An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  Molly rapped now on the front door, and Clara answered, her eyes puffed from crying and her nose running.

  ‘Oh, Molly! Hello, dear. I do hate death.’

  Her sister-in-law’s comments put her in mind of sweet Telsie, who also had a knack for stating the obvious. Nothing but glib responses sprang to mind, and so instead she stepped over the threshold and held her in a brief hug. ‘We shall all get through it together.’

  Clara sniffed and closed the front door. ‘I told David you’d want to go and sit with Mother before the funeral home come to collect her. She’s in the parlour.’

  ‘Righty-ho.’

  With some reticence, Molly slowly opened the door to the parlour before entering. The dark wood coffin with its brass adornments lay on the dining table in the centre of the room. The air was tinged with the camphor oil her mother favoured for all skin creams and potions. Molly had seen a lot of death and yet this was different, a welcome reminder that not all death was violent or bloody but could be calm, timely, natural and even beautiful.

  Her mother’s skin looked pale and waxy, her eyes were closed and her face was free of many of the lines etched by grief and worry that had made their home in tributaries along her forehead and around her eyes and mouth. She looked younger than Molly remembered. She had been dressed in smart navy with a lace shawl collar and lay with the faded Bible she had received at her christening clasped to her chest, a sprig of lavender in her fingers. She looked quite lovely and Molly wondered if this had been Clara’s idea. Molly sat on a carved mahogany dining chair by the side of the table and took a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Mum. I think about all the times I was sharp with you, angry, and it felt justified, but now?’ She swallowed to clear her throat. ‘We all end the same way, don’t we? We are all but dust, and I am going to remember that because it puts the futility of all our heartache and all our desires into perspective. We are all but dust.’ She paused. ‘I would like to thank you for your final words to me; they are and will always be a great comfort and I shall tell Joe all about you. I will tell him of the time when I was small and you sat right here by the fire at Christmas, when stray wrapping paper landed on your head and you laughed and . . . it was magical. And the tree was so beautifully decorated, and David told me that when one of the baubles broke, magic would . . .’

  The door of the parlour opened and Molly fell quiet.

  ‘Oh!’ Joyce welled up at the sight of their mother in repose. ‘Molly!’ Joyce reached for her and she went to comfort her sister. The two stood holding hands, staring down at the coffin. ‘We’re orphans now.’ Joyce sniffed and, for some reason, maybe from nerves or with the intoxicating headiness of grief, Molly started to laugh. Joyce joined her and the two folded double, laughing until they cried, wiping the tears from their cheeks and covering their mouths at the inappropriateness of their actions, while wheezing the word ‘Orphans!’, which would set them off all over again. The door opened and Albert poked his head in. He took one look at the two sisters and slowly closed the door again. And all the while their mother lay in the middle of the room, the quietest she had ever been in such a crisis. And still Molly sensed her utter disapproval at how her giddy daughters were hijacking her funeral with their daftness.

  ‘It simply won’t do, Mary Florence! It won’t do at all!’

  Molly found the service perfunctory at best, suspecting in part that this was down to her faith having been sorely tested in recent years, to the extent that she now felt ready to declare herself a non-believer. Heaven was a nice idea and reconciliation a lovely dream, but she feared the reality was nothing of the sort. The slightly hurried feel was also in part down to the Reverend Monroe, who seemed more than a little jaded with the whole funeral business, so that his sermon was a tad rushed, the prayers too fast and his manner twitchy, as if he had a cup of tea cooling somewhere or some other place he would rather be. And this Molly more than understood. It was the price they all paid for the long years of the war: their general fatigue with death and an acceptance of horrors that would otherwise appear sickening or dreadful if they had occurred in isolation.

  With earth thrown in damp clods onto a coffin that now lay next to that of their father, the Collway siblings walked arm in arm from the church and back to their family home.

  ‘I thought it went well,’ David said.

  ‘I did too.’ Molly could only agree.

  ‘Do you think she’s with Papa?’ Joyce smiled at the thought.

  Molly exhaled slowly. ‘I hope so.’ And that was the truth. They fell silent until reaching Old Gloucester Street.

