Chapter Fourteen

It was early in the month of June, in the Year of Our Lord 1887. The evening was hot and uncomfortably humid. During the day, the streets had been alive with people strolling about in their summer outfits; the women bedecked in pretty bright colours with the hems of their skirts swirling about the tops of their buttoned shoes, and looking very summery in their frilly hats and fancy waistcoats. The men too looked dapper and handsome in their stiff white collars with neat little dickie-bows, and bright, becoming boaters.

From early light there could be heard the cries of the many vendors who sold their wares in the streets: the muffin-man, the flower-seller, the costermonger, and even a man with a small cage alive with birds, strapped to his middle. But now it was evening, and the night creatures were stirring.

‘Lonely are yer, darlin’? D’yer fancy a bit o’ company, eh? I’m a fair enough fella… willing to pay, o’ course.’ The fat man doffed his hat and leered at Molly through cunning eyes. ‘What d’yer say?’

Weary and disheartened by the many refusals of work and lodgings, Molly turned away from Piccadilly Circus, quickening her footsteps towards Hyde Park. The night was coming in fast, and she had a mind to find a quiet corner where she could hide herself away from prying eyes. Last night she had huddled in some dark alley. It had been a fearsome place, haunted by scavenging vermin and frequented by lovers who giggled and coupled, blissfully unaware of her presence. One poor fellow had been brought there for a beating, and a particularly nasty vagabond had warned Molly to ‘stay off my patch’! Fearful that she might be robbed of the wages given to her the day before by the hotel proprietor, Molly had barely slept a wink.

All day Molly had trudged the streets, knocking on any door where she thought she might find work. But so far she had not been successful. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow I’ll find work. Suddenly her courage threatened to desert her, and she felt close to tears. Every minute of every day, she kept certain memories warm in her heart: memories of happier days, of the children, and of Mick. Engulfed by these wonderful memories, she was tempted to make her way home. Home to Blackburn, to Tilly and the children. But then she was cruelly reminded that she had no home.

A well of gratitude for Tilly rose in Molly’s tired heart. The children would be well looked after; she knew that. All the same, she wanted them with her. There had not been a single minute when she hadn’t missed them, every one. She thought of little Sal, and her heart ached. Two other faces filled her mind, those of Peggy and of Tom. It was almost more than she could bear. She had been away for a fortnight now and, after believing that it was only a matter of days before she could collect the children and bring them to London where they could begin a new life, all her hopes were cruelly shattered yet again.