-down they then occupied. Dad, however, a few years after his marriage when the children started coming along, had taken the view that a builder’s home should reflect his abilities, and he had moved the family to this house, with its indoor plumbing, two double bedrooms and a box-room big enough to take a single bed. With the landlord’s agreement, Dad had taken on responsibility for the house’s repairs and maintenance and the landlord had been so impressed with the quality of Dad’s work that he had employed Perkins and Watson to maintain his other properties.

  Molly blinked as she entered the bedroom, even though Mum’s snowy nets softened the light coming in. Her own room had no windows, something she hated, though she never said so. Growing up, she, Tilda and Christabel had shared the big back bedroom, l
eaving Tom, the lone boy, with the box-room. When she and Tom came home from the war, and with Tilda and Chrissie married, she and Tom had swapped rooms. There hadn’t been any discussion. It had just been the accepted thing that, with a son and a daughter at home, the son got the better room.

  Positioning herself in front of Mum’s dressing-table, Molly checked her appearance in the large circular mirror. She was wearing a jumper knitted in lightweight leaf-green wool, with a cross-over front with a sash that she had tied in a saucy bow at the side, teamed with her ivory skirt patterned with violets. It was an attractive ensemble and of good quality. The Watsons weren’t rolling in money, but the building business kept their heads well above water.

  ‘You look nice, love,’ said Mum when she went downstairs. Mum could be relied on for a mild compliment. ‘Norris will be proud.’

  She hadn’t dressed for Norris. Well, she had, obviously. It was right to look your best for the person you were with, especially if that person happened to be your fiancé. But Molly had dressed for herself too, for the pleasure and pride of looking her best. Still, she might sound big-headed if she said so.

  ‘She looks better than nice, Mum.’ With a rustle, Tom peered round the Manchester Evening News to give her the once-over from the armchair. ‘She’s a corker, is our Molly.’

  Warmth spread through her chest. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She ruffled his hair. Her dear brother had gone to war brown-haired and come back with a thatch of silver. ‘Ah, but with limbs and lungs intact,’ he said over and over when he first came back and was subjected to the same surprised comments time and again. Limbs and lungs intact, and that was something to be grateful for; but what horrors had he witnessed, what actions had he been obliged to commit, that had turned his hair white?

  ‘Will you be warm enough in short sleeves?’ Mum asked. ‘It’s only April.’

  ‘Never mind the date,’ said Dad. ‘Go by the temperature.’

  ‘It’s always warm in the church hall once the dancing gets under way,’ said Molly, ‘and it’ll be warmer still tonight.’

  A cheery rat-tat at the front door heralded Norris’s arrival. Molly let him in.

  He gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Don’t I look ready?’

  ‘Oho, what’s this? Fishing for compliments? You look very fetching as always, Molly.’

  ‘Thanks. Come and say good evening while I get my things.’

  Norris disappeared into the parlour while she pulled on her jacket and put on her hat in front of the age-spotted mirror in the hall-stand. The deep upturned brim did a sterling job of concealing much of her hair, which suited her just fine. The less strawberry-blonde mass on show, the better.

  Her hair was thick and inclined to be coarse, which made it bushy, and the instant hair fashion had changed, she was one of the first to have hers chopped, much to Mum’s dismay. Her bob rested at chin-length. The fashion was to have it clubbed all the way round, but on Molly’s hair this had simply released its natural volume, causing it to spring outwards as if she was wearing a bizarre lampshade on her head, until the clever stylist had cut layers into her hair to tame it into the flattering shape that came naturally to everyone else.

  Picking up her handbag, she clicked it open to scan the contents. Other girls had smaller bags for evening, but it wasn’t worth her while to have one of those, because of always needing to carry her purse.

  ‘All set?’ asked Norris as she presented herself in the parlour doorway.

  She kissed her parents and Tom goodbye. The evening was turning to dusk, but the unseasonable warmth lingered, muting the fresh green scents of the privet hedges and the tang of new growth in the compact front gardens.

  ‘Who would have thought it would still be so warm at this time?’ Norris remarked. ‘Are you certain you fancy being shut inside a stuffy hall? All those people, all that dancing, the crush.’

  ‘We always go, and Dora’s expecting us. It’s her special day.’

  ‘Dora has a sight too many special days, if you ask me. Getting engaged, then having an engagement party, now this.’

  Molly squeezed his arm. ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘No I’m not. I’m concerned that by the time her wedding comes round, it’ll feel like just another of Dora’s events.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Weddings are always special.’

  ‘Some more so than others. Ours will be, because of the foresight and saving up that has gone into preparing for our life together afterwards.’

  ‘Whereas Dora’s will be just another roaring old knees-up,’ said Molly. Which would she prefer? Couldn’t you have both? Commitment as well as fun?

  ‘Anyway, Dora’s special evening, as you call it, will be steaming hot and crowded. Wouldn’t you rather be out here in the fresh air?’

  ‘I promised Dora.’

