The Lost Soldier

by Costeloe Diney

  Keeping the big table between herself and him, Molly said, “With me? Why what have I done?” and then was angry with herself. Why did she instantly assume she must have done something wrong when her father wanted to speak to her, and why did she allow him to see that he could still alarm her?

  “Nothing,” he replied, striking a match on the mantelpiece and applying it to his pipe. He drew hard, and said no more until the tobacco was well alight and glowing. In the silence, Molly looked anxiously across at her mother, but Jane Day was studiously making the tea, as if she had heard nothing of the exchange. She set out cups on the table and said casually, “Will you have a cup of tea, too, Edwin?”

  Edwin continued to draw on his pipe, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth, but he nodded and waited while his wife poured tea for all three of them. Molly pulled out a stool from under the table and perched on it, still keeping the table between her and her father. Her mother took a plate of griddle scones out of the oven where they had been keeping hot and set them on the table.

  “I thought we might go blackberrying in the lane this afternoon, Molly,” she said evenly. “I want to make some more blackberry jelly this year. It is so good for colds in the winter.” She put plates and knives on the table and a pot of last year’s jam, but neither her daughter nor her husband took a scone.

  “What did you want to say to me, Dad?” Molly asked, trying to keep her voice firm and strong.

  Her father finally looked at her and said abruptly, “You’re to give your notice in at the manor, and come back here.” He blew a plume of smoke across the table. “You can go and work in the munitions factory at Belmouth. The money there is far better, you can make as much as five shillings a day there.”

  Molly stared at him in horror. “But I don’t want to work in the munitions factory,” she stammered. “I want to stay working at the manor. I like it there.”

  “Can’t always have what we want in this life,” her father said grimly. “You should know that by now. We need your wages to keep things going here.”

  “But Dad,” protested Molly. “You already have half my wages every week.”

  “So, this way we’ll all have a bit more,” he said. “You’re to give your notice in to the squire when you get back this evening, and move back home at the end of the month.”

  “Mam,” Molly turned in appeal to her mother. “Mam, I don’t want to work in a factory. I don’t want to come back and live at home. I’m happy at the manor, I like being in service.”

  “You heard what I said, Molly,” said Edwin Day implacably. “You should be doing your bit for the war effort, my girl, not running round after gentry what sit in their houses and do nothing.”

  “Mr Freddie’s at the front…” began Molly, but Edwin cut across her.

  “It’s decided. You’ll come home here and work in the factory. You tell Squire.” He put his pipe in his pocket and downing the cup of tea in one swallow, he got to his feet and headed to the door. As he passed her, Molly instinctively shrunk away from him, but he made no move to touch her, simply picked up his cap from a chair by the door, and cramming it on his head went out into the farmyard, where he could be heard calling to the dogs.

  “He speaks to the dogs far better than he does to you or me,” Molly muttered, picking up her teacup. “Mam, I don’t want to leave Squire and Miss Sarah. I like working at the manor.”

  Her mother shrugged slightly and said, “You’d better do what your dad tells you, Molly. He knows what’s best.”

  “Mam,” Molly looked beseechingly at her mother, “you know why I don’t want to come home.”

  Her mother’s face went suddenly rigid. “Now, Molly, let’s have no more of that nonsense! I won’t have you say things like that about your father, and if you so much as hint at such a wicked, wicked thing again, I’ll take a stick to you myself.” She banged her teacup down in her agitation, slopping the contents on to the kitchen table. “You give you’re notice in, like your dad says, and let’s have no more of this. Now, pick up that pail over there and let’s get out to those blackberries.” She turned away from her daughter, and taking a basket from a cupboard, headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Come along, now, there’s a good girl. It’s a lovely crop this year, and with two of us we’ll have plenty in no time.”

  Molly set her own cup down with a sigh of resignation, and picking up the indicated bucket, followed her mother out into the yard. There was no sign of her father, but the brilliance of the day had gone. As her own horizons loomed grey and ominous, so the sun had slid behind heavy clouds which scurried in on a rising west wind, and the day became overcast and chill. What would have been, on any other September day a pleasant afternoon’s occupation, seemed now to be a chore. The thought of coming back to live at Valley Farm permanently filled Molly with dread.

