The Surplus Girls' Orphans E-Book

Polly Heron

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

After the devastation of war, a child's love heals everything. Manchester, 1922: Molly Watson has had enough. Engaged for the last three years to a penny-pinching pedant, she finally decides she'd rather be a surplus girl than marry a man she doesn't truly love. Aware of the need to support herself if she is to remain single all her life, she joins a secretarial class to learn new skills, and a whole world opens up to her. When she gets a job at St Anthony's Orphanage, she befriends caretaker Aaron Abrams. But a misunderstanding leaves them at loggerheads, and damages her in the eyes of the children she has come to care so deeply about. Can she recover her reputation, her livelihood, and her budding friendship, before it's too late? The second in a quartet of sagas set during the early 1920s, following three Surplus Girls - those women whose dreams of marriage perished in the Great War, after the deaths of millions of young men, and the new lives they forged for themselves.

Leseprobe

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.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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 excitement 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 reasonable 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.

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, leaving 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.’

‘I don’t mind if I do,’ said Dora.

‘You’ll come, won’t you?’ Bernie turned to Molly and Norris. ‘You missed the dance, so you can’t miss giving the soon-to-be newly-weds a spot of nosh and something to drink their health with.’

‘Fish and chip shops don’t sell alcohol,’ Norris pointed out.

‘If we go to Rafferty’s, they have tables in the back and they’ll let us bring drinks in from the pub.’

‘Molly and I won’t join you for the meal, if you don’t mind,’ said Norris.

‘Norris!’ Molly protested, but she pretended to laugh, not wanting to spoil the happy atmosphere.

‘It’s a bit late in the evening for me.’ Norris patted his stomach, indicating some unspecified reason why late-night eating wasn’t desirable. ‘But we’ll walk with you and see you settled.’

Molly didn’t object. She had learned the hard way that one feature of a prolonged engagement was that the smallest suggestion of a public tiff led to hoots of masculine laughter and jokes about already being hen-pecked.

As they set off, Dora linked arms with her.

‘There’s going to be a big day trip to Southport. We’ll catch the early train and arrive mid-morning in time for a talk in one of the hotels about the archaeological digs going on in Egypt; then a posh three-course meal in the hotel; followed by a walk down Lord Street to see the shops; and the rest of the afternoon at the Pleasure Beach; then back to the hotel for a late tea before catching the train home.’

‘It sounds splendid.’

‘You’ll come, won’t you? And Norris. I’ve put your names down. Harry says me and him can go, but it’s to be our final fling, then we have to save everything for being married.’

The group arrived at Rafferty’s in a jumble of laughter and good humour.

Bernie nudged Norris. ‘Let’s go and get the drinks. What’s everyone having?’

‘You start putting the order in,’ said Norris. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute, after I’ve seen to the tables in here.’

He led the way into the chippy, with its busy, crackling sound of frying and its warm, vinegar-laden atmosphere. Mr Rafferty shook the frying-baskets and doled out chips into newspaper, deftly flicking all the crispy bits into a separate pile to be given at closing time to a half-starving family with the dad out of work.

Bypassing the queue, Norris marched into the dining area at the back. He pushed the tables together, sat Dora and Harry in pride of place, and prevailed upon Mrs Rafferty to fetch her best tablecloth from her sideboard and the candlesticks off her mantelpiece. Satisfaction stretched Molly’s smile. It was good to see Norris making an occasion out of it for the happy couple. When Bernie walked in, gingerly carrying a tray crammed with glasses, Norris came to the rescue, doling out the drinks. He even called for silence and made a toast.

‘Here’s to you, Dora and Harry. Molly and I are sorry we can’t stay, but we wish you all the best for your future happiness. Dora and Harry!’

‘Dora and Harry,’ everyone chorused, raising their glasses.

Mrs Rafferty appeared, brandishing a notepad. ‘Fish and chips all round, is it? Are you paying separately?’

‘Tot it up and give the bill to me,’ said Bernie. ‘We’re all mucking in to treat Dora and Harry.’

‘We’d best be on our way.’ Norris took Molly’s arm. ‘Have a wonderful time, all of you, especially you, Dora and Harry, and many congratulations.’ He shook hands warmly all round, then came to Dora. ‘May I kiss the bride?’

