Molly's Journey

by Sheila Newberry

  I do care for you, you know – oh, not in the way you might have hoped, but I’m glad we met.

  Much love from me and from Almond. Rory sends his best,

  Your ‘little sister’,

  Molly Kelly (Sparkes)

  Then she dipped her pen again in the ink bottle to write to her father and Madelaine.

  *

  ‘Why are you looking sad, Daddy?’ Fay asked her father. She squeezed his hand to comfort him. It was nearing the end of the summer holiday, and they were enjoying a lazy afternoon in the garden at Wren’s Nest. The letter had come by the afternoon post. ‘Are you missing Granny?’ she added.

  He nodded. ‘That’s it. Where’s your tennis racquet? Shall we have a game?’ She was getting long and leggy now she’d turned seven; she was athletic and had a good eye for aiming a ball. He was fortunate, he thought. Fay and he were good companions, despite the lack of a mother and wife in their life.

  ‘That old net you found in the shed’s got lots of holes in it,’ she told him.

  ‘You’re supposed to lob the ball over the net, not through it.’ He smiled.

  ‘All right, I know! Daddy—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wish – I wish that Molly and Nancy and Almond hadn’t gone away.’

  ‘So do I, darling. So do I.’

  *

  ‘If it’s a girl, Art, would you mind if we name her for Alexa?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind at all,’ he said. ‘I was fond of her, too, you know – even if I was in awe of her when I worked for her! What if the baby’s a boy?’

  ‘Alec, I suppose. D’you like that?’

  ‘Alec Arthur Gray – sound all right to you?’

  ‘Yes – and Alexandra Nancy, I suppose.’

  ‘What’s your ma’s Christian name?’ he asked.

  ‘Rose, why?’

  ‘Alexandra Nancy Rose, that’s why!’

  ‘Art, darling, Ma’d love that!’

  ‘Lucky it’s my mum’s name, too.’ He grinned. ‘Have you told Elfie and Ernst yet?’

  ‘Well, I thought you—’

  ‘That’s women’s stuff. Put ‘em all out of their suspense, Nancy. Despite your not showing yet, the settlement’s full of speculation – I get my leg pulled when I go out for a beer, you know.’

  ‘Molly’s made her mind up not to follow my example. She wants to get back into training as soon as she can.’

  ‘Well, they’ve got Almond, haven’t they? She’s quite a handful.’

  ‘And I’ve got you, and I see quite a bit of Ma, and I never thought that’d happen, but I’m sorry, of course, we’re so far from your dear mum – and a baby to come. I’m so happy, Art.’

  ‘So am I – come here,’ he said. One day, he determined, they’d visit his family again; maybe not until they had a sizeable family themselves, and Mum would be so proud and say she always knew he and Nancy would get together one of these days.

  ‘I wonder what Molly’s up to at this very moment . . . ’ Nancy said dreamily, before his kisses distracted her.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ he said, making her giggle when he raised his eyebrows just like George Robey had at the music hall years ago.

  *

  Rory massaged Molly’s back with warm oil. His fingers slid over her supple skin as he located the sore spots.

  She lay on her front on the caravan bunk. ‘Ooh, that’s better, Rory – I thought I’d never stand up straight again after Thom’s merciless cracking of the whip . . . ’ She rolled over on the towel. ‘We’ve got half an hour before Cora brings Almond back,’ she said invitingly.

  He poured more oil into his palms, rubbed his hands together. ‘You know what I love most about you, Molly Sparkes?’

  ‘Molly Kelly – remember? What?’

  ‘You always act on impulse,’ he said. ‘Roll back over. I haven’t finished the massage yet. You always fended off my ardour in the early days – remember? You must be fresh and fit for tonight; our first appearance in the ring as a married couple, don’t forget.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s something I’ll never forget,’ she said, softly.

  *

  The magic of the sawdust, the rosin, the ring, was still there. Sure-footed, Molly performed on the bouncing rope. She sparkled with spangles, sequins and rhinestones. She played to the audience, but most of all, to Almond, peeping round the flap of the canvas, holding on to the studded collar of one of the big black poodles, while Cora gamely held on to her.

  She and Rory took their bows, glancing happily at each other.

