Molly's Journey

by Sheila Newberry

  Molly was hallucinating: Rory was with her, supporting her. He was telling her to lean on him, to be brave, to give an almighty push when the next wave of pain intensified its grip. She tilted her chin, trying to see his face. ‘Now!’ he shouted.

  Where was that terrible groaning emanating from? ‘Rory, help me!’ she screamed.

  At the other end of the bed, Sarah caught the slithery little body as it was propelled forward, held the baby up and massaged it fiercely until it gave its first indignant cry.

  Molly lay back, shaking so that the bed actually rocked, as Sarah snipped and tied the cord. Then, she laid the tiny bundle, wrapped in sheeting, on her breast, and placed her tired arms round it.

  ‘Another little girl, Molly dear – well done! I’m so proud of you. What are you going to call her, I wonder?’

  ‘Rory—’ Molly said faintly, as the door opened and the doctor came in, taking in the situation at a glance.

  ‘No, dearie, you know he’d be here if he could, but it’s not possible. A name for the baby, I meant.’

  ‘Rory.’ Molly said, clearly this time. ‘I know she’s a girl, but it’s what he wants me to call her.’

  ‘Take the baby,’ the doctor ordered Sarah. He rolled up his sleeves, soaped his hands in the water in the bowl she had put ready. ‘I’ll see to the rest. She’s bleeding badly, and she’ll need stitching. She’s in shock: we’re in danger of losing her. We’ll need to get her to hospital as soon as we can.’

  Sarah, shocked herself, went out on to the landing with the baby, cradled in her arms. She saw two anxious faces looking up at her from the foot of the stairs; young Almond supporting her grandmother, with her arm round her waist. It was a real effort for her to smile now. Almond looked so like Rory at this moment.

  ‘You’ve got a little sister, Almond, you can both see her properly soon. She’s got really red hair, bless her. And – her name is Rory.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Molly managed, as they wrapped her, much as Sarah had swaddled the baby, ready for the journey ahead. ‘He’s gone, Sarah.’

  *

  Ma opened the door, in some trepidation, because it was well past midnight. She’d woken up when she heard the rumbling of the wheels outside. A solider on the cart jumped down and lugged over a heavy kitbag to the schoolhouse. ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary, mate – won’t stop – all the best. You’re out of it, now.’

  ‘It’s me, Ma,’ Art said.

  ‘Art, whatever are you doin’ here?’ she exclaimed. ‘You been wounded?’

  ‘I’d feel better about it if I had. Aren’t you going to let me in, Ma?’

  She turned up the lamp. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Wake Nancy, gently, mind: She don’t want a fright in her condition.’

  But Nancy had heard. She came out of the bedroom, supporting the small of her back with one hand, the other outstretched towards him.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Nancy. Don’t I deserve a kiss?’

  ‘I’m coming as quick as I can!’ she said wryly.

  ‘I got bad pains in my chest,’ he told them as he held Nancy close to him on the sofa. ‘They decreed I’ve got a weak heart – must be due to that rheumatic fever I had as a child. Why they never picked up on it when I had my medical, I’ll never know. They had me in hospital for several weeks, then I got my discharge.’

  ‘And we thought you were out, you know, with our boys at Gallipoli. Oh, I was so frightened, Art!’

  ‘Well, I guess you can do with me at home, eh?’ He gently patted her rounded belly. ‘I’m proud of you for all you’ve done, with the children and the school while I’ve been away. But now I can make things easier for you.’

  ‘Are you all right, Art?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘They say I’m fit enough to teach, even if I’m not up to fighting; they even say it’s the ideal occupation for me, so you don’t need to worry, old girl.’

  Nancy couldn’t get to sleep again after they were in bed. Ma had promised to let Ernst know first thing that Art was back, but that neither of them would be in school next day – just one day off, Nancy insisted, for her.

  She rested her head against his shoulder. Her prayers for his safety had been answered, she thought, if not in the way she had expected. But what of Molly, who must be about to give birth without Rory by her side?

