Snowflakes in the Wind Page 2

  As Molly reached one of the entrances to the old market in Coronation Street, she stopped for a moment, lost in memories. That had been a wonderful day. Every day with Edgar had been wonderful until he had gone away to war. He had been thrilled when Abby was born and hadn’t minded that their firstborn was a girl, unlike some of the men hereabouts. It had been he who had chosen the name Abigail, after the matron in the orphanage where he had been brought up when his parents had died of the fever when he was just three years old. Matron Riley had been one of the few people to show kindness to him in that place, he’d told Molly, and when he had reached the age of fifteen and been able to leave, she had given him a small Bible with a little card wishing him well, inscribed with her full name. He had read a passage or two from that Bible every day before he had left for the front, but now it dawned on her that he hadn’t opened it since he’d returned from overseas.

  As she stepped into the noise and bustle of the market Molly shrugged her shoulders, as though throwing off a physical weight. She wasn’t going to think about how bad the last months had been or what the future held, not tonight. Tonight it was Christmas Eve and she had money in her pocket and two whole days at home with the bairns, Christmas Day falling on a Saturday as it did this year.

  The old market had been built ninety years before as an alternative to the open-air market in the town, and its brick walls and domed roof meant that it was considerably warmer than the bitterly cold night outside. As usual there were a motley collection of snotty-nosed ragamuffins gathered around the hot-potato stall and roasted-chestnut barrels, their pinched faces eyeing the shoppers as they edged as near as they dared to the warmth. Molly’s hand tightened on the purse in her pocket. Children as young as five or six were sent out pickpocketing by their dissolute parents, and the East End was a cauldron of petty – and not so petty – crime. In spite of the weather several of the children had no boots on their feet, and such clothing as covered their skinny frames was in tatters.

  One forlorn tiny tot caught Molly’s attention. The little girl couldn’t have been more than four or five and her long unkempt hair was white with nits, but in spite of the dirt and grime she had the sweetest face imaginable. Rickets had bowed her thin little legs so badly it was a wonder she could stand, let alone walk.

  Everything in Molly wanted to press a penny or two into the child’s hand, but she knew that would bring the rest of the children swarming like a horde of famished hornets, their hunger making them aggressive and persistent, and some of the older lads were already accomplished thieves. Nevertheless, she smiled at the little girl as she passed her, receiving a blank, hopeless stare in return.

  Molly continued on, sending up a quick unspoken prayer of thanks as she walked that her own children were warm and well fed. True, their home wasn’t the happy place it had been before Edgar had come back, and Abby and Robin were creeping about like small silent ghosts half the time, but there were worse things than having to tread on eggshells.

  When she reached Crawley’s butcher’s stall there was a crowd gathered round it. It was nearly half-past nine and the butcher always closed at ten. In the last half-an-hour of a working day, old man Crawley was well known for auctioning his remaining lap-ups – parcels of a mixture of different meat items – at knock-down prices, and for those housewives with not a ha’penny in the world who waited until he shut up shop, he always found a few meaty bones dark with congealed blood and sawdust that would make a broth of sorts. It wasn’t unusual to see young urchins, bones and ham shanks stuffed up their grubby jerseys or held close in dirt-encrusted hands, making their way out of the market with big grins on their faces. And with ex-servicemen reduced to a life of street hawking by the lack of jobs and the government’s Food Controller cutting rations, for some families such windfalls made all the difference between managing and the dreaded workhouse.

  But tonight Molly wasn’t looking for one of the lap-ups. She could see the butcher had three turkeys hanging up behind him and it was one of those she had set her heart on. Pushing her way through the waiting women with their shawls wrapped tightly round them and hungry faces, she reached the front of the crowd, catching the butcher’s attention as she called out, ‘How much are the turkeys?’

  ‘The turkeys, lass? All of ’em or just one?’ Mr Crawley joked, grinning at her, his rosy-red cheeks like ripe apples.