  ‘We’re back, Rory,’ Molly breathed, ‘it’s as if we were never away.’

  TEN

  1914

  The circus was back in town: in the very place where Molly and Rory had met seven years before. It all seemed the same – the billowing canvas, flaring lights and steam; colours, music con brio; the clowns and acrobats; animals, great and small; the flying trapeze, the snaking ropes; the unpredictable and the expected: timeless. But of course it wasn’t. The petrol engine was slowly superseding the horse. The circus even smelled different; there were telltale patches of oil on the grass when it moved on.

  Rory and Thom were well aware of the need for fresh routines while retaining the highlights of the old, the thrills and near-misses, which made the audience gasp or laugh. The practice sessions were as rigorous as ever; Thom still a demanding taskmaster.

  Five year old Almond, bright and demanding, needed the discipline of school. They would soon have to send her away, let her board: her parents dreaded the thought. For now, while Molly was busy rehearsing and appearing with the Kellys, in her spangles and tights, the little girl stayed with Cora and the dogs. Three hours a day were set aside for elementary lessons; the hardest thing for Almond to learn was to sit still and concentrate, she was spilling over with energy and questions.

  Molly smiled, recalling last night’s surprise performance, when Almond, wearing a sequinned costume sewn for her by doting Aunt Cora, proudly led the performing poodles into the ring; waving regally to the audience and obviously loving the cheering and clapping. No wonder she was taking a pre-lunch nap today. Molly glanced over at the far bunk where her daughter had curled up, still in her circus outfit, for she had refused to take it off at bedtime yesterday. Fallen in action, she thought.

  Molly and Cora were in the older couple’s caravan, relaxing over mugs of strong, sugared tea and succulent ham sandwiches. Rory and Thom were still checking the equipment for the first show of the day.

  ‘Two years – I can hardly believe it’s our anniversary coming up: July almost over, and it’ll be August. 1914 is slipping away fast,’ Molly mused. She flipped her long plait over her shoulder, the end having dipped into her tea. Cora still darned her tights and Rory sewed on any loose buttons. They spoil me, she thought, revelling in it.

  ‘No one would believe you were the mother of a growing daughter,’ Cora mildly reproved her as a brown stain spread on the sleeve of her white blouse. She dabbed at it with a dampened end of a tea towel. Then added bluntly: ‘When are you going to provide her with a little brother or sister, Molly? She could do with a bit of competition.’

  Molly could still blush. ‘Not yet, Cora. I’m enjoying being part of the act too much.’ She didn’t usually confide intimately in Cora as she had in Nancy or Alexa in the past.

  ‘Your friend Nancy’s very contented with her two babies,’ Cora reminded her slyly.

  Molly, to her disappointment, hadn’t yet seen Alec, already fifteen months old, or the new baby, Nancy Rose, whose arrival had just been announced. Maybe she was just a little jealous that Elfie and Ernst saw so much of them. ‘Nancy’s still determined to become a teacher despite the demands of motherhood,’ she reminded Cora. ‘You should understand, having always been a working woman.’

  ‘Ah, but I wasn’t a mother, was I? When I met Thom I was already in my late-thirties. We hoped, but it wasn’t to be. My dogs are my family. I don’t waste time on regrets. Thom and I are ver
y close.’

  ‘So are we – Rory and I are like bread and butter, you know that. Anyway, he says war is inevitable, after that dreadful business at Sarajevo in Serbia last June, when that Archduke and his wife were killed. Rory says —’

  ‘What do I say?’ he asked, stepping up into the caravan.

  ‘You say Australia will be bound to get involved this time, with the Old Country threatened in Europe.’

  ‘And like most other patriotic young chaps I’ll be joining up to fight the minute we’re called on, which I’m sure we will be. They’re already rallying sportsmen, in the peak of fitness, so I reckon they’ll welcome athletes like me, even if we were trained in the circus.’

  ‘You didn’t say that before.’ Molly bit her lip, feeling suddenly anxious.

  ‘Didn’t I? We can’t let ‘em get away with it. We can’t let the enemy on to British soil. And we won’t,’ he stated decisively.

