Molly stood and watched as her mother bundled Joe’s small amount of clothing into the crib and proceeded to haul it from the room. She couldn’t help the whimper that left her throat.
‘Look after him, Joycey.’
‘I will, darling – we will – I promise you!’ Joyce was crying quietly too now, but smiled weakly through her tears, trying to make everything a little less frightful.
Molly knew her time with her precious son was running out. These were the very last few minutes and seconds left to her . . . She had to make them count. Her arms shook and her bowel spasmed. I can’t . . . I can’t do it . . . I can’t . . . She fought the mental battle, remembering how it had felt when the light went out in the shelter and they had sat there, waiting.
‘Don’t think badly of me, little one. We’re at war, Joe, war! And your wonderful daddy was right: it changes everything. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you . . . I do, I do. Never forget it.’ Her tears clouded everything. Her sobs were noisy and ugly as her sadness spilled from her uncontrollably now.
With one final kiss on his sweet face, she handed her son to her sister.
‘I will treasure every second with him, Molly.’ Joyce spoke through a face contorted with her own tears. ‘I will take good care of him for you.’
Molly nodded and sank onto the chair at her desk, her hands folded in her lap. She stared as her sister fussed over her son, tucking the blanket around him. With Joe in her arms, Joyce walked from the room without looking back.
Their mother reappeared at the door and took a step towards her. Molly bit her cheek to stop from swearing at the woman, who at that moment was a focal point for all of her grief.
‘I know you can’t see it now, but it’s for the best. You have done something brave and selfless. It’s best for the boy and best for you – for all of us. It’s a solution, Molly.’
‘A temporary solution,’ she fired.
Her mother turned on her heel and was gone. At the sound of the front gate, Molly felt a jolt of panic. Wanting one last glimpse of him, she jumped up and hurried to the window, scrabbling to open it wide. Leaning out, she watched as her sister, with a look of the utmost distress on her face, turned to look up at the bedroom window from which she now leaned.
‘Joyce! He likes . . . he likes to be wrapped and held tightly when he’s scared, when there’s noise!’ Molly yelled, her voice hoarse with anguish.
Her sister nodded, tears streaking her face as she stepped across the pavement to the waiting car, the back door of which stood open. Albert was by her side, his hand placed on her lower back. Smiling a little stiffly, he raised his other hand towards Molly, his eyes kindly, and she was grateful. Molly hung out of the bedroom window, craning her neck to get one last look at her baby boy as the troupe climbed into the shiny black Austin 12. The strength left her as she stared down and her eyes met those of her sister, who had turned to look up at her from the back seat. Clever, accomplished Joyce, who she knew would do her very best for her baby while he was in her care. Their eyes remained locked as the car pulled away.
Molly closed the window, her heart shredded into a million pieces, her gut newly hollowed out with the loss of Johan all over again, amplified by a deep ache to hold her son.
‘I want him back!’ she whispered. ‘I want him back!’
Reaching into the little wooden box, she again took out the shiny brass button and gripped it tightly in her palm. Her thoughts fluctuated between the scent of Joe and the weight of him in her arms, to memories of Johan and the words of the song they had danced to, cheek to cheek on the dance floor, the first time they had met.
And then, as if floating through the ether, the strangest thing occurred, as if someone had moved the hair from her ear, and she heard a thin voice that was not unfamiliar whisper in her ear:
It will all be all right, Molly. He will come back to you . . .
‘He will.’ She nodded. ‘He will.’ Popping the button back into the box, she stood and coughed to clear her throat, galvanised into action.
Marching into the bathroom, she ran a basin full of cold water and stripped to the waist. Working the sliver of coal tar soap into lather she tried not to look at the patch of linoleum where she had given birth and set to vigorously scrubbing herself. She took especial care around her nipples, which were cracked and a little sore, and her breasts, bloated with milk, which she let into the sink, sloshing it away down the plughole and trying not to think too much about the absolute tragedy of the act. Next she cleaned her teeth, before fastening her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck and trying not to look at her eyes, swollen from crying. She dressed in her familiar blouse and skirt, the waistband of which was a lot roomier than when she had last worn it, and laced up her sturdy shoes.
Her mother called from the landing as Molly opened the front door.
‘Mary Florence? Where are you going?’ Her tone was quite shrill.
‘To work, Mother,’ she called as she closed the front door behind her, marching along the street and making her way to Malet Street, ignoring the swish of Mrs Granton-Smythe’s lace curtains, which she caught from the corner of her eye.
The cool mid-afternoon air was reviving and glimpses of blue sky behind the cloud were enough to lift her spirits a little. It was a simple equation: the sooner she got back to work, the sooner Joe would come home.
Have you settled in the car, my darling boy? Are you sleeping now in Joyce’s arms? I could come and get you . . . change my mind . . . With these thoughts percolating, she spied the postbox outside her place of work and pictured Johan leaning on it, a man with his whole life ahead of him, all wiped out in a flash. It was a sobering moment; she could not – would not – let that happen to her son. Tonbridge was safer. It was the right decision.
Molly tripped up the stairs and took the lift to the fifth floor. It was quarter past three and time for the tea break.
‘Oh hello, Molly!’ Beryl said with a wave as she stepped from the lift. ‘It’s been an age – how are you? Have you been ill? We were all rather worried and Miss Templar seemed more than a little put out, but then she is about most things.’ Beryl gave her usual snort of a laugh.
Molly took heart from the fact that her life and all its drama did not appear to be common knowledge. She and Beryl walked along the corridor towards the dining room.
‘Yes, I’ve been ill’ – she paused – ‘but I’m better now and ready to get back on the horse.’
‘Well, it’s really good to see you. Welcome back,’ Beryl said in encouragement.
Molly walked down the corridor towards the office, just as she had done hundreds of times before. Memories of giggling and plotting with Geer left her a little hollow; she still had not received a reply from her friend.
‘Molly!’ Marjorie called from the entrance to the dining room. ‘Beryl said you were in. It’s good to see you.’ Molly was happy to see her, aware today, however, that kindness might only encourage the tears that hovered very close to the surface.
The other girl held out her arms and, despite Molly’s reservations, they clung to each other for a moment. Molly then coughed and adjusted her collar, trying to restore the level of distance and professionalism that might help her get through the afternoon.
‘It’s good to see you too, Marjorie.’
There was a moment of silence while the two stared at each other, seemingly waiting for the other to speak.
‘You look better, or at least getting better.’ Marjorie eyed her stomach and, whether consciously or not, Molly ran the flat of her palm over her waistband.
‘I am getting better.’
‘Good, good.’
‘Did you . . . did you get my letter, Marjorie?’ Molly asked, clearing her throat.
‘Letter?’ Marjorie looked back at her quizzically.
‘Yes. I wrote asking for your—’ Molly took a breath. ‘I wrote to explain my rather sudden absence. But as you can see, my circumstances are different now and I�
�m ready to come back to work. Right now, in fact. I’ll just grab a cup of tea and then go to see what awaits in the “in” tray!’ She laughed brightly.
‘I didn’t see your letter, no,’ Marjorie said, shaking her head, ‘and I’m not the person to ask about coming back – that would be Mr Jenkins.’
‘Very well, Marjorie, thank you. I do know who Mr Jenkins is.’ Molly was aware she had snapped: a tightly coiled spring of sadness sat lodged in her throat and it was all she could do not to let it ping from her mouth.
‘Well, I’ll let you go and find him then.’ Marjorie scurried off to the dining room. Molly regretted having been so curt, but there was no time to think about it now, as she knocked on Mr Jenkins’s door.
‘Come in!’ he called.
She took a deep breath and walked in. Mr Jenkins, a small pragmatic man whose round glasses only added to his rather owl-like appearance, was not alone. Molly was surprised to see Mrs Templar standing by the window that overlooked the street.
‘Miss Collway.’ She almost tutted the name.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Templar.’
‘Is that all you have to say? “Good afternoon, Mrs Templar”, while we were forced to find cover after you abandoned your post so abruptly? Have you any idea of the inconvenience you caused me? You and Miss de Fries both. No matter the circumstances’ – she lowered her eyes briefly – ‘we’re on a war footing and things like that matter.’
‘I can only imagine the inconvenience,’ Molly began.
Mrs Templar made a harrumphing noise, which did not bode well.
‘Do sit down, Miss Collway,’ Mr Jenkins interrupted, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. Molly sat.
‘I would like to apologise for not coming into work for the last . . .’ She paused, trying to figure out quite how long it had been.
‘Nearly five weeks!’ Miss Templar was more than aware.
Molly picked at the bump of tweed on her skirt, fearful of all she was trying to contain and desperate to get back to work.
‘Yes.’ The time had passed so quickly . . . ‘But moving forward, I’m happy to say that I am able to return to work with immediate effect and would like to remind you that I am a senior translator with heightened security clearance. I am diligent in my work, dedicated and more than happy to make up the—’
‘Let me stop you, Miss Collway,’ Mr Jenkins offered firmly; his smile nonetheless spoke of kindness, as he nudged his glasses further up his nose. ‘It was with regret that we had to fill your position here. I’m sorry, but we were left with little choice. As Mrs Templar quite rightly says, there is a war on.’
‘I’m aware there’s a war on, sir’ – more than aware, believe you me! – ‘and I want to do my bit: I want to come back to work. I need a job – I need this job! It was always a stepping stone for me and if I can’t come back, then—’
‘I’m sorry, Molly,’ he said with another smile, ‘it’s out of my hands, but if I can put a word in for you with any other department, then I will.’
Molly felt her stomach sink. ‘But . . . but, Mr Jenkins, I don’t need to retrain or anything like that, which means I can slot right back in and get cracking. My work rate is high, we can get ahead, and—’
‘Did you not hear?’ Mrs Templar asked sharply. ‘There is no role for you here. Someone else has your job now.’
‘But—’ Ignoring Mrs Templar, Molly looked at the man, still hoping he might look kindly on her appeal. ‘Mr Jenkins, I am desperate to work. I—’
‘I am sorry.’ He picked up a sheet of paper and stared at it. She guessed it was a welcome prop – anything rather than look her in the eye.
Mrs Templar tapped her watch. ‘I need to rally the girls. I’ll see you out.’ She made for the door and Molly rose slowly to her feet to follow her, feeling so out of place, unwanted even, in this building that had been her place of work for the last two years. She hated the embarrassment and awkwardness snaking over her.
‘Goodbye, Miss Collway.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Templar.’ Molly walked briskly along the corridor, trying to ignore the clicking of heels on the wooden floor behind her as girls rushed to take up the seat behind their typewriter, girls like her who, at the end of a day, had been asked to go for one drink. Just one! . . . don’t be a bore . . . and in minutes the course of her whole life had changed.
She slowly made her way home and put her key in the door.
‘Is that you, Molly?’ her mother called from the kitchen before her foot had stepped over the threshold.
No, it’s Adolf bloody Hitler! Don’t you remember giving him a key too?
‘Yes, it’s me,’ she called, in no mood to talk as she made her way up to her room, where she fell on her bed, cursing at the sound of her mother’s footsteps trotting up the stairs. Her mum opened the door.
‘Is this it? Is this what we can now expect? You lounging the day away like some drunken wastrel?’
Molly actually laughed, thinking she might quite like to be drunk – a nice escape from her thoughts, which were often intrusive and interminable.
‘No, this is not it. I will find a job. But funny as it sounds, I’m still a little distracted by having just today handed over my newborn son to my sister. Do you understand?’ Molly stared her mother in the eye and watched her take a step back.
‘We all have choices, Molly,’ her mother said as she pulled the door to behind her.