  Ever since she had turned nine, she had had to fend off her father’s attentions, and as the months had turned into years her childhood love for him had turned into fear. He had not been unkind to her at first, but his cuddles altered in some way that she didn’t understand, and gradually Molly grew to dread them. She began to withdraw from him, slipping from his grasp when they were alone together in the house. Often her mother went over to Granny Cook’s house to help her. Granny was her mother’s mother, and very old so that, although she stayed in her own cottage, refusing to move, she needed Mam to come in each evening after tea to help her get ready for bed. It was then that Dad would sit Molly on his knee and stroke her hair. Then one day he asked her to stroke him. At first she laughed awkwardly, and said she couldn’t stroke someone big like him, it was silly.

  “But you stroke Pusskins,” he pointed out, leaning down and picking up the cat by the scruff of its neck. He dumped it in Molly’s lap and almost automatically Molly began to stroke the cat so that he set up a steady rumbling purr.

  “See? See how much he likes that, you stroking his tummy?”

  Molly giggled nervously and said, “But I can’t stroke your tummy, Daddy!” She pushed the cat down scrimmaged her way off Dad’s knee. He had let her go that time, but his strange attentions didn’t cease. By the time she was twelve, he had taken to coming to her room when she had gone to bed and her mother was out. There he had made a game of saying goodnight, tucking her in; but he touched her in places that Molly didn’t like, private places, patting her bottom and slipping his hand under her nightie. He told her she was growing into a lovely girl, and placing his huge hands on the budding breasts that stood out through the woollen night-dress, he stroked them with his thumb.

  “Lovely little bubbies, you’ve got, Moll,” he muttered.

  She would push him away and say, “Go on, Dad! Get away with you.” But he had not been so easily put off and he said, “All dads like to see their daughters growing into lovely girls, it’s only natural,” but his voice was gruff and he sounded funny. Sometimes he leaned over and lifted her out of the bed as if she were no more than a doll, sitting her on his lap and bouncing her up and down so that her little round bottom bumped against him. “Dad, you’re hurting,” Molly cried, but he laughed and bounced her all the more, his breath hot and ragged on her face. Other times he lay on the bed beside her, holding her against him in a bear-like hug, rubbing himself against her and saying, “See, I’m like Pusskins!” Molly pushed him half-heartedly away, saying “Dad! Give over! It’s too hot. Get off!”

  He’d laugh then and roll off the bed. “Give your old Dad a kiss goodnight then,” he’d say, and, reaching down to put his hands round her face, would kiss her full on the lips. “And don’t tell your mam you was up so late, or we’ll both be in trouble. Our little secret, eh pet?”

  When he left the room, Molly often found she was shaking. She could still feel his hands on her body and his lips on her mouth. He had always kissed her goodnight when she was little, but it had never been hugs and kisses like this, and for some reason she found she didn’t like it. She had said nothing to her mother because really
there was nothing to say. She didn’t understand what was happening, all she knew was that if Dad was playing a game, she didn’t want to play any more.

  One evening when he had finally left her to sleep, she gave long thought about what she should do. The idea, when it came to her seemed remarkably simple, and she decided to act on it. The next evening, when her mother was at home and they were all in the kitchen, Molly got up to go to bed. She said goodnight to her parents, but made no move to kiss either of them as she had always done before, just moved towards the door.

  “Don’t we get a goodnight kiss, then?” asked her mother looking up from her mending with a smile.

  “I reckon I’ve got a bit old for that now,” Molly said nervously. “That’s only for little’uns. I’m nearly grown up now.”

  “Never heard such rubbish,” puffed her father. “Come here and say goodnight properly like.” He reached out his hand to her, but she evaded him and slipped round the table.

  “No, Dad,” Molly said warily. “I don’t want kisses any more, not like last night.”

  “Like last night?” queried her mother with a frown. “What are you talking about, Molly?”

  “Daddy kissed me last night at bedtime, but I’m too big for that now,” Molly said firmly. “Grown-ups shake hands when they say good night.” She proffered her hand to her mother who took it with a rueful shrug and said, “Well you are a funny girl.”

  Dad had taken her hand too, but his grip had been so hard that she almost cried out with pain. “Goodnight, then, Molly,” he said. “I hadn’t told Mam that I let you stay up late last night before I came to tuck you in, but it is clear that we mustn’t have secrets from her.” It was indeed clear. There was no doubting the message in that grip. It was clear that there would always be that secret from Mam, and Molly’s anxiety burgeoned into full-blown fear from that evening on.

  She kept well clear of her father from then, and it became so obvious that her mother said to her, “I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Molly. Have you and your dad had a row or something? You hardly speak to him these days. What’s the matter? Tell me and perhaps I can put it right.”

  So Molly tried to tell her, but it came out all wrong and her mother exploded with fury.

  “How dare you say such things about your father!” she cried. “He loves you and wants you to love him too, that’s all. You’re a very wicked girl to say such things, and if I hear anything like it again I shall tell your dad what you say about him.”

  Her mother must have done just that, because Dad came roaring at Molly for making up stories to upset her mam, and threatened to take his belt to her if she ever did such a thing again. In her innocence Molly had no idea what her parents thought she was saying about her father. She knew how lambs and calves were born, she had grown up with that, but she knew nothing about human intercourse; her reaction against her father had been entirely instinctive. She was accusing him of nothing, but his reaction to her perceived accusation was violence, and it was not forgotten. Whenever she did wrong in his eyes from then on, he would lash out at her with hand or belt, and Molly lived in fear of his anger. Mam had tried to make up for it all by being the buffer between them, but she soon realised that it was time for Molly to leave home and as soon as she was old enough to go into service Jane Day went to see Mrs Norton, the squire’s housekeeper and arranged for Molly to be taken on at the manor as a maid-of-all-work.

  Life at the manor was strange at first and Molly had to learn fast to avoid Mrs Norton’s sharp tongue, but there were no beatings here and she soon got used to how the house ran and was comparatively happy. Half her wages were paid to her father, which left her with very little, but with no living expenses she had enough and it was worth it to be out of Valley Farm. She and her mother seemed closer now that they no longer shared a roof, and with her father there was a sort of armed neutrality.

  Today was the first real confrontation they had had since she had left, nearly five years ago, and Molly was shaken that he could still frighten her. As she followed her mother down the track and began to pick the blackberries, Molly thought about her father’s ultimatum.

  “I’m not going back to live there,” she told herself fiercely. “I’ll never live under his roof again.” Now that she was old enough and less naïve, Molly had some idea of what her father had been doing. She realised too, that her mother probably had believed her, but had been in no position to protect her. She, too, was afraid of Edwin, and though Molly had never seen any actual bruises on her mother’s face, she never saw the rest of her body unclothed, and didn’t know if it carried bruises like her own or not.

  Today Molly had felt the usual fear when confronting her father, but there had also been something else, something extra which made her feel different. She had felt anger, and this anger had lessened her fear. “Why should he treat me like this?” she thought crossly as she stripped the ripe berries from their brambles, hardly noticing the thorns which ripped at her fingers. How dare he tell me what I can and can’t do, where I must work? He may be my father but he don’t own me. She said this several times under her breath, “He may be my father, but he don’t own me!”

  Hearing her voice her mother called across and said, “What did you say, Molly?”

  Feeling suddenly brave, Molly called out, “He may be my father, but he don’t own me, and I’m not going to work in no munitions factory, neither. I’m going nursing, to France, with Miss Sarah.” As she shouted it out, Molly knew that her decision was taken. She put down the bucket and went over to her mother, who was staring at her open-mouthed.

  “I’m sorry, Mam. I was going to talk to you about it this afternoon, but well, things was different today.” She took her mother’s basket from her and set it on the ground, then she looked up at her. “Mam,” she said softly, “Mam, I’m sorry, but I’m going to go with Miss Sarah. She asked me this morning if I’d go to France with her to help nurse our wounded soldiers. I said I’d think about it, and I have. I can do more good in a hospital in France than I can in any munitions factory. Still doing my bit for the war, even Dad will see that. I’m not coming home to live. I’m going to France.”

  “Your dad won’t let you,” her mother said flatly. “He won’t let you go, a girl of your age.”

  “He won’t be able to stop me,” Molly said firmly. “Not unless he locks me in the barn and throws away the key.” She took her mother’s hand and gripped it tightly. “I could go without telling him,” she said softly. “He wouldn’t know I was going if I didn’t tell him… and you didn’t.”

  Jane Day stared at her daughter, her mouth working with agitation. Molly seemed different today, suddenly adult and positive, and Jane feared for her. She knew only too well what happened if you crossed Edwin, and she could see the same obstinacy in Molly’s eyes now, that she had seen so often in Edwin’s.

  “I don’t know anything about your weird ideas, Molly,” she said indifferently, pulling her hand free and turning away. “I expect you to go back to Squire and give in your notice and then we’ll see you in a month’s time. I doubt if we’ll see you before.” She picked up her basket and set off back to the farmhouse. For a moment Molly stared after her, wondering if this time Mam actually meant she wasn’t going to tell her dad what she planned. Had she just been offered the breathing space of a month, or did Mam really mean that she expected her to come home when the month was up? She picked up her bucket and followed, and when they reached the farm, her mother led the way into the farmhouse, made more tea and set Molly to sorting the blackberries, just as if the conversation had never taken place, and Molly left early, before her father came in for his evening meal.

  2001

  7

  Rachel arrived at her grandmother Rose Carson’s home just before lunch, and made the short dash up the path to the front door through the driving rain. Her grandmother, who was as fiercely independent as Rachel, lived in a ground floor flat in a block of sheltered housing on the edge of the town. S
he had given up her old home when Rachel had moved out and was now comfortably settled in Cotswold Court, where she could have as much independence as she liked, but where there was a warden on hand if necessary. There was a tiny kitchen where she could prepare food if she wanted to, but a main meal was provided at midday in the communal area every day. It suited Rose Carson very well.

  Rachel had her own key and to save Gran from having to come to the door she used it now, calling out, “Hallo, Gran, it’s only me.”

  Her grandmother was in the sitting room, her wheelchair pushed up beside the window that looked out over the dank, winter garden. Her tapestry was on her knees, but there was no thread in the needle that lay on the table beside her, and the local paper was folded tidily, apparently unread. Her face lit up with a smile as Rachel came into the room and crossed over to give her a hug and the chocolates she had bought the day before in Charlton Ambrose village shop.

  “Hallo, darling! How lovely. Black Magic, my favourite!” Gone was the lethargy that had seemed to hold her and she spun her chair away from the window. “What a dreadful day out there! Lunch will be ready in about half an hour. Why don’t you pour us both a drink?”

  “Yes, all right. Gosh, Gran, it’s cold in here,” Rachel scolded. “You should keep the fire on.” She went to the fireplace and pressed the starter. The gas ignited with a whumpf and immediately the room looked more cheerful.

  “I usually do,” Gran said equably. She was used to Rachel ticking her off for being frugal, but to her it was a way of life. All her life she’d had to watch every penny and she couldn’t bring herself to waste money on gas when a blanket over her knees and a shawl round her shoulders kept her as warm. Rachel looked across at her affectionately and switched on the standard lamp as well, suffusing the room with warm light and making the aspect from the window even bleaker.

  A drink to Gran meant a glass of sweet sherry, and Rachel went to the cabinet in the corner and poured two glasses. “How’ve you been this week?” she asked as she handed Gran one glass and sat down with the other on the opposite side of the fire. They chatted easily for a while before Rachel dished up the casserole Gran had in the oven.