‘My darling, my darling, my darling . . .’ She spoke to the man who would have been her husband had the war not spoiled absolutely everything. ‘My heart, my love, we have a boy. Joe, his name is Joe. Of course it is – Joe, after his daddy.’
The bang was loud and unexpected. Molly jumped as the wooden door flew open and hit the wall with force, thankfully missing both of them. With the instinct of a new mother, she cradled her child to her chest with her hand cupped over his soft little head.
‘What in the name of God our Father?’ It was her mother’s turn to shout now.
The brawny Mr Mason stood in his shirtsleeves, staring open-mouthed, eyes wide. She saw the slight smile form on his lips and the crinkle to his eyes, which had misted with tears. Molly’s eyes met his and they shared a look that was brief but knowing – as if both for a second in the midst of this foul and ugly conflict were reminded of all the good that remained in this world.
‘May God forgive you!’ The snarl on her mother’s lip was the exact opposite. ‘And in my house!’ she yelled with a hand at her throat, as she gasped for breath. ‘In your father’s house!’ Her mum shook her head and plugged her small mouth with her white knuckles. Molly was glad, hoping the bony gag might stop more of the bitterness escaping, already wary of what might reach her son’s ears and how. She had no energy for confrontation, was barely able to remain propped against the side of the bath.
‘Should . . . should I call the midwife?’ Mr Mason asked softly, as if he at least were wary of volume around newly hatched ears.
‘Midwife?’ her mother spat, as if he had asked if he should fetch Herr Hitler himself. ‘I’ll have no midwife step over my threshold. As if the situation isn’t bad enough! A midwife would find much tittle-tattle in this, I’m sure. I don’t think such a thing has occurred before in Old Gloucester Street.’ Her chin shook. ‘I mean, it might be expected in Islington or Bow, but not Bloomsbury!’
Molly looked from her mother to Mr Mason, who looked to be, like her, a little lost for words. She had given birth unaided to a beautiful, beautiful boy and yet his grandmother was more interested in the moral reputation of the area.
‘We need to cut the cord,’ Molly said softly.
‘My sister has . . . She’s . . .’ Mr Mason began, hesitant and clearly aware of couching his words in a way that would not offend Mrs Collway.
‘Is she . . .?’ her mother began.
‘Qualified?’ Mr Mason cut in. ‘Not exactly, no, but she’s a mother to three and has some medical training.’
‘I was going to say discreet.’
‘Go and fetch her, please,’ Molly said firmly, while cooing her love and holding her son close to her breast.
Mr Mason dashed down the stairs, leaving the two of them in an atmosphere thick with all it tried to contain. Molly stared up at her mother. ‘He’s beautiful, isn’t he?’ She opened up the towel to give her mother a better view.
Her mother looked away, seemingly without any inclination to look at the face of her first grandson. ‘Whose is it? Do you know?’
Molly drew a sharp breath. The pain of her mother’s insinuation was actually greater than the ache in her bones and the throb of her muscles that had just delivered this wondrous child.
‘Of course I know! His father is Johan de Fries – Joe. Geer’s brother.’ She flinched at the mention of the two people whom she knew would have made this whole event bearable and with whom she would have loved nothing more than to share the moment.
‘Oh well, that’s just marvellous.’ Mrs Collway threw her hands in the air and sought help from the heavens with a heavy sigh. ‘Well, there’s no chance of him rectifying the situation then, is there? I suppose I should be thankful that your poor father’s not here to bear witness – whatever would he say? After all he sacrificed, all he did to build a respectable life for us here!’ She shook her head. ‘And what on earth will the neighbours think? How could you, Molly? How could you?’ And then came the tears.
Molly snuggled her boy to her, shutting out her mother’s words and doing her best to stop them from reaching the ears of her son.
‘I’m assuming, Mum, that you’re in shock, and I understand.’ She wiped the tendrils of loose hair that had stuck to her forehead with sweat. ‘It’s a lot to take in, I know it is. But look at him! He’s perfect and he’s mine. Would you like to see him or hold him?’ she asked as she cradled him to her, his damp head now resting under the crook of her chin. Confident that if her mother peered into his beautiful little face, she too would fall under his spell.
‘I don’t need to see him to know what I think: he’s a bastard and under my roof!’
Molly swallowed these words, which scratched down her throat like shards of glass.
‘I . . .’ She searched for a response that was reprimanding yet conciliatory – an impossible task that rendered her mute.
‘There will be a solution.’ Her mother blew her nose. ‘I don’t know what, but there will be one.’ The lady turned on her heel and made her way down the stairs, gripping the banister.
Molly felt a shiver of terror in her gut – a solution . . . She slumped further down against the side of the bath as the front door banged shut and she heard voices: Mr Mason and his sister, no doubt come to disconnect her from her baby boy.
‘You’re wonderful, little Joe. You are so incredibly wonderful. A gift.’ She kissed his downy cheek and inhaled the scent of him, a glorious smell that reminded her of baking.
‘Happy birthday, little man – happy birthday.’
SEVEN
Bloomsbury, London
August 1944
Aged 19
Molly had been a mother for two weeks, living in a bubble of her making. She took more joy than she could ever have imagined from simply feeding her son, holding him, singing to him and cradling him in her arms, loath to let him out of her sight even for a second. She cringed to think of how she had resisted the pull of motherhood for so long, lamenting the idea of getting stuck with a wailing child when, well, the reality was that even Joe’s cries were sweet to her. She was certain the novelty of this perfect little human who took up every second of her day would never wane.
Communication with her mother was rudimentary at best. The only time she had left Joe was for the twelve minutes she walked to the telephone box in the next street to phone Mr Jenkins, who ran her department, leaving a message for him with the switchboard that she was sick. The half-truth seemed the best option, worried as she was about being dismissed. Her mother had silently nodded her agreement to watch him as he lay sleeping in Molly’s old crib, now in the parlour and within warming distance of the fire on a cool night. She and her mother lived side by side, keeping as much distance between them as possible, her mother’s face always drawn and grey, her expression fraught. They ate in silence, bowls of soup slurped noisily when there was no other sound to dilute it and cups of tea sipped with tight mouths and straight backs, with the occasional sigh from her mother if Joe interrupted by daring to cry. Molly had stopped trying to force any engagement on her mother’s side and was torn, certain that her parent did not deserve to feel the wondrous weight of her grandson in her arms and yet hoping that she would nonetheless consider caring for Joe while Molly worked. She hated feeling beholden to her and how duplicitous it made her actions.
‘Here’s the thing, Mum,’ she tried one evening after supper, laying her forearms on the table. ‘I know how upset and angry you are with me, but he’s here and he’s your grandson. He’s a darling little thing and we need to find a way to make this work! I need you, Mum. I have never needed you more.’
Her mother wiped her mouth with the starched linen napkin that had been resting on her lap and rose from the table. ‘You think you know how upset and angry I am with you, but you have no idea. You have no idea what you’ve done to me and, worse still, you have no idea what you’ve done to yourself. And it’s the very last thing on top of what I have been through – that I needed.’
Joe cried on cue and Molly rushed to him as her mother made her way slowly up the stairs. The coldness of their estrangement made her feel as if there was very little love in the house, turning her childhood home into something more akin to a boarding house, but one where the landlady silently judged her. It made her think of the lovely Mrs Duggan, not that she had time to overthink it, being too consumed with caring for her son and mourning the loss of his father.
Without any word from her place of work, Molly wrote to Marjorie, remembering her words that she would be there if ever Molly needed her. Desperate to know her position was secure, she certainly needed her now. Taking her father’s ink pen in her hand, she tried not to think of the last letter she had written to her love, seated here at this very same table, and which now nestled in the bottom of her wardrobe under the sheets of newspaper placed there to catch the dust. The truth was, she knew, the only way to explain her absence and hopefully keep her job. And something told her she could trust Marjorie.
