by Maggie Hope
He fell into step beside her. ‘Well, as you can see, I wasn’t. I was injured but I’m all right now. Is Molly on this shift? Did you give her Mam’s letter?’
‘How could I? She hasn’t worked here for months,’ said Joan. Jackson stopped and stared at her. The disappointment was shattering. For a minute he could think of nothing else and Joan walked on, almost disappearing into the crowd. He ran after her, caught hold of her arm.
‘She doesn’t work here?’ he asked incredulously. ‘But where’s she gone? And why didn’t you tell my mother?’
Joan shook her arm free. ‘How the heck do I know where’s she gone? She’s no friend of mine. Do you think I keep company with gaolbirds, like?’
Jackson grabbed hold of her again. ‘Don’t you speak of Molly like that,’ he growled, glaring down at her menacingly. ‘What about the letter Mam gave you? I said. What did you do with it?’
‘Aw, I can’t remember now. Do you think I’ve nowt else to do but run messages for your mother?’ But Joan’s voice was rising; she felt a tremor of fear.
‘Hey, you, leave that lass alone!’
It was the gatekeeper, a different one from the morning. Jackson looked up, realising they were right by the gate and the streams of workers had slowed to a trickle.
‘He’s hurting my arm,’ cried Joan, appealing to the gatekeeper over her shoulder.
‘Leave her alone, I said,’ shouted the man. He even left his post and came out the few yards to where they stood. Jackson stared at him, his lips a thin line in his angry face. He had never hit a woman in his life but he realised he had come very close to doing that. His grip reluctantly relaxed and Joan pulled herself free once again.
‘Don’t you ever touch me again!’ she shouted, retreating through the gate. ‘I’ll have the law on you, I will.’
‘Get along then, Sergeant,’ said the gatekeeper. ‘You’d best be off.’ Now the girl had gone he felt quite sorry for the young soldier. Some of these lasses got up to all sorts of devilry while their men were away fighting for their country, he knew that. He’d seen them throwing themselves at the Canadian airmen who were stationed out Darlington way.
‘You’re better off without her, lad,’ he said kindly.
Jackson stared at him a moment or two before comprehension dawned. ‘She’s not …’ he began and stopped. No point in trying to explain, he thought. In any case he hadn’t the time. He might as well catch the train back to Bishop. He turned on his heel and strode off to the station.
‘Cheerio, then,’ called the gatekeeper. ‘Watch theeself, mind.’
Jackson half-turned and waved. ‘Thanks. Cheerio.’
*
Back home in Eden Hope he sat around the house for the rest of the weekend, trying to think how he could get in touch with Molly, or at least find out what was happening to her.
‘She’ll be all right, lad. Likely she just got transferred somewhere else,’ Frank said. He watched Jackson’s pale face with the livid scar just showing under his hairline.
‘I don’t know whether the lad’s so out of sorts because he cannot find Molly or because he still feels badly,’ he confided to his wife.
She sighed. ‘Aye, well, time will tell. Eeh, we were that glad when we found out he was alive and coming home, weren’t we? I tell you, there’s always summat to worry about. At least he’s going to get a transfer to that convalescent hospital near Sunderland. We’ll be able to go and see him there, won’t we? And looking on the bright side, the war might be over before he has to go back, mightn’t it?’
Molly had been directed to a munitions factory nearer Ferryhill. It was easier for her to get home now. Her life was centred round Beth, her little daughter, and work. Because she had a child she wasn’t allowed to work where the bombs were filled or anywhere near explosives.
‘I wouldn’t anyway,’ she said. She was sitting watching Dora bathe the baby, her own hands itching to take over. In fact she had already offered to but Dora had shrugged it away casually.
‘You’re tired after work, I’ll do it,’ she had insisted.
Molly watched as Dora lifted the tiny, plump and perfect little figure from the water, laughing and talking baby talk to her, Beth gurgling and laughing back. Dora had been the first one to see Beth smile; she had met Molly at the door to tell her. Beth followed Dora everywhere with her eyes, her smile disappearing when Dora went out of her line of vision.
‘Let me hold her,’ Molly said suddenly. ‘I’ll dry her and get her ready for bed.’
‘No, it’s all …’ Dora stopped as she saw Molly’s stubborn expression. ‘Righto, then,’ she said, and handed the baby over with obvious reluctance. Immediately Beth started to whimper.
‘It’s all right, baby. Look, it’s your mammy,’ Molly said softly, trying hard to smile though anxiety lurked in her eyes. If only Beth wouldn’t cry, if only she would smile back at her then everything would be fine, of course it would. Beth was her baby, wasn’t she?
Dora had got to her feet and picked up the kettle to fill it for the tea and Beth’s bottle. But she was hovering about, watching Molly and Beth anxiously, making Molly more nervous. The baby sensed it and her whimpers turned into full-blown crying. She arched her back and yelled at the top of her lungs with rage.
‘Don’t cry, Beth. Please, please, don’t cry,’ Molly whispered. Dora put down the kettle and bent over Molly’s shoulder and clucked and chattered to the child. Beth wriggled more than ever, and being still wet was slippery so that Molly had to grasp her firmly. The baby was screaming loudly now, her little face red, the eyes screwed up, her fists waving in the air with frustration.
‘Go on then,’ said Molly, defeated. ‘Take her, she likes you the best.’ Dora stepped forward eagerly and held out her arms and Molly put the child into them.
‘Howay, my bairn,’ said Dora fondly, and gently patted Beth dry. The baby stopped crying immediately and leaned against her, snuffling now with just the occasional hiccup. ‘You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you?’ said Dora in a tone of voice which implied the exact opposite of what she was saying. ‘Now just wait until Auntie Dora has your clean nappy on and your nightie and then you can have your bottle, can’t you? Are you hungry, my flower? Of course you are, petal.’ Her tone changed to a normal one as she turned to Molly. ‘Put the kettle on, will you? This one will be shouting for her bottle next.’
Molly picked up the kettle and took it to the tap in the pantry. She felt like crying herself, she was so tired and frustrated and filled with resentment of Dora because the baby obviously preferred her to her own mother. It wasn’t natural, really it wasn’t. She settled the kettle on the fire and brought out the tin of National Dried Milk and sugar and began preparing it for the baby’s evening feed.
‘Put a bit more sugar in, Molly,’ Dora ordered.
‘No, I don’t think she needs extra sugar.’
‘Go on, she’s growing that fast she needs it for energy,’ said Dora. ‘If you’re thinking about the ration, I’ll do without mine.’
‘Of course I’m not thinking about the ration!’ Molly exploded, tears pricking the back of her eyes. ‘I –’
‘Shh, never mind, you’ll upset the bairn,’ said Dora.
‘Anyway, I always put a bit of extra sugar in, she’s used to it now.’
‘I should have been breast feeding her,’ said Molly fretfully. ‘It’s more natural.’
‘Well, you can’t, can you? Not when you have to go to work at all hours an’ all. No, it was much better to start bottle feeding her.’
Molly sighed and made up the bottle as the kettle boiled. She cooled it under the tap and brought it back into the kitchen.
‘I’ll feed her now.’
‘Best not disturb her,’ said Dora comfortably. ‘She’ll be asleep as soon as she’s finished her milk and then we can have ours. There’s a nice hotpot in the oven.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
‘AT LEAST IT’S more money at the munitions factory,’ said Dora
. She had a proprietorial hand on the pram as though Molly couldn’t really be trusted with pushing it, not when it held the baby. The bubble of resentment that seemed always to be present in her these days swelled a little more. Dora glanced up at her.
‘You’re not listening to me,’ she accused.
‘I am, really I am,’ said Molly. ‘You were saying how I made more money at the munitions factory.’
‘Aye. Just as well when I had to leave work to look after my little princess, isn’t it, petal?’ The question was addressed to the baby who turned her head sideways to smile at Dora. A milky sort of a smile but one of delight that Dora was speaking to her. Her first word will be ‘Dora’, Molly thought sourly.
It was a Sunday morning, the time when Molly usually took the baby out on her own, a time she looked forward to all week. Only today Dora had declared her intention of coming with her.
‘It’s a nice crisp morning, just the sort I like,’ she had said. ‘Autumn is so lovely, isn’t it?’
‘It’s still September,’ Molly had replied shortly. But she couldn’t say to Dora that she didn’t want her company as she strolled down the lane away from the village and between the fields where the corn was being harvested. The fact was she needed Dora and she couldn’t afford to antagonise her.
They strolled in silence for a few minutes then Dora started again.
‘I mean, a house like mine has a big mouth,’ she said. ‘The winter coming on and coal to buy and the electric. A baby has to be kept warm in the winter, you know.’
‘You mean, I don’t give you enough money? Is that what you’re saying, Dora?’
‘Well, like I said –’
‘I can raise it to four pounds a week, I suppose,’ said Molly doubtfully. It was practically the whole of her pay, she thought. But she didn’t need much for herself and if she did she would have to try to get more overtime, that was all she could do.
They called at the newsagent’s on the way home, Dora buying the News of the World and Molly the Sunday Sun, the local North Eastern Sunday paper. Because the weather had taken a turn for the worse they didn’t even look at the headlines, simply rolled the papers up and put them under the pram’s storm cover before making a dash for home as the rain began coming down in earnest.
It wasn’t until the dinner was cooked and eaten and the dishes washed and put away that the two women sat down before the fire to read their papers, Beth asleep in her pram.
It was the photograph that caught Molly’s attention first, a grainy photograph on the inside page of a soldier with dark hair under his forage cap, dark eyes and an unassuming smile. A lop-sided smile like her brother Harry’s but it wasn’t him, oh, no, it was Jackson Morley. LOCAL HERO, it read in big letters beneath the photo.
Molly sat straight in her chair with a sharp intake of breath. It couldn’t be, not after all this time!
‘What’s the matter?’ Dora had noticed her agitation and leaned forward, full of curiosity. But Molly didn’t hear her; her heart was beating so fast she felt as though she was choking. There was a mist before her eyes so that when she tried to read the text she couldn’t, it merged and blurred before her eyes. Dora got to her feet and came round to the back of Molly’s chair. ‘What is it?’ she asked again. ‘By heck, you’ve gone as white as a sheet, you have.’
She leaned over Molly’s shoulder to see what it was. ‘Do you know that lad, like?’
‘No,’ said Molly, only half-attending. ‘I mean, yes.’
‘He comes from Eden Hope, I see,’ said Dora. ‘The Croix de Guerre, eh? That’s French, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Eeh, why, fancy. I wouldn’t have thought they’d have been giving out medals, not now, not when they gave in.’
Molly wanted to jump to her feet and scream at Dora, tell her to shut up, stop looking over her shoulder, go to hell or anywhere, she didn’t care where. But mainly just to shut up!
Her vision was clearing now after the initial shock. Oh, yes, it was Jackson. My love, my love, my love is alive, her heart sang. A great thankfulness enveloped her whole body. ‘Thank you, God,’ she said aloud. ‘Thank you, God.’
‘What for?’ asked Dora, mystified.
‘It’s Jackson, don’t you understand? He … we are engaged to be married.’
Molly began walking about the kitchen with quick, jerky steps, over to the window, stopping, turning around and walking back.
‘For goodness sake, lass, stand still, you’ll have me dizzy,’ said Dora. Molly picked up the paper again, stared hard at it as though she might have been mistaken the first time. Her fingers trembled so much the paper rustled. But it was still Jackson’s face looking out at her. Blurred as it was, definitely him. And didn’t it say so anyway? She read the text properly this time.
… Sergeant Jackson Morley of the Durham Light Infantry, presented with the Croix de Guerre by General De Gaulle for bravery when seconded to a French unit in Belgium, in that he manned a field gun against a German advance so allowing the rest of the unit to escape with the wounded. In the action Sergeant Morley was wounded …
Molly dropped the paper. Oh, she had to go to Eden Hope, she had to find out where he was, write to him …
‘I have to go to Eden Hope,’ she said to Dora, and started towards the stairs. ‘If I hurry I’ll catch the bus to Bishop. Or maybe Merrington to catch the Eden bus. That’ll be the best, I think.’
‘An’ what will he have to say about the bairn then?’ asked Dora. She gazed at Molly, head on one side, an ironic half-smile playing around her mouth.
Molly looked blankly at her. ‘The bairn?’ She stopped in her tracks and turned slowly round. ‘I … I …’
‘I bet he doesn’t know about our little Beth, does he? Innocent little babe that she is, he’s not going to like it, is he?’
Molly looked piteously at her and Dora nodded her head.
‘Aye, I thought as much,’ she said. ‘Oh, go on then, you go. I’ll see to her. At least it’ll put your mind at rest. But mind, don’t build your hopes up because it takes a saint of a man to accept another man’s bairn, I’m telling you that for nothing.’
‘I have to go, Dora,’ said Molly. She crossed to the pram and touched her child’s face briefly; Beth slept on. Molly ran upstairