*
Molly had seen the onlooker at the wedding, too. She had escaped the group photograph and made her way down to the church gates, to ensure that she was close by to see the bride and groom drive off.
On the Sunday morning after the wedding, she stayed obediently in bed as Alexa decreed: ‘We don’t want that baby coming before time, now do we, Molly? You just rest up today – and give some serious thought to what I said last night, that you should finish work very soon. I shall advertise for a new clerk next week. I’m thankful that Nancy has decided to stay on for the time being, I must say.’
Molly couldn’t help wondering if her friend’s wedding night had gone smoothly; it was difficult – impossible, really – for her to imagine Mr Loom in the role of ardent lover. She couldn’t stop herself thinking sometimes of what had happened between herself and Rory; in different circumstances it could have been the commitment to what might well have proved to be a love story. How could she be sure now? If only Nancy had married Art, she thought.
On impulse, she reached into her bedside cabinet for her writing case. Pencil would have to do. The ink bottle was in the desk in the sitting room.
Dear Art,
I heard on the House of Leather grapevine you really are going to Australia! I expect Nancy told you how we two met there, so I know what a big adventure this will be for you – I hope you enjoy your travels as much as I did. Good luck!
Art, please don’t think I am prying, but I saw you outside the church yesterday. I hope I can still count myself as one of your friends – I shall always remember you taking me to the pud shop, and all the fun we had working together. Anyway, what’s done is done, and Nancy has chosen her future, surprising as it is. I’m sure you are doing the right thing in going away. I understand, because I had to make a decision rather like that myself.
Of course, I don’t know where you are aiming to be in Australia, but if ever you are near this part of NSW, do call on the pastor, who is married to Mrs Nagel’s cousin. They would make you very welcome, I’m sure, and offer help if ever you needed it. I’ll enclose details . . .
‘What are you up to?’ Alexa asked, coming in to make sure she was still under the covers. But Molly knew of old that she didn’t need to explain.
She placed the letter in the leather writing case. ‘Nothing strenuous,’ she grinned.
‘You haven’t been chewing that pencil, I hope?’
‘Not much . . . Sometimes you sound like just Sister Margaret Mary, Alexa,’ Molly said wryly.
‘More like a mother hen, I hope,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘Now, what d’you fancy for breakfast?’
‘I know – prunes are good for me, and it, and a poached egg,’ Molly mused. She would have to look up Art’s address at work, and post the letter off tomorrow.
*
‘Molly’s twenty-first on Friday,’ Nancy reminded Mr Loom. She had a printed card on her desk in the showroom now:
MRS N LOOM, SENIOR SALES ASSISTANT.
Regular clients asked for her by name. She knew that her new husband was proud of her progress. He’d soon accepted the fact that she wished to go on working. ‘We’re invited for dinner,’ she added.
He was just ‘passing through’ as he put it: in a way he was reassuring himself that she was still there, because she had made such a difference to his way of life. They made a good team at work, too, and it was a relief to him that Minnie’s attention was now focused on her new assistant, an earnest middle-aged widower.
‘Friday – mmm . . . ’ It sounded as if he was considering whether this would be convenient.
Nancy looked demure, though she wanted to giggle. She was not yet wholly Mrs Loom. She knew very well that he considered their Friday nights together sacrosanct. It was bath-night, early-to-bed night . . . Married life really wasn’t so bad now they’d got into this routine, and she was greatly relieved to discover that, without the port wine, Leonard was considerate and, Friday by Friday, becoming a more competent lover. Besides, there was their lovely new bed, generously sized and with a feather mattress which was a joy to sink into. He had dug deep into his savings to please her. She must be generous in return, and once a week was all he expected. Maybe it was easier to live with a man you liked and respected than to be consumed with passion, she thought, though now she’d never find out for sure, of course . . . Also, Leonard was willing to let her take the lead in household matters. He only needed a hint or two.
‘There’s always Saturday,’ she said softly, for his ears only. Those large appendages were now scarlet with embarrassment.