  ‘I only meant, well, it could turn everything upside down, a war, even if it isn’t here, and – maybe, we should wait and see . . . ’ Molly floundered, giving a little warning shake of her head at Cora. Don’t mention babies.

  ‘No, it’s not here – not now – but when it spreads to the East, we’ll be more than ready.’

  Grim talk: Molly hated it. ‘Eat your sandwich, Rory, I’m going back to our ‘van to wash my hair, it’s sticky from the sugar in the tea,’ she said. He raised his eyebrows but she didn’t elucidate. ‘All right if Almond stays with you, Cora, till she wakes up?’

  ‘Of course. Like me to make a cake for your special day?’

  ‘Oh, please! She means our anniversary, Rory.’ She saw him visibly relax, smile at her.

  ‘As if I could forget, with all your heavy hints,’ he said affectionately, as she squeezed past him to the door. ‘I’ll join you in a minute.’ His hand lightly caressed her bare arm. He could still make her go all weak at the knees with his touch. She instantly got the message. We’re still catching up, she thought; making up for all the time we’ve wasted, been apart.

  ‘I’ll make it a quick wash then,’ she whispered in his ear.

  *

  By April 1915 Molly and Almond had been back some months with Serena and Sarah, now Mrs Sam Kelly, in the house in Melbourne. Almond was doing well at the local day school, after a rebellious start, and Sarah was newly, and euphorically, pregnant. She looked beautiful, shining, her hair was thick and glossy, she couldn’t stop beaming. It was a pity Sam was not here to appreciate it. He’d always kept in the background when his brother was in the running to marry Sarah, but now he’d come into his own. Sam was older than Rory, somewhat phlegmatic, but you could tell he was Rory’s brother, Molly thought: once he’d decided to marry Sarah he’d proved to her emphatically that he wasn’t second-best . . . He’d made her bloom, that was the only word for it.

  Serena, of course, considered the marriage was all her doing, and that now Sarah really was part of her family as she had always hoped she would be. Sam and Sarah had been privileged to have what Serena called, with satisfaction, a proper wedding: nuptial mass, a white dress, veil, hot-house flowers and showerings of rose petals. Molly remembered wistfully how she and Rory had talked of a church blessing for themselves, but somehow never got around to it.

  Molly was pregnant, too. Just three weeks off giving birth. She hadn’t seen Rory since the end of last year. Longing for his presence, his support, for a comforting hand rubbing her aching back, caused her tearful nights, though she believed he would have a shock if he saw her like this. It was ironical that he should miss out on both her pregnancies. Mind you, he was much more excited about the new baby than she was, already mapping out a circus career for it – what else? They were set on a son this time and naming him Rory the second.

  She was glad she hadn’t brought that shiny pink maternity dress to Australia, she looked pasty-faced and unattractive enough as it was; lumbering not limbering nowadays, she lamented to herself. Despite the affection lavished on her by her new family, she wished Nancy was with her – she missed Alexa still.

  She knew exactly when she had conceived, of course. The afternoon they’d talked of anniversary cake and war; when she’d felt so fearful that Rory would leave her and go off to fight a world away; when her hair had hung in a dripping wet curtain but not dampened their ardour; when she threw caution to the winds. There was always a price to pay for passion, for impetuosity. But it was a sublime coming together, a time she would never forget, even in old age.

  It was small consolation to her to know that Nancy was second in the expectant mother stakes. Things always came in threes, Molly mused. Art had enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force soon after Rory, and now Sam was in the Army, too, with the second wave of older men.

  Their Russian allies were in desperate straits due to Turkey entering the conflict; the naval attack on the Dardanelles had failed, and although they could not know that, the ‘diggers’ of Australia and New Zealand, the fearless Colonials, were about to be immortalised at Gallipoli.

  *

  Nancy, six months pregnant, was capably assisting Ernst at the school, firmly intending to do so until the first sign of labour, while Elfie, amazingly, coped with the little Grays one and two. She wheeled them along to the schoolyard each day at the noon break, and the schoolchildren crowded round the perambulator to amuse them. Sometimes, Nancy’s mother slipped away from home and came to the mission house to relieve Elfie for an hour.

