by Alice Jolly
And the truth is that this aid agency lady is getting really nasty with me because she hates to be made a fool of and also because this is really all about something else. It’s about the fact that there have been articles in the paper about me and she doesn’t like that. Because she wants there to be articles in the paper about her instead. It’s just like Patricia says – everything here is about who got their fucking photograph in the newspaper. And yes, Greg did write that article about me and he showed it to me, and yes, I’m glad but only because it will bring in more funds and it will tell people about what it’s like here, and how much money is needed and that it’s needed for people who are in really bad trouble right now.
And that’s what I told this woman and I was yelling at her until she just started reversing out of the room. And I was so fucking angry that I just wished that she would die and then I was angry with her for making me feel like that. And I kept on being angry and shouting at people for the whole of the day and I hated myself for being like that because it doesn’t help and actually this aid agency woman isn’t a bad person really. She’s just a person like the rest of us. And it took me so long to calm down and even now I’m not calm. Partly it’s just because it’s too hot here and not enough water. I know that what I’m doing is right but I get exhausted. It’s so weird here. Sometimes it is just like normal life. People sit around in the bar and drink and they even swim in the pool like it’s a holiday. And they watch CNN on the TV and the stuff they’re showing is happening a mile away but you can’t believe it.
Then one day you’re walking through a street and everything is on fire and people are dead. Hans found a part of someone’s leg in the road. And everything is so confused because no one knows really what they want, or what should happen. And people half hate the Americans and half love them. I suppose that all I know with certainty is that every day you make the choice – to be kind or not to be kind. And all anyone can do is to keep choosing kindness. Again and again. That’s all there is. God I could kill for cornflakes or tea with proper milk. Mum, it’s a big thing to do, giving up your job, because I know it was important to you. And it’s funny but I even wondered if it is the right thing for you to do – can you believe it after all I’ve said? But you are right. I have to go because some person here wants to talk to me and I can’t understand what he’s saying and he seems to want me to eat some bread. Shit I hope this message is going to send now that I’ve typed it all out.
Love, Jay
42
BEFORE
Mollie – Worcester, March 1954
Mollie hears his name whispering in the pipework, echoing in high-ceilinged corridors. Ludo Brandt. 54 Canal Walk. Oh. Him. The walls of the police station are painted dark green at the bottom and a lighter green above. Rooms have been created from partition walls which do not reach the ceiling and panels of frosted glass. Strip lighting bathes everything in a dull, cold glow. Cigarette smoke swirls and shadows are the colour of weak tea. People cough and shuffle their shoes, a typewriter stutters. Somewhere a man cries out, his voice half muffled.
Below them, floodwater laps through the lower streets of the city. The river, black and sticky, is still rising. Most of the police are out stacking sandbags, helping people move to drier ground. Up ten foot in the last twenty-four hours, a voice says. A metal bucket stands in the corridor, catching drops of water which fall from the ceiling with a regular tick, tick, tick. Mollie is led past the ticking bucket to a narrow room, asked to sit in a beige armchair that is crammed in next to a desk with a typewriter and a filing cabinet. Caught a pike in the Rose and Crown apparently. Laughter ignites then falters. A fat elderly officer appears with a cup of tea and a blanket. Mollie cries because the situation seems to require tears.
Don’t worry, love. Got through to your mother now. She’s on her way.
Mollie tells herself she doesn’t understand what’s happened. She was at Ludo’s house, she was showing him some dress designs in her purple notebook. The doorbell rang and he went downstairs to answer it. And then she was in the back of a police car, being driven through the raining city. Playing too loud. Mrs Griffiths complaining. But where is Ludo? Mollie is sure he’s somewhere near. She can hear the beating of his heart, behind one of the many half-glazed doors. He left the house without a coat. Mollie hopes that at least his scarf is tightly wrapped around his neck.
