THE PASSING OF MOLLY MAGUIRE

By Bob French

It was nearly eight in the evening.  A Friday I recall, on the 23rd of August, in the Year of Our Lord 1915.  The first anniversary of the war to end all wars; a war that if you believe those who knew no better, would end by Christmas.

          I had just got off the tram from St. Pancras and was looking forward to two weeks shore leave from my ship, now docked at Kent when there was a huge explosion.  At first, I thought it was a gas explosion, but something caught my eye and I looked up to see a German Zeppelin slowly vanish into some low cloud.  Without thinking, I rushed towards the smoke and rubble where, just a few minutes ago, a family had been sitting down to evening tea.  As I started to climb over the remains of the front of the semi-detached house, a tall, thick set fireman brushed past me and scrambled into the heart of the house. As quick as a flash, a short woman with a pretty yellow hat pushed past me and followed the fireman into oblivion. Her appearance caught me by surprise, then I could taste the stench of the smoke and the noise of screams started to sink into my head.

Half an hour later, the fireman, the little woman with the pretty yellow hat and I stumbled out of the smoke and debris, having cleared the house of the old couple.  They had been sitting in the parlor taking a cup of tea when the bomb had struck the house. Their whole life’s possessions destroyed in a matter of seconds.

“You ain’t from around here are you sailor boy?”

I turned and looked down at the woman in her yellow hat and smiled. 

“What’s so funny then?”

I leant forward and straightened up her hat and attempted to brush some of the grime that had fallen on it, when she pushed my hand away.

“Ear, enough of that, taking liberties with a single girl.  I don’t even knows your name?” 

I smiled. “John.  John McCormack Miss, of His Majesty’s Ship, Doncaster.”

“You’re a long way from the sea, aren’t you?”

“Got me a 14-day pass and thought I’d spend it up here in the smoke.  I grew up around these parts before I went to sea.  Then when war broke out, I moved from trawlers to fighting ships.”

“So, whose waiting for yer then?

I felt a stab of pain dig into my heart.

“No one.  My parents were killed in the first bombing of the city, then my sister, Edith goes off and joins the Army Nursing Corps.  She’s out in France now doin’ her bit.”

“Fancy a drink then?”  I stared at the woman, then glanced around the surrounding area.  All I could see was devastation, smoke, fire and people wandering around in a state of shock.

“Where?  Everything has been trashed.”

“Just follow me, sailor boy.  I knows a place.”  And with that, I diligently followed her through the ruins. 

We had been walking for about fifteen minutes when she suddenly turned down a very narrow dark alleyway and tapped on a door.  It opened a few inches, then opened wider and I heard a thick Irish accent greet her.  “Hi Molly.”

“This ‘ere is John, a friend of mine.  We just been digging out the Philipson’s.  Poor blighters coped it.  As I pass through into a very short hallway, the Tall, thickset Irishman put up his hand.

“Are youse carrying then?”  I stared at him and frowned.  “Do you have any weapons on you mate?”

“Sorry Paddy left them on board my ship.”  He seemed to accept my declaration and let me pass.  I caught up with the woman who had started to descend a narrow, poorly lit, flight of stairs.  When we reached what felt like the basement, she pushed open a door and we stepped into a brightly lit room.

“Fancy that drink, John?”  I nodded, then to my surprise, took in the number of boxes and crates of alcohol, cigarettes, chocolate and any other items that were the lifeline of what was known as the ‘black market.’

She caught my eye.  If you got nothing special to do on your shore leave, do you want to help us?”

“What do you do?  I tried to think how such an operation could run without the law getting to hear about it, but asked anyway. “Run the black market for the east end?” I chuckled.

“On the contrary, we have teams of volunteers that goes out to every bombing or explosion in our area to try and ‘elp the lads of the fire brigade dig out those poor blighters.  If we find any survivors, we takes care of them.”

“How?”

“You ask a lot of questions sailor boy.”  A face covered in a ginger beard popped up from behind a dozen crates of chocolates.

“No offence. It is just I’m struggling to find out what a person who had just lost everything could do with a couple of bottles of brandy and some chocolates or ciggys?”

Molly slowly moved to the mirror and took off her yellow hat, gave it a good brush, then, staring into the mirror, placed it back on her head. “We don’t give them any of this stuff.  Well sell it on the black market, and the money we gets, we gives to those poor blighters who needs it, depending on their needs.

I felt so foolish. “So, you are the Good Samaritans saving the lives of those who have just lost everything, and help them to put their lives back together again.  Unbelievable.”