  EPILOGUE

  1920

  The school hall, with its rows of chairs, was already full of chattering parents and relatives when they arrived. The end of summer term concert was the highlight of the school year. They had hung on at home until the very last minute for Molly, then decided to go without her. He had scribbled a brief note: See you there! and hoped for the best.

  The dusty orange velvet curtains masking the activity on stage twitched continually and now and then a beaming face was glimpsed through the centre gap. Three minutes to curtain call, to dimming the audience lights, to illuminating the stage, to striking up the opening music. Already, the girls in the school orchestra were making discordant noises with their instruments, as they tuned-up.

  ‘Molly Sparkes!’ Sister Margaret Mary exclaimed. ‘Late as usual.’ She ushered Molly through the door. ‘Over there – that spare seat on the end of the row, see?’

  ‘I see.’ Molly smiled. She dared to give her favourite teacher a quick hug. ‘Sorry about the last-minute arrival, but I had a flying lesson this afternoon and it took me hours longer than I expected to get home because I had to change a flat tyre . . . ’ She held out her hands for inspection to prove she’d scrubbed them since. ‘Remember your hands are always on show, Molly Sparkes – keep them clean.’

  ‘Shush!’ reproved a parent nearby. ‘Curtain’s just going up.’

  Sister Margaret Mary gave the oustretched hands a tap. She smiled at the elegant young woman in her short-skirted, sleeveless blue silk frock, with silver bangles on her tanned arms. Bobbed hair, tucked behind her ears, revealed sparkling sapphire studs. ‘Tell me all in the interval,’ Sister Margaret Mary whispered. ‘Your girls are nervous but they’ll do well, I’m sure,’ she whispered.

  Molly slipped into the seat next to her younger daughter Rory.

  ‘We thought you weren’t going to make it,’ she hissed.

  ‘Oh, Molly . . . ’ he sighed, on Rory’s other side.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Molly returned. The lights went down, the curtains swished, the overture commenced rather uncertainly, and she couldn’t make head nor tail of the print on the folded sheet.

  ‘Number six, Mummy,’ Rory tugged at her arm. ‘TWO BRIGHT SPARKS.’

  ‘Oh do hush!’ was the exasperated caution from behind.

  *

  It was a year since the Kellys had come home from Australia, to Alexa’s converted cottage attached to Wren’s Nest.

  Despite the disparity in their ages: Fay was fifteen and Almond eleven, the older girls got on like a house on fire. They boarded at Molly’s old school during the week and came home at weekends.

  Molly didn’t want to part with little Rory yet: perhaps next year, she thought, when she’s six. Almond seemed to have grown up, become independent so quickly; Rory was quieter, more clinging. She certainly did not live up to the promise of that flaming hair! She was very special to her mother because of the sad circumstances of her arrival.

  For months after her birth Molly had been very low both physically and mentally. Looking back she wondered now how she had come through. But when Sarah had her own baby, a boy, she made a tremendous effort to get back to normal, to care properly for her daughters on her own. She told herself she must, for Sarah and Serena’s sake. They had been so good to her and the girls. When the four years of war were over and Sam was home, she decided it was time to leave. Sam needed to get to know his own little son, not to have to take on responsibility for his brother’s children as well, she told him firmly.

  She hadn’t seen her dear friend Nancy during the war, and couldn’t go back to England without visiting her, Art and their family first. After two weeks,
Nancy had bidden her an emotional farewell. ‘We’ll be back again one day, I promise!’ Molly choked, but even as she said it, she wondered if she would. Nancy had Art still, her life was good; Molly was glad for her. Their friendship would outlast any separation, she was positive.

  Now, she was beginning to live her own life to the full again. It was as if she had woken up from a long, dreaming sleep. She bought new clothes, cut her long hair, drove her little car at speed. The flying lessons were Matthew’s idea: her father paid for them as a birthday present. She didn’t have to work, because of Alexa’s bequest, but lately she had begun to make plans in that direction. The circus, the music hall, even the House of Leather, were all in the past – but there must be some sphere in which she could sparkle!

  *

  The spotlight followed the two girls, one tall, one small, in their comic routine. They had enjoyed expert tuition.