‘Oh, Norris, you are a one,’ trilled Dora as he leaned down and brushed a kiss on her cheek.

Molly’s smile was still in place, but something inside her had gone cold. She hugged Dora and kissed her. Smile, smile. Say all the right things. Smile, smile. As they eased their way out, cries of ‘Thanks, Norris’ and ‘Cheers, Norris’ filled her ears. Smile, smile.

‘Well, that was most pleasant.’ If Norris exuded any more goodwill, he would glow in the dark.

Molly’s smile dropped. ‘I’m sure everyone will remember you as the life and soul of the party.’

‘Think so? That’d be champion.’ Norris chuckled. ‘I like the thought of all the chaps and chapesses looking back in years to come and reminiscing about how old Norris got the party off to a spanking start.’

She tried again. ‘You didn’t put your hand in your pocket, Norris, not once.’

He gave her a startled glance. ‘I didn’t hear anybody complaining.’

‘Of course not. They were all too chuffed with how you got the supper-table set up. But you were meant to go to the pub and help Bernie with the drinks.’

‘He managed all right. They lent him a tray.’

‘You should have gone with him and paid half.’

‘You said yourself I was busy getting the meal set up,’ Norris pointed out. ‘I even charmed Mrs Rafferty into putting her own candlesticks on the table. That was a special touch. A fish supper with candlesticks and Irish linen. Very posh.’

Molly chewed the inside of her cheek. He had an answer for everything.

‘I did Harry and Dora proud, though I do say so myself.’ Norris was all complacency. ‘I’d have expected you to be happy about it. You’re supposed to be so fond of Dora.’ He stopped walking and turned her to face him. ‘Shall I tell you what I think this is? I think Miss Molly Watson is succumbing to a bout of the sulks.’

She was utterly taken aback. ‘I’m not sulking.’

Norris waggled a finger at her. ‘That “surprised” voice tells me otherwise. Dora’s exciting day has put your nose out of joint, hasn’t it? A long engagement can be hard on the female of the species when she’s got her sights set on her gran’s veil and being carried over the threshold. But you’ll thank me for it one day, when we’ve got our substantial nest egg and Dora and Harry are still shacked up with your Auntie Faith.’

‘I’m not jealous of Dora.’

‘Good, because you’ve no need to be. If anything, she should be jealous of you. In all probability, she will be one day.’

‘How did we get onto this?’ Molly asked. ‘I only said I wished you’d spent a bit of money.’

‘Oh aye? And would anyone else have thought to prevail upon Mrs Rafferty to decorate the table?’ Tucking her arm firmly in his, Norris started walking again. ‘You saw how delighted everyone was. You can’t put a price on that, Molly, and I’m surprised at you for thinking money is more important.’

‘I never said that.’

‘Don’t fret. I know you didn’t mean any harm. I know you’re in a bit of a tizz.’ Norris’s voice was warm. ‘It’s a good job you’ve got me to take care of you.’

Molly felt the need to stand up for herself, but she was careful to speak lightly. She mustn’t reinforce the silly notion that she was in a tizz. ‘Really, Norris, you make me sound incapable of taking care of myself. I was clever enough to learn to drive, clever enough to learn to change a wheel; clever enough to leave home under my own steam.’

‘Yes, Molly,’ Norris said sombrely, ‘and look how that turned out. Everyone knows you set off for London, intending to win the war single-handed, and I daresay your parents were proud of you, and quite right too. But you and I both know you made a hash of things down south.’

It was hard to breathe. Her heartbeat slowed down, as if it might stop at any moment.

‘I’m not saying this to hurt you,’ Norris assured her in his kindest voice. ‘It’s a gentle reminder, that’s all. Sometimes you need to be reminded, for your own good. But that’s our little secret, isn’t it?’

Chapter Three

THE LAD WAS hanging about on the pavement when Molly left the shop with Mrs Upton’s wicker basket on her arm. He was just a youngster, maybe nine or ten, his pale, freckled face beneath a cloth cap that swamped his head. Molly smiled inwardly: he must have a mum like hers. ‘You’ll grow into it,’ Mum had said repeatedly when her four were nippers, thereby getting the most wear possible out of their clothes.