Dear Marjorie,
You have told me more than once that I could reach out to you, and here I am, doing just that. I ask for your confidence in this matter. I will be absent for work over the next two weeks or so. I have, as I think you may have suspected, had a child and will be confined with him at home – a son, who I have named Joe. I am making provision for his daily care, thus enabling me to return to my role. I would appreciate your discretion in this matter for obvious reasons, preferring that my private life remain just that, private.
Thank you, Marjorie, for everything.
Yours truly and with love,
Molly Collway
She marked the letter as confidential and dropped it in the post.
Joe was only a week old when her sister arrived. Molly, still in bed and with the baby in her arms, heard the tentative knock on the bedroom door. Joyce crept in with her hands clasped to her chest and her tears already welling. She wrapped Molly in a much-needed hug, palming circles on her back and smoothing her sister’s hair. It was an act both maternal and sisterly and Molly was glad of it.
‘My poor little Moll, what have you been through?’ Joyce pulled away and ran her finger over the soft curve of her nephew’s cheek.
‘Would you like to hold him?’
‘Yes! Yes, I would, very much!’ Joyce held out her arms and Molly placed her child into her sister’s clutches. ‘Oh hello, little one! Hello there, gorgeous boy,’ Joyce cooed, her eyes brimming. ‘Molly! He’s perfect, so perfect.’
‘He is,’ she agreed, overjoyed to feel the warmth coming from her sister as she welcomed this newest family member in the way he deserved.
‘Oh, look at him!’
Molly sat back against her pillows and watched her sister as she sat on the side of her mattress. It was nice for Molly to see him from this angle. He looked rangy and beautiful in the embroidered cotton nightgown his aunt had sent.
‘How are you feeling?’ Joyce asked, while beaming into the face of her nephew and stroking his little hand with her finger.
‘Sore, happy, exhausted . . .’
‘He’s beautiful!’ Joyce cooed again.
‘He is.’
‘Does he look like his dad?’
Molly felt the lump of emotion swell in her throat. ‘I don’t know. I can’t see too much of Johan in him, but then I can’t see much of me in him either.’
‘I guess they take a while to properly inflate.’
Molly laughed out loud. ‘Yes, I guess they do. How did Mum seem to you?’ She was interested to hear her sister’s take on the matter.
‘She’s in shock, as you’d expect, really. It’s a lot for her to process. You should have told her.’
‘Yes. Thank you, Joyce.’
‘I didn’t mean to moan at you, not today. I’m sorry.’ Joyce held her sister’s gaze.
‘You’re right, of course. I should have told her, and I was going to.’ She fell silent, realising how flimsy any words might sound in her defence and how her sister was only speaking the truth. Hindsight is, they say, a wonderful thing and Molly could only concur, thinking of how she should have tried harder to broach the toughest of topics; it might have made things a little easier now.
‘I was scared of telling her,’ she confessed. ‘Putting off the inevitable.’
‘I can understand that.’ Joyce reached out and stroked her arm. ‘He’s adorable.’
‘He is and yet, some days, I feel that I barely get to appreciate him. My mind is racing because we’re in the middle of this bloody awful war and I only have money saved for a short respite. I need to go back to work and I thought I’d be doing this with Johan, but now I’m on my own and . . .’ She let out a long sigh. ‘It’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me, and at the same time a horrible mess!’ She briefly covered her face with her hands. ‘I keep thinking Mum will come round, but the more time goes on, I’m not so sure.’
‘Oh my darling! My poor darling. Give her time.’
‘I know I can make it work. I just need to find someone to look after Joe during the day.’
‘Such as who?’
‘Such as Mum, first choice. I’ve also put the feelers out, responded to a couple of advertisements in the back of the paper – women offering childcare in their homes.’
Joyce pulled a face. ‘These are desperate times, Molly, and some of those places might be . . .’
‘Do you think I might leave him somewhere terrible?’ Molly’s voice went up an octave.
‘No, of course not. I’m just stating that I think it might be a little harder than you imagine.’
‘No, trust me, I do think it’s hard. I . . . I was also thinking maybe Mrs Mason?’
‘Mrs Mason?’ Joyce’s expression was one of incredulity.