  Spangles and tights, cartwheels and splits; Molly’s eyes misted as she thought of the circus days and Rory. She had believed when she’d lost him that there would be no more men in her life.

  The applause seemed to go on forever, for the TWO BRIGHT SPARKS, then the lights snapped on for the interval.

  ‘Please – can I go backstage and see the girls?’ Rory begged.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Molly agreed. ‘But come back in good time for the second half.’

  She moved along into Rory’s vacated seat. She noticed the man next to her looking at her with some concern. ‘Molly, are you all right?’ he asked. ‘We were worried about you when you didn’t arrive home in time, imagined all sorts of awful things – you’re not crying, are you?’

  ‘Just old memories, that’s all.’ she said softly.

  When they’d met again, after all those years, they were immediately on the old friendly footing. She knew what he was hoping for, but she wasn’t ready for that, quite yet. The children loved him, her father approved, of course, but for now, she was content with her lot. Or so she’d imagined.

  ‘There’s no one like you, there never will be for me,’ he murmured, so that she had to strain her ears to hear.

  She turned to smile at him. ‘Dear Matthew, don’t ever give up on me, will you?’ she said.

  Now he’d know he had a good chance.

  *

  ‘Do watch the children, Art,’ Nancy requested.

  ‘Shall I take them along for a game of deck quoits?’ he asked. ‘Then you can have a bit of peace and quiet, write your letters or have a snooze.’

  They were on the way home to England at last. Maybe the thought that Molly was already there had prompted the decision; or the fact that Ernst had recently retired, and he and Elfie had moved away, ‘to civilisation’, as she put it. Then there was the young, enthusiastic new pastor, who was also headmaster of the mission school. They had lost Nancy’s ma during the war; Nancy had been ‘home for years – it’s your turn, now,’ she generously told her husband. ‘We’ve got the nest-egg you always refuse to let me touch, to see us through. I think Alexa would be pleased if we used it in this way, don’t you?’

  ‘I won’t write to Molly,’ she said now. ‘I want to surprise them . . . ’

  You’ll do that, Art thought. The two girls were tussling over a balloon. ‘Let it go, then maybe you’ll be satisfied,’ he admonished them, removing Mary Ellen, known as Molly, from Nancy Rose’s grasp.

  ‘Come on, Dad!’ Alec cried impatiently.

  ‘Look!’ Art pointed.

  The balloon hovered above them, as they watched, standing on the ship’s deck; its string dancing in the current of air, then it wafted upwards.

  ‘It might reach the stars,’ little Molly imagined, entranced.

  ‘You would think that,’ Nancy Rose scoffed.

  ‘Oh, it could,’ Nancy reproved her. ‘I know.’

  MEET SHEILA NEWBERRY

  I’ve been writing since I was three years old, and even told myself stories in my cot. So it came as a shock when I was whacked round the head by my volatile kindergarten teacher for daydreaming about stories when I was supposed to be chanting the phonetic alphabet. My mother received a letter from my teacher saying ‘Sheila will not speak. Why?’. Mum told her that it was because I was scared stiff in class. I was immediately moved up two classes. Here I was given the task of encouraging the slow readers. This was something I was good at, but still felt that I didn’t fit in. Later, I learned that another teacher had saved all my compositions saying they inspired many children in later years.

  I had scarlet fever in the spring of 1939, and when I returned to our home near Croydon, I saw changes which puzzled me – sandbags, shelters in back gardens, camouflaged by moss and daisies, and windows re-enforced with criss-crossed tape. Children had iron rations in Oxo tins – we ate the contents during rehearsals for air-raids – and gas masks were given out. I especially recall the stifling rubber. We spent the summer holiday, as usual, in Suffolk and I remember being puzzled when my father left us there.‘War’ was not mentioned, but we were now officially evacuees, living with relatives in a small cottage in a sleepy village.

