Twenty-Five

Molly flung her case down on the attic-room bed and went straight to the window. The casement was fastened with a rusting catch, but the window opened readily enough, and she leaned against the rotten sill, which was level with her chest, the window being set in the gable. She was pleased to realize that the room faced south, so that although it was dingy and the ceiling low, it would not always be dark. She lit a cigarette and let the smoke stream out through the window.

The Laurels guesthouse was in a side street off the main coast road. Turning to look as far as she could to the left, Molly could just see the sea with the last rays of the afternoon sun on it. She took a long, deep breath. Ahhh – that smell, all that billowing air, the smell of sea water and the wide-open view! Clacton was much quieter and more knocked about than she remembered, but just being here made her feel happier and full of expectation, like a child on holiday.

It had all been easier than she expected, even finding a job almost as soon as she arrived. She had not been walking all that long after coming out of the railway station, with her faithful old case collected from Euston, when she headed straight for Marine Parade, along the sea front. She could see that most of the guesthouses that had been requisitioned during the war were back in business, even though some were in poor repair. Many had signs in the window saying ‘Vacancies’, but turning up Vista Road, she had not gone very far when she saw a house part-shrouded with dark bushes and a sign saying, ‘Housekeeper-cook wanted’.

Cooking, Molly thought. Why did she always seem to end up flaming cooking, however hard she tried to get away from it? Still, there was nothing for it.

A small, neat lady answered the door of The Laurels, saying rather faintly, ‘Yes?’

Molly put on her best-spoken voice. ‘I’ve come about the notice – for a housekeeper and cook.’

The lady looked immediately anxious, her brow furrowing. Molly saw that despite the fact that she was dressed like someone rather older, in a floral frock that reached halfway down her shins, and wore her mousy hair in a bun, she was only in her early forties.

‘Well,’ she said, in a flustered way, flapping the door a little as if she wasn’t sure whether to open or close it. ‘You’d better . . . I mean, good, that’s very good. Yes . . .’ She gathered herself. ‘You’d better come in, dear.’

She showed Molly into the room immediately inside, which seemed to be a sitting room, though not a very comfortable one, with a large number of hard wooden chairs arranged in a circle as if they were waiting for a meeting. The walls were the colour of milky coffee and the floor was covered by a thin brown carpet. As a concession to cautious gaiety, there was a vase of faded paper flowers on a stand by the window.