‘That’s not long. Can you get everything done in that time?’ Molly sipped her tea, thinking how she would get their new living accommodation sorted as soon as possible, and then spend as much time as necessary with Joe to ease him back into a life with her and the nanny she would secure to care for him during her working hours. Molly knew she would miss her sister, but there was also a faint stir of relief that Joyce would be far away and Molly would be free to learn Joe’s routine and establish her own way of mothering. The thought was wrapped in guilt after how much her wonderful sister had done for her.
‘I don’t need to take much. I mean, the house is being left pretty much as it is; we’ll have an agent keeping an eye on it,’ Joyce informed her. ‘So it’s just a few clothes and bits and bobs, apparently, so Albert says.’
The sharp ringing sound of the telephone came from the hallway and made her jump. Albert and Joyce were the only people she knew with a telephone at home, and if that was the loud, jarring noise they made, she doubted they would ever catch on – it really was quite a racket and disturbed any hope of peace. It was no hardship, she thought, to find a phone box when the need arose.
‘That’ll be the telephone.’ Albert nodded proudly, pushing his plate away from his stomach.
‘I guessed as much.’ Molly smiled at Joyce, wondering how Joe could sleep through the din.
Albert wandered to the hallway and answered the call. ‘It’s David!’ he said, to summon his wife and sister-in-law.
‘Oh my goodness!’ Joyce ran to the phone and Molly followed. By the time they reached Albert, he was nodding gravely into the receiver.
‘I see, David. Well, we will of course come as soon as we can. Yes, yes, Molly is here, in actual fact. I’m looking at them both and they’re very keen to talk to their brother, as you can imagine, but I’ll explain. It’s good to hear your voice, old chap. Righto, see you soon. I think it’ll be tomorrow. Will do. Bye, David, bye.’ Albert put the phone back in its cradle as Molly and Joyce stared at him, wondering why they had been denied the chance to talk to their brother, whom they had sorely missed.
‘David’s in Bloomsbury,’ Albert began.
‘Bloomsbury? I thought he’d be home in Dorset?’ Joyce was as confused as Molly.
‘He was – only been home for forty-eight hours; he sounded frazzled. But he received a call from Mr Mason to say your mother is quite poorly. David said she’s in a bad way, but she’d asked Mr Mason not to worry any of you. He took it upon himself to call David, thinking it wise to let him know.’ Albert took a deep breath.
‘Did he say how poorly? What’s wrong with her?’ Joyce asked the questions that were cued up on Molly’s tongue.
‘Pneumonia, by all accounts. Dr Venables has been attending her’ – Molly disliked even hearing the man’s name – ‘and it’s not looking good, I’m afraid. I think we should head into town tomorrow.’
‘You can stay here tonight, Moll.’ Joyce met her sister’s gaze, and right on cue Joe’s cries drifted down the stairs.
Molly felt conflicted, still processing the worrying news that her mother was ill, although her whole being was fired up at the prospect of holding her son!
‘Come on.’ Joyce pushed Molly in front of her and the two climbed the stairs.
Molly could hardly believe it, knowing she would never forget the sight of her son, no longer a tiny baby, but a sturdy boy now, standing and gripping the wooden bars of his cot with his chubby little fingers. He was wearing a sea-green-coloured fine-knit jumper, his napkin of course, and striped knitted socks, his legs otherwise bare. His hair was quite long now, fair still, and swept to one side with sweet kiss curls at the nape of his neck. And his voice! It was the first time she had heard the sweet rounded burble from his angelic mouth:
‘Mmm . . . Mama! Mmm . . . Mama!’
Molly took a step forward, laughing, her heart fit to burst with all it tried to contain, as tears of joy pooled in her eyes, but then Joe frowned and looked around her, craning his neck and flexing his fingers. His feet danced up and down and his little arms reached out to Joyce, and in that second Molly realised he was not calling to her, of course he wasn’t, he was calling to her sister. Molly sagged sideways until she was leaning against the wall. Joyce walked over and lifted the boy out of the cot and into her arms, with his own little arms thrown around her neck. Witnessing this act, Molly felt as though she had been punched in the heart. Joyce kissed the sweet top of his head and then noticed Molly, gazing at her aghast and shaking her head.
‘He . . . he just started saying it.’ Joyce’s tone was subdued, apologetic. ‘I thought it was sweet and funny, but then I was mortified at the thought of you hearing it, and now you have. I’ve tried to get him to say “Auntie”, but he can’t say that yet!’ She tried to lighten the mood with a small laugh. ‘I don’t know what to say to you, Molly.’
‘It doesn’t—’ Molly had been about to say, ‘It doesn’t matter,’ but the truth was, it did matter. To hear her baby boy call another woman Mama was shattering and something she had not considered, unable over the preceding months to envisage him as this growing boy and not the baby she had handed over. Somehow, while she waited for the war to end and the world to catch up with where it should be, recovering from a life put on hold, she had imagined that Joe’s life would have been on hold too, waiting to grow and develop once she came back. But of course it hadn’t quite worked like that. She shouldn’t have been surprised: these were uncharted waters and they were all going to learn as they went along, but no matter. She reached out to touch his fair hair, the colour of his daddy’s, but Joe batted her hand away.
‘Are you going to say hello to Molly . . . Mummy?’ Joyce coaxed, as she held him tight and he buried his head under her chin. He shook his head and closed his eyes; Molly noticed the glorious length of the lashes that sat on his downy cheek. ‘Oh, come on, Joe, say hello to your mum – she’d love to talk to you.’
This time Joe hid his face entirely in the folds of Joyce’s blouse and he refused to look up. Molly wanted to shriek her sadness at the whole bloody affair! This was her boy! Her boy! And he couldn’t even look her in the eye. This was what the Nazis had done!
‘It’s . . . it’s okay.’ Molly kept her voice steady. She knew it was going to take time and concentrated on each breath, loud in her ears, and not the twisting pain in her heart, which felt like it might dissolve. Getting Joe back and being Joe’s mum had been her focus since the moment she had watched the car drive from the house on Old Gloucester Street, and even though she understood he was a little baby who had mostly only known the touch of Joyce and the scent of Joyce, it didn’t hurt any the less for that. It was, however, up to her, the grown-up, to keep pace with her son and not rush him. She reached out and placed her fingertips on his leg, touching the skin in the little gap where his sock ended and the crease began at the back of his knee.
Joe kicked against Joyce and made a whining noise.
Molly withdrew her hand, fully understanding in that moment that to this little body she had grown, to this little boy made in love, she was a stranger. The realisation was entirely contrary to her deepest desire that he might retain some small semblance of memory of her – it was clear he did not. It was the hardest blow and yet she dug deep and stood tall and even managed a smile.
‘He’s not properly awake,’ Joyce said, seeing her distress. ‘He’s bound to be picking up on our nerves. He’ll settle.’ She gave her little sister wide-eyed reassurance in the way she had been doing for Molly’s whole life: ‘No, Papa isn’t crying, silly billy! He’s got something in his eye!’ or ‘Of course Papa’s not going to die, not for a long, long time. Don’t worry about a thing – just go to sleep, little angel, and have the sweetest dreams!’
‘Of course,’ Molly echoed. ‘He’s only a baby, and there I am, a complete stranger in his bedroom. I’d certainly get all hot and bothered if there was someone I didn’t know in my room!’
Joyce looked a little flustered
, as if uncertain whether she should acknowledge this fact or try to patch things over with more well-meant words of comfort. She reached instead for a misshapen knitted toy from the top of an old pine chest of drawers.
‘Why don’t you show Mummy your lelephant?’ Joyce tried again, holding the grey creature in front of Joe. He grabbed it and held it tightly under his chin. A part of Molly wished her sister would stop trying.
‘She loves lelephants, don’t you, Molly?’ Joyce looked at her with eyes that brimmed, as if she understood how entirely heartbreaking this moment was for her sister.
‘I really do, but that’s okay, Joe,’ Molly said calmly. ‘You don’t have to show me your lelephant, not today. Maybe another day?’
He peered out from under Joyce’s chin and looked at her warily, but the fact he was looking at all was a triumph. She winked at him and wasn’t sure, but there might have been the smallest hint of a smile on his face.
FOURTEEN
Bloomsbury, London
May 1945
Aged 20
Albert parked the car outside the house on Old Gloucester Street. Molly wasn’t sure if the silence that descended over them was because her sister and brother-in-law were equally aware of the last time they had done the journey in reverse – except that on that occasion she had not been in the back of the car, but leaning desperately from the upstairs window with milk in her breasts and a fierce longing in her heart. Or else it might have been that they were about to walk into their family home, where their mother lay gravely ill, and none of them knew quite what to expect.
Joe had slept for the entire journey in Joyce’s arms, and Molly, having been an observer of her boy and his routine for the last twenty-four hours, took the opportunity to cradle his little feet in her hands. A little after one in the morning she had heard his call of ‘Mama!’, followed immediately by the creak of Joyce’s bedsprings, suggesting she slept primed for this very possibility. Molly had sat on the side of the bed in the pretty spare bedroom, her limbs trembling with longing to go to her son. She knew, however, that the sight of her, a stranger in the house, might startle him or make him cry and the hubbub at that ungodly hour would benefit no one. Instead, she hugged herself tight, listening as her sister cooed softly, ‘Hello, my precious one!’ and ‘Sleepy time, my little darling . . .’, the repeated squeak of the floorboards suggesting that she was rocking him on the spot. His burble was a conversation of sorts and one Molly was desperate to share with him.
‘You are quite remarkable, Little Molly, you know that, don’t you?’ Joyce broke into her thoughts and, leaning across the backseat, squeezed her sister’s hand. ‘I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, but you’re doing brilliantly.’
‘It is hard,’ Molly acknowledged, ‘but it’s wonderful too. There have been so many times in the last few months when I would have given absolutely anything just to be in his company, to see him close up, hear him, smell him . . . or to hold his little feet like this’ – she smiled – ‘and so I’m thankful for even the smallest contact.’
‘It was true what I said, dear; he will settle. He’ll get used to the situation – children are very adaptable.’
‘I know.’ Molly smiled at her sister. She might have known it, but it was still very nice to hear.
She climbed from the back of the car and looked up and down this street, which was so familiar, although she found it hard to identify why it seemed different today – brighter than she recalled. Was it the much-missed pots of flowers appearing on doorsteps since the end of the war? Mrs Granton-Smythe’s house, she noticed, sported a particularly fine display. Or was it the jewel-coloured curtains and sparkling chandeliers now revealed without blackout measures? Molly could now appreciate the smartness of the street, in comparison to where she was living.
It had been many months since she had last seen her mother and her nerves were palpable as Albert climbed the steps to knock on the front door, with Joyce closely behind and Joe still asleep in her arms.
Mr Mason opened the front door, which surprised and embarrassed her. This man, a mere neighbour no more, had seen her in a state of undress with her darling boy nestling at her chest. He had also kept her on the doorstep in her time of need, made her feel small.
‘Good afternoon.’ He stood back to allow Albert and Joyce to enter, paying particular attention, she noticed, to her boy.
‘Good afternoon, Molly.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Mason. So Mum’s not well?’
He nodded. ‘Not at all, I’m afraid. She’s in a grave condition, in fact. Your brother is with her.’
‘Well,’ Molly said, taking off her coat and hanging it on the hook in the hallway, as she had done a thousand times before, ‘we do appreciate your stopping by to help her. Thank you, Mr Mason, it was very kind of you, but don’t let us keep you. I’m sure you have your own family to attend to on a Saturday afternoon and I know Mum would be extremely grateful to you for being here when she needed you. That kind of neighbourly support can mean the world.’ Molly looked him in the eye.
‘Yes, quite.’ The man reached for his coat from the newel post and made for the front door.
Molly looked at the portrait of her father on the wall, paying especial attention to the ink pen in his hand, which was now her own.
‘I wanted to say, Molly’ – Mr Mason turned hesitantly and held her gaze – ‘I wanted to say that I thought—’
‘Yes?’ she asked, wary of what he wanted to say, hoping it was not about Joe, not with him in her sister’s arms in the kitchen, only just out of earshot.
‘I thought it suited you very well, being’ – he paused – ‘being a mother. Yes.’ He nodded. ‘Being a mother. It suited you very well.’
Molly took the compliment and placed it carefully in her heart, letting the warmth radiate and fill her right up.
‘Thank you, Mr Mason. I’m just delighted that now the war is over I’ll get a chance to practise that skill.’ She smiled at him briefly.
‘Indeed.’ Mr Mason returned her smile and left quietly.
Joyce appeared without Joe, and Molly looked down the hallway into the kitchen, where Albert was now bouncing him on his knee at the kitchen table, feeding him morsels of shortbread, which Joyce had baked freshly for the journey that morning. It was surprising to see the man so relaxed, letting Joe grab his fingers and bite them, as Albert kissed his soft head and sang some random tune to him. It almost felt like a violation to witness this intimate scene of a man like Albert letting his guard down.
‘We’ll take it in turns to sit with her, darling; it might be too much for Mum if we all pile in. You go first with David and then we’ll go up.’
‘Okay.’ She had for a second forgotten that her lovely brother was here!
Joyce leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
It stirred the silt of unease in Molly, to be treading the familiar stairs in these most unfamiliar of circumstances. It was impossible for her not to think about the night she had collapsed onto her bed on the day she found out Johan had died or the moment she had sat on the bathroom floor with Joe still attached to her. Her mother’s words on both occasions had sadly been far from what Molly wanted or needed. She tapped on the bedroom door and walked in slowly. The air smelled stale. The curtains were drawn, turning the room into perpetual night, and there was her mother, no more than a small, grey thing propped up on large pillows, her cheeks sunken and her false teeth abandoned. She was sleeping, her breath a crackly but faltering snore.
‘Ah, Molly!’ David leapt up from the embroidered nursing chair by the side of the bed and strode across the room to take her in his arms. It was so lovely to feel his solid form, no longer a memory or as the writer of hurried letters posted from far away – he was here and he was safe! One of the lucky ones.
‘Oh, David!’ She hadn’t expected to cry, but she did, great big sobs that left her a little breathless. ‘You’re home!’ She held him tightly. ‘You’re home!’
�
�I am, thank God.’ He bit his lip and he, too, looked a little overcome. She knew better than to press him for details of his time away.
‘And you’ve walked straight into this!’ Molly was reluctant to leave the safety of his hug.
‘You know, it’s more or less par for the course over the last couple of years, lurching from one crisis to the next, so I suppose I’m well trained.’ He coughed. ‘And I think it would have been worse if I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye.’ He kept his voice soft and low.
‘She’s that bad, you think?’ Molly’s limbs twitched at the possibility.
‘I do,’ he offered matter-of-factly, releasing his sister. ‘Is Joyce downstairs?’
Molly nodded. ‘Is there no chance she might pull through?’ she whispered, aware of her mother’s proximity.
David shook his head. ‘It’s pneumonia, and a bad bout. I think recovery is too much to hope for now.’
Molly stared at her mother, unsure of how she should feel and strangely numb.
‘Look at you!’ He stared at her as if noting the changes, and she did the same with him. She was shocked at how much he had aged. He carried an unfamiliar scent and sported a tan that were it not for his gaunt face and hollow chest might have indicated the high life.
‘David, it is so good to see you!’ She ran her hand down his bony spine. To her surprise, tears bloomed in his eyes, most unexpected from her serious brother, the man of the house.
‘Oh, David!’
‘I’ve wanted to talk to you face to face, Little Moll, for the longest time. I started letters, all inadequate, all clumsy and all abandoned, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, we’re here now,’ she said, leaning towards him.
‘Yes.’ He held her hands. ‘I am so sorry for what you went through, Molly. Truly sorry.’
‘You know what happened?’ She looked towards their mother in the bed, feeling simultaneously exposed and relieved at his admission. No need for pretence or more secrets or, worse, to have to detail the whole awful ordeal.
An Ordinary Life Page 21