*
Molly had just six more weeks to go before the baby, and had reluctantly given up work only last week. She’d imagined herself having a big party on her special birthday, with friends both old and new. She’d pictured herself in a beautiful dress, her shoulders bare, her waist a mere hand-span, flowers in her long, loose hair and silver dancing shoes on her feet; reality was an intimate dinner for four at Alexa’s, a voluminous garment which skimmed her swollen shape, and carpet slippers because her feet and ankles were too puffed up to fit into shoes. She had to keep her hair cropped now because it would be too much of an effort to brush and comb flowing tresses.
The dress, yet another gift from Alexa, would have to be a pink shiny satin; she sighed, thinking she must look rather like a stout little pig!
So the arrival of an unexpected guest during the afternoon was hardly a cause for celebration, even though he came in a shiny new motor car, laden with parcels.
It took her a while to reach the door. The others weren’t due for another two hours. The food should arrive, piping hot, from a nearby restaurant an hour after that. ‘Just dress yourself up in good time, and then rest till six o’clock,’ were Alexa’s instructions. Molly had barely put her feet up on the sofa and closed her eyes when the door knocker resounded.
‘Matthew!’ she exclaimed. Then: ‘Where’s Fay?’
‘She stayed at home with my parents, I thought she might be too much for you right now. She sends her love, though, and she’s made you a very colourful card.’
He put down the packages in the hallway and squeezed both her hands warmly in his, not attempting to kiss her.
‘I’m playing truant this afternoon, as you see,’ he told her. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘I’m so glad you came, I need my friends more than ever right now.’ She sounded really doleful.
‘Come and sit beside me on the sofa and open your presents, that’ll cheer you up!’
She leaned against him and rested her head against his shoulder. It was broad and comfortable.
‘Aren’t you going to kiss me then?’ she asked, adding: ‘If you can get near enough to me, with all this between us, eh? I suppose a twenty-first birthday is the time for kisses.’
It was a satisfying kiss, and good to be cuddled, Molly decided. But it was down to earth with a bump when she opened a large, interesting-looking box and discovered it to be full of baby clothes, some of which she recognised from Fay-days.
‘Sorry,’ he said, seeing her face. ‘My mother’s suggestion.’
‘No, it’s nice of you,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’ve been putting off acquiring all this, which worries Alexa, but now I see my future laid out before me: tiny nightgowns, pilches, bibs and bootees, mitts and matinee jackets . . . ’ She held a hand-smocked frock against her face, its faint elusive scent instantly conjuring up a picture of Fay when she’d dressed her in this as a baby on the boat. She guessed that Lucy had chosen or made many of the smallest garments before her baby was born, and that was why both Alexa and then Matthew had hung on to them.
‘Open this next, it’s my choice,’ he said softly, placing a small square package in her lap.
His gift was sapphire earrings, as blue as the sea in Sydney Harbour.
‘They’re beautiful! Oh, thank you!’ Molly exclaimed. ‘How did you know I had my ears pierced?’
‘I’ve made it my business to learn a great deal abo
ut you, Molly. Can’t you guess why?’
‘You like to make me smile, be happy, that’s why. Will you put them on for me?’
As she leaned forward the opal ring was revealed, falling free from the cleft between her breasts, and he touched the stone briefly. ‘I wondered where your ring had gone. It’s warm and glowing from being against your skin. Who gave you this? The baby’s father?’
‘No,’ she said truthfully. ‘It means a lot to me, though, and these earrings will always be special, too, I can promise you that, Matthew.’
‘Marry me, little Molly Sparkes. Fay adores you and would be thrilled with the baby, and I do believe we’d make a good family, the four of us together.’
‘I can’t,’ she said, beginning to cry. ‘I can’t . . . ’
*
‘It’s still Friday – just,’ Leonard murmured, as they lay side by side. He stroked Nancy’s hair, hooking a strand carefully back behind her ear so he could kiss her cheek.
‘It was a lovely dinner,’ she said dreamily. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Molly decided to marry Matthew? Did you remember to mix yourself up some bi-carb?’