  Molly was used to the stallholders’ banter in the old market but she still felt herself blushing. ‘Just one,’ she said shyly.

  ‘I can do you that big plump fella on the end for half a crown, seein’ it’s the end of the day, and I’m givin’ it away at that price, I tell you, lass.’ And then seeing her expression, he added, ‘Or one of the smaller ones for a couple of bob.’

  Molly gulped. She normally made a ninepenny lap-up feed the family for two or three days. But it was Christmas. ‘I – I’ll take one of the smaller ones, please.’

  The butcher stared into the pretty face in front of him. She was a bonny lass, he thought to himself, but clearly, like most of his customers, times were hard if the look of her old boots and threadbare coat was anything to go by. Give it ten years and she’d look as old as a woman twice her age.

  He reached for the large turkey. ‘Tell you what, seein’ it’s Christmas, you can have the big beggar for a couple of bob and I’ll throw in a tub of dripping for nowt. How about that?’

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’

  ‘Aye, well, like I said, it’s Christmas, lass.’

  By the time Molly left the old market she was carrying the turkey which Mr Crawley had parcelled up for her under one arm and the bag of goodies from William Foster in her other hand, to which had been added some tobacco and Brazil-nut toffee for Edgar – his favourite – a football for Robin and a storybook for Abby. And she still had nearly fifteen shillings left.

  The snow was coming down thicker than ever but she barely noticed it as she made her way through the warren of streets stretching away from the market, her mind taken up with the pleasure her gifts would bring. On reaching the back lane of Hedworth Street, Molly straightened weary shoulders. It’d been a long and busy day and she was tired to the bone, but doubtless she wouldn’t get a lie-in tomorrow. Robin would be up at the crack of dawn to see what was in his stocking. A small smile touched her lips. He was so excited. Abby, on the other hand, was much more subdued and quiet these days, and she knew her daughter worried about how things were at home, even though she tried to keep the worst of Edgar’s disturbed behaviour from impacting on the bairns.

  The new fall of snow had covered the slides the neighbourhood children had made in the back lane, causing it to become treacherous underfoot. By the time she reached her own backyard, Molly was thankful she’d made it without breaking an arm or a leg, and when she lifted the latch of the back door and stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, she sighed with relief.

  It was short-lived. As soon as she took in the glowering expression on Edgar’s face she knew one of his rages had him in its grip, and that it was a bad one. At these times – and she wouldn’t admit it to a living soul for fear of betraying him – she recognized madness in his eyes. Not a fleeting angry madness, the sort people have when they lose their temper over something or other, but an insanity that took him over and made him into someone she couldn’t reach and didn’t recognize as her Edgar.

  Aiming to hide her fear, she said quietly, ‘Hello, love. I’m sorry I’m late but it’s been non-stop all day. I’ll just put these things away and then I’ll dish up, shall I? The bairns asleep?’

  ‘Left him smiling, did you?’ It was a low growl.

  For a moment Molly genuinely didn’t understand. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your fancy man.’ Edgar didn’t move, sitting unnervingly still as he watched her place the shopping on the table. ‘Gave him something to tide him over Christmas, did you?’

  ‘Stop it.’ She met his eyes, her face white. ‘Please, Edgar, don’t start on this again, not on Christmas
Eve. I’ve been working, you know that.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I’ve heard it called that a few times.’

  ‘I work in the shop, that’s all. Mr Foster is a good person and so’s his wife. They’re a nice couple and think the world of each other.’

  ‘So she won’t ask him what he’s been doing in the shop till’ – Edgar glanced at the wooden clock on the mantelpiece – ‘till nigh on ten o’clock? Well, that’s up to her, isn’t it. But I’m asking why this “good” man didn’t shut shop at seven like normal and go upstairs to his “good” wife. Like you just pointed out, it’s Christmas Eve. But then no doubt he did shut shop and pull down the shutters. He’d want a bit of privacy, wouldn’t he? Does he laugh about me, Molly? The man he’s making a cuckold of? Told him I can’t get it up since I’ve been back, have you?’