  ‘You didn’t actually promise.’

  ‘Even so.’

  He didn’t answer.

  Molly caught her lip beneath her teeth. ‘I – I don’t mind paying for us, since it’s my idea.’

  It wouldn’t be the first time. When they went to see amateur theatricals or to listen to a concert that wasn’t to Norris’s taste, she always slipped him the entrance money plus extra for refreshments before they went in. And it wasn’t lying, was it, to tell the world and his wife, ‘Norris is taking me to see The Pirates of Penzance,’ because he was taking her: he was escorting her, opening doors and walking on the road-side of the pavement.

  ‘It isn’t a question of paying,’ said Norris. ‘It’s the temperature. You can’t tell me anyone relishes being squashed on a dance-floor in this unexpected heat. You look so pretty. You don’t want to get crumpled. Anyway, we’ll undoubtedly see Dora and Harry before too long, as I bet you anything they’ll leave early.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘You wait. Everyone will leave early. They’ll be gasping for air like grounded fish.’

  Was it really worth arguing over? It wasn’t as though she would be leaving Dora high and dry. Dora and Harry would be surrounded by friends.

  ‘All right,’ said Molly.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Norris murmured.

  ‘Of course not.’

  She lifted her face with a smile. Yes, of course she would have preferred to attend the dance, but she wasn’t going to be moody about it.

  ‘Good girl.’ Norris reached across with his free hand to give an approving pat to the fingers looped inside his opposite elbow. ‘Giving in gracefully is good practice for when we’re married.’

  How complacent he sounded, but then, he had every right to. Most folk would agree with him that it was the man’s job to make the choices. But did he have to decide absolutely everything? Dad wasn’t like that. Neither were Tilda’s and Christabel’s husbands. Sometimes she wondered what she had let herself in for.

  ‘Dora’s ring was pretty, wasn’t it?’ she remarked as they strolled on their way.

  ‘Pretty enough, I daresay.’

  ‘You said it was dainty.’

  ‘Cripes, yes. Talking about saving the day. I was halfway to saying “How tiny” when I realised what a gaffe that would be and changed it to “dainty”. Wait until I choose your wedding ring, my girl. You’ll get more carats than anybody else at the church social. That’s what comes of watching your money.’

  ‘All that matters is that the ring is given with love – like Dora’s.’

  Norris laughed. He would make a good missionary, chuckling benevolently at the innocent foibles of the natives. ‘You say that now, but what would you think if I fobbed you off with a second-hand trinket, eh?’

  They strolled about, chatting, for a good hour or so. As the evening cooled, Molly drew Norris determinedly towards the church hall.

  ‘There’s still time for a dance.’

  ‘It’s not worth paying to get in this late.’

  As she dragged him along the road, Dora, Harry and others could be seen outside the hall.

 
; ‘Told you,’ said Norris. ‘Look how flushed they all are.’

  It was true. They were – but not crotchety, fed-up flushed. They were happy, smiling flushed.

  Dora ran to meet them, her sweet-pea-pink dress streaming behind her, then settling into floaty folds when she stopped.

  ‘I thought you were coming, Moll.’

  ‘We changed our minds.’ Vexation pinched her spine, but she uttered the half-truth with a smile. ‘It’s such a lovely evening for a walk.’

  ‘You missed a lot of fun.’

  ‘It must have been hot in there,’ said Norris.

  ‘Boiling,’ Dora agreed cheerfully. ‘To start with, they opened all the windows, then we took the dancing outside and passers-by joined in.’

  ‘Without paying?’

  Molly bit down on a pang of disappointment for the missed pleasure. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Oh, we did. When I showed off my ring, the gang clubbed together and the Page twins went to the florist’s and banged on the door until they opened up and made me a bouquet. Harry wasn’t allowed to buy a single drink all night! Folk are so kind.’

  ‘You deserve it,’ said Molly.

  ‘You missed our announcement. Me and Harry are getting wed in September. Mum and Dad say we can live with them, so there’s nowt to wait for.’

  ‘Goodness, that’s quick.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Dora hissed. ‘You’ll have folk thinking I’m…y’know.’

  Harry joined them, sleeves rolled up, jacket slung over his shoulder, held in place by a crooked finger. ‘Evening, Molly. Evening, Norris.’ He thrust out a comradely hand to shake Norris’s.

  Others clustered round as well. They were breathless and pleasantly dishevelled. Molly felt uncomfortably prim.

  ‘Come on,’ said Bernie Oldfield. ‘We’re taking the happy couple for a fish supper. We’re all treating Harry and his good lady.’

  ‘You can’t pay for us,’ said Harry. ‘You’ve already bought Dora flowers and kept us in drinks all evening.’

  ‘Oh, aye, the vicar’s wife’s best fruit cordial,’ said Bernie. ‘That set us back…ooh, coppers, wasn’t it, lads? We’re all mucking in to pay for your supper, and no arguments; only this time, there’s a port and lemon in it for you, Dora.’