The ginger bearded head popped up again. “We also advise them on how the council can help em.  You know, rehousing, rebuilding, moving schools.  All kinds of stuff.”

I turned to Molly.  “If it is alright with you Miss, I’m In.”

“Good.” She glanced down at my dirty naval uniform. “We can’t ave you roaming the streets looking like a tramp.  You need to change.” Albert!” she yelled and a door over to the right of the room opened. A distinguished looking man wearing what looked like a regimental tie stepped out. “Be a love and give John ‘ere some decent clothes and shoes.  Then give him the brief about what we do.  He starts tonight.”

“Right you are Molly.” I followed the man through into his office and he nodded me to a curtain. Within minutes I was standing in well-worn civies. I glanced in the mirror and thought that my Petty Officer would never let me go ashore looking like this, but, ‘when in Rome ’I thought.

His parting words to me, after the briefing, was that ‘what Molly and we do was, as far as the law was concerned, illegal, and they have been after her for months.  This is the fourth time we’ve moved in the past year, so get in, and get out sharpish.  If you get caught, play dumb.”

As I relaxed with a cup of tea, Molly introduced me to Michael.  A deserter from France.  “Michael here will show you the ropes, so watch, listen and be careful, understood?”

Within the hour, the telephone rang.  Molly took it, then stared at the map that hung on the wall, then put the phone down. “It’s at the East India Dock road and Saracen Street junction. Number 23.”  It took me by surprise at the speed at which Michael grabbed his jacket and a brown leather bag and was halfway up the stairs before I caught up.  It took us fifteen minutes to reach the area but the police and the fire brigade had already cordoned off the area, but Michael pushed his way forward until he came up against the law.

“I’m a doctor.” He raised his brown leather bag that most doctors carried around.  As if by magic, they let him through.  I was about to follow him when a hand stopped me.

“Sorry son, only emergency staff.”  Then I heard Michael shouting over his shoulder, “he’s with me.”

We found that there were four survivors.  The family had lost two young children.  Michael took down as much information as possible, then pretended to look them over, and nodded. 

As we left Michael asked the father where he and his family would be staying.  Once he noted the address down in his book, we quietly withdrew.

Back at the basement, Michael passed the information to Molly who then gave Albert the details.  She smiled at me.  “He’ll work out what we have to sell so we can support them until the council steps in. They’ll get a goodly handout in the next few days. Now go up to Paddy on the door and he’ll tell you where you’re sleeping tonight.  See you at ten tomorrow, and thank you, John.”

This went on for ten days until one night, Michael and I were out on a call.  When we returned, the house where Molly ran her operation was in flames. Thick black smoke spiraled up into the night sky and what remained of the place seemed to be burning furiously.  We tried to get closer, but a police sergeant stopped us.  Michael looked concerned as he asked.

“Did anyone survive Sergeant?”

The police sergeant shook his head, then looked as us.  “To late I’m afraid. You lads local then?”

We shook our heads.  He seemed to be talking at the flames.

“Funny, no one could recall hearing an aircraft or seeing a zeppelin, so it must have been a gas leak.  Pity. We been keeping an eye on this place for a week.  The Guvnor thinks it was the main bases for a gang of black marketers.”  It was then that I saw in the flickering flames the crumpled yellow hat of Molly’s laying in the rubble.

“Which gang?”

“Molly Maguire.  She was very good.  We been after her for nearly a year.  Well, at least we can cross her off our list. By the look of these flames, they’ll be nothing but ashes come the mornin.”

We stayed for a few minutes, then went back to our digs to think about what we should do next.  I couldn’t get it out of my head that Molly was gone.

I looked across at Michael.  What regiment were you from mate?”

“Second Battalion, the Middlesex Regiment.”

“Do you have any family in London?”  He shook his head. “Newcastle.”

We spent that night talking about the old days, before the war and some of the jobs Michael had pulled off before joining Molly’s organization.  I decided that it was time to get back to my ship, so I packed up my things into my kit bag; tried to clean my uniform so that I could pass muster at the quarterdeck, then left.

It was a good half hours walk to St. Pancras, so I stepped out in the crisp morning sunshine.  I came to a crossing and waited until the lights changed. As I stood there staring aimlessly at the people on the other side of the road, a figure moved out of a doorway and caught my attention.  As our eyes met, she smiled, then a double decker bus slowly passed between us.  When it had gone the doorway was empty.  Molly had vanished.  As I joined the surge of people crossing the road, I said a silent farewell and wish her all the best.

 

Copyright Bob French