by Alice Jolly
I was looking for Violet, the stranger says. She’s my cousin. I’ve been away for ten years – more. In Italy. Violet used to live in Coventry before the war. But now I’m not sure. There is some confusion.
Mollie begins to understand. This man has been injured in the war, has been wandering on the Continent for several years, uncertain even of his own identity. Mollie knows about people injured in the war. Her friend at school’s father has got one side of his face crushed and an eye missing. Down in the city, near the cathedral, men sit around on benches, babbling and drinking beer from bottles. One has a leg which finishes at the ankle and is wrapped in a bloody sock.
Arthur Bonacci isn’t so badly injured but the war has sent his mind upside down. Now that Mollie understands, she knows she must help. A clean overcoat must be found. Perhaps he needs a hot bath. Mollie imagines herself as a nurse, turning a hospital corner, pressing a cold flannel against the man’s forehead. She may even need to clean the bleeding, gristly stump of his leg, but she’ll do that heroically if that’s what needs to be done.
This is my mother, Mollie says, and points at a photograph in a silver frame on the mantelpiece. Surely once the stranger sees a picture of her mother and Bertie then he’ll be able to sort it out? But the plan isn’t working. The stranger is staring at the photograph, holding it up close to his face, eating it up with those gaping eyes.
I don’t understand, he says. Rose Mayeford. Alive. Still alive. I don’t understand. Then his face changes. Perhaps I should go. It was not a good idea for me to come. I wouldn’t want to offend Rose, to make difficulties. I always had the greatest respect for her.
No, don’t go. Please don’t go. There’s no need at all.
Again the stranger is staring. Then he puts his hand out and touches her cheek. Mollie Mayeford, he says. Alive. I saw you with your mother that morning but then you were listed as dead and I could never understand – Mollie Mayeford.
So that is the name of the other Mollie, the one with the pale red hair who would look just right in the pink and white bedroom. Such a lovely name. Mollie Mayeford. A name for a film star or a singer. Mollie can see the name glittering in neon lights outside a London theatre as long black cars roll along the raining streets, crammed with the furs and cigars of all the people who are coming to see the show. Mollie Mayeford. So much better than Mollie Fawcett, which sounds like plumbing.
Red Rose, that’s what they called your mother. She sang beautifully.
I can sing as well, Mollie says.
But of course you can. What do you like to sing?
‘Salley Gardens.’ Mollie doesn’t know why she suggests this song but it’s always been one of her favourites and she’s never usually allowed to sing it as her mother doesn’t like it.
I shall sing with you, the stranger says.
Immediately he starts – and from his dirty overcoat and wobbly leg an extraordinary sound rises – a clear, pure sound, gently piercing, like a ray of early spring sun. Down by the Salley Gardens my love and I did meet. Mollie had expected to be nervous about joining him but she finds her voice drawn into his. Together their voices swoop and glide, dancing over the notes. She bid me take love easy as the leaves grow on the trees. He is the prince who has come to rescue the princess from the castle.
When they have finished, the stranger says, We must open the windows, it’s far too hot in here. Then we’ll sing again.
Oh but you can’t open the window, Mollie says. But this man can open the window. In his hands, it will simply sweep open. The frame will not break, the lock will not stick, the glass will not shatter. And sure enough he goes over and sweeps the French windows open, steps out onto the terrace. Mollie follows him, stooping to unbolt the second door, copying his confident gesture. Below violets cascade down the lawn. And beyond trees hide the allotments, the stained red brick of the city of Worcester. The railway station, full of people who are going somewhere.
Mollie is amazed. She knows the garden, of course, because she’s spent hours playing there, alone, making dens out of swept-up leaves. But she’s never been aware of the frontiers between the garden and the house. For her, the only access to the garden has always been by the back door, which is around the other side. No windows are ever opened, and certainly not the French windows. But now it seems that one can simply fling the French windows open and step out onto the terrace – and nothing happens, nothing at all. Except that the fresh air flows into the house and the sun and the smell of the garden. Mollie is so thrilled that she turns on the spot with her hands stretched wide.