  ‘Do you want to go and fetch Joe?’ Joyce asked casually, but Molly was more than aware that it was the first time her sister had relinquished her lead role. She was trusting her, and this was an opportunity.

  ‘Yes, I’d like to, very much.’ She nodded, ripples of joy dancing through her veins, knowing this was how it would feel when she collected him from school . . . from the library . . . from a friend’s. Hello, I’m Joe’s mother . . .

  David peeled off and rummaged in his pocket for the key to their old home.

  Molly looked back at Joyce, who looked a little lost standing there on the pavement, her smile a little too fixed.

  ‘Do you . . . do you want to come with me? But maybe stand back – be there just in case?’ She bit her bottom lip, this clearly being such an extraordinary event for them all, without any precedent.

  Joyce nodded and continued along the road behind her. It was only a few feet to the Masons’ front door, thirty at most, and yet it seemed like the longest journey, covering miles and miles and months and months, and Molly felt her legs tremble with each step. Her tongue stuck to the dry roof of her mouth and her palms were clammy. This, she knew, was their beginning and, if it was excitement that bubbled to the top, it rose from a soup of self-doubt and concern. She increased her pace, turning to look at her sister, who smiled her encouragement. ‘Go and get your boy!’ Joyce managed, with a crack to her voice.

  Molly walked up to the front door and knocked lightly, thinking back to the day she had done so with Joe wrapped in a blanket, when she had needed help that was not forthcoming. She was determined to reset the narrative. Before she had the chance for any further thoughts on that day, the door opened and Mrs Mason stood there in her double string of pearls over a fuchsia twinset. Molly heard a small voice call out, ‘Mama! Mama!’

  She bent down to greet her little one, crawling with speed towards the front door. Joe sat on the step and stared at her with his lelephant in his mitts. Judging by his expression, she was most definitely not who he had been expecting.

  ‘He’s been a darling.’ Mrs Mason smiled fondly at the boy. ‘I hope the service went well,’ she offered, her tone a little clipped.

  ‘It did, thank you.’ Molly couldn’t take her eyes off her son. ‘And thank you for looking after Joe.’ Even having the conversation seemed to give her status, placing her firmly in the mind of this woman as his mother – and it felt wonderful! She bent down to pick Joe up, her manner a little awkward as she was unsure of the best way to gather him up. She had seen Joyce do it several times but was hesitant: should she grab him under the arms or hoick his bottom under her arm? She faltered, fraught with nerves, and Joe seemed to sense her lack of confidence and began to cry. He was heavier than she had thought, and Molly grappled with him, pulling his arm and trying not to topple over as she lifted him an inch or two before watching as he wriggled out of her grip and plopped back down onto the parquet flooring, where he tumbled backwards and banged his head. Molly’s heart raced, and she glanced back at Joyce, whose hands had shot out as if she could intervene from that distance. Molly bent down again and pulled her baby to her, but by this stage Joe was crying hard, verging on the hysterical.

  ‘It’s okay, Joe! Don’t cry, darling, it’s okay!’ she tried, but her words were shot with nerves, making them spiky and hard to handle. Even Joe, no more than a baby, could sense i
t.

  ‘Ma-ma!’ he screamed through his tears. ‘Ma-ma!’

  Molly looked imploringly back at her sister. Joyce ran up the path and, in one swift and practised move, scooped the boy from the floor and up into her arms, where he clung on for dear life, crying until his sobs turned into hiccups. Mrs Mason watched the whole thing unfold.

  ‘Poor little mite.’ She looked directly at Molly, who was torn between wanting to scream at the woman or make a run for it. Mrs Mason robbed her of the choice and shut the front door firmly in her face.

  ‘What a cow!’ Joyce said, while shushing and coddling Joe into a state of calm. ‘And to think that we’re newly orphaned as well!’

  They smiled, but the bountiful laughter of earlier was missing.

  ‘I can’t believe I dropped him,’ Molly said, feeling a little sick and placing her hand on her stomach.

