An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  Her words were kind and yet there was a reticence to her tone and a formality that made the atmosphere a little awkward. Molly was more than aware of how her sister’s heart was breaking.

  ‘Thank you, Joycey. I’m already happy here, especially today,’ Molly said, hugging her sister and her son at the same time. It felt odd to be filled with such joy at the return of her boy and yet know it was shaded by Joyce’s sadness. Her beloved sister had shown the most selfless kindness towards her and Joe, yet her reward was to hand back the very thing that had brought her such happiness. It was a cruel and impossible puzzle.

  ‘Would you like to see the garden, Joe?’ Molly said, clapping her hands and holding out her arms. Joe slipped into them without any fuss and laid his head on her shoulder. She relished the weight of him and carried him on her arm, in the way that she had learned. They walked through the French doors and out into the back garden. ‘Look!’ she said, pointing to the lilac. ‘Can you see all the little buzzy bees collecting the nectar they need to make our honey? And look here, Joe.’ She crouched down and showed him a large iron bird bath she had found in the undergrowth. ‘This is where the birdies come every morning to have a bath and a little drink – can you imagine?’ To finally have him in her arms and be showing him their home was thrilling, a dream. Joe, however, seemed only vaguely interested and looked back constantly over her shoulder to locate Joyce. She reminded herself not to overwhelm him with a trip upstairs to see his grandpa’s aeroplanes. This was a big day for him too. She blinked, erasing the memory of what had happened earlier, an unnerving and unwelcome flashback that had left her unsettled.

  Spying Joyce and Albert in the kitchen through the window, she saw them locked in a tight embrace; they sprang apart like teens caught out at the sight of her, Joyce wiping her eyes. Molly took Joe inside with a low hum of dread in her mind, knowing what her sister was going through. There was nothing good about making this person she loved so much feel this way.

  ‘I made some shortbread!’ Joyce enthused, blowing her nose before pulling a tin from her shopping bag. ‘I didn’t want you to go to any trouble and I know you love it.’

  ‘Oh, I do! Thank you, Joyce.’ Molly put Joe on the floor to crawl and filled the kettle with water. Without the chatter of conversation as a dampener, the sound of the water hitting the metal base seemed offensively loud. ‘Do sit down.’ She pointed to the chairs at the kitchen table, hating the formality of her tone. Joyce and Albert stiffly took their seats.

  ‘The weather’s been nice.’ Joyce coughed again. Albert, Molly noticed, had reached for her hand under the table and cupped it within his.

  ‘Yes, it has.’ Molly turned away, closing her eyes briefly as she reached up to the shelf for the cups and saucers. The atmosphere in the small kitchen was oppressive and awkward, each one of them wrestling with the heart-rending enormity of having to give up Joe. The stilted conversation and polite small talk seemed to crush them all with a physical weight. Molly poured tea for everyone, standing so that she could keep an eye on Joe, who was currently trying to push lelephant up the wall.

  Joyce took a sip from her cup. ‘His . . . his clothes are in the boot of the car, along with a basket of bits and bobs: his bottles and formula, a couple of little teds, his . . . his rattle, which he doesn’t really like any more, but . . .’ Her voice fell away.

  Molly didn’t know whether to rush forward and take her sister in her arms or let her be. ‘Thank you. His room is all ready. I’ll sleep on his floor tonight, I think, so I can watch him, partly because I don’t think I will ever get used to him being asleep under my roof but also, if he wakes, I want to reassure him instantly.’

  Joyce nodded. ‘He usually settles quite quickly once you hold him and rock him a little. Keep the lights low and, erm, don’t . . . don’t get overly chatty or it wakes him fully. I learned that the hard way.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears and she fidgeted with her hands.

  Molly took a deep breath and locked eyes with her sister. It felt like the cruellest blow of fate that in order for her to find happiness it had to come at the expense of her sister’s. ‘I know this is hard, Joyce,’ she said tenderly. ‘I’ve been right where you are and I understand how difficult it is. I promise you, just as you did to me, that I will look after him well. He is safe and he is loved!’

