The two sat holding hands as the car trundled along. Telsie’s words were a reminder that everyone had lost someone and that some had lost everyone. She was determined to keep this well-paid job and get her boy back as soon as she was able.
THIRTEEN
St Pancras, London
May 1945
Aged 20
Molly lifted her head from her pillow. It was 3 a.m. A good three hours before her alarm was set in her St Pancras digs, and yet here she was, wide awake and smiling at the noise outside her window. It was no surprise to her that people were out celebrating, of course, especially when those who had been away fighting and posted overseas began to trickle home from the far-flung corners of the earth. Over the last week or so, she had in the middle of the night listened to life beyond the window, occasionally popping her head up to the curtain to watch the beer-drinking, flag-waving antics of the passers-by. Everyone shrieking their laughter, giddy with joy at the fact they had come through, but also excited at the many wonderful things that lay ahead: all the promises they couldn’t wait to fulfil, written in ink to those they loved while not daring to believe they might come to fruition. Celebrations were highly charged, as the returning heroes swaggered the streets arm in arm with sweethearts, family and friends, declaring they would never let them out of their sight again, never! Blinded by the novelty of being home, they seemed not to notice the bomb craters in the roads, the gaps in the streets where houses used to stand or the many families, like Mr and Mrs Davenport, her old neighbours, crying behind their curtains with mixed feelings: delighted for the safe return of their neighbours’ sons, while reminded that their own would never come home. And Molly knew what it felt like to be conflicted in this way. She hated the bitter spike of jealousy that lanced her heart whenever she heard of another lucky soul who was now reunited with his loved ones. Even when she heard that her own dear brother, David, was on his way back, a small voice echoed, ‘But not Johan, not my love, never him . . .’
She watched the faded net curtain flutter in and out on the breeze. There was much joy to be taken from waking to the light shining through the glass and to see the moon and stars twinkling overhead, without any need now for the blackout. The lamplight sparkled on the brass button that lived on her bedside cabinet and she sighed with contentment. No longer did she have to wonder whether the bed in which she slept was in the direct path of one of Hitler’s bombers or try and calculate how long she would be allowed to sleep before that darned siren sounded and she would have to traipse down to the Anderson shelter at the end of the road, wearing her coat over her nightclothes and with a blanket around her shoulders. And moreover, Joe was safe! He had survived the war and would be coming home. Her heart lifted at the thought. It was a new dawn and a new age, where fearful routine, safety checks, broken nights and anxious days of privation could be consigned to history, along with the names of the departed, etched in remembrance on soft stone walls and memorials throughout the country. There was a new lightness in people’s mood, as if everyone finally had the freedom to breathe – freedom to shout and laugh out loud! And it was only with this new chapter upon them that she realised how in wartime the nation had been whispering, holding its breath, afraid of being overheard or of drawing the enemy in their direction. The atmosphere was now something close to euphoric, an outpouring of relief, joy and hope that even she could sense from her bedroom on the upper floors of the dark brick building in St Pancras. It had been a mere three weeks since Hitler had committed suicide, with Germany surrendering soon afterwards.
Molly, like the rest of the British population, certain at last that war really was coming to an end, felt the weight lift from her shoulders and enjoyed the sweet sleep of sheer relief. Her first thought was that it was safe to bring Joe back to the city, and reunion with her boy was all she had dreamed of. She gazed now around her room: it was far from a palace, but she would make it warm and cosy, plus it was only temporary. She had a little nest egg saved that would provide a down payment on a decent rental with a couple of bedrooms. She pictured a pale blue room for her son with aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling and a bookshelf crammed with wonderful stories she would read to him. She was tempted to move out of the city, maybe even somewhere with a little garden, not that Joe would mind St Pancras – at nine months, he was still a little baby really, and as long as he was fed, watered and with his mum, what more could he want? She planned on taking him for long strolls around London, showing him all the sights and maybe even paying a visit to her mother, thinking it would be impossible even for the hardest of hearts to resist such a beautiful boy. A lot of water had flowed under the bridge since she had last seen her mother; the world was a very different place and, having crawled from the shadow of war, she hoped her mother’s mood might be less fraught, her temper less frayed. Molly had experienced a great deal over the last few months that had made her realise the importance of family. She decided to do her utmost to heal any rift with her mother, to forgive as far as she was able, even if she might never forget, understanding that, no matter how alien or hurtful it might seem, her mother had a right to her views. People had in fact died for that very freedom.
It still bothered Molly that she had received no reply from Geertruida. She struggled to understand how Mr and Mrs de Fries could have a beautiful grandson but never seek to know him. She decided to write again and, if that failed, resolved to travel to Alresford herself. Molly looked at the latest little black-and-white picture of Joe propped up against her bedside lamp, accompanied by Joyce’s most recent letter, and again felt a surge of excitement in her veins at the prospect of holding him in her arms in just a few hours. Not that she would bring him back straight away; they had agreed it was best that she spend time with him in his familiar environment, take things slowly, ease him back into her life. Molly knew it would take all she possessed to be patient; her overriding temptation was to scoop him up, hold him fast, smother him in kisses and never let him go!
She thought of the train chugging through the Kentish countryside and hoped that the fair-haired Otto and the many men like him she had met over the last six months would soon be travelling home to see their own baby Ottos and their Liesls. Her second thought was for her job, the nature of which would be changing slightly. Mr Allan had explained that she and Telsie were to be given a small shared office in Vauxhall in a building they had taken over. It seemed that, for hundreds of thousands of the POWs, life as they knew it would not change that much. Some had requested to stay in the UK, knowing their own country had been decimated and its immediate future looked bleak. For others, repatriation would take time and their living and working situation would continue as it had in the interim. The main difference would be the freedoms they were slowly to be granted to come and go in the local communities, which came with a whole fresh set of challenges.
With Telsie in tow, Molly had visited farms and prisons all over the south-east, talking to German POWs. It had taught her that no matter a person’s race, faith or political persuasion they all wanted the same thing: to be in the place they called home with the people they loved and where things were familiar.
With sleep now well and truly dispelled by her meandering thoughts, she reached for the letter and for the umpteenth time read the words her sister had scribbled:
. . . he’s been a proper little scamp today! Whipped off his shoes and socks and flung them from his pram. I only noticed when we got home and it was far too late to go searching for them, the little devil. How we laughed! And he loves tomatoes! Can eat whole slices if I let him and does so most inelegantly, cramming them into his mouth, which I think is part of the joy for him. Albert has grown some in the greenhouse and at the first opportunity Joe will crawl speedily from the house, on a mission and off in search of his favourite feast!
Molly felt a small hiccup of inadequacy mixed with nerves – there were not too many tomatoes within grabbing distance of her single room. It only further stoked her desire to find a little house,
deciding almost there and then that to be out of town with a garden was the way ahead. Just the thought of it was enough to make her smile.
The train was punctual and the carriage busy, with an infectious hubbub of laughter. Everyone was smiling, war had ended and they were all in on the joke. Albert was waiting for her at the front of the station; he had left the engine running so the car was warm. A little too warm, in fact. Molly climbed into the front seat with excitement building in her gut. There was, as ever, a low-level awkwardness between herself and her brother-in-law; they really had very little in common other than both adoring Joyce.
‘How are you, Albert?’
‘Good, and you?’ He kept his eyes on the road.
‘Great – happier times for us all, thank goodness.’
‘Indeed.’ He nodded.
She had forgotten how much her sister was the glue for all conversation and how he was a man of very few words. She considered asking him a question about the stamps of the Commonwealth, beer mats or exotic bird feathers, but really didn’t want to hear his response. They continued in silence. Just as they were pulling up to the kerb outside the house, he turned to Molly and hesitated in forming his words.
‘I . . .’
‘Yes, Albert?’
‘He’s a smashing little chap,’ he managed, before settling his hat back on his head and leaping from the car to open her door. She smiled at his words, but was left with the distinct feeling that he had wanted to say more.
Joyce ran from the front door as the car pulled up. Molly noticed Joe was not with her and her stomach sank in disappointment.
‘Molly! Oh my goodness, Molly – it’s over, my darling. It’s finally over!’ her sister called out tearfully as Molly walked into her warm embrace.
‘It is,’ Molly breathed, and closed her eyes with something close to relief.
‘It’s been a lot to put up with,’ Joyce whispered into her hair.
‘It has been an awful lot.’ Molly smiled wryly at the understatement. Their hug was long and heartfelt, healing.
On his way inside, Albert pulled a deadhead from the rose growing over the porch, as if the two women were not clutching each other in a state of high emotion out on the pavement. It was what he did: calmly went about his business regardless.
A steady hand on the tiller . . .
‘He’s asleep!’ Joyce said, pre-empting her question. ‘I tried to keep him awake, but it was his naptime and he gets a little cranky if his routine is upset, so . . .’ She pulled a face. Molly again felt a needle of self-doubt in her veins – she didn’t know his routine and it made her feel anxious.
‘God, it’s so good to see you! You look wonderful. I love the short hair!’ Joyce held her by the shoulders to take stock of her. Molly declined to give any details regarding her chop.
‘I’ve missed you, Little Moll.’
‘I’ve missed you all,’ Molly admitted in return. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night I was so excited to see him.’
‘Come up and have a peep!’ Joyce took her by the hand and led her across the square hallway and up the stairs, turning left into a little room in the corner of the house, and there, with his arms and legs thrown out at all angles, looking like a fat little starfish in slumber, was her baby boy.
‘Oh! Oh, look at him!’ Molly had been dreaming of this moment since she had handed him to her sister on that horrible day in Bloomsbury and had thought about how it might play out every time there was a moment spare in her day, and now here she was and here he was! So close she could touch him. It was . . . wonderful. Her hand flew to her throat, where all her emotion seemed to have gathered, and she knelt by the side of the cot, inhaling the scent of him as she studied her little one. Her stomach folded and her tears fell at the sight of this robust fair-haired boy, whose photographs had not done him justice: a world away from the scrawny baby she had handed over all those months ago.
‘He’s so big!’ Weak at the sight of him, she was lost to a huge and overwhelming tide of love which left her breathless.
‘I told you,’ Joyce whispered. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’
Molly nodded. A knot of feelings stoppered any words that might want to make their way out of her mouth. Oh, Johan! I wish, I wish you could see him! I wish you were here!
‘I’ve been longing for and dreading this day.’ Joyce’s voice cracked as she spoke openly, and Molly was glad of her honesty. ‘I want you to be with your boy, I do, but oh my goodness, the thought of not being there when he wakes each morning or to give him his bath and put him to bed.’ She paused. ‘Looking after him has been the biggest privilege and the greatest joy I have ever known, Molly. It has done something to Albert and me, made us closer, made us feel like a little family. And every time I think of how much I shall miss it, I try to remind myself how much you have been missing it up until now, and that’s simply not right. Not fair.’
‘I don’t feel I’ve taken a proper breath until today, Joyce, not since I last held him. I haven’t felt complete, as if a part of me was missing. I’ve had to shut it away and get on with my day, but it’s always been there.’ It felt odd to be speaking so freely – all these thoughts she’d kept hidden for the sake of her sanity.
‘I can only imagine.’
Both women gazed silently down at this small boy whose little tum rose and fell with each breath and whose rounded cheeks were apple-red. Molly was acutely aware that the remaining days of motherhood were numbered for her sister, who could not conceive, and she felt her pain.
‘How about a cup of tea?’ Joyce said, breaking the silence. ‘I always leave the door open so we’ll hear him the moment he wakes up.’
Molly rose to her feet and took one last look at her boy before following her sister down the stairs. To be within touching distance of him was almost too much.
‘So have you spoken to Mum?’ Joyce asked as she filled the kettle and set it down on the stove.
‘I called a few weeks ago, but it’s hard to have a conversation with her; she’s very angry at me still. So it’s all one-word responses, which when you’re feeding coins into the phone box feels a bit pointless and is beyond frustrating. I also think she’s annoyed that I moved out and abandoned her! But I couldn’t stay there, Joyce, not after the things she said.’
‘I do understand.’ Joyce pulled the glass cloche from the top of a very respectable Victoria sponge cake.
Molly watched as her sister flitted across the linoleum floor from cupboard to shelf and back again in an orchestrated dance, her floral pinny swinging as she gathered dainty teacups, a sugar bowl and the milk jug before setting them down on the pretty oilcloth covering the kitchen table. It was a world away from her digs, which she knew were squalid by comparison.
‘I’m going to rent somewhere for Joe and myself, somewhere with two bedrooms and more space than I have right now. I think in my mind I thought it would be how it was when he was newborn and we were in my old room at home, but of course I can see now it won’t do at all. He needs more . . .’ Her eyes took in the comfortable home in which he was thriving . ‘He just needs more.’
‘He’ll settle anywhere, darling! He just wants to be warm and fed and with his mum,’ Joyce offered lightly.
‘I did hope so, but seeing how big he’s got has spurred me on. I’ll start looking right away. I’m thinking of going out of town.’
‘Oh really, where?’ Joyce opened the lid of the tea caddy and added three heaped spoonfuls of leaves into the teapot she had just warmed with half-boiled water from the kettle, before adding another: ‘One for the pot!’ She smiled stiffly, as if preparing herself for her sister’s response – some location that might be a little out of reach for her.
‘Maybe Essex, or Kent even – still commutable to London but a bit greener.’
‘I think that’d be perfect. Obviously, I’m hoping you plump for Kent – how I would love to have you on the doorstep when we get back from Canada!’
‘Plus it means I can get in to see
Mum if that situation ever resolves itself.’ Molly tutted.
‘It will. It absolutely will. You know what she’s like – she always needs to have something to moan about and occupy her thoughts; it’s just your turn right now.’
‘Well, lucky old me!’ Molly pulled a face and the two sisters laughed.
‘You know David’s on his way home?’ Joyce scrunched her shoulders in delight at imparting this good news.
‘Yes, he wrote to me. Can’t wait to see him – but not I bet as much as Clara.’ Molly remembered describing her sister-in-law to Johan: ‘Clara is hardly what one would call a coper . . .’
‘He might even be home now, but I expect Clara will keep him in her clutches for a while. So by my reckoning that’ll mean a sister for Clementine, and another little cousin for Joe about next February!’
Molly noticed her sister’s false brightness and it tore at her heart. ‘Good for them, I suppose.’
‘Oh yes, good for them.’
The kettle boiled and Joyce poured hot water into the pot. Molly noticed her face fall a little, as if once again reminded of her childless state, unlike Clara and David, who might be adding to their brood.
‘Albert!’ Joyce called along the hallway. ‘Tea, darling!’
Molly, too, felt the flicker of envy in her gut, not that she wasn’t pleased for David and Clara to be together again or for how happy Joyce and Albert seemed, but it certainly highlighted her single status and made her ache for Johan, who would never be coming home from the war. Albert lumbered into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. Joyce cut him a slab of Victoria sponge and placed it on a plate with a silver cake fork. He took a large mouthful and then brushed away the crumbs, his tone enthusiastic but his complexion a little pallid:
‘Delicious! Did Joyce tell you we have a date to leave for Canada?’
‘No?’ Molly looked up at this news.
‘Yes.’ Joyce wiped her hands on the tea towel. ‘I was going to tell you later. We go at the end of August, so in about twelve weeks.’
An Ordinary Life Page 20