You know I’m going to be a dancer when I’m older and a singer and an actress, she says. At the end of this year I’m going to go to London – there are far more opportunities there. I’ve got an audition here next week – at the Swan Theatre.
Mollie’s mind drifts away to the Swan and its deep red and gold interior and the glass boxes in the foyer full of photographs of past programmes and productions. And she thinks of actors and actresses emerging from the stage door, laughing down the steep steps and into the street. When Bertie takes her to the theatre, which he does often, he always allows her to wait at the stage door to see them coming out. And he buys a programme for her and she keeps them in a drawer in her room.
Oh so you’re old enough to leave school already?
Oh yes, of course, Mollie says. Usually when she talks about her stage career, grown-ups tell her off for making things up. She’s glad Arthur is wise enough to know the truth.
I’m sure you’ll be a huge success, the stranger says.
Mollie feels her face turning bright with excitement and shame.
Let me put the record player on, she says. She isn’t allowed to touch the record player but it must be all right when a visitor is here. She steps through the French windows, leans into the cabinet, lowers the needle onto the record which lies on the turntable. Paradise here, paradise close, just around this corner. The place where happiness is for me. The room begins to dance – the crystal lights beside the mantelpiece sway to the tune, the pattern on the carpet swirls, even the metal fireguard loosens its grip. When Mollie looks up at the stranger, she knows she’s done the right thing because he smiles at her suddenly, a broad smile. And he steps forward and takes her hand, drawing her out again through the French windows onto the terrace.
But Cook – face like the head of a hammer – appears at the French windows.
Mollie, you were told not to. And opening the window – you were told on no account – now you go upstairs and stay upstairs.
Mollie starts to argue but Cook is vicious and Mollie doesn’t want anything to spoil the sun and the music and the touch of the stranger’s finger against her cheek. Mollie’s mother will be back soon and she will be impressed by the way in which Mollie has dealt with this situation. Together they will be able to help this man. And maybe it won’t even matter about the French windows waving open in the breeze and the record player singing.
Goodbye, she says. I’ll be back in just a moment. Briefly she lays a hand on the stranger’s arm. For a moment, he looks down at her and something in his look surprises her. He may be injured, confused and grubby but there’s a strange solidity and grandeur to him. The house will fall – she knows that and he knows it. But even after it has all come tumbling down, he will still be standing here, quite unmoved, amidst the broken beams and crumbled walls. And her name will be up in lights. Mollie Mayeford. A star. Mollie feels Cook’s cold gaze and hurries out of the room, her feet still dancing to the music.
As she crosses the landing, she hears the rattle of coat hangers. So her mother is already home. Then why hasn’t she gone downstairs to see the visitor? Mollie hesitates. Something in the air has shifted and the evening heat now feels like a wall of resentment but still Mollie enters the room. Her mother, thin and brittle, is in her slip, searching through the wardrobe for an evening dress. On the dressing table, bubbles rise up through a glass of gin and tonic. The slip is made of black satin and
above it the bones of her mother’s back stick out, and her black hair, touched with grey now, falls in waves. On her shoulder that claret mark burns, a circular dent which puckers the skin. Mollie’s mother has heard her enter but doesn’t turn.
Sorry, darling, but I’m late back and your father will be here to pick me up in five minutes. Bridge with the Brakesons. She turns from the wardrobe and smiles. How was your day at school?
Mummy, there’s a man in the sitting room. He’s waiting to see you.
Yes, darling. I know. I’ve asked Cook to show him out. He’s made a mistake. He must have been given the wrong address.
Mollie watches as her mother takes a sip of gin, then steps into the black evening dress with its tight bodice and full skirt. Her mother is so proud of that dress but Mollie knows that she herself would look much better in it. And in a dress like that she could go out to bridge – but no, not that. She wants to dance and she could have gone with the visitor. Or at least she wanted to say goodbye to him. If only she could fall gravely ill. She imagines herself lying in bed pale and shivering, wrapped in eiderdowns, warmed by hot-water bottles while solicitous adults hover, whispering.
