by Mia Dolan
‘Leave my suitcase on the front step.’
‘I thought I’d wait just in case—’
‘Go. Please.’
It felt strange to give him orders and to see him obey so quickly.
He nodded silently then watched her leave him, heading for the entrance to the back lane.
The lane was unchanged except that the nettles and tall grass smelled of summer.
She paused at the gate. The recognisable figure dressed in black was sitting outside the back door, knitting needles click-clacking as always. Everything seemed the same and yet it was not.
Marcie’s breath caught in her throat. Her grandmother seemed to have shrunk since she’d last seen her. Never had her face looked so pale and her frame so small. Her clothes were still black and even from a distance it was possible to see that there was more grey in her jet-black hair.
The reason was obvious: so much had happened in the past year or so; everyone had gone; her grandmother was alone with nothing more than memories.
Marcie felt her loneliness. Feeling it, actually feeling it, surprised her. She hadn’t realised such a thing was possible.
Dry paint flaked onto her hand as she pushed the gate open. It squeaked on its rusty hinges. The gate, the cottage and the woman sitting outside the back door were suffering from neglect. But that didn’t mean she’d be welcome here. It didn’t mean that at all. She’d left home without any notice. What was more she had left as a frightened little girl and returned as a woman and a mother.
At the sound of the gate, her grandmother looked up. The needles stopped clicking.
Marcie found herself getting more nervous but forced herself to put one foot in front of another. Halfway up the garden path she stopped.
‘Gran?’
She waited, standing between the sunset and her grandmother.
Rosa Brooks shaded her eyes with one hand. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath, her smile as warm as the sun.
‘You are home.’
She said it with wonder. The last rays of sunset bathed her upturned face with a rosy glow.
‘Home,’ Marcie repeated.
Her grandmother nodded in that wise owl way of hers. ‘Your grandfather told me you would come home.’
Her words were the key that opened the floodgates. Marcie burst into tears and fell to her knees, her head and the child falling onto her grandmother’s lap.
‘Please forgive me,’ she sobbed against the worn black skirt.
Hands wrinkled with age and rough with work took the child from her arms.
‘What is her name?’
‘Joanna.’
‘I like that.’
‘Can I stay here?’
Her grandmother looked at her as though it were the strangest question in the world.
‘Of course you can. This is your home.’
‘And Joanna?’
Already her grandmother was rearranging the child’s shawl, inspecting the tiny fingers, stroking the silky soft cheek.
‘Of course. This is her home too. Your grandfather would expect it.’
The smell of a freshly cooked pie drifted out from the kitchen; the smell of home and family.
‘I told Dad to leave my suitcase outside the front door. Alan Taylor brought me home.’
‘But he is not the father of this child.’
‘No. He’s dead.’
‘I know. I saw it in a picture.’
Marcie didn’t query where she’d seen the picture. All that mattered was that she was home. So far she hadn’t mentioned Alan’s offer to marry her and her grandmother did not press her about her plans for the future.
‘You’re home. That’s all that matters.’ Her grandmother’s smile lit up her whole face. Never had Marcie felt so loved and so wanted. It also occurred to her that she never wanted to leave this place. Yet surely marrying Alan Taylor was the right thing to do? For Joanna’s sake?
He called round the next day complete with a big bunch of flowers. Despite her declaration that she did not love him, he clearly still presumed that she would marry him. Her grandmother let him in, offered him tea – which he declined – but did not leave the room.
‘An unwed girl must be chaperoned,’ she explained firmly.
The look on Alan’s face was something to behold.
Marcie hid her smile.
Alan continued to come round at every opportunity except when he knew her father might be there. Two weeks after her return his visit coincided with that of her father.
The door opened. There stood Alan looking bright and breezy.
Tony Brooks glared at him.
For a moment Marcie could feel the friction between them fizzing through the air like electricity.
Alan’s smile was hesitant, but he stood his ground. ‘Tony! How are you, my old mate?’
Marcie could see that her father was no longer in awe of Alan. She assured herself that they wouldn’t come to blows.
Her father remained surly.
‘What is it, Alan?’
‘A letter came for Marcie.’
Marcie’s father frowned. ‘Why would a letter go to your place?’
Alan shrugged and looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t read it.’
‘It’s alright, Dad.’
She took the letter from Alan’s outstretched hand. The envelope was crisp and white, the paper it was manufactured from obviously expensive. Normally any letter would be opened immediately, but this one was a surprise. The postmark said London.
Marcie became aware of the silence. Looking around she saw that everyone was watching her.
‘Go upstairs and read it, Marcie.’
It was her grandmother who’d spoken. In the previous weeks she’d often shown how caring she was. They’d talked about her future. Her grandmother had pointed out the pitfalls of marrying or not marrying. There was so much to consider. Marcie had reiterated that she didn’t want her daughter to grow up under a cloud. Surely it was best to be married?
Her grandmother had sighed. ‘That decision is up to you.’
‘Do I get invited in for a cup of tea?’ Alan was asking.
Marcie didn’t wait to hear his answer. The letter intrigued her, but not until she was upstairs sitting on the edge of her bed did she open it and read.
Dear Marcie,
We didn’t have much time to say goodbye because you left so quickly. Sally reckoned your father looked a dish. I said that didn’t really matter as long as you had someone to love you. Even so, we both think you very brave to be keeping your baby and wish we’d had the courage to do the same.
My mother’s coming to fetch me shortly and I’m going to ask her to give Sally a lift to London. She knows someone in Battersea. It’s not too much of a detour from Chelsea.
I’ve put my address at the bottom of this letter. Do try and write.
Sally’s also put an address where she can be reached, though reckons she won’t be there very much. Fancy free yet again, she reckons men will be falling at her feet and drinking champagne out of her shoes! The blonde bombshell is back, she says, and swears she never was cut out to be a mother. It appears you are the lucky one. You’ve got your baby and a family to support you. That really is all that matters.
Despite me knowing that for me it was the right thing to give up my son, there is a wound deep inside me that I don’t think will ever heal. I think Sally feels much the same. I know she cries more than she admits to.
I am envious of you. We both are.
God bless and take care. AND DO WRITE!
The letter was signed by both Allegra and Sally. Pilemarsh had insisted that Alan leave a contact address as her supposed next of kin, and her room-mates had felt moved enough to write.
Their words shone through her tears. She was envied! The idea made her sit up straight and exhale a deep breath. Suddenly the future no longer seemed as bleak as she’d imagined. It felt as though a door had been opened in her mind. Why did she have to marry
Alan Taylor? Why did she have to marry anyone at all? She could raise her daughter herself – with her grandmother’s help. It wouldn’t be easy, but Rosa Brooks had raised her son’s children without much help from either him or Babs. Marcie could do the same. She could find a job and support Joanna while her gran looked after her during the day. It didn’t matter what the job was, anything would do. Or maybe she could use her talents as a dressmaker and work at home so she could look after Joanna herself. A strange warm feeling washed over her along with so many ideas about what she could be and where she was going.
One thing was true above all else: no matter what she decided there would always be someone to catch her if she should fall. She had her gran, her dad, friends even. And, above all, she had her daughter. She would not have to live with the deep regret of having given her child away. She had Joanna and she also had hope for the future which they would face together.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following for being as excited and motivated as myself in the creation and launch of my first novel:
To all the team at Ebury especially Alex Young, Di Riley and Zeb Dare from marketing, Hannah Telfer and Mel Yarker from sales; Sarah Bennie, Hannah Robinson and Ed Griffiths from publicity. I am also grateful to Publishing Director Hannah MacDonald for believing in me from the start and to my editor, Gillian Green, for always smiling, and never losing her patience.
To Hannah and Matthew Parrett who have never given up on me.
I’m also forever thankful for my family for never putting boundaries on me, especially my daughter, Tanya, who never expected a normal mum.
And my biggest thanks go to Jeannie Johnson, without whom this book would never have been finished.
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Published in 2009 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
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Copyright © 2009 by Mia Dolan
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