  ‘I have never discussed you with Mr Foster and I told you why I’m late – we’ve been rushed off our feet. And once I left the shop I went to the old market to see what I could get cheap. I’d said to the bairns I might be able to pick up a turkey or a duck for tomorrow’s dinner.’ Her voice had risen despite her telling herself she had to keep calm; it only made things worse when she bit back. Taking a deep breath, she said softly, ‘Look at what I’ve got. We’ll have a grand Christmas, just you an’ me an’ the bairns. That’s all that matters to me, us and the bairns. You must know that, deep down.’

  Edgar still hadn’t moved, his hands gripping the arms of the chair as though he didn’t trust himself to let go. ‘It might have been that way once.’ He raised his tortured gaze to meet her eyes. ‘But not now.’

  ‘It is, I swear it is.’ Molly didn’t know whether to go to him or to stay where she was. She had learned the hard way that when the blackness enveloped him like now he could lash out at the slightest provocation, real or imagined. Other times, like when he awoke shaking and sweating from a nightmare, she would cradle him to her and rock him as one would a child, soothing him with murmured words of love until he could sleep again.

  The pot roast was beginning to burn, she could smell it. She hadn’t realized she would be so late and it should have come out of the oven a couple of hours ago. Even more softly, she said carefully, ‘Why don’t I dish up and we can talk as we eat, all right? Come and sit at the table. Please, Edgar. You have to eat.’ He had been gaunt and thin when he had returned from the war but over the past months she was sure he had lost even more weight.

  For a moment she thought he was going to refuse but then he levered himself out of the armchair like an old, old man and walked over to the table. For the first time he seemed to become aware of the shopping she had placed there, for now his voice came harsh and suspicious as he said, ‘How come you could afford all that on what he pays you?’

  Molly knew if she told him about the extra ten shillings it would be a red rag to a bull, so thinking quickly, she said, ‘I’ve been putting a penny or two into a Christmas Club each week that one of the regulars who come into the shop runs. You don’t miss it that way, but come Christmas there’s a bit extra for things.’

  Edgar stared at her. Then his shoulders slumped. ‘Aw, lass, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

  Molly slipped off her coat and hat. She didn’t ask him what he was sorry for; she’d heard enough of his ranting about her employer to know what he had been thinking. Feeling uncomfortable about the lie she’d told, she walked across to the range and opened the oven door, telling herself it was far better to stretch the truth than have another row. She was unaware that Edgar had come up behind her as she lifted the heavy cast-iron pot from the oven with a folded cloth, until he said wearily, ‘I can’t go on, lass. I’m losing me mind, I know I am. Half the time I think I’m back there, and the rest of it . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘Let’s face it, I’m no good as a husband or a da. I should’ve died out there with me mates. At least you could have remembered me as I was then.’

  Molly turned to face him. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s true.’ His face was grey now his temper had drained away and it struck her anew just how thin he had become.

  ‘It’s not true. We’re going to get through this together, I promise you.’ She wanted to put the pot down so she could take him in her arms, but as she moved the lid came loose and slid forward. Instinctively she tried to save it from crashing to the floor, jerking the pot towards her, but in so doing the oven cloth slipped and her fingers came into burning contact with the red-hot iron. Her scream of pain accompanied the sound the pot made as it hit the stone flags with a deafening boom, the contents spilling everywhere.

  The shells were coming thick and fast, mud and blood and body parts filling the trenches. The Germans were straight in front of them, advancing in waves, and now it was hand-to-hand combat of the most vicious kind.

  He had lost his gun, damn it, but his hands were round the neck of the German trying to kill him and he squeezed with all his might, screaming as he did so. Even when they fell to the ground he didn’t let go, knowing it was kill or be killed. Mud was pouring into his mouth as he yelled but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop . . .

  Chapter Three

  ‘And you say the bairns were party to it all? They saw what happened?’

