Molly's War Read Online Free Page A

orders to fill and there is a national emergency.’
    ‘Yes, Mr Bolton.’
    Molly left the factory, her wage packet safely tucked away in her bag. He hadn’t
looked
very sympathetic, she thought to herself, but as though he wanted rid of her so that he could get on with his work. She took deep breaths of the clean cold air as she walked outside. The atmosphere in the office had been hot and stuffy despite the winter weather.
    She would have liked to have told Mr Bolton where to put his job, she thought rebelliously. She’d had every intention of starting on Monday anyway but he’d implied, by his tone at least, that she was slacking, the tone of a manager who knew there were plenty more where she came from. But Molly’s innate caution had stopped her from rising to the bait. During the long depression she had seen what being out of work did to people. Too many friends and neighbours had been broken by it.
    Molly turned her collar up against the bitter wind and walked over the road towards the streets on the other side. She would pass the time until four by looking at the other houses with rooms to let.
    It was half-past four when she stood once more outside the door of number 44 Adelaide Street and knocked. Her feet ached and her stomach felt empty, reminding her that a bag of chips was all she had eaten since breakfast. This time the door was opened by a thin little man in a suit, his meagre hair smoothed flat against his skull and shining with Brylcreem.
    ‘Good afternoon,’ Molly began, ‘I’ve come about the room, I –’
    ‘Aye, I know, our Betty told me a lass had been looking. Come on in then,’ the man said impatiently. ‘Don’t stand there on the step for all the neighbours to gawp at. I won’t have them gossiping about me and my doings.’
    A bit surprised, Molly glanced about. The street was deserted, not a soul in sight, but she stepped inside the passageway obediently. He opened a door to the left and went in, motioning her to follow. There was electric light. When he switched it on the harsh glare showed her a square room with an empty grate, a brown leather three-piece suite shining with polish, and a side board with nothing on it except for a picture of him with a woman holding a bouquet of flowers. The Joneses’ wedding picture she presumed. There was a faint smell of damp; obviously the room was not lived in.
    ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said, and Molly sat on the edge of the sofa, knees together, handbag clutched nervously in her hands. I’ve nothing to be nervous about, she told herself firmly and lifted her chin. Mr Jones took up a stance, legs apart, hands on hips, before the tireless grate and stared at her over the top of rimless spectacles.
    ‘Now then, young lady,’ he said, rather in the tone her old headmistress had used when confronting a recalcitrant pupil. ‘I haven’t much time, my tea’s nearly ready. You want to rent the room, do you?’
    ‘Yes, please,’ said Molly, though she was beginning to wonder if she did. But only one of the other houses on her list had been as clean as this one and it had been 1/6 extra per week.
    ‘It’s 8/6 a week, including breakfast but not including evening meal. You can use the kitchen to cook your own food for that. But mind, I won’t have anything which stinks the house out. Let’s say between five and six? We’ll leave you to it for that hour.’
    ‘That will be all right,’ said Molly, perking up a little. She hadn’t realised the price included breakfast. Perhaps if she ate a good breakfast she wouldn’t need much during the day. His next words disillusioned her on that score.
    ‘I’ll leave bread and margarine and jam out for you before I go to work. I leave the house at six o’clock every morning. Now, I suppose you want to see your room?’ He was already leading the way out of the sitting room. Molly got to her feet and followed him meekly up the stairs.
    It was quite a large bedroom at the back of the house. A