Molly Malone's Arc

Chapter 4 of 9

Molly counted her coins on the wooden counter of her cart. She had seventeen shillings saved, more than she'd ever held at once. The money sat in a small cloth pouch her father had used for market days. She needed to know where to spend it wisely. The butcher's stall stayed in her mind, solid and lasting, but she couldn't build that yet. First, she needed the right connections, the people who knew where to find good timber and fair prices. She tucked the pouch into her apron pocket and felt its weight against her side. This was the foundation of everything to come. The next morning, Molly walked to the Thames docks before sunrise. She needed to see where the timber came from, where the fishmongers arrived with their catch each day. The dock workers hauled crates from barges while gulls circled overhead. Along the water's edge stood a London plane tree with dark green leaves that created thick shade. Molly stopped beneath its branches and watched the workers stack wood planks near the loading area. One pile looked like oak, another like pine. She approached a dock worker rolling a barrel and asked who sold the timber. He pointed to a man in a brown coat checking his ledger near the tree. Molly walked over and waited until he looked up. She told him she needed wood for a market stall, nothing fancy, just solid and built to last. He quoted her twelve shillings for oak planks, eight for pine. She thanked him and wrote the prices in her ledger. The oak would cost most of her savings, but it would hold up for decades. She tucked the book away and walked back through the morning crowds. The connections were forming, and her plan was taking shape. On her way back to Whitechapel, Molly passed a patch of grass pushing through the cracks in the cobblestones. Dandelions grew there, their seed heads ready to scatter in the morning breeze. She stopped and looked at them. They grew in the hardest places, where nothing should survive. Her father used to point them out when times got hard at the market. Life finds a way, he'd say. Molly pulled her ledger out and checked the timber prices again. Twelve shillings for oak meant she'd have five left for everything else. It wasn't much, but it was enough to start. She closed the book and walked faster. The stall wouldn't build itself, but now she knew exactly what it would cost and where to get what she needed. The path was clear. By afternoon, Molly reached the town square where the bandshell stood. The wrought iron structure rose high above the market stalls, its detailed metalwork forming loops and curves that caught the light. People gathered near it every Sunday for music, and traders used it as a meeting spot during the week. Molly sat on the stone steps at its base and opened her ledger one more time. She had the timber price, the equipment list, and her savings counted down to the last penny. Everything was ready. She looked up at the bandshell, the most recognized landmark in town, and thought about her own stall standing in the market for twenty years or more. People would know it. They would come back to it. She closed the ledger and stood up. Tomorrow she would return to the docks and order the oak. The foundation was laid, and now it was time to build.