The siren that woke her was loud and urgent. It was a shock to her that night had fallen, and with a pulse of panic she jumped out of bed and searched for the crib, before remembering that her little one was safe in Tonbridge. And although the pain of missing him was strong, her relief was sweet and instant: justification that her heart would do well to remember. Shoving on her shoes, she grabbed her blanket and fumbled along the corridor, calling for her mother.
‘I’m here.’ Mrs Collway was right behind her. Her glasses were on and she was holding a Bible, but whether she had been reading it when the alarm sounded or had grabbed it to read was unclear. The two women sat in silence at either end of the bench in the Anderson shelter and listened to the distant thuds and cracks of bombs and the answering fire from the ack-ack batteries across the city.
‘It’s off to the east,’ her mother surmised, her ear cocked.
Molly thought of the poor souls whose lives at that very moment were being taken or destroyed. She pictured Marjorie, who had held her so lovingly earlier in the day and whom she knew lived in that direction, bitterly regretting their charged exchange.
‘At least the boy is safe, I expect,’ her mother added.
‘Don’t talk about him!’ Molly snapped. Her mother had no right to do so, and to be reminded of her loss in this very place where she had held him tight and kissed his sweet face was almost more than she could bear. She sensed her mother shrink even further away from her in the cramped environment. It wasn’t until daybreak that the two wearily made their way inside, where Molly slipped into her nightgown and crept between the sheets on her bed.
Judging from the light peeping through the gap in the bedroom curtains, it was mid-morning when she awoke. Her bedroom door opened slowly and Molly rubbed her eyes as she lifted her head from the pillow. She expected to see her mother delivering a peace offering in the form of a cup of tea, as was her normal way of things, or else mumbling useless platitudes on how best she might ‘pull herself together’, but the figure who stepped into the room was not her mother and for a second the surprise rendered her silent.
‘Marjorie! What are you doing here?’ Molly smiled at the sight of her.
‘Hello, Molly.’ The other girl stood awkwardly at the end of the bed while Molly heaved herself to a sitting position. It was very odd to have her colleague here in her bedroom. ‘This is a beautiful house.’
‘In some ways,’ she whispered. ‘Please – please sit down!’ She pointed to the chair at the desk. Marjorie sat and pushed her glasses up on her nose. ‘I was thinking about you last night
when the bombs fell. How are you?’
Marjorie looked out of the window and shook her head. Her eyes held a slightly faraway stare. ‘I’m allrightispose.’
‘How did you know where I lived?’
Marjorie laughed. ‘Personnel records.’
Molly nodded. ‘Of course, personnel records. I’m so glad you’ve come. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about the way I snapped at you yesterday. It had been a terrible day and—’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Marjorie flapped her hand.
‘I do worry about it. The fact is . . .’ She paused, following Marjorie’s eyeline and catching sight of two large circles of wet milk on the front of her nightgown. She ran her hand over the damp mess. ‘The fact is’ – she kept her voice steady – ‘I had a child. A son. He’s named Joe, after his dad.’
‘Geer’s brother?’
Molly nodded. ‘I sent him away to Kent yesterday to live with my sister. He’ll stay with her until the war is over and I know I can keep him safe, but it’s hard, Marjorie, harder than I thought, and one of my biggest motivations was to get back to work, earn a living and give us a good life!’ She shook her head. ‘And so to find out yesterday that there’s no job for me . . .’
‘Not the best day you’ve ever had then?’
‘No.’ Molly gave a wry smile at the understatement. ‘So today I will hit the job trail. I’m confident Mr Jenkins will give me a good reference and—’
‘That’s why I’m here. There might be a job if you’re interested.’
‘Oh!’ Molly’s face brightened. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! I thought they’d filled the position, Mrs Templar said.’
‘This has nothing to do with Mrs Templar.’ Marjorie spoke with a hint of amusement in her voice.
‘What job? Where?’
‘Get dressed, Molly.’ Marjorie held her gaze. ‘There are some people who’d like to talk to you.’
‘What people?’ She was already jumping up. A job opportunity was not to be sniffed at.
An Ordinary Life Page 13
