An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Ma-maaa!’ She heard again her boy’s desperate yell and Albert pleading, ‘He’s my son! We’re a family! Please!’

  The door of their shared office in Vauxhall was closed. Molly walked in and with a trembling hand raised the venetian blind and opened the window to let air into the fusty space. She hung her jacket on the coat stand in the corner and switched on the lamp on her desk, ready to check the files allocated for the day. Looking up at the sound of a knock on the door, she was expecting to see one of the junior admin clerks with the case notes for the day, but instead it was a woman she had not seen before, a smart woman in a suit carrying a stunning bouquet of wildflowers. As if freshly plucked, these bore the scent of fresh dew, while sprigs of grass wound through the stems added to their charm and simplicity.

  ‘How beautiful,’ Molly said, with a smile. ‘Hello, I’m Molly.’ It had been a long time since she had felt part of a wider community in the workplace, not since she and Geer, along with Marjorie to some extent, had been friends in the office. She wondered why someone would bring her flowers – out of respect for her mother’s death, perhaps? Surely not after all these weeks.

  ‘Oh yes, good morning.’ The woman took a step forward, running her fingers over the blowsy-headed blooms. ‘We thought’ – she swallowed – ‘we thought some flowers might brighten your office today.’

  ‘Well, that’s terribly kind of you.’ Molly stepped forward to take the flowers. ‘They’re just the ticket, thank you.’ She held her voice neutral and her emotions in check. ‘May I ask the reason for bringing me flowers? Not that I’m complaining.’

  ‘Oh.’ The woman seemed at a loss. ‘Well, they’re because we were all so dreadfully sorry to hear about Telsie. She was always such a ray of sunshine, so happy and sweet . . .’ She shook her head.

  ‘Telsie?’ Molly stared at her, feeling more than a little foolish. ‘What are you talking about?’

  The woman looked up sharply and took a breath. ‘I’m so sorry . . . I thought you knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’ Molly whispered.

  ‘Telsie left here on Tuesday evening. She . . . she went to Vauxhall Park, and they found her hanged.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Molly cried out. ‘No!’

  Molly was aware of falling or, more accurately, of the ground rushing up to meet her. Clinging to the floor, fearful of falling further as the floor beneath her shook, the smell of aeroplane fuel was strong in her nose. Only vaguely aware of the woman coming to her aid, picking her way through the flowers that now lay strewn about the floor, it was hard for her to catch her breath. ‘Get David . . .’ she managed. ‘Get David – please, please get my brother, my brother David . . . I can’t . . .’ Molly rolled onto her front and closed her eyes, her forehead laid on her arm, as if she somehow believed that if she kept her eyes closed and lay very, very still it all might just go away . . .

  Sometime later Molly was aware of a kerfuffle in the doorway of her office and felt David’s hand on her wrist.

  ‘That’s it, Moll, deep breaths. Stay as you are, but take deep, slow breaths.’ He breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, as if she might need a guide. Molly gripped his arm and looked up. ‘David . . .’

  ‘Don’t try and talk right now, just keep breathing. Deep breaths . . .’

  Molly started to cry. ‘I don’t know how it ends, David – I don’t know how it all ends!’

  Crouching down in front of her on the floor, he pulled her to him and held her tightly. ‘You don’t need to worry how it all ends, Moll, you just need to make peace with your choices and let life unfold.

  ‘You know, you don’t look like you, Little Moll, and you don’t seem like you,’ David suddenly said, with barely disguised emotion. ‘You’re so tightly coiled.’ He rubbed her hands in his own, trying to warm her fingers.

  ‘I don’t feel like me,’ she whispered.

  ‘You had a bad war, a very bad war.’ He nodded, his expression kindly. ‘Lots of us did, but this can’t define you, it can’t become everything.’

  ‘It already is everything.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I’ve lost Johan and now I feel I’m losing Joe.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re not losing Joe, and you won’t always feel this way, I promise you.’

  ‘I feel right now that I don’t want to go on, David.’ For the first time ever, she was able to say this out loud.

  David stood up and gazed out of the window. ‘I’ve spent the last couple of years in a field hospital, trying to piece together the injured, the damaged – sometimes the very badly damaged – and it has never failed to amaze me how men cling to life, even when it might seem kindest that they did not.’ He shook his head, as if to erase a memory. ‘And yet here you are, my dear, dear Molly, safe and sound, one of the survivors, and you are telling me you would rather not be here?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, it’s quite simple,’ David said, clearing his throat. He stood up very straight, his stance determined and his voice the no-nonsense tone that reminded her of their mother. ‘I will not let you give up on life, I will not, because that would be a bloody waste. You have so many wonderful things ahead of you. The war is done and now we all need to live for every one of those who lie in scrappy graves and would give anything to be in our shoes.’

  Molly felt a pulse of gratitude, not for his words but for the sentiment behind them.

  ‘Some people are able to bounce back from exceptional causes of stress and some people are not. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘I suppose not, although I’m not ashamed. And I’ve been coping well: I hold down my job, I keep myself presentable, I have my new home, and all of it was possible because I did it for Joe. All of it was to have Joe come back to me, but now—’ She swallowed, picturing again the way he had swung away from her, kicking his little feet and screaming with his lungs fit to burst.

  David held her gaze. ‘You have always done what is best for Joe. You put him out of harm’s way.’

  ‘Yes, but what about me, David? What was best for me? I’m now paying the price, living the consequences.’

  ‘What can I do to help you, Molly? What do you need to get better?’

  ‘I need help.’ She sat up straight herself now and wiped her nose, looking her brother in the eye, and suddenly the whole of the last couple of years seemed to catch up with her. Molly knew she was on the edge of the abyss. ‘I need help so I’m able to care for him properly without wobbling, without wanting to run.’

  ‘And you will, Little Moll, you will.’

  David glanced across to his sister in the passenger seat of his car. She gripped the wide leather seat with one hand, clutching the thick wool blanket tight at her neck with the other, yet still she shivered.

  ‘Nearly there, Moll.’

  She nodded, knowing that to remain calm would give her the best chance of keeping the sadness that threatened at bay. It was hard enough trying to breathe through her tears.

  ‘It’s all going to be all right, old girl,’ David said to comfort her. ‘We’ve had good advice from Dr Venables.’ He paused. ‘You’re not well, Molly, and it’s painful for me to see you like this, but you are not the first and, sadly, you won’t be the last. To ask for help is brave – vital, in fact. The casualties of war are many in number and the wounds far more varied than mortar and bullet damage.’

  I might have preferred that . . . She kept the thought to herself.

  ‘I feel as if I’ve been going at a million miles an hour without looking up, but now I’m scared, David,’ she whispered.

  ‘Because it is daunting, that’s why. But Winterhill Lodge is a terrific place – on the coast, with wide, sandy beaches. It all sounds rather nice. And after resting up, you’ll come back as good as new.’ He tried to jolly her along, as if this were any old jaunt and they were not heading to the hospital in Lowestoft and a facility for those with mental challenges: an asylum.

  ‘I’ve made some calls, Molly, and have been assured that this place has a
first-class record for treatment. It will do you good to get away from it all for a bit, to take a breather from life, and then you can come out feeling brand new!’

  ‘I don’t want to feel brand new, David. Right now I want to go to sleep and not wake up, not ever.’ She braced herself for the next rolling sob that engulfed her. It was as if now that she had acknowledged the crack in her armour, her sadness spilled from her like smoke.

  ‘And that, Molly, is the issue. You have to trust me on this.’

  ‘Do I have any choice?’

  ‘Yes, you do, darling. You have all the choices. You are choosing to admit yourself and can leave whenever you decide, but I fear that if you don’t go to a place where professional help is on hand, somewhere you can take your time and get well . . . I’m worried you might do something stupid. And I simply can’t let that happen.’ David gripped the steering wheel.

  ‘My friend did something stupid – Telsie. She wasn’t really a friend, but . . .’ She closed her eyes and saw the girl’s smiling face. ‘She was always so jolly, and yet she did that.’ Her tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Violet, too. And the truth is, I envy them their bravery, I do. I don’t want to live without Joe and without Johan, not really. I’ve told Joyce to take my boy with her and to keep loving him, keep him safe, and it hurts so badly that I wonder if it would be less painful not to be here at all . . .’

  ‘You can’t think like that, Molly, you can’t.’

  ‘I can’t help it, David. I was supposed to be welcoming Joe home this weekend’ – and just like that her tears came again, her voice raw – ‘but instead he’s going to Canada, bloody Canada, David! Thousands and thousands of miles away from me!’ she sobbed.

  The phone call with her sister, while David made the arrangements to take her to Winterhill, had been painful but necessary.

  With her throat almost too tight for words, and her heart too shredded for anything other than tears, she had held the phone close.

  ‘It will be easier when he’s a little older,’ Joyce had reassured her, sniffing too, ‘and if you really think it best, we will take him to Canada with us, just while you get better, and I’ll explain it all to him. And then when he comes home to you, it will be less traumatic because he’ll understand more and will be old enough to ask questions . . .’

  Molly listened to her sister’s words, hoping she was speaking the truth and knowing she was pure in her intentions.

  ‘I think it’s what needs to happen, Joyce.’ Her words coasted on her tears. ‘I think it’s what needs to be done. I feel a bit like everything is disintegrating and I need things to be more stable.’

  ‘My poor darling. You won’t always feel this way’ – Joyce had echoed their brother’s sentiments – ‘and it won’t be for ever, Molly darling. It won’t be.’

  ‘Joyce, please tell him every day that I love him,’ she squeaked, quite unable to picture her baby Joe boarding a plane bound for Canada.

  ‘I will, I will. And I want you to know how much I love this little boy! I truly do. I want him to feel safe and not need to worry about ghastly grown-up things.’ Joyce had drawn breath. ‘But equally as importantly, I do so want to do the right thing for you, too, for all of us. We’ll work hard to find the balance, I promise.’

  Molly had nodded down the line. ‘I just want him to feel safe and I don’t want him to be confused.’ She had paused then, digging deep to find the strength. ‘I want to feel better and I know when he comes home that will be the final part of the jigsaw for me.’ She had sobbed silently, knowing this was for the best, despite how much it hurt.

  ‘Oh’ – Joyce had taken a sharp breath – ‘it will! And he will always be your child, Molly. He will always be yours, but if you ever think about losing a moment of rest out of concern that he does not have the very, very best life, then please don’t, because he will have the whole world and he is loved! He was – he is – the greatest gift for however long I am responsible for him!’

  ‘I shall always love him and you.’

  ‘I know. We are one family, Molly, all of us. He might call me Mama right now, but never forget I am your sister who loves you very much and we are raising him in the same family. We are all one family.’ Again the tears came, robbing her briefly of composure. ‘He loves you, Molly. Joe loves you. We can get through this – we can and we will.’

  Even now as the car trundled along, a small smile formed involuntarily on Molly’s face. It was a lovely thought that Joe might love her in some way, despite the pain of the knowledge that she would for the time being play a secondary role in his life. She recognised that it was far, far better than no role at all at a time when she had to concentrate on getting better.

  ‘Everything is such a mess, David. I feel as if Johan and Joe were my one chance and it has all been taken away from me.’

  ‘There will be other chances when you’re feeling better. Joe will come back.’

  Molly gripped the blanket more tightly at her neck. ‘But I’m broken, David, more than I want to admit. I’m broken.’ She turned away from her brother and stared out of the window, barely aware of the fields rushing by as they headed towards Winterhill Lodge.

  ‘You will mend, you will,’ he said resolutely.

  ‘I’m so tired. I don’t want to think any more.’ It seemed as if the exhaustion that she had kept at bay for the longest time now washed over her in waves. Her mind was empty, numb and yet, conversely, also racing. It was hard to know whom she cried for the most: her beloved Johan, with whom, for the want of a bit of luck, she would be strolling along the Embankment right now; Joe, her baby boy, for whom she cried a river; Telsie, the sweet girl who had felt her only option was to swing from a tree; Violet; Pascal . . .

  ‘Why didn’t I spend time with her, David? Why wasn’t I her friend?’ she asked in breaks from her tears.

  ‘Because we are all busy with life and survival, my dear. We have all in recent times been so very busy with life . . .’

  Winterhill Lodge, she would come to realise, was aptly named. It was a Gothic structure of meandering proportions with areas under canopies or behind turrets which remained untouched by the sun. The windows had bars and the doors were thick and imposing. David booked her in, the paperwork no more than the jotting of basic details and a couple of signatures, all quite straightforward, as she was admitting herself of her own volition. A stocky orderly took her handbag and her watch; she rubbed the space on her wrist where it had always lived. He handed them to David.

  ‘Clara and I will keep safe everything you own, I promise you. We will go to the cottage if you like and lock away anything precious. It will all be waiting for you when you come home.’

  ‘I have . . . I have a button. It’s . . . it’s my most precious thing – in the little walnut box in the sitting room. Please, please don’t let anything happen to it. I don’t care about anything else. It’s brass and it has, erm . . . it has a naval crest and a knot of rope on it.’

  ‘A button. Right . . .’ She saw him look up and catch the eye of the orderly. ‘I’ll find it and make sure no harm comes to it.’

  ‘I feel as if I’m falling.’

  ‘It will all be okay, Molly, I promise. I’ll see you soon. Take your time and let them help you get better.’ He kissed her then, a gentle, lingering kiss on the forehead, and she watched him turn and leave her in this strange place, all alone.

  She watched as his shadow disappeared around a corner and out of sight.

  As an emergency admission, Molly was seen by a certain Dr Fanthorpe, who wore thick glasses and hummed as he stared at the form on the front of his clipboard, seeming most unmoved by her sobbing, which she quickly learned was standard behaviour at Winterhill. Tears of distress were ignored, along with wailing, screaming and the banging of various objects or the flat of palms against the metal doors or window bars at all hours of day or night. Despite the mayhem, the place was at first a refuge where she welcomed the oblivion brought on by the drugs. She barely noticed the
shiny painted walls and squeaky linoleum floors; the bare rooms devoid of art, beauty and comfort; the sharp stick of cold metal needles into her skin; and the scowls of those working in an environment that must have made them, too, feel like prisoners. Molly understood, because Winterhill Lodge became her prison. She was free to leave at any time, but in the first couple of months just one look at the frost-covered grass, grey winter sky and the whole wide world that lay beyond its walls and courage failed her. The pull of the cot bed in her room and the cool slip of a needle under her skin to help her escape was irresistible and easy.

  After three weeks, Molly had visitors. David and Clara came and sat in front of her and she was embarrassed at her unkempt locks and lack of conversation, picking at her cuticles as they talked about the weather and Clementine’s many achievements at school and the new baby they were expecting.

  ‘Hetty for a girl and Maynard for a boy,’ Clara explained.

  ‘God, I do hope it’s a girl,’ Molly joked, and David and Clara laughed raucously, as if delighted that she was still in there somewhere . . .

  It was, Molly knew, kind of them to visit, but she would actually rather they hadn’t.

  Molly did indeed feel she had disappeared somewhere inside herself, able to view the life before she had come here only in small snippets. The way she would come to think of it was that inside Winterhill she didn’t exist and was no more than a shadow, sliding quietly from bed to chair to psychiatrist’s couch and back again, going through the motions of life without actually living. In truth, she didn’t dislike the drug-induced haze in which she spent time. Not only did it stop her worrying about all the things she couldn’t fix, but also it dulled her sadness to the point where thoughts of Johan, Joe, Geer, Violet and even Telsie were fleeting and less spiky, bouncing on a cushion of medication that took away much of her pain.