Wait a minute: he didn’t have a mum. He was in the grey uniform of the orphanage. What was he doing here? This wasn’t St Anthony’s patch. It was a fifteen- if not twenty-minute walk from there to here. And anyway…

‘Why aren’t you at school?’ she called.

The boy looked away as if he hadn’t heard, but she knew he had. When she had opened the shop door, they had looked straight at one another. The boy had a narrow, oval face with a dent in his pointy chin. It was a cheerful, eager face, or would have been but for a look of…was that wariness? Well, no wonder, if he was bunking off school.

‘Morning, Molly.’

‘Morning, Mrs Livesey.’

Molly smiled at her mum’s friend and when she glanced back, the boy had gone.

She walked briskly round the shops, buying some veg from the greengrocer, a couple of cutlets from the butcher and a box of Shredded Wheat at the grocer’s. The weekend’s temperatures had subsided back to normal and May Day was mild and fine. It was easy to stride out in this weather, but Molly always put on a smart pace, even when it was as hot as Hades. She wouldn’t take advantage of Mrs Upton’s invalid state by dawdling when she was sent on errands.

Returning to the shop, she walked through to the back to put away her purchases. Mrs Upton lay on the bed, propped up against a pile of pillows and cushions. She hadn’t been upstairs since 1919, poor love. She got dressed every day and usually sat in the armchair, but sometimes, like today, she lay on the bed. Without a word, Molly put the kettle on and tipped a couple of drops of eucalyptus oil into a bowl, adding boiling water. The pungent, cleansing aroma flooded every corner of the room. Making space on the bedside table, Molly slipped a crocheted doily onto the surface and placed the bowl on top.

Mrs Upton took a series of small sniffs, like an animal scenting danger. Then she breathed a sigh and relaxed, her thin frame spreading as her muscles unclenched. ‘Thanks, love.’ The influenza had left her with a raspy voice, as if she was permanently on the brink of a stinking cold, though she swore she felt fine, just weak.

Molly smiled to hide her concern. ‘I’d best get back behind the counter.’ Mr Upton didn’t like her to spend too much time in the back.

In a gap between customers, Mr Upton said, ‘Hand me the collecting-boxes and I’ll count the money.’

‘I was going to leave the boxes out until three.’

‘Squeezing the last farthing out of folk?’

‘The whole point is to raise as much as possible.’

A few more farthings and ha’pennies made their way into the boxes, mostly into the maypole box, as the usual Monday crowd came in for their weekly quarter of Maynard’s Wine Gums or Pontefract cakes. Shortly after twelve-thirty, a handful of children from the elementary school clattered in. These were the half-timers, who, once they turned twelve, were allowed to have jobs in the afternoon. This lot had got into the habit of popping in for gobstoppers and Black Jacks every Monday before starting work at one.

‘I’ll see to them,’ said Molly, leaving Mr Upton to serve old Mrs Lofts.

Glancing over the children’s heads, she noticed the lad from earlier, hovering at the back. He was older than he looked if he was a half-timer, but then, it was often difficult to gauge people’s ages. So many children were undersized through being underfed and it was common for working-class women to age well before their time. The Watsons were lucky that their family firm had always ticked over nicely.

Molly was kept busy doling out bootlaces and packets of Rowntree’s Pastilles, accepting payments, giving change and making sure no one slipped a fruity chew into their pocket. She didn’t serve the boy with the orphanage uniform, but that made sense. Orphans wouldn’t receive pocket money. She took the final payment and the children bustled towards the door, the orphan in the lead. He opened the door, looking back as he did so. His eyes met hers. His were blue – and scared? Anxious? He tore his gaze away and ran outside. The gaggle of youngsters followed, bursting out into the sunshine, chattering and messing about, stopping just this side of rowdy, the brass bell jangling wildly as the door was hauled shut. The bell quietened and the usual calm atmosphere crept out from behind the sweet-jars.

‘Thank goodness they’ve gone,’ said Mrs Lofts. ‘They shouldn’t be allowed in, if you ask me.’

‘It’s just high spirits,’ said Molly.

Would it be cheeky to ask a customer she hadn’t served to pop in a coin for the orphans?

Her glance went to the boxes. She froze, tiny chills making the hairs stand up along her arms. One of the boxes was missing.

Her breath caught. The orphanage boy – the way he had turned and look at her. Had he swiped the collecting box?