‘Sometimes I think it would be nice if we had a baby, but then I remember my advancing years and I know it wouldn’t be fair on you if you were left with a child to bring up on your own.’
Nancy suddenly turned to him. She’d felt, well, funny tonight. Could it possibly be a touch of wistfulness? When Molly had showed her the baby clothes, she’d recognised some of them, too. ‘You’re not as old as all that, Leonard,’ she said softly, invitingly.
*
Alexa tidied up the presents, piled them on the table. Molly was still an untidy young lady, she thought, whereas Nancy perfectly fitted the role of house-proud new wife . . . Matthew had been the last to leave, they’d had a nightcap together after Molly had trailed wearily upstairs to bed. She’d seen the way he looked at Molly, realised exactly why he had come today. It was a solution that Molly ought seriously to reconsider. Alexa would hate to lose her, of course, especially now Nancy was married, but it probably wouldn’t come to that, she sighed to herself. After all, Molly had been so stubborn regarding Rory, who, to his credit, had also wanted to marry her.
There was a sudden thumping on the floor from immediately above: Molly’s bedroom! Alexa was instantly alert. She forced herself not to rush but to climb the stairs at her usual pace.
Molly was in her nightgown, but not in bed. She clutched at her swollen stomach. ‘Alexa, something’s wrong – I had a terrible pain . . . ’
Alexa helped her to lie on her side on top of the bedclothes. ‘Draw your knees up slightly, it might help. Just try to relax and breathe deeply if the pain comes again, Molly, I’m going downstairs to telephone the doctor. Now, don’t worry, it’s probably just a warning sign that you’ve been overdoing things, been too excited today, but we can’t ignore it. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.’
‘It’s coming, I know it is,’ Molly managed, as the pain consumed her again. ‘Hurry, Alexa . . . oh, please hurry!’
TEN
The double doors at the rear of the motor ambulance swung open and Molly was carried up the ramp on a stretcher. In her dazed state, it seemed to her that she was enclosed in a dimly lit square box. A nurse sat beside her on the jolting journey to the hospital, finger on her pulse, murmuring reassuringly. The box reeked of carbolic, the blankets were coarse – she wanted desperately to throw them off, to escape, but it was as if any such movements were beyond her. Not knowing that Alexa was travelling in front with the driver, she felt she had been abandoned to her fate.
Mercifully, it was a short journey: there were welcome lights illuminating the hospital windows, long corridors where the wheels of the bed-chair squealed protestingly; coifed night nurses glancing up from their stations where they studied their paperwork. Unseen patients sighed and turned on rubber-covered mattresses in the wards. Gas lamps hissed and flared.
She was in a small room, lying on a hard couch, uncovered now, with firm, cool hands probing her abdomen – hands which stilled whenever the pains gripped her. The sister held her limp hand, while a more intimate examination was carried out by the doctor. Molly, past embarrassment, closed her eyes, determined not to cry out and disgrace herself.
She became aware of a muted discussion taking place but she heard only: ‘Lying in the transverse position . . . Matter of urgency . . . ’ Then the blankets were replaced; a chill, wet cloth was placed comfortingly on her forehead. If her eyes remained shut, if she could not see, she told herself in the confusion and fear the pain induced, then nothing could happen – could it?
Another room, much larger, with a bright overhead lamp. She couldn’t help herself. Her eyes flickered open and focused on what looked like a fish kettle, steaming steadily. There was more than one doctor now, and several nurses. None of them spoke directly to her. There was the sharp prick of a needle in her arm, she saw the lid of the fish kettle lifted and a perforated metal tray was removed, revealing the glint of sterilised instruments. Something covered her face but she was unable to struggle, to scream out that she was being stifled, then she was oblivious.
*
The agony was still there, every time she shifted slightly, but it was a different pain: it didn’t come in relentless waves, she was suffering but no longer in labour, she knew intuitively. The sunlight streaming through the windows of her room made her blink. She turned her head cautiously on the pillow. Beside her on the locker top she saw her treasures: the framed photograph of her mother, the little wooden horse, the earring box which had been under her pillow – she put a hand up to her throat and found the chain and the opal ring back in place. Alexa had snatched all these up when they’d left home.
