An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  And then slowly, nearly three months after she had arrived and following numerous sessions to deal with her emotional post-war pain, things began to subtly change until she began to notice a different kind of feeling and a different kind of thought. It was as if a light had been switched on in a previously darkened place, a window opened to let in the air. Suddenly the smell of her surroundings seemed unpleasant to her and the noises almost unbearable. It was a sensation not dissimilar to waking up. This period of new-found awareness was followed by the slow realisation that a different life awaited her. A life where she was free to come and go as she pleased, take a bath if she so desired, tend the lilac on the back wall of her garden, style her hair and read a book late into the night, free to eat what she wanted and when she wanted.

  I would like a jacket potato with butter that drips down my chin and the skin blackened.

  She smiled to herself, able to think now about Violet without quaking in her limbs.

  ‘Well, look at you, all cheery today! What are you thinking, my love?’ one of the kindly nurses asked, as she ran a bath for Molly, in which she would wash under supervision.

  ‘I’m thinking that I would like to go home,’ she said, smiling at the woman. Her smile in itself was a new thing. ‘I want to go home.’

  Dr Fanthorpe was duly summoned.

  ‘You’re ready to leave Winterhill, you think?’ His tone, as ever, was neutral, businesslike. He circled his chin with his thumb and forefinger as he spoke.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ She nodded from the other side of the table, her voice clear and steady. ‘I don’t feel so anxious, my thoughts are a lot calmer and I no longer wish to be medicated. I don’t need to be here any more.’

  ‘Can I ask what has brought you to this conclusion?’ He sat now with his pen poised over her open file.

  Molly took her time. ‘Big Betty had a visitor yesterday,’ she said, mentioning a large, boisterous inmate who enjoyed a certain notoriety. ‘A woman, and she was wearing a red coat. It was the first time I could recall seeing such colour inside this grey, grey world. I had almost forgotten that such a shade existed. She walked past me, and she smelled so wonderful! A rich, lemony scent. I’ve not smelled anything like it in the longest time, and after having that in my nostrils, I became overly aware of the odour of this place.’ She wrinkled her nose, as if still filtering carbolic soap, bleach, shit and the unique odour of human misery. ‘It made me yearn for my garden, for the scent of flowers, fresh-baked bread, eau de parfum, bananas . . . all the good things, Dr Fanthorpe. And I realised that if I’m aware of these things, longing for these things, then the cloak of sadness that has obscured my vision and wrapped me tight for so long has been lifted, and that’s it.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I am ready to go home, to tend my garden and eat well.’

  Dr Fanthorpe did not write a single word, but instead replaced the lid of his pen and stowed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He nodded and smiled broadly at her. ‘I think, Miss Collway, that sounds like a lovely way to live. Let’s make the necessary arrangements to get you out of here when you’re ready.’

  ‘I’m ready now.’ She nodded, holding his gaze. ‘I’m ready now.’

  SIXTEEN

  Tonbridge, Kent

  1952

  Aged 27

  Molly took one last long look at the view out over Vauxhall Bridge and began to clear her desk, packing up her personal belongings and placing them carefully in her handbag. She wanted to take the few small items left to show for a role she had been in for eight years: a powder compact with a mirror and a photograph of herself and a young blonde woman on a farm, circa 1944. The young woman standing behind Molly was beaming over her shoulder into the camera and her hands were raised, palms out, as if she were mid-dance. In the background, a line of men in farming overalls were bent over, picking potatoes, if she remembered rightly. Molly ran her finger over the girl’s happy face and shook her head, still finding it hard to accept that to take her own life had felt like the best option.

  Sweet Telsie . . .

  A couple of francs and a handful of centimes had somehow also found their way into her drawer; they clinked in her palm as she remembered that the only thing she had bought on that trip had been a foul cup of chicory and sawdust masquerading as coffee. She swallowed, picturing the waitress who had served her, coiled into a ball with her hands over her ears, knees up to her chest and her eyes screwed tight shut . . . I hope she made it. It was a thorn in Molly’s mind that she didn’t know the fate of half of the people who had been present in her life, some only briefly and others who had mattered, people she had loved like Geer – where was she now? she wondered. She supposed that was the nature of war, with families dispersed, bonds of friendship broken, community links smashed and everyone having to start over in a changed new world.

  Molly had been as good as her word and made the trip to Alresford in the spring after leaving Winterhill Lodge. She had walked around the little market town just emerging from war, where hanging baskets were already abundant, flowers peppered the verges, lawns were neat, net curtains sparkling white, kerbs swept, front steps polished and where people walked slowly and chatted readily. Seven years on, not much had come off the ration since the war, but that still couldn’t take the shine off the joy of simply being alive. The butcher stood proudly outside his shop with a clean apron and with some chunks of meat, offal, the odd string of sausages and a few precious hen’s eggs in his window, his lady customers leaving with a few slices of bacon perhaps, wrapped up in waxed paper and string, or an egg or two nestling in their baskets, all of them sporting the quiet, hesitant smiles of survivors. Likewise the baker, ironmonger and cobbler were all jolly men, happy to be home and to have life and business somewhat restored. It was a genteel place and one Molly could see the appeal of, the kind of place she might have chosen to raise a child, rural and calm. This she considered as she walked the lanes, that if fate had been a little kinder she would have been here with Johan, sharing the insight of a local. Her heart still twisted at the thought, her stomach folding with longing for the man.

  The postmistress behind the counter of the local post office seemed like a good person to ask when it came to knowing who might live where. Molly waited until all the customers had been served and took advantage of the momentary lull in trade.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a family I know who live around here, or at least they used to. He is a doctor and his wife a nurse; their name is de Fries.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes!’ The woman nodded in instant recognition and Molly felt her spirit soar with anticipation. Was she really this close to locating not only Geer but also the people who would have been her in-laws, Joe’s grandparents? The woman scratched her whiskery chin and thought hard. ‘They had a daughter who was quite lively, I seem to remember.’

  Molly laughed. Yes, she is!

  ‘And a son, who I believe was killed in the war.’ This phrase was quite standard and could be applied to at least one family in every street in every city, town, hamlet and village in the country. Not that it made it any easier to hear.

  Molly nodded. Yes, he was. And suddenly there was no place for laughter.

  The postmistress continued, her voice quiet now. ‘I think it was that tragedy that spurred the move. I know they left soon after the war ended, if not just before. I don’t know where they went, I’m afraid. The big old house was empty for a while, and now the Wentworths live there – city types.’ She pulled a disapproving face and went back to her business.

  Molly’s hopes had been dashed as quickly as they were raised, and she slowly walked back to the bus stop, great rocks of disappointment lining her gut and weighing her down.

  ‘Miss Collway! Glad I caught you – sad day, happy day? Which is it?’ Mr Allan dragged her back from the memory as she gathered the last of her belongings. He rested on the edge of her desk with his legs splayed and his narrow black shoes tapping the table leg as he exhaled his foul cigarette smo
ke.

  ‘A bit of both, I think. It’s a natural end for me.’

  The role of POW liaison was quiet now, with most either repatriated to their homeland or else living fully integrated in their adopted communities. She had been asked to consider a new role in helping to coordinate migrant welfare services, but had politely declined. Since the end of the war, there had been an influx of brave immigrants from all corners of the Commonwealth to this strange country, saying goodbye to everything familiar and often turning up with little more than a suitcase, valiantly answering the call to help rebuild Great Britain. But in truth, Molly wanted something quieter, a job with a predictable routine, less travel and something that would give her time to tend her garden and live at a pace that suited her. It wasn’t that the job seemed beyond her capabilities, far from it, but she knew from painful experience that if her mind became overloaded, the pressure too much, there was a danger she might break down altogether. She had learned to manage her mental health, by taking things slowly and seeking refuge in her garden. She knew also that maintaining a calm life on an even keel was how she kept her mind intact.

  ‘It’ll be a shame not to be working with you any more,’ Mr Allan said suddenly.

  ‘Well, that’s a very nice thing to say. Thank you.’ Molly smiled in gratitude as she gathered her navy half-sleeved cardigan from the back of her chair. ‘I’ve certainly had some experiences during my time here.’