High heels rattle in the corridor. Mollie’s mother enters with a swish of fur coat and black evening dress. She grips a tiny, diamond-clustered bag in her bird-claw hands. Mollie darling. Are you all right? She places stiff arms around Mollie. Her smell is fur, smoke, gin. Mollie remembers that feeling from long ago, those thin arms stiffly pulling against her.
Just let me speak to the officer in charge.
The policeman raises his eyebrows, gestures to Mollie’s mother who follows him out of the door. Together they move along the corridor into another room. Mollie follows them, listens. I quite understand your concern, Inspector, but I’m sure there’s nothing like that. Mollie’s a very sensible girl. Her mother’s voice is clear and concise, confident. All of this is a misunderstanding.
With all due respect, Mrs Fawcett, I’m afraid I can’t agree. Mr Brandt is known to us. He’s a German and divorced. There have been complaints.
I must take Mollie home. It’s late and she’s obviously most upset.
Yes, Mrs Fawcett. Of course. But it is necessary.
At the end of the corridor, a brown shadow moves, crossing from one office to another. Tick, tick, tick as water drips into the bucket. Mollie steps back, worried that she’ll be seen. Complaints. She always knew, of course. No one is arrested for playing music too loud. This is all her fault. Mrs Griffiths saw her crying just a few days ago. Mollie wonders now how she could have been so stupid, how she could have put Ludo at risk. Mrs Griffiths would be capable of any lie. Mollie needs to speak to Ludo immediately, to apologise, to explain.
Mollie hears her mother’s voice. Of course, I had no idea she’d gone out of the house. She’s never done such a thing in her life. Never.
A murmur, the scraping of a chair.
I don’t know what you’re suggesting. Yes, I was out for the evening.
The shadow moves again. Mollie slips back into the room with the beige armchair. She pulls her purple notebook out of her bag, grips it tightly. Shadows on the frosted glass reveal people entering the next room. Brandt? No. They can’t keep anyone in. That’s the instructions. No staff. Emergency situation, isn’t it? A moment later her mother returns, holds the teacup out to Mollie, who drinks. Their eyes meet for a moment over the rim of the cup. The stick of dynamite, the fuse. She isn’t the only person who must work out what story she will tell.
A young policeman comes in and sits down. He is followed by a stiff-backed lady who seats herself at the typewriter. The policeman considers her over the table, notes the quality of her shoes and coat, raises his eyebrows at her, without smiling.
Good evening. Just need to write down a few details. Name?
Mollie Fawcett.
The typewriter slides and pings at the end of each line.
He turns to Mollie’s mother. Name?
You know my name and my husband’s name.
Yes, Mrs Fawcett – but I still have to put it on the forms.
Once my husband returns from his business trip, he will speak to the Chief Inspector.
The young policeman is undeterred. Miss Fawcett – if you could just explain to me how you happened to go to Mr Brandt’s house?
Mollie is on stage and this is her moment. A spectacular performance is needed. Just like in the theatre reviews – controlled, emotional, convincing. Step forward into the light, make everyone believe in you. She is the young girl seduced by the monstrous Ludo with the bleeding gash on his neck. Perhaps not the theatre but film. Cameras, action, roll.
And so Mollie tells it all as it happened when she first went to see Ludo, five months ago. Having played the role of innocent victim
so often in her head, she is fluent, convincing. She cares for Ludo’s safety, of course, but more for her own. I didn’t want to drink anything but he gave me this strange red drink and I thought it was only fruit cocktail but it made me feel strange.
The policeman’s eyes are stakes pinning Mollie down.
And then?
Well.
Did Mr Brandt behave improperly to you?
Really, I must protest, Mollie’s mother says.
Mollie feels the pressure in the room. The lady at the typewriter turns, gives Mollie a look which would sour milk. The policeman clears his throat and Mollie watches his fat hand spread on the desk. Mollie feels the waters of the Severn, moving up the banks towards the cathedral, the High Street. The policeman isn’t convinced. How dare he doubt her?
Miss Fawcett. You don’t have to be specific but if you could just say.
Of course, Violet says. Of course. Can’t you see?
He tried to kiss me, Mollie says, then bursts into tears.
I see. And this was the first time that you had been to Mr Brandt’s flat?
Of course this was the first time, Violet says.
The policeman says that Mollie will need to make a statement, if she feels able to do that. If not, she can go home and come back tomorrow. Violet says that Mollie will make the statement now. All this is most upsetting. It will be best for Mollie just to go home and forget about it. Mollie can feel Ludo somewhere close by and she longs for him. The floodwater is lifting the lids of the drains, filling cellars, moving up steps towards sandbagged doors. Where is their Noah’s Ark?
Will he go to prison? she asks.
He certainly could.
Perhaps he just made a mistake.
The policeman narrows his eyes and flexes his fat hands. Miss Fawcett, you should be quite clear what kind of man Mr Brandt is. A neighbour has told us she often sees girls as young as ten going into that house. It’s full of photographs of young women.
Who work in the theatre.
His house has been searched, there are other photographs.
But those photographs are of—
The sound of the typewriter stops.
Could you repeat that? The policeman says. Mollie thinks of the house by the lake. She thinks of Else, Liesl, Frieda, the snow weighing heavily on the branches of trees, the whippets with their fur collars, shivering. She imagines the hands of the policemen sorting through those photographs, seeing the girls in their swimsuits sitting on the jetty. She moves her hands to her throat, struggles to breathe. No, no, no. Mollie doesn’t care what the policeman says or does but he mustn’t touch the photographs. He mustn’t smear that ice-perfect past, that future which lies so near that Mollie can hear the sound of the waltz music as she walks down the stone steps towards the lake.
Could you repeat that?
No, Mollie’s mother says. No. It’s time for us to go home. Mollie is upset and overwrought. She’s been given alcohol. She needs to sit quietly for a while.
Mollie understands that she’s no longer the innocent victim, the nice little girl tricked by the evil monster. Instead she’s on the side of the monster, on the side of darkness and bedrooms with drawn curtains and pairs of wet knickers screwed up beside sink taps. She’s dirty and cheap – like Donna – but she doesn’t care.
The policeman leaves and the typewriter woman follows. Mollie is alone with her mother. She tries to think, to plan, but her mind dashes from place to place. She used to ask that question all the time. What would I have to do to make my mother care? Finally now she’s gone far enough. The hot-water bottle will be filled, spoons of sugar will be added to the tea. Except that now it’s too late for tea and hot-water bottles. She’s crossed the line, is on the other side.
Will he go to prison?
Come along, dear. It’s time to go home.
It isn’t right that he should go to prison.
Come along, Mollie.
I’m in love with him.
The partitioned walls, the frosted glass, draw in a sharp but stifled breath. Mollie feels her mother’s muscles tighten. Soon they will both be engulfed. Usually the floodwaters never come anywhere near the white house high up on the hill. But floods cause landslides and they rot foundations, bring disease.
Mollie, just follow me. Now.
Mollie spreads her thin frame spaciously in the beige armchair.
I won’t make a statement tomorrow. I won’t say anything.
Her mother’s voice hisses. Don’t be silly, Mollie. Why waste your life on a lost cause? Believe you me, I did that once and I paid for it – as you will. Come along now.
Mollie knows she holds all the power. If she doesn’t want to make a statement tomorrow then she won’t. Time to scare the grown-ups, time to light the fuse. Mollie Mayeford would never betray the man she loves. The strip lighting above has no mercy. It shows Mollie every detail of this ordinary little kingdom which she now rules – the brown filing cabinet, the crouching typewriter, the heavy glass ashtray with its hundred angles. But just for now she might as well go home. She doesn’t want to cause any more trouble for Ludo, doesn’t want him to worry about her. So she shrugs, picks up her notebook, reaches for her school bag.
But something odd is happening in the room. It’s as though the lights have suddenly dimmed and the temperature has dropped. Violet’s face has become grey and rigid. She’s staring at the notebook in Mollie’s hands, at the name on the cover. Mollie Mayeford. Her hands are convulsing as she tries to pull a handkerchief from her evening bag. Mollie watches those bird-claw hands wrestling, fears that her mother might fall on the floor or start to foam at the mouth. She takes hold of the evening bag, pulls out the handkerchief, passes it to her mother.
That slick black water that lies all across the lower streets of the city has soaked through the roots of Langley Hill and the white house up above is finally disintegrating, as it was always certain to do. The beams creak and crack, the glass in the windows splinters, sections of the staircase fall and then everything starts to slide as cracks move like spiders up the white façade of the house. Fear suddenly hits Mollie because her mother has shrunk up to nothing, is no more than a little child – powerless, bewildered, her tiny hand clinging to the handle of the door. Mollie knows that she must get her mother home, even if the house has fallen down, and then after that she must run, otherwise Mollie Mayeford will be washed away by the black, seeping Severn, or buried under the falling rubble.
Later that night Mollie stands outside Ludo’s house, stares up at the needle-thin line of light that pierces the gap in the curtains above. The rain has stopped but water still drips from gutters and lies in lakes across pavements and streets. Mollie has packed her bag and is ready to leave. Hopefully Ludo will be ready as well, then they can take the last train to London. Mollie’s suitcase pulls her shoulder down, weighs heavily on her aching hand even though she didn’t pack much. Just a few dresses of her mother’s and Alfie the teddy bear and her purple notebook. In her pocket she has twenty pounds which she took from the desk in her stepfather’s study. Leafing through the notes, she had thought of him briefly. He had tried so very hard. It had felt wrong to take his money but surely she was owed something and what else was there to take?
She moves towards the door. For a moment she expects to see Mrs Griffiths’ white face at the window next door but the damask curtain is drawn. Mollie rings the doorbell, hears the sound above, dull but insistent. She puts down her suitcase, waits. Her mind starts to wander back to that moment in the police station, her mother suddenly tearful and childish. But she mustn’t think of that. She expects to hear Ludo’s feet on the stairs, the hall light to click on and shine through the glass door, but nothing happens and so she rings the bell again, holding her finger against it for longer this time. And now there is movement inside, feet whispering, a flicker of shadow at the door but no light. A chain rattles, the door eases open a few inches.
Mollie, for God’s sake.
I need to t
alk to you.
No. You must go – don’t you understand?
Please.
No.
Ludo. Please.
Go to the canal bridge. I’ll be there in five minutes.
Ludo shuts the door and Mollie turns away, heading for the bridge. She knows it well, has walked that way many times but in the darkness everything is different. Her suitcase gnaws at her hand. The water in the canal has risen so high that the bank is no longer visible, just a line of dark water an inch below the tow path. One more drop and the water will be over, sliding down into the street below. Mollie turns right along the tow path. She thinks briefly of her stepfather. He often warns her about walking beside the canal, tells her that he’s happy to drive her anywhere she wants to go. Would all of this have been different if he’d been at home this evening? Mollie doubts that it would but still she yearns for him, for sunlight, for the times when he’s driven her in the car, her bare legs sliding on the sticky leather of the black seats, her tongue running up the side of an ice-cream cone to catch a stray drip.
Mollie enters the mouth of the tunnel, stops. She doesn’t dare go further. At least from here she can still see the yellow haze of street lamps, the black outlines of the roofs of terraced houses. She sits down on her suitcase, grips her hands together. This is wasting time. She and Ludo need to go and get the train. One way or another they must be out of the city by the morning. The station is only half a mile away, full of people who are going somewhere. And soon she and Ludo will be there as well. Around her drops of water fall from the brickwork above and a boom of sound from further up the canal echoes dimly across the dank blackness before. Eventually she sees him, the square shoulders of his overcoat moving uncertainly, sliding through the shadows. His hands are pressed into his pockets, his head down. He enters the mouth of the tunnel, turns towards her, waits.