She was startled when Alexa spoke. Had been unaware that she was sitting on a chair on the other side of the bed. ‘Molly dear, thank God, you’re back with us at last. They are bringing the baby to you in a moment. They think it best she should be baptised now, Molly.’
‘It’s alive then – my baby?’ Relief washed over Molly: she was suddenly wide awake. It must be morning, she realised. Where had the night gone to? She swallowed convulsively, her mouth was so dry. She longed for a long, cool draught of water.
‘You have a daughter, Molly, too tiny even to weigh or to bathe. It was a caesarean birth: don’t struggle to sit up, you will be sore for some time until the stitches are removed.’
Molly felt herself gingerly. The stitches – the wound – were concealed beneath firm bandaging. But it must be true, the baby must be born because she was flat at the front once more, she realised. ‘Was she born on my birthday?’ she wanted to know.
‘Just. Molly, I have to tell you, she has survived the night, which the doctors hardly expected, but—’
‘She’s alive,’ Molly stated firmly, and looked into the smiling face of her mother in the photograph.
‘A name,’ Alexa was saying. ‘Can you think of a name for her?’
‘Florence Almond,’ Molly said. ‘I want to call her Almond.’ The chaplain’s fingers dipped in holy water; Molly, propped up by pillows in her bed, held her baby for the anointing for what seemed like seconds only. This little scrap was nothing like she had imagined. The baby didn’t open her screwed-up eyes or cry. She looked very old and wise with that wrinkled face and sparse hair, Molly thought, not newborn at all. The nurse had placed the tiny bundle against Molly’s breast. There seemed no weight at all to it, just faint warmth seeping through the layers of flannel: the baby’s wrappings and her own hospital gown. She discerned a feeble twitching of the baby’s swaddled limbs, in sharp contrast to the energetic movements she had felt in the womb, then she linked her hands gently round Almond to keep her safe.
There were muted prayers, then Molly’s baby was taken from her. ‘Please can I have a drink?’ she asked.
*
Alexa gently mopped the tears coursing down Molly’s cheeks. She was suddenly very weary indeed. She had stayed at Molly’s
side ever since she was brought to this room after the operation. A nurse had been there too for some hours; it was touch and go for Molly as well as her baby during that long night, and there was the endless business of transfusing Molly with cooled, boiled saline water to alleviate the shock. At least it now looked as if she would recover, even if the same could not be said of her baby.
‘You must get more sleep,’ Alexa said, smoothing the covers. ‘And I must go home and cable your father to let him know what has happened.’
‘Nancy – you’ll call and tell her, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will! I imagine you’ll be overflowing with flowers and visitors shortly.’
‘Alexa—’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you for everything. I don’t know how I can ever pay you back–’
‘Don’t worry about that. Just get well quickly. I’ll be in to see you later today.’
*
Matthew was sitting in his car outside the house. He climbed out stiffly as Alexa’s cab drove off. She stood at the gate, swaying slightly from sheer fatigue; waiting for him to join her. Instantly his hand supported her elbow and he guided her up the steps. She passed him the key.
As he inserted it in the lock, he said: ‘I had a feeling – I was halfway home when I decided to return here to see if Molly was all right. The ambulance passed me as I waited to turn into your road.’
‘You spent the rest of the night out here?’ she asked.
‘That doesn’t matter! Tell me, please?’ he said urgently.
‘Molly had a baby daughter last night. There were complications. The doctor said she must go to hospital. Matthew, they had to operate—’
‘Molly?’
‘All stitched up, but she really will be all right in a month or two . . . The baby, well, that’s a different matter, I’m afraid. She will need very special care, being premature. Would you like a cup of tea – anything to eat?’
‘Sit down, I’ll take care of it,’ he said. There was real concern on his face. He was a nice man, she thought.
Molly's Journey Page 17