  Joyce again tried a brief forced smile that was heartbreaking to see. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I know that, darling, and we shall see you both when we get back from Canada, and it will pass very quickly, I’m sure.’ She stood suddenly and brushed imaginary crumbs from her lap. ‘I think we should go, Albert.’ Her smile again was broad and fleeting, but her eyes told a very different story. ‘You know, Little Moll, I can feel I’m going to get upset and I really don’t want to do that in front of Joe, or you. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Oh, Joycey!’ Molly walked over and held her sister in a gentle hug; she could feel the shake of her sister’s body in her arms as she cried. And even in the midst of this most joyful day, the thought of which had got her through the toughest challenges of the last few months, Molly’s heart broke for her sister, knowing all too well the cutting pain of separation.

  ‘I’m sorry! I promised myself I’d not fall apart.’ Joyce wiped her face with the sleeve of her blouse. ‘Come on, Albert, let’s fetch Joe’s things from the car and leave him to get settled,’ she said, sounding as bright as she was able.

  Joe began to cry, a soft murmur. Molly picked him up and rocked him on the spot. But instead of settling, his tears and volume increased, building to a deafening crescendo until, finally, he flung his body over her arm with his little hands reaching out to Joyce. ‘Mama!’ he yelled. ‘Mama!’

  Joyce stepped into the hallway with her hand over her mouth and Joe screamed louder, calling and twisting his body, his face contorted, unable to comprehend why she wasn’t reaching for him. His little feet kicked at Molly’s stomach in an effort to get to Joyce.

  ‘There, there, little one; there, there, darling! Don’t cry, Joe; don’t cry!’ Molly tried to soothe him, running her palm over the soft hairs on his warm head as she cooed with anxiety and the fear rose in her gut. The thought that she didn’t know how to make it better was almost overwhelming. Albert, as if unable to stand it any longer, went through into the hallway to stand with his wife. Joe went quiet and Molly felt a warm wave of relief, until she realised that his body was rigid and, even though he was quiet, his distress was mounting. Her baby boy might not have been yelling, but was so utterly consumed with distress that his mouth hung open in a silent scream as if the breath wouldn’t come. A line of dribble ran from his mouth and snot from his nose, while tears sprang from his eyes. His face had gone quite red . . . And then it came, the sound that had been building: the closest thing to hysteria Molly had ever heard. Joe let out a high-pitched, ear-splitting wail of sadness that hit her in the chest and bounced from the walls. It killed her to hear this level of pure sorrow from someone so little. It was a terrible noise and one that plunged Molly straight back into the scene at the Café Hubert, with the screams and yells above the chaos, the sounds Violet had made and then the sight of her body slumped over Pascal’s corpse, causing the same level of panic to rise again in her chest. She thought she might be sick as her body froze.

  Joe drew breath for another scream and Molly’s every muscle coiled painfully in preparation. She looked towards Joyce, aghast at how desperately she wanted to hand him over, quite unable to cope.

  ‘Mama!’ he screamed, and then, drawing another breath, he called again to the woman he loved, the woman who had fed him his bottles, settled him and rocked him to sleep every night. ‘Ma-maaaa!’ He once more hurled himself forward, and Molly stared, grappling with his legs, powerless and unsure of what to do next with his wriggling form, struggling not to drop him, pinching his skin in her tight grip, which of course only made him scream all the louder. Her heart racing and her mouth dry, she watched as Joyce seemed to wobble, as though her legs had given w
ay, slumping against Albert, who wrapped his arm around her, holding her upright. And there they both stood, bowed and entwined, unified by their own all-consuming heartbreak. Molly watched them with a rumble of doubt in her gut, not that she could admit it, not even to herself, but wanting nothing more in that split second than to put her beloved baby down, open the front door and run run run!

  Molly stared down now at Joe, who was crying so hard that little purple dots had appeared around his eyes, and on his temple, where the tiny blood vessels had burst in his desperation. A new spike of panic hit her – what was happening to this little baby boy who, without words, was expressing his need and his fright in the only way he knew how? And now a new thought struck, that while she had considered how to minimise the hurt for Joyce and Albert, searching for the words that might offer some balm for their aching hearts, how might she do the same for Joe? The next sound was a low moan, a throaty cry. Molly looked towards her sister, but to her surprise found it was Albert who was now sobbing.