  In her latest letter to Molly, Nancy wrote: ‘I’m a working mother, and I always will be – I love both parts of my life, but I do miss dearest Art more than I can say . . . ’

  Every evening, when the little ones were in bed, she sat resolutely at the table, poring over his books.

  She had produced the other babies remarkably easily; Art, despite the midwife’s misgivings, had been with her throughout each labour. She could conjure up the soothing sensation, the reassurance transmitted as he stroked back her damp hair; his sharply drawn breath, then his shout of joy as their children emerged into the world. He wouldn’t be with her this time, she thought, as the new baby kicked and protested when she bent over her studies; so weary that she found herself reading the same sentence over and over.

  Tonight, hot tears welled in her eyes. She slumped, head in hands. How was Molly managing without her support? she wondered.

  She’d left the door on the latch, in case Ma managed to come.

  Her thin arm slid comfortingly round her daughter’s shaking shoulders.

  ‘Oh, Ma . . . ’ she wept.

  ‘Shush, dearie, you’ll wake the little ones. Fancy a nice cup of tea? I’m staying with you, Nancy.’

  ‘Dad—’

  ‘I told him: “I’m leaving you. I oughter done it years ago. I’ll look in on you now and again, to make sure you’re all right. I didn’t do right by Nancy all them years ago, and I’m going to make up for it now; she needs me, with her husband away.” He took it meek, Nancy – he knows I mean what I say nowadays. You coming home when you did give me strength to stand against him, you see. Now close them books. Off to bed with you!’

  ‘Oh, Ma, did I ever say I love you?’

  ‘You didn’t have to, dearie, I knew all right.’

  ‘Ma, I’ll go to bed, but I must write to Art, I always do.’

  ‘You do that, dearie. He’s pure gold, your Art, and so are you.’

  *

  Molly kept her fears about the possibility of another caesarean to herself. Sarah reassured her that all seemed to be well this time. No danger signals indicating a premature birth.

  ‘You’re lucky, you’ve got your own private nurse, after all,’ she joked, to keep Molly’s spirits up, and unconsciously patted her own delicious secret, discreetly concealed by her apron.

  ‘I know I won’t hurt your feelings, Sarah, when I say this, but I wish Nancy was here.’

  ‘She’s got enough on her own plate, Molly. Three babies in as many years, eh? Not that I’d mind one bit if I followe
d her example!’

  ‘I would,’ Molly said with feeling. She quickly quashed the slight resentment at the thought that Rory was so excited about the new baby because he had no idea what she was about to go through.

  *

  On 25th April, the first landings were made on the peninsula. The troops were smartly deployed on the beach below the steep cliffs, immediately dubbed the Folkestone Leas, because of its strange resemblance to that very English resort in Kent before the growth of the town overlooking the sea. It was a place Art had never visited, but Molly, who had, would have thought the same.

  The men were backed by the fiercely blazing guns of the warships from which they had disembarked; digging trenches, dressing stations; massing field guns, equipment, pack animals, and stockpiling provisions. A cheer went up when a plentiful supply of fresh water was discovered on the foreshore. When they were entrenched, the vital communication links would begin with the laying of wires. But all the while they were being bombarded by shells from the enemy above. Bullets hit and caused a continuous spray of water, soaking all in the vicinity. The noise was incredible, ear-splitting in intensity and ferocity.

  Two days later, Privates Rory and Sam Kelly, along with other pioneers, scrabbled and scrambled heroically up the cliff-face finding footholds; clinging to scrub, hauling themselves to the ridges, giving priority to digging the essential bombproof shelters; marking out the first rudimentary roads, while the bullets whistled round their heads . . . Some, inevitably, found their mark.

  *

  Molly was at long last in the final stage of labour, after a pain-filled forty-eight-hour struggle. Sweat poured off her as she clung desperately to the knotted sheet dangling above her from the bedhead. She stifled her moans as best she could, not wanting Almond, downstairs with Serena, to hear what was going on.

  ‘It’s coming – not long now,’ Sarah tried to comfort her, hoping that Molly could not see the fear in her own eyes. Should she have called the doctor before now – he was on his way – would all this effort and suffering be wasted? Would Molly have to be rushed to hospital as she had when Almond was born?