An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘I have a pack for you – advice on window locks, front-door protocol for if a stranger knocks, that kind of thing.’

  ‘That’s rather ironic, since you’re a stranger who knocked.’ She took in his height, his neatness and his tan.

  ‘Yes, and you failed to ask me for identification.’

  ‘Because you phoned to tell me you were coming and then arrived. Very promptly, I might add, which is good to know. If ever I need another sticker or advice on window locks, it’s a great comfort to know that you can get here so quickly.’

  ‘Now,’ Mr Morgan said, taking a deep breath, ‘I know you’re being sarcastic, but I can’t work out if you’re being mean or funny.’

  ‘Probably a bit of both,’ she responded, to her surprise, and the two held each other’s gaze for a beat.

  ‘In that case,’ he said, taking a step back on the path and pulling Hugo towards him, ‘stay right where you are.’

  ‘Why do I need to stay here?’ She was perplexed.

  ‘Because I’m going to get brandy! You’re clearly in shock and you’re such a very old lady! Back in a jiff!’

  Molly closed her front door and leaned against it, wondering what had just happened. She wandered to the kitchen and tidied the work surface, putting the honey pot and loaf of bread out of sight; she then ran the dirty teacups under the tap and set them in the sink for a proper wash later. Next she grabbed her hairbrush from her handbag and pulled it through her straight hair. She caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window and did not dislike what she saw. Words came to her now, offered in friendship from inside a cramped lavatory during the war:

  ‘You take a good look and like what you see. It’s important. It’s hard for people to love you if you don’t love yourself.’

  And she smiled at the memory of dear Marjorie.

  There was a knock at the door; Molly walked slowly to steady her pulse and opened it. Ian Morgan walked in, holding aloft the promised bottle of brandy.

  ‘Where’s Hugo?’ She looked towards the path.

  ‘He’s asleep, snoring and farting in front of the Aga. And I’d be doing the same, were it not for our chance meeting and your pesky burglary.’

  ‘Did you come back to give me my window sticker?’ she asked, feeling a rise of something in her gut that felt a lot like desire.

  ‘I did.’ He walked in and she closed the front door.

  Molly trod the steep stairs of her cottage and sat on the little stool by the window to phone her sister.

  ‘Morning. Everything all right, Moll?’ Joyce was seemingly just as aware as she was of the early hour.

  ‘Yes, everything is fine. Just wanted to call and let you know: I’ve had sex!’

  ‘Well, yes, dear, I rather gathered as much – hence the whole fiasco back in ’44.’ It was a wonder they could find any humour in it, and a marker of how far they had come – how far she had come.

  ‘No, I mean I had sex yesterday!’ she whispered, although she was entirely alone. She might have had enough confidence to actually have sex, but talking about it with ease was quite another thing altogether.

  ‘Good Lord, Molly! Who with?’

  ‘A gentleman named Ian Morgan. He’s the chair of the Neighbourhood Watch.’

  ‘Well, I have heard that some women find men in positions of power to be an aphrodisiac.’

  ‘Stop it! He’s actually very nice, handsome and an architect.’

  ‘Heavens! And he just stopped by and you had sex?’ Joyce sounded intrigued and appalled in equal measure.

  ‘Pretty much.’ Molly closed her eyes with a flush of embarrassment.

  ‘So are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I rather think I will.’

  ‘Well, good for you, Molly, good for you!’

  ‘Anyway, cheerio, and I shall keep you informed!’

  ‘Jolly good! Enjoy your Saturday . . .’ Her sister laughed.

  Molly hung up and immediately felt the lick of disloyalty, as she remembered that she had lost her precious button and then on the same day had sex with Ian Morgan. It was confusing and yet she already knew she wanted to see him and Hugo again, and she definitely wanted more sex. With Ian – Hugo was way too ugly, ladies’ man or not.

  Molly especially liked Saturdays, not because she ever had any extravagant plans, but simply not having to go to work meant a change in routine. Her hair went without a brush and she didn’t bother with lipstick when she was only pottering at home. It felt quite nice, decadent in a way, to spend as long as she liked reading the morning paper or, weather permitting, to dally in the garden with her secateurs primed. And today was especially nice, having enjoyed the company of Mr Ian Morgan until the wee small hours.

  Bending down, she hummed as she picked up the post from the doormat and took the little bundle through into the kitchen, where she set it aside while she filled the electric kettle, going back to it when her teabag was in place at the bottom of her grandmother’s dainty little bone china cup. The first thing to catch her eye was a circular, reminding every resident in the street that the water was being turned off for three hours next Wednesday to allow for essential maintenance on the pipes. This information raised little more than a shrug; she would be ensconced behind the counter in the patient record office, so no need to worry about the water. She did decide, however, to have her bath the night before and to fill the kettle and a couple of jugs on the morning for the washing up and a cup of tea, just in case. In fact, next Wednesday was going to be special: Janice was meeting her for lunch. Molly couldn’t wait to hear about life in Melbourne, Australia, where Janice had been living with her husband and two sons for the last decade. It was only her first visit home and Janice was coming alone, as tickets were too expensive for the whole family to travel. Molly was beyond delighted that the ditsy girl, whom she’d had the pleasure of watching bloom into the most delightful woman, was choosing to spend precious time with her. She was very much looking forward to it.

  Crumpling the page into a ball, Molly tossed it in the bin by the side of the fridge. The second item was a handwritten envelope and not the brown variety, so unlikely to be a bill, but instead a plump cream-coloured package that felt comfortingly weighted in her palm.

  Molly hummed the tune ‘Young at Heart’, which she had heard on the radio and persisted as an earworm. Steam was shooting from the spout of the kettle towards the ceiling as she slid her finger under the gummed rim to open the envelope.

  The first thing she saw was a folded letter with something nestling inside. Drawing it out, her knees went weak and her breathing grew ragged.

  ‘Oh, good Lord!’ Sinking down into the little wooden chair by the stove, Molly studied the black-and-white photograph that she now held up to her face.

  ‘Look at you!’ she gasped. ‘How handsome . . . And how much you look like Joe! Or rather how much Joe looks like you. I’d almost forgotten – and how young! Oh, Johan, oh my love!’ It was some minutes before her gaze was satisfied, her eyes taking in every minute detail from his trimmed moustache to the way the light reflected in his pupils and the wave of his fringe, longer than she had seen it, over his forehead. The flat ears with their fleshy lobes, the almond-shaped nostrils, and his clothes! He was wearing a shirt with the top button open and a jersey over the top. This was the first time she had seen him in anything other than standard Naval-issue uniform. His beautiful mouth wore a slight curve, as if he were trying to stifle a smile, but the slight crinkle at the edge of his kind eyes suggested he was only seconds away from bursting into laughter. It was without doubt the most glorious thing she had ever seen, and since her burglary, when her precious button had been taken, was now a physical link, the only one, to the man she had loved and lost. The irony was not lost on her that this extraordinary thing had plopped into her lap so soon after she had lost her button.

  ‘How on earth?’

  She shook her head, beyond curious as to how this had come into her hands, but absolutely delighted
that it had. Carefully, she held the photograph in her left hand, while with her right she smoothed out the letter and read slowly, the very first words enough to make her tears bloom. Her first thought was that she did not want tears to land on the precious picture, and so she set it aside on the tabletop and held the letter in her shaking fingers. There was no date and no address.

  Molly, my friend, for you are still my friend, aren’t you?

  ‘Oh!’ She recognised the handwriting instantly. ‘Oh, Geertruida! My darling Geer!’ She broke away from her reading and said aloud, ‘Yes, yes, I am still your friend!’ Keen to keep reading, she gathered herself as best she could and wiped her eyes on the tea towel that hung on the grill handle at the top of the stove.

  This is a letter I have wanted to write more times than I can remember, but with nowhere to send it I’ve had to wait until now, when I saw your picture and the details of your burglary in a newspaper! The article made mention of a brass button that you were desperate to have returned – that was Joe’s button, wasn’t it? I know it! I have kept this photograph of him in an envelope in the distinct hope that I could give it to you one day, and that day is now. How fast the years have flown. Can it really be over forty years since I last saw you? I look in the mirror and don’t recognise the ageing face staring back at me – I feel just the same as I did back when we would dance and be damned if Hitler’s bombs were going to stop us. No one tells you that, do they? That no matter what happens to our bodies, you feel the same inside?

  ‘No, no, they don’t, Geer!’ Molly smiled, running her hand over her cheeks and feeling the slackness in skin once taut.

  So much time has passed that it’s impossible to talk about life and what and who and how and where in detail, and so I won’t even try. We moved from Alresford before the end of the war and my lovely parents didn’t make old bones. I don’t think they ever really got over losing Joe. But I do want to say I am sorry. This is the purpose of this rather muddled missive: I AM SORRY, MOLLY. I have always been sorry. My heart was broken when my beloved brother died and my fury balled and pinged around inside me. I took it out on you and that was unforgivable. I said hurtful things that still have the ability to pull me from sleep with shame in the small hours. The truth is, I know Joe loved you. I know it.

  Molly stopped reading and a wide smile settled on her face. This was so very wonderful to hear – the most wonderful thing! He loved me, he did! And I have always felt it and I have always, always known it!

  And I hope that you and your child have found peace. I have thought of you both over the years, wondering if I have a niece or a nephew? But I know that to stoke old embers might only cause pain. I thought about writing to the house in Bloomsbury, but then worried that you might be married and did your husband know the full story? Did the child? I felt I might be opening the most enormous can of worms that might only cause you more harm, the very opposite of my intentions. I have no way of knowing your circumstances, nor indeed whether you ever did or are able to forgive me. But time, Molly, is not on my side and so I take the chance now, having read in the newspaper that you are still Miss Collway.

  Joe wrote to Mother – I saw the postcard myself. It said simply:

  ‘Ma, I am bringing her home. The one. The girl I shall marry!’ And Mother was truly pleased for him and for you, and so was I, my dear friend, so was I! But then in the throes of grief, my jealousy clouded everything. Forgive me, Molly, sweet Molly, forgive me and know that Joe loved you, as did I. Mother took comfort in her final years from the fact that her son, while cruelly taken too soon, had known love . . .

  And I send my love to you, old friend.

  I think of you often. So often.

  Geer xx

  Molly read and re-read the words until she knew them by heart. Geer gave no indication that she had received the letter Molly sent to Alresford all those years ago and now, with no return address, she was unable to reply, but this fact did not trouble her. What more was there to say? Digging in the drawer in the dining-room dresser, she retrieved an old silver frame that had been her mother’s and placed Johan’s photograph in it. It looked splendid on the mantelpiece in a position where she could see it from all angles when in the sitting room. It brought her comfort. Geer’s letter had been the most magnificent and unexpected gift. Molly felt as if a weight had been cut from her, one which had inadvertently slowed her recovery and which she had been dragging behind her for so long. And yet here she was, a woman of sixty, with a spring in her step that fired happiness and expectation through her very core; this, she knew in no small part, down to the attentions of Ian Morgan.

  Having read confirmation in Geer’s note, Johan’s words were once again strong and clear in her mind. Her conviction that what they had shared had been true and mutual was restored and that really was the most incredible feeling.

  She stared at the picture on the mantelpiece. How truly wonderful. My glorious, handsome love . . . She popped Geer’s letter inside the pages of the heavy book A Study of Flora that lived by her chair.

  Molly never saw her little walnut box, her coins nor her precious button again. The Neighbourhood Watch man, however, she saw quite regularly. The glorious Ian Morgan, her lovely friend with whom she had lovely sex, was a ray of sunshine in her predictable life. Their liaison was a surprise to her, this glorious intimacy that had been denied to her for the longest time. It was a joyous connection that she had found with another person, and an even bigger surprise was that she gave herself with abandon, unaware or uncaring of her reputation and all the things that had so hampered her in her youth. It was now the eighties, a new era with new rules, and if Molly, who had only just turned sixty, wanted to have sex with the head of the Neighbourhood Watch on a Wednesday evening after sharing supper in front of the television, with the ugly dog Hugo by their feet, then that was just fine.