  ‘No. No, I’m not sayin’ that, just that when me an’ Art came rushing in cos of the commotion, all the screamin’ an’ that, Abby – she’s the eldest – was sittin’ holdin’ her mam’s head in her lap. Pathetic it was, I’ll never forget it till me dyin’ day. And him, the husband, was sittin’ on the floor a little way off, rockin’ like a bairn an’ just staring like he couldn’t see you. The look on his face gave me the willies, I tell you straight.’ Betty Hammond, the next-door neighbour, shivered dramatically. ‘An’ Robin, the little lad, he was standin’ crying his heart out in the hall. I think his sister had told him to stay put.’

  Constable Walton nodded as he scribbled in his notebook.

  ‘I never want to see anythin’ like that again in the whole of me life,’ Betty went on. ‘Even turned our Art’s stomach, it did, and he was at the Somme. But like he said, war is one thing and after a time you prepare yourself for what’s likely to be round the corner, but you don’t expect goings-on like this on your own doorstep, do you? And young Molly was such a lovely, bonny lass. Worked her fingers to the bone, an’ a better wife an’ mam you couldn’t wish to meet. Not like some of ’em round here who let their bairns run about with their backsides hangin’ out, an’ scrub their doorsteps once in a blue moon. I could tell you stories that’d make your hair curl about one or two round here.’

  The constable raised his head. In his long career he had learned the only way to deal with the Betty Hammonds of the world was to stick religiously to the point. ‘And you say you’re happy to take the two bairns in for a day or two until we can sort something out? It being Christmas, it makes everything that bit more awkward so I have to say it’d be a great help.’

  ‘Oh, aye, poor little lambs.’ Betty nodded. ‘We’ll try an’ give ’em a Christmas of sorts, although I doubt there’ll be much jollity now. What a time for him to do her in. Spoiled Christmas for everyone, he has, the selfish so-an’-so.’

  ‘I doubt he was thinking of anyone else,’ the constable said drily, ‘and you’d be surprised the number of things we see come Christmas an’ the New Year. The whiff of festivities and it seems to bring a madness in the air with some folk.’

  Betty shot the policeman a sharp look. ‘I don’t know about that, but it was temper that caused this an’ I’d say the same to anyone who asked. If he tries to pretend he’s daft or somethin’, don’t you fall for it.’

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘Good.’ Betty gave a self-righteous sniff and hitched up her ample bosom with her forearms. ‘An’ if he comes the old soldier an’ tries to make out she gave him cause for what he did, you can knock that on the head an’ all. I see some lassies dressed up like the dog’s dinner and them with a wedding ring on their finger, but Molly wasn’t like tha
t. Her first thought was always for him and the bairns.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe this has happened, to tell you the truth. An’ that poor little lass, Abby. Art had the devil of a job to get her to let go of her mam so he could take the bairn through to ours. Speakin’ of the bairns, I’ll get some clothes for mornin’ for ’em before I go back – I don’t want to come in here again.’ She glanced at the two stockings hanging forlornly either side of the range. ‘Never even had a chance to fill the bairns’ stockings, did she?’ She raised the corner of her apron and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Wicked so-an’-so, to attack her like that. What’s the world comin’ to, I ask you? All that trouble over the water in Ireland with our lads being killed in their beds by the IRA last month – every time you pick up a paper there’s more death and destruction. We thought the war was goin’ to put a stop to such things but the times are gettin’ worse if you ask me.’

  Constable Walton didn’t have the time or the inclination to discuss the state of the world with Mrs Hammond. Bringing the conversation back to the matter in hand, he said, ‘Had he been in the habit of knocking her about?’

  ‘Well, you hear things, don’t you, being next door. Mind, I never saw anythin’, but men like that are crafty. The lass hasn’t been the same since he came back from the war, that’s for sure. Frightened she was, you could see it in her face. Aye, I’d say he was handy with his fists all right an’ she bore the brunt of it. Never done a day’s work since he walked back in the door but he sent her out slavin’, bless her.’