  Mr Allan rose from the desk and drew closer. Placing a hand on her waist, he breathed, ‘I hoped I’d catch you before you left. I wanted to say that I’ve always found you terribly attractive.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Molly shucked off his hand, her heart racing. His attentions were most unwelcome, the way he pawed her flashing her right back to the Café Hubert and the feel of the officer’s hand sliding up the back of her leg. She shuddered – this was the kind of thing that set her back, unnerved her and stirred up an unwelcome silt of terrible, terrible times.

  ‘I mean it, Molly. I would like to buy you dinner. Any time, you just give the word and—’

  ‘Dinner? I see, and would Mrs Allan be joining us?’ she interrupted as casually as she could manage, while grabbing her handbag and white cotton gloves from the desk, eager to leave. She felt a spike of anger, knowing that after eight years of service here, this vile encounter would be her last memory of the place.

  He smirked at her and then again stood uncomfortably close. ‘Come on, Molly, don’t be spiky,’ he insisted. This time he reached out to take her hand, and she pulled it away with force.

  ‘Spiky? Why don’t you fuck off, Mr Allan!’ she yelled as she marched towards the door.

  ‘Ah, I get it,’ he called after her. ‘Are you one of those girls who prefers the company of women? I mean, I’ve often wondered, what with no husband, and so on.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then slicked his Brylcreemed hair back over his forehead.

  Molly paused at the edge of the door and looked back at the office that had been her little domain for nearly a decade. ‘Do you know, Mr Allan, I have absolutely never considered that, but if I were forced to choose between having sex with a woman or with you, I would jump at the chance – any woman, in fact, would be infinitely less repulsive to me.’ And with that she swept from the room and ran along the corridor to the lift as fast as her kitten heels and shaking legs would carry her, jabbing her finger on the call button, keen for the doors to open and give her sanctuary, lest he should reappear. Thankfully, he did not.

  Molly put the incident with Mr Allan out of her mind. Not even he could dampen her mood, the pig. She left the railway station with a slight sway to the full skirts of her wide-waisted frock, happy for two reasons: first, that a new chapter in her life was about to begin and for the first time ever, not in fact since she had started school, she had no definite plan. It felt a little liberating, a little intimidating and a whole lot exciting. Second, and the main reason for the smile fixed on her face, was that Joyce, Albert and Joe were coming home! Home for good. Just the thought of being able to visit them whenever the fancy took her filled her stomach with butterflies and joy. They were arriving any day now and she could barely sleep for the excitement pinging in her gut.

  Albert’s posting had at first been for a year at most. This was then extended and extended again until earlier this year, when they decided to come home. Joyce had at each turn consulted Molly, and if she had not asked outright for permission to stay abroad with Joe, then it was certainly implied. Phone calls were rare. The first from Joyce had been tentative, quiet.

  ‘How are you?’ she had asked gently.

  ‘Good, okay, working and busy with the garden . . .’

  The calls had continued twice yearly, as did improvements in Molly’s well-being, and then came a sea change. With Joe firmly established and living his life in Canada, she was the one who led the questioning, and always with the same simple barometer.

  ‘Is Joe happy?’

  This was all she needed to know. She had made the ultimate sacrifice and the point of it was not only to stop her boy suffering through separation from the woman he had come to know as his mother, but also that the stable life Joyce and Albert could offer him was all she wished for, unmarred by an unmarried mother who could not wholly rely on her own mental stability.

  Over the last seven years, she and Joyce had exchanged letters and photographs with increasing regularity. The first, like their short telephone calls, were awkward, ridiculously formal, stilted and dull. They made no mention of Winterhill Lodge, bar the cursory addition of ‘Hope you are well’ dotted at the end, almost as an embarrassed afterthought. Molly understood. It was a difficult subject to broach in writing; she herself found it pointless to detail an unchanging routine set within four shiny, magnolia-painted walls and knew it would be hard for Joyce to ask someone who was in a facility for the mentally ill how they were feeling. Not only had it been an uncomfortable topic back then, but any enquiry had felt like pressure when the reply could only be negative or confused. Once she had left the place, gone home to her cottage in Chelmsford and back to her job in town, the tone of their communications changed. Molly liked to sit in her armchair with her French doors open, no matter the weather, and with a heavy book resting on her knees, she would write to Joyce, using her trusty fountain pen.