With a heavy block of disappointment wedged tightly inside her chest, Molly crossed the orphanage’s tarmacadamed playground and mounted the stone steps to tug on the old bell-pull beside the door. She felt foolish as well as disappointed. Last time she had come here, she had run up the stairs to Mrs Rostron’s office, bubbling over with her happy plan to treat the children on May Day. She had known then that Upton’s would get just one chance at this. There were other sweet shops nearer to St Anthony’s and, after the resounding success that her plan was undoubtedly going to be, they would be fighting one another to be allowed to do it next year; except that Molly’s plan wasn’t going to be a resounding success after all, not now that one of the boxes had been stolen.

Had that orphan-boy taken it?

Along the passage from the superintendent’s office was a gas-lit alcove where Miss Allan had a desk with her clunky old typewriter. A cupboard squeezed in on one side, a battered filing cabinet on the other. Miss Allan had worked here since the 1880s – here, in this alcove off a dingy landing that smelled of beeswax and boiled vegetables. She must be on the verge of frostbite every winter and gasping for air every summer.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Miss Allan, sounding anything but. ‘Mrs Rostron is busy. Can you call back later?’

‘I’m on my dinner-hour and I have to get back.’

‘You’re attending the maypole dancing display, aren’t you? If you come early, you might be able to see Mrs Rostron then.’

At the end of the corridor, the door opened and Mrs Rostron appeared. ‘Miss Allan, do you have— oh.’ Mrs Rostron had the kind of eyes that missed nothing. Could she tell that Molly’s wonderful scheme had fallen apart? ‘Miss Watson, what are you doing here?’

Good manners be blowed. Molly hurried to the office, slipping inside.

‘I apologise for barging in, but this is urgent— oh. You have a visitor.’

‘Indeed I do, as I imagine Miss Allan informed you.’

Exuding displeasure, the superintendent closed the door and sat behind her desk, which was so tidy that it wasn’t until you looked carefully that you realised quite how many papers and files were on it.

On the other side of the desk sat a lady of Molly’s mum’s age or thereabouts, superbly dressed in a mouth-wateringly expensive costume of royal blue dress with a matching long-line jacket that encased her plump figure. She wore a fox-fur around her neck; the glassy-eyed head lay along one shoulder; and the front of her hat was adorned with a mass of tiny flowers that made her hat appear as pudgy as her face. Who was she? A patron?

‘I’m sorry to interrupt you.’ Molly gave Mrs Rostron’s visitor her most winning smile.

The lady, however, wasn’t won over. She turned her head away with a telling huff of breath, but not before she had run narrowed eyes over Molly in a way that made her feel thoroughly dishevelled.

‘This is Miss Watson from the sweet shop,’ Mrs Rostron informed her visitor, though she didn’t favour Molly with the lady’s name. Neither did she offer Molly a seat, even though her office contained two chairs for visitors.

‘I’m here concerning the money for this afternoon’s sweets,’ Molly began.

‘And you know my opinion of that,’ the visitor said to Mrs Rostron as though Molly weren’t present. She was well-spoken, as befitted her expensive appearance, but was her refinement a little too ‘refained’? ‘Giving the orphans sweets for dancing sets a bad precedent. They might always expect to get something for nothing.’

‘It isn’t something for nothing,’ Molly exclaimed. ‘It’s a reward—’

‘It’s an advertisement for your shop.’

‘It’s a thank-you from the locals for the dancing display.’

‘Exactly: something for nothing. They shouldn’t receive payment for their dancing. And what of those who aren’t involved? I believe you intend to shower sweets on them also. How do you justify that?’

‘I wasn’t aware that I needed to.’ Molly’s spine was getting stiffer by the moment. ‘It’s simple fairness.’

‘Fairness, you call it? Now I’ve heard everything. It’s bad enough you want to indulge the dancers, when the privilege of performing should be enough, but to indulge the rest of the children for no reason whatsoever…’ With a glance at Mrs Rostron, who was listening impassively, she drew in her chin and her chubby throat bulged sideways. ‘I’ll say no more.’

Molly glared at her, then thought better of it. Whoever she was, she was important.

‘If you would kindly come to the point, Miss Watson,’ said Mrs Rostron.

‘One of the collecting-boxes has vanished. There are two, one for the dancers and one for the rest of the children. That’s the one that’s gone missing.’