  ‘You hardly dropped him! Dropping is when they fall from a great height or are lobbed somewhere carelessly. Don’t be so hard on yourself – you merely watched him topple an inch. That’s really very different, darling, and he is a little awkward to get hold of.’ Joyce’s tone was appeasing, but her manner was flustered.

  The two women walked slowly back to their childhood home, where visitors were starting to turn up for the wake. Molly stole glimpses to see how Joyce was managing so casually to perch her son on her arm. She made it look so easy.

  ‘I know how you’re feeling, Molly, and you mustn’t. We knew this transition was going to be tough for us all, and it is, but every day we make little advances, and there are still ten or so weeks to figure it all out before we go off to Canada. That’s plenty of time,’ Joyce said brightly, but with tears blooming in her eyes.

  Molly was reassured at her sister’s words and torn by the distress she was trying to hide.

  ‘I just want to do a good job and I want him to love me,’ she admitted.

  ‘You will, and he does! Of course he does – don’t you?’ Joyce kissed his little face.

  ‘Do you know, Joyce, I marvel at how you are always calm, always kind and always know the right thing to say. And you never have a hair out of place and your lipstick is never smudged.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s true—’

  ‘No, it is,’ Molly said, cutting her off. ‘I can joke, but we’re lucky to have you, Joe and I – all of us.’

  ‘We’re all lucky, darling. You don’t know it yet, Molly, but you are a sunflower and I am a mere dandelion!’

  ‘You are hardly a dandelion!’ Molly laughed off the compliment.

  ‘And I can’t wait to see your new house! It’ll be the making of you – a place to start over, your first proper home.’

  A home for life . . .

  ‘And it should be yours before we go?’

  ‘Fingers crossed – that’s what everyone is working towards. His bedroom is already painted blue and I thought I might hang Papa’s aeroplanes from the ceiling.’

  ‘Oh, I think he’d love that!’ Joyce offered with false brightness, as her face fell.

  ‘And I’ve been thinking that if the cottage isn’t ready, we could always come and stay here until it is.’

  ‘That’s a great idea. I bet you can’t wait.’ Joyce gave Joe an extra little squeeze.

  ‘I really can’t. I’ve made enquiries for a nanny in Chelmsford and will start interviewing next week. It’s something I can afford now, with my inheritance, and it feels like a sort of gift from Mum. But if everything is delayed, I’ll take time off work and we’ll stay in Bloomsbury. Telsie can manage without me for a bit and there are lots of other liaison teams.’

  The sisters stopped to stare up at the house, where people were now arriving in a steady stream for the wake.

  ‘Why don’t we take him for a lovely long walk next weekend, and I can hold back a bit and the two of you can play and get used to each other. How does that sound?’ Joyce offered.

  ‘That sounds good,’ Molly said, and then sighed. ‘Right, are we ready for this?’ She nodded towards the house.

  ‘No, but I don’t think we have much choice, do we?’

  ‘After you.’ Molly ushered her sister up the steps, holding Joe’s lelephant-free hand and, to her great surprise, he didn’t pull it away.

  FIFTEEN

  Chelmsford, Essex

  August 1945

  Aged 20

  Molly put the key in the front door and pushed it open. She looked around as if expecting a bit of a fanfare, but there were no shouts of congratulation or whoops of joy. She had just a single suitcase, a bucket and a scrubbing brush, and a brown paper bag full of golden plums. The soft, sweet fruit felt like the perfect way to toast her new home. Slowly, she walked from room to room, throwing open windows and running her fingers over the wonky walls – her wonky walls! The kitchen was small but perfect, and compared to the single hot plate she had got used to in St Pancras, it was pure luxury. Her bedroom was large and square with a glorious view over the back garden.

  ‘I wish you were by my side . . .’ she said to Johan, as she sometimes did.