  It took a good few months of back and forth in this way until it became their predominant form of communication. It was like learning a foreign language at which they grew more fluent with practice, but it was also a matter of trust. It was one thing to speak freely with someone you loved, letting the words tumble out face to face, but quite another to put those same words on paper: immortalising them, unable to take a breath, a beat and reframe the meaning. Each took tentative steps, testing the written word, adding a small mention or word that exposed vulnerability or hurt, until they reached the point when their innermost thoughts, sentiments and secrets flowed. The trust implicit in and the comfort gained from these communiqués was immeasurable.

  ‘Sometimes I cry, Molly. I cry because we lost Mum, I cry because I miss you and I cry because I’m a long, long way from home . . .’

  ‘I miss him, Joyce. My heart and arms ache for him. I suspect they always will . . .’

  ‘I have a deep worry, Molly, that I have put myself forward to be Joe’s mum – but supposing I’m not doing it right? Supposing I fail . . .’

  ‘You know, Joyce, on a low day, I wonder if losing Johan and in a sense Joe is punishment for some misdemeanour, meted out by a God I don’t believe in . . .’

  ‘Albert and Joe go on boys-only trips fishing and camping, or they play cricket, and I feel a surge of jealousy in my veins to be excluded. Is that what it’s like for you, my darling? Because it hurts . . . I know how it hurts . . .’

  ‘I think one of the hardest things for me, Joyce, is how Joe fills so many of my thoughts and yet I know I will not enter his . . .’

  Many letters from her sister containe
d photographs, finger paintings and other small gifts that helped to connect their lives: a wide russet maple leaf, a snippet cut from the local newspaper detailing Joe’s win in the hockey team and a gold-painted Christmas star baked from salt dough, rather lopsided and lumpy, but still the most beautiful thing ever to grace Molly’s Christmas tree. These letters and the odd telephone call at Christmas helped fill a pocket of loneliness left by her family’s absence, but it was nothing compared to being able to hold her boy, read to him, see him face to face, hear his voice, judge his expression – and she couldn’t wait.

  It had been nearly three years since ‘the’ phone call. The one they had both known was looming from the outset, and the one Molly had dreaded deep down in her bones. It felt different to the others, more formal. Joyce’s breathing had been hesitant and Molly’s tone calm, resolute, yet underpinned with a deep-seated sadness. The words and their consequences were, both knew, unavoidable, not that it made saying them out loud any easier.

  ‘We’re at a crossroads, Molly.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s getting older and takes for granted that we’re his parents. He’s settled and I’m not sure how to go forward. It feels as if we’re all lurching from one year to the next, waiting for the decision on . . .’ Joyce ran out of words.

  ‘On what happens next,’ Molly interjected, picking up the baton. ‘On whether we start to plan how I take Joe back, or—’

  ‘Orwhetherhestayswithus.’ Almost choking, Joyce rushed through this phrase as if she needed to spit it out as fast as possible.

  Her words had been long expected, but their effect was shocking, sharp and painful, like the jab of a metal needle beneath her skin.

  ‘I think . . .’ Molly took her time, having rehearsed the phrase in her mind many, many times. ‘I think it’s done, Joyce. I think it’s gone too far for me to swoop in and try and pick up where we left off. I think . . . I think you’re his mum now.’ She didn’t cry. Didn’t fall. Didn’t break. There was no crescendo of distress, as there might have been years ago before everything settled, before things calmed and practicality elbowed sentiment off the top spot. The exchange was instead a calm recognition of the inevitable. The idea had at first been like a knife in her throat, the concept monstrous! But over time she had swallowed the knife and it had dissolved inside her. And an idea, something utterly unimaginable, like grief, like loss, like war . . . had slowly become normal because she had lived through it and lived with it. What indeed was the alternative? Not that she didn’t on occasion fall to the floor in deep sorrow at the fact that Joyce had her son – her son! But certainly she had grown used to it, as humans will do with any situation, no matter how impossible it might seem in the beginning. At first she had worried that history might damn her for giving up too easily on her boy, but after a while, she began to hope that history would mark her as a woman who did the very best for him and had made the ultimate sacrifice for his well-being.