‘Do you mean it’s been stolen?’ demanded the posh lady.

‘I’m afraid so. I can’t prove it, but it might have been a boy from here who took it.’

Mrs Rostron snapped to attention in her seat, her gaze locked on Molly’s. ‘Describe him.’

‘As I say, I have no proof—’

‘Describe him.’

Oh, crikey, what if she was wrong? ‘Nine or ten, thin face, freckles. Blue eyes.’ She lifted a finger to her chin. ‘A little cleft here. He was wearing a man’s cap.’

‘Daniel Cropper,’ said Mrs Rostron. She sat back, shaking her head. She wore her hair in what looked like a loose bun, but there must be a couple of dozen pins secreted inside it, because it never lost so much as a strand.

The mass of silk flowers on the front of the visitor’s hat quivered as she leaned forwards. ‘Now will you find that boy a place in Southport? I said no good would come of having him here. He’s nothing but trouble.’

‘He’s just a lad—’ Molly began.

‘He’s a runaway,’ said Mrs Rostron. ‘We get them sometimes, children who keep trying to go back where they came from. Not that Daniel is from Southport, but he’s desperate to get there.’

‘Do you think he’s on his way there now?’ A cold feeling uncurled in the pit of Molly’s stomach. She had been vexed at the boy for stealing, had even wanted to get him into trouble, but now that felt petty. All that mattered was his safety.

‘I’ll ask Miss Allan to telephone the police.’

‘Quite right too.’ The visitor tilted her head in unconcealed satisfaction. ‘That boy isn’t just a runaway. We now know he’s an out-and-out thief. The sooner we see the back of him, the better.’

Aaron jumped off the tram and headed for Victoria Station at a sprint, dodging a handsome shire dray-horse and a motor-van as he zigzagged across the road. The middle of Manchester smelled of smoke and old buildings. Petrol fumes, too. Some folk swore you couldn’t smell the motorised vehicles, but he could, maybe because after four years of inhaling the thick stink of mud, the sour smell of gun-smoke and the overpowering rotten-egg stench of entrails, he now spent as much time as he could outdoors in air far purer than that here in town. A day or two walking in the Peak District was an occasional treat, but mainly tramping across the meadows that stretched alongside the banks of the Mersey had become a necessary and deeply appreciated feature of his life.

He strode into the station, passing the vast bronze memorial tablet that had been unveiled earlier this year, with its long lists of the names of the men of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway who had given their lives for King and country in the Great War. In other circumstances, he would have paused to pay his respects, but this situation was urgent. He came to a halt, scanning his surroundings.

A couple of bobbies were already in the booking hall. Would they be here anyway or were they on the look-out for a young runaway? They headed for a ticket-office window, excusing themselves to the queue as they made for the hatch. Aaron sidled closer to listen.

‘Have you sold a Southport ticket to a young boy this afternoon?’

He didn’t wait for more. He marched towards the platform gates.

‘Southport?’ he asked a porter pushing a sack-trolley loaded with brown suitcases with labels glued on.

The porter jerked his chin. ‘Over there. Best get a move on.’

Aaron shoved a ha’penny in the slot and took a platform ticket, then dived through the gates and hurried alongside the train. The sharp-sweet aromas of coal and steam filled his senses, awakening an answering spark in himself. He had always loved travelling by train.

It wasn’t a corridor-train. Good. Each door opened straight into a compartment, which meant that that pesky young feller-me-lad wouldn’t be able to leg it down the length of the train when Aaron found him. At the top end, where the massive black engine was building up steam ready to haul its load from the station, the peak-capped guard started walking towards him, slamming doors as he went. Aaron looked into another compartment, then glanced back the way he had come. The coppers were on the platform, accompanied by a fellow in the round-brimmed cap and longer jacket of a senior railway guard. Aaron bounced on the balls of his feet, wanting to hurry but needing not to draw attention.

In the next compartment, a small figure sat in the far corner, back straight, chin up. You had to hand it to him: he had spirit. He was good-looking too, which came as a surprise. Aaron had seen Daniel Cropper’s face pinched with worry, taut with frustration, cold with anger, blank with heartache; but never before with this open, hopeful expression. He looked relaxed and determined at the same time. Vulnerable, too, when you knew the reason behind it.