  Theirs was a casual love affair, hers and Ian’s, though no less valued for that. And in truth, on the days when she knew he was going to pop over, she wore a smile on her face as she worked.

  ‘You’re positively glowing today, Miss Collway!’ the sprightly Mr Kendall would remark, in this, his final year at the hospital before he retired to Spain with his partner Miguel, a dancer, no less.

  ‘Am I, Mr Kendall? It must be the menopause.’ How she valued her friendship with this dear man who made every day a little bit better. Dear, dear Mr Kendall. Molly knew he would never fully appreciate what his kindness had meant to her over the years.

  ‘Oh, me too!’ he remarked, fanning his face with his newspaper.

  Molly had been busy in the kitchen since returning from work, when Ian arrived with Hugo and shrugged off his overcoat and unwound his scarf, laying both on the stool in the hallway.

  ‘Something smells good!’ He leaned in and pecked her on the cheek.

  ‘Shepherd’s pie.’ She smiled. Her repertoire in the culinary arts was small but well rehearsed.

  ‘How was your day?’ he asked, taking up a chair at the kitchen table, his manner easy.

  ‘All fairly standard. Mr Kendall was in fine form, as ever. I’m glad I’m retiring too; it wouldn’t be the same there without him.’

  ‘Don’t be such a creature of habit – change can be exciting! It’s amazing what you can get used to when you have to.’ He drummed his fingers on the table.

  Molly turned sharply, feeling his words as a slight. It wasn’t necessarily his fault, but he had no idea what a success it was to live her happy, ordinary life when she had so very nearly snapped for good all those years ago. The life she now led was rich and rewarding.

  ‘You think I don’t know that? Gosh, Ian, I have had to get used to lots of things beyond my control.’ She couldn’t fully explain her flare of anger at his words, but even his drumming fingers were suddenly an irritation.

  ‘Well, yes, we all have. I think it’s almost impossible to get to our age and not be scarred by life in some way. I didn’t mean to offend you, Molly.’

  There was a
slight note of apprehension in his tone, and she felt a little mean.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I was a bit snappy, I don’t know why – I think I’m tired.’

  ‘Was that our first tiff?’ He chuckled.

  ‘Hardly; more a moment of tension than a tiff,’ she said, tipping frozen peas into the boiling water on the stove.

  ‘We’re odd bedfellows, quite literally!’ He smiled. ‘I mean, I get to see you naked, I get to sleep with you, eat with you on occasion, and yet we don’t really ever talk.’

  ‘We’re talking right now.’ She put the packet of peas back in the icebox at the top of her humming fridge.

  ‘Ha ha, you know what I mean . . . We talk about the weather, the cricket, our supper, Hugo’ – he patted the dog at his feet – ‘but we never talk about anything deeper or anything that might take us to the next level in our relationship.’

  ‘I thought we were both happy with how things are?’ What Molly meant by this was that she was happy with how things were and saw no need to change. What she felt for Ian was enough, but no more. Certainly not what was needed to take things to the ‘next level’.

  ‘We are – I am,’ he clarified, ‘but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious to see where we end up. I mean, neither of us is getting any younger.’

  Molly gave him her full attention now. ‘I know I can be a bit of a closed book.’ She smiled at the understatement, thinking back to when she had loved completely and her heart had been smashed, and how when she had ‘opened up’, Rex had run a mile . . . ‘I suppose it’s a bit of self-preservation.’

  ‘And I understand that, but I talk quite openly about losing Joan and the horror of it, but you . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Mysterious Molly, you don’t give much away.’

  ‘Not much to give away, I suppose. I’m happy you can talk about Joan, but I bet there’s something deep in your gut that you don’t share, and I’m not asking you to!’ She raised her palm to make it clearer. ‘I certainly have things like that, things that are too personal, too hard to dredge up, and I believe all of us has something inside that we carry around, trapped. Our own secret sorrow or regret . . . I suppose we’ll never really know because most of us keep it hidden.’