  She devoured a plum before setting to work, greedily swallowing the divine sweet mush of fruit, which was like no other. It was certainly one of the best things she had ever tasted and her mouth watered for another. She decided her second plum would be her reward when she had finished her chores. Without further ado, she tied a scarf around her head, grabbed the scrubbing brush and the bucket and trod the steep stairs, making her way up to Joe’s room, which she had one week to get ready. It was a good size, rectangular with a pretty cast-iron fireplace in the middle of the long wall. She liked the wooden floorboards and decided to make his bedroom cosy with a cheerful rug to cover the floor and to stop the draughts coming up through the gaps. The walls were painted a glorious shade of sky-blue. She set to, washing the paintwork down and scrubbing the floor. It was exciting to see it come to life, transforming into the room she had held in her mind’s eye, making her mark on her new home. Her nagging fatigue was offset by the giddy realisation that in just one week Joe would be in her arms for good! With an aching wrist she worked until dusk bit, stopping only when thirsty and remembering she had left all the doors and windows open downstairs. Standing back in the narrow hallway, she admired her handiwork. It was certainly clean!

  Having rinsed out her bucket and brush, Molly stepped out into the garden and closed her eyes, feeling the last of the sun’s warmth on her skin and listening to the sweet sound of birdsong. The lilac on the back wall was still in bloom and the scent filled the air. She felt a sense of peace that had been missing since the start of the war, mixed with pure joy at the thought of collecting Joe at the weekend. That gave her a whole week to get the room finished and put a few sticks of furniture in place.

  ‘Slow down, Molly!’ Telsie had called when Molly almost ran to the waiting train with her colleague traipsing along behind. ‘Time can’t run any faster, you know!’

  Molly laughed – that was exactly what she was longing for, desperate for the weekend and Joe’s presence in their new home.

  With the house in Tonbridge almost closed up and mothballed, ready for her sister’s departure to Canada, Molly thought it best that Joe be brought to the cottage. Not only did it give him a chance to settle with everyone he loved within reach, but also an opportunity for Joyce and Albert to see his new home. She was ridiculously excited to show them the place she had worked so hard on for every spare second in the last week. His room was fresh and clean. A wooden single bed was pushed to one end of the room, with a bookshelf on one side and a small cupboard on the other where little wooden hangers clanged together ready to receive his clothes. The pièce de résistance was the six hand-painted balsa-wood planes she had strung from the ceiling at different heights. They had belonged to her Papa and been long ago discarded, boxed away in the attic. Molly had always liked them and, with the house in Old Gloucester Street being sold, had known exactly where to put them.

  Sitting on the floor of Joe’s bedroo
m, she looked up at the planes and, without warning, felt the rug judder beneath her, as if she were still seated in the bumping Lysander aircraft that had spirited her in and out of France. A small scream left her throat. She couldn’t tell how long it lasted, but it was frightening enough for her to place her palms flat on the floor and fight for breath. Molly crawled on all fours across the rug and sat back against the bed, waiting for her heart rate to level and her breathing to ease as she wiped the sweat from her top lip. The experience had been unnerving and left her more than a little shaken.

  The knock on the door came at a little after eleven in the morning. Molly opened it with a flourish and was a little taken aback to see the trio standing on her pathway. Joe looked adorable in his little shorts, white shirt and Fair Isle jersey, smart socks and polished T-bar sandals. The same could not be said for Albert, who was usually so clean and chipper, if a little contained, but today looked slightly dishevelled, as though he hadn’t shaved properly and was in need of sleep. Joyce, immaculate as ever, had the curve of a smile on her face and baby Joe in her arms, but beneath her eyes sat the indigo smudges of a woman who was exhausted. And Molly understood, knowing exactly how her sister was feeling, as she had felt the same ever since the day she had handed him over. Even Joe seemed a little subdued. He had crammed one leg of his lelephant in his mouth and lay resting his head quietly on Joyce’s chest.

  ‘Hello!’ Molly bent down low and spoke into the face of her son, who knew her well enough now not to howl. His eyes smiled and it was as glorious to see as it had been the very first time. ‘How was your journey?’ she asked.

  ‘Good.’ Albert coughed. ‘Not bad at all.’

  ‘Well,’ Joyce said, stepping over the threshold, ‘this is a lovely place, Molly.’ Molly noticed the croak to her sister’s voice; it was as if she might be coming down with something. ‘I love the cosiness of it, and the front garden is so pretty. It’s perfect. I think you’ll be very happy here.’