Molly nodded. ‘She’s always been a lovely neighbour and was marvellous with me when I was little – she used to babysit me, do you remember? And she’s at home, which means that picking him up and dropping him off would be very easy for me. What do you think?’
‘I think that’s a little random, and rather a leap from babysitting you to looking after Joe full-time, but if Mrs Mason agrees, then why not?’
‘Why are you laughing at that?’ Molly was curt.
‘Mrs Mason!’
Molly had no idea why it was such a funny idea.
‘Has your work agreed to you going back?’ Joyce asked, now composed again.
‘No, but I’ve written to a trusted colleague. I’ve not heard anything yet.’
‘I think it’s hardly likely you will. Darling, it’s hard enough for women who marry to continue working, outside of wartime, of course, but women without help . . . and an unmarried woman too. I’m worried they wouldn’t want you there because of reputation alone.’ Her expression was earnest.
‘But I’m good at my job. I need to work!’ Molly was aware of her tone rising again.
‘Well, let’s just hope Mrs Mason comes up trumps.’ Joyce kissed Joe’s face.
‘I just remember her as kind and smiley. I liked her looking after me. Mr Mason dropped some clothes off for the baby, a cardigan and a bonnet, which was so sweet of him – obviously, his wife sent them, which means she knows about Joe and doesn’t disapprove—’
‘Yes, Mum said Mr Mason had been on hand when he was born.’ Joyce sighed. ‘What about Johan’s family? Have you told them that Joe’s arrived?’
Molly shook her head, hearing Geer’s words loud in her ears: ‘. . . Your baby, Molly – yours. Just let us be! . . . What don’t you get? . . . it’s nothing to do with us. You think we can handle that on top of losing him?’
‘And what is the plan if you can’t organise childcare?’ Joyce asked softly as she shifted Joe’s position in her arms.
‘I suppose I’ll look for a job where I can take Joe with me.’
‘Such as what, for instance?’
‘I don’t know, Joyce! Great heavens above!’ Molly instantly regretted snapping at her sister. ‘Sorry, I’m just anxi
ous and trying to figure it all out.’
‘I know, darling, and it’s not easy to work out what’s for the best. Well, I’m glad the Masons have been kind, but a job might be hard to come by. Not everyone will feel the same way. Your life will be difficult. It’s hard for unmarried mothers. It’s a terrible shame for you, for him, for all of us. Not that I don’t love you both – of course I do – but I think you’re underestimating how these things are viewed.’ Joyce’s eyes were pleading, as if this might come as news to Molly and she needed to make her understand.
‘Well, it’s not a terrible shame for me, because I’ve got Joe.’ Molly reached out and touched his leg. What she chose not to share was that she had a Plan B. If it came to it, she had figured out a possible way to combat the supposed shame of having a baby out of wedlock. Molly had considered the idea of slipping a ring on the third finger of her left hand and stating with more than a semblance of truth that the boy’s father had been killed. With so many widows and orphans as a result of this godforsaken war, how would anyone know that the one crucial action of actually getting married was missing in this case?
Joyce lifted the baby to her face and kissed his cheek. He mewled, settled and fell asleep.
‘You’re a natural.’ Molly sniffed.
‘I doubt it,’ Joyce said with a cough. ‘Nothing very natural about it for me. In fact, nature has been my enemy where babies are concerned. We have tried, you know, to conceive, but’ – she shook her head – ‘it hasn’t worked for us. And we now know it won’t work for us.’ Her face coloured.
‘Not ever?’
‘No, Moll, not ever . . .’ Joyce swallowed hard.
‘Oh, Joyce!’ Molly felt a twist of guilt in her gut that her lovely sister had been denied this most wonderful thing.
‘Albert says you don’t get all the gifts, and I guess he’s right, but it’s a gift I really, really would have loved.’ Lifting Joe’s tiny hand, Joyce ran it over her lips and kissed his little fingers. ‘I would offer to look after him for you, Molly dear, but it’s too far for me to travel every day, especially after dark with curfews and whatnot.’
An Ordinary Life Page 10