  ‘He’s my boy, Molly! He’s my son and I love him. Please don’t take him away from us. We’re a family – a family!’

  ‘No, no, Albert, don’t! Don’t you dare!’ Joyce rallied a little and placed a finger on her husband’s lips, shaking her head at him, her voice panicked, her face close to his. ‘Don’t say another word! We talked about this. You can’t do that to Molly, you can’t! It was always the arrangement – always. It was temporary. Temporary!’ Joyce rubbed her eyes and her face, smearing mascara through her eyebrow and across her forehead, then she wiped her lips on the back of her hand, and her lipstick sat in a slick over one cheek. Her hair had fallen forward and with her runny nose and red eyes she looked quite undone, as she pleaded with her husband, doing her best to keep her side of the bargain and do the right thing for her sister as well as the man she loved.

  Paralysed with indecision and a wrench in her gut that her dream of motherhood might fast be slipping from her, Molly stared at the two of them: a partnership. She could see they were as utterly, utterly broken as Joe himself sounded. Walking slowly forward, she knew there was only one thing that would calm her baby. She held him out and Albert stepped forward, gathering his boy to his chest, little caring that his tears continued to fall. His large hand sat squarely in the middle of Joe’s back, Albert breathing into his soft hair.

  ‘It’s all right, son, you close your eyes. It’s all okay. Don’t cry, my boy, don’t cry. I’ve got you. I’ve got you now . . .’ Albert didn’t bother wiping the tears that dripped from his face.

  It was almost instant. In the safety of Albert’s arms, Joe stopped crying. His breath stuttered and he took deep, deep breaths, as if exhausted by all the exertion, until finally he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep with his face pressed against the front of Albert’s shirt, his little fingers hooked around the buttons. His whole body slumped trustingly, abandoned to the care of this man. The sight of his little fingers gripping on to Albert was like a punch in the throat for poor Molly. Weak and disappointed, but relieved that her boy was quiet now, the troubling thoughts and images of the Café Hubert could drift from her mind. It scared her how quickly her fear had flared with its powerful and threatening memories.

  The weary troupe who had lived through war now stood in the narrow hallway in silence, as if this new battle was one they had not fully expected and the shock of it had left them spent and exhausted, leaning on walls and banisters with hair loose, throats and noses clogged with tears, feelings stripped bare, hearts and wishes raw and exposed. They were done now with polite conversation about the weather, with no desire to distribute shortbread from the tin or to discuss the garden. This was a time for honesty and directness, for fears and desires to be openly expressed because what now lay at stake was not only the shape of their family, the roles of two sisters so close they were friends but, more fundamentally, the happiness and security of the little person they all held most dear: baby Joe.

  ‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know if I can do it,’ Molly said, shaking her head. ‘I thought I could, but the truth is, Joyce, I don’t know if I’m ready, and Joe certainly isn’t.’ She paused to wipe her face. ‘How is this going to work?’ Her voice was shot through with desperation, hoping someone had the answer.

  ‘It’s okay, darling,’ Joyce soothed her, as she always did. ‘We’ll find a way – we will.’ Joyce took a deep breath, rubbing her eyes, which were looking sore.

  ‘No,’ Molly interrupted, ‘it’s not okay. Albert is right – you are a family and Joe feels safe with you both.’ The irony was not lost on Molly that this had been her greatest wish. She sat down hard on the bottom stair with her head in her hands, at the realisation of what shattering those bonds might mean for Joe, along with the risk that she might not be able to cope at all because she was, as someone had reminded her, nearly broken. She looked at her little boy, sleeping so peacefully now on Albert’s broad chest, still holding on. Someone seemed to have pulled the plug from her stomach so that all her hope and confidence had drained away, leaving her utterly hollow. Joyce came and sat next to her, budging her up against the wall, breathing a sigh with something akin to relief.

  ‘We’ll get there, Little Moll. We’ll get there.’ Joyce turned her head to kiss Molly gently on the hair. ‘It’s a tangle, Molly, it is, but we can unmuddle it, we can—’

  ‘How, Joyce? How do we unmuddle it? What’s the plan? I had a plan, but I was thinking of what was best for me, how to get Joe back, and not necessarily what was best for him. And I never even questioned whether I was ready or even capable of looking after him. I see that now. So bloody naive.’

  ‘You’re both ready and capable. He’s your baby, Molly, and—’

  ‘I know he’s my baby, Joyce, but what do we do? Hand him back when he’s two? Twelve? Twenty? Now is the time, when he’s too little to fully understand, but just look at him!’ She pointed to where Joe slept soundly in Albert’s arms. ‘I love him,’ she whispered, breaking off as her tears threatened, ‘God knows I love him more than I knew was ever possible.’ She composed herself. ‘And the fact is, I love him too much to see him so distressed. He wants to be with you; he wants to be with his mum. And I think I want that for him too, just for a little bit longer. I need to sort my head out, Joyce. I’m scared.’ The words slid down her throat like glass.

  Joyce squeezed her sister’s hand. ‘It’s been one hell of a day. Why don’t we take him home to Tonbridge, let him settle and try again at the weekend? I think we all need to calm down a bit. He’s no doubt picking up on our high emotions, and that won’t help at all. We’re all exhausted. The build-up to today has been a lot—’

  ‘It has been a lot.’ Molly thought of her frantic decorating and lack of sleep. ‘You think that’s it – maybe we all just need a few good nights’ sleep?’ She felt a glimmer of hope that all was not lost: this was not a disaster, merely a delay.

  ‘I do. And I need to talk to Albert, properly talk to him. He had no right to protest the way he did, not that I don’t understand it.’ She looked with love over to where her husband stood with the baby. ‘And we’ll come back on Saturday and try again. What do you think?’

  Molly nodded. ‘I think that sounds like our Plan B.’

  An hour later, Albert handed Molly the sleeping child. She rocked him in her arms and kissed his face. Holding him close, she whispered words of love and promise before giving him to her sister.

  ‘See you in a week,’ Joyce whispered, a reminder that it was not far away.

  Molly climbed the stairs and lay curled on the single bed in Joe’s blue room with the balsa-wood planes circling and swinging overhead in the breeze. She heard the sound of Albert’s car starting, no doubt warming the engine before their long journey, when he would drive their little family home. Self-doubt sat in her gut like a boulder, along with a fear so pervading it sent her thoughts into turmoil. A ferocious roar of tears followed as she expressed her desperation in the only way she knew how. She had wanted this d
ay which had lived in her imagination for so long to end differently, and her disappointment was acute.

  After a restless night punctuated by a jumble of disturbing thoughts and where sleep had been in short supply, Molly rose and dressed for work, but other than smoothing her skirt and tucking in her blouse, today she paid very little attention to her appearance. Her hair went unbrushed and her face unwashed. What on earth did it matter anyway? With no inclination for breakfast and still full to the brim with all that had happened the day before, she left the house. She had the time booked off as leave but knew there was little point in sitting at home, not when there was work to be done, and the disappointment of being in the house without Joe for another whole week was more than she could cope with. She would contact the girl she had hired as a nanny and delay her start. The image of Joe in his little shorts and jersey, the sound of his scream as he reached for her sister and the way she had felt the ground shake beneath her, all played in a continuous loop in her head. The swell of longing for him, every bit as strong as in that moment when she had handed him to Joyce on that first terrible day, was now laced with doubt over her own ability to comfort him.

  She yearned for Johan with fresh sadness, as if the news of his passing had come recently. Not that she had ever forgotten him, but the panic she had once felt at her loss had waned to the point where she was able to contain it. Yet today, that same original panic and heart-wrenching despair was somehow as strong as it had ever been. Molly felt fragile and very alone, thinking how much easier life would be if, like Clara, she had a David and, like Joyce, her Albert. The irony being, of course, that if she had a David or an Albert she would also have Joe. Not that she was remotely interested in a relationship; it was about the furthest thing from her mind. Even the thought of it set up a churn of disloyalty in her gut. She picked up her pace along the street, looking forward to finding rhythm and order in the execution of her professional role. She was even looking forward to Telsie’s tittle-tattle; her chatter was the perfect background noise, a distraction to her inner distress.