That man knew about the house, she says.
The room smells of lemon and gin. Everything in it – the silver hairbrushes, the sheets and towels, the dressing gown on the back of the door – is monogrammed with her mother’s initials. V.F. Violet Fawcett. Mollie thinks monograms are silly. After all, who forgets their own name? Her mother is applying eyeshadow, leaning down towards her mirror. Her hand draws back, her eyes open wider, she stares at Mollie in the mirror, turns. Her face is blank but patches of red have appeared on her cheeks. Mollie’s fingers wander over an evening bag which lies on the bed – it is oblong and black with a golden snake clasp. Her fingers click the catch open and shut.
You talked to him? she says.
Yes. You weren’t here so I thought someone should talk to him.
Well, you shouldn’t have done. What were you thinking of? How could you behave in such a cheap way?
I thought he was a friend.
What house? her mother says. What did he say about the house?
Mollie doesn’t answer, lays the black evening bag back on the bed. She had wanted her mother to be impressed. Surely she’d done the right thing? She’d entertained their guest. She imagines him now, in the sitting room, as the house comes tumbling down.
Sorry, darling. I don’t mean to be grumpy. It’s just that I’m in a hurry. You know Bertie doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Do tell me – what did that man say about the house?
He just said – that there had been problems with it.
Oh yes – only that?
He was looking for his cousin who is called—
Mollie’s mother jerks her hand, knocks the eyeshadow case to the floor. Then reaches for her glass, gulps, looks around the room as though it’s a prison, a place where she has been incarcerated for many years, but still continues to search every day for a chink in the stonework, a loose bar at the window. Mollie, that man was ill in his head – mad. You understand that, don’t you?
Yes, he was injured in the war.
He is mad, of course, but still Mollie must take his part, bear witness to whatever it was that he’d wanted to say. Her mother picks up the eyeshadow case off the floor, wiping the tiny spray of sparkling silver from her fingers. Then she spins around the bedroom, gathering cigarettes and a lighter into her evening bag, clipping on pearl earrings and a necklace, stopping by the mirror to put on another layer of powder. So what else did he say?
He said he knew my father.
Rubbish. Total rubbish. And what else?
He was looking for someone called Rose.
Rose?
Mollie’s mother stops by the glass of gin, stares at it for a minute, then drains it down. Mollie, listen to me. I’ve just said, haven’t I? I’ve just explained – that man is mad and so what possible interest could it be to either you or me what he says?
None, Mollie says. None whatsoever.
Good. Right. Well, I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out. Now please make sure to do your homework and be in bed before nine. And be sure to bolt the door as soon as I’ve gone. Cook has got a corned-beef sandwich for you when you want it.
This is how it always is. Her mother is always leaving, always going out somewhere. Her stepfather doesn’t want to go out every night. Mollie knows that because she hears the arguments. Her stepfather fights for her but he never wins and never will. And so every night he comes straight from the office, picks up Mollie’s mother and then they set out to a dinner, or drinks or bridge. Now Mollie wanders to the window at the back and stares down onto the drive. Her stepfather stands in his shirtsleeves and tie next to the curving arc of the wheel guards at the front of the car. It is already turned around, ready to leave. He looks up and waves at her. She waves back, blows him a kiss. His face is kindly, confused, and he keeps on waving for too long. She wants to call down to him, to warn him, to tell him that she’s holding a stick of dynamite, has a match to the fuse.
Mollie’s mother picks up her fur from the back of a chair and swings out of the room, her heeled shoes thudding on the landing carpet. Mollie follows her and the house shudders. Her mother reaches the top of the stairs, starts to descend.
But how did that man know my name?