  On and off, we returned to London at the wrong times. We were bombed out in 1940 and dodging doodlebugs in 1943. I thought of Suffolk as my home. I was still writing – on fly leaves of books cut out by friends – and every Friday I told stories about Black eyed Bill the Pirate to the whole school in the village hut. I wrote my first pantomime at nine years old, and was awarded the part of Puss in Boots. I wore a costume made from blackout curtains. We were back in our patched up London home to celebrate VE night and dancing in the street. Lights blazed – it was very exciting.

  I had a moment of glory when I won an essay writing competition which 3000 school children had entered. The subject was waste paper, which we all collected avidly! At my new school I was encouraged by my teachers to concentrate on English Literature and Language, History and Art, and I did well in my final exams. I wanted to be a writer, but was told there was a shortage of paper! True. I wrote stories all the time and read many books. I was useless at games like netball, as I was so short-sighted – I didn’t see the ball until it hit me. I still loved acting, and my favourite Shakespearian parts were Shylock and Lady Macbeth.

  When I left school, I worked in London at an academic publisher. I had wanted to be a reporter, but I couldn’t ride a bike! Two years after school I met my husband, John. We had nine children and lived on a smallholding in Kent with many pets (and pests). I wrote the whole time. The children did, too, but they were also artistic like John. We were all very happy. I acquired a typewriter and wrote short stories for children, articles on family life and romance for magazines. I received wonderful feedback. I soon graduated to writing novels and joined the Romantic Novelists’ Association. I have had many books published over the years and am over the moon to see my books out in the world once again.

  Don’t miss Sheila Newberry’s brand new novel, coming Christmas 2017 . . .

  THE WINTER BABY

  Alone at Christmas – will she find somewhere to call home?

  As Christmas approaches, seventeen-year-old runaway Kathleen stumbles through the snow, alone and about to give birth. But when she’s carried to safety by a mysterious figure, her life is set on a new path . . .

  Welcomed by the Mason family at Home Farm, Kathleen believes she may have finally found a safe place to raise her newborn child. But her past cannot be forgotten and no matter how hard her new family tries, she has secrets she refuses to share.

  Will Home Farm be the safe haven Kathleen has been searching for? And will a chance at love allow her to finally break free of her past?

  PRE-ORDER NOW IN EBOOK AND PAPERBACK

  Read on for an exclusive first-look . . .

  Prologue

  1903

  The girl had been wandering for some days on the North Downs, stumbling along what she believed to be the old Pilgrims’ Way. She’d lost track of time in her confused state, but she knew it was coming up to Christmas. Snow was f
alling thick and fast and she had no feeling in her feet, which were encased in boots with worn soles and cracked leather uppers. The dark, threatening sky above contrasted with the thick layers of snow-on-snow on which she staggered step by step; the cruel wind whacked her back and she cried out in agony. She clutched her shawl around her shoulders, dislodging the bundle fastened with odd pieces of string. She groaned as she bent slowly to retrieve it.

  ‘I must carry it; I can’t leave it behind, it’s all I have . . .’ she muttered. These lucid moments were fleeting.

  She’d kept to the track, seeking shelter the first night after she fled in an abandoned shepherd’s hut. The door hung off its hinges and the bitter wind invaded the cracks in the wooden wall slats. Others had been there before her; she’d sorted among the debris they had left behind and found an empty brown beer bottle with the stopper lying nearby. Water, she thought, suddenly aware of how thirsty she was. I might be able to fill the bottle from a well on a small farm on the way – but where am I going? Home, she told herself. She sank down on a heap of old straw against a wall, closing her eyes, but she couldn’t escape the awful smell that assailed her nostrils. She could guess what the rusty bucket in the corner contained.

  She endured another sleepless night in a crude shelter in a field. There was a red-streaked sky in the morning: shepherd’s warning – she must keep moving. Now, at dusk, alone in a white world of snow, she was retching, although her stomach was empty. She became aware of the muffled sound of bells. Am I dreaming? she wondered. Where am I? What am I doing here? Is it Christmas? Am I nearly home? The pain washed over her again, and near to collapse, she groaned, ‘If I lie down in the snow, I won’t be here tomorrow.’ In her distress, she thought she heard a voice urging her to carry on. Who is it? she wondered, and who am I?