Mollie’s mother turns and looks up, her face white as the moon in the shadows of the stairs, suspended there, shocked and staring. Listen, Mollie. Listen. I am alive. We are alive. Do you know how incredibly lucky we are? Just to be alive – today. Even just this one day. Mollie’s mother hurries on down the stairs, into the shadows of the hall. Mollie has heard her mother say this before – I am alive – but is it true? Is being alive rationed? Perhaps there isn’t enough alive-ness to go around. If one person has it, then others can’t.
Fairy tales are silly. Why do princesses always wait? Mollie follows her mother down the stairs, opens the front door and steps out onto the drive. She feels herself glowing like a lamp, knows herself to be dangerous. Mollie’s mother is stepping across the drive, departing, endlessly departing. Wearing a fur coat now, despite the July heat. Tottering slightly on her high heels, drawn to Bertie as though by a magnet. And he moves to meet her, enfolding her, shielding her, the two of them moving together in an awkward shuffle, a three-legged race. Her mother’s face turned into the shadows, offering only a vague backward wave of her hand.
She gets into the front seat of the car, folding the skirt of her dress in carefully. Bertie is about to shut the door when he hears Mollie’s footstep. His face shines as it always does when he sees her and for a moment Mollie thinks he might step forward and kiss her but he doesn’t dare.
Mollie, what are you doing? Her mother’s voice has the same sharp metallic snap as the catch on her evening bag.
I just—
Something has changed. Mollie isn’t frightened of her mother any more because she only has to say those words – how did that man know my name? She’s spent all her life trying to please her mother. What a relief now to know that she’ll never succeed, that perhaps there are other people she could please. In the far distance, she hears the whistle of a train coming into the station, full of people who are going somewhere.
I just might go for a walk.
Behind her, Mollie feels the house shudder. It’s falling. If she goes upstairs she will open a door and find that the wall at the front of the house has gone missing. She’ll stand in her mother’s bedroom and stare straight down into the garden. And then the floor will tip and she’ll drop forward, slipping and falling, down and down, through the clear air.
What?
I walk to school and back.
Yes, but you can’t walk now. Not in the evening. Not on your own.
Mollie knows she will walk and that she’ll fail to bolt the door when she returns.
Well, why not? Bertie says. Why ever not? It’s a fine evening. It won’t hurt for her to
go up and down our street.
Cook has been given instructions.
Well, I shall change the instructions, Bertie says and strides towards the house.
Mollie and her mother stand in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes. Mollie might like to smile in triumph but instead feels pity for her mother, who stares about her, adjusts her hair, feigns indifference. Bertie’s voice is heard in the hall and he returns, smiling.
All settled, he says.
Bertie. We’re due there at seven. We really must go.
Smoke will pour out of the roof, the foundations will give, the timbers will shatter, windows will drop out of their frames and the whole thing will crash down in a cloud of plaster dust, splitting open, spilling tables, chairs, glass, record players, theatre programmes, white painted furniture with holes cut out into the shape of hearts. Down and down towards the allotments, the railway line, the canal.
Bertie. We really must.
Her mother slams the car door. Bertie smiles at Mollie, tips his head towards her – saluting their joint victory. Watching him as he gets into the car, Mollie feels the knowledge that stretches between them like a gossamer thread. And the love. It’ll always be there – no matter how often he goes out for the evening, no matter that her walks will soon take her far beyond his street. She smiles at him and rocks gently back and forward from the toes of her school shoes to the heels, testing out the idea of walking, of heading out through the gates of the house and into whatever lies beyond. The engine splutters, roars and the car slides away, low and glistening, the rattle of its engine growing as it pulls away through the gates.
Mollie walks down to the end of the drive and out through the gates but there is no sign of Arthur. She walks up and down the street a couple of times, beside the wisteria-clad walls, garage doors and gates leading to other houses. And she wonders about being alive. Then she heads back to the house and walks in through the front door, leaving it open so that it can blow in the wind, so the glass in the panels can smash. Let the house fall, pull it down, plant a bomb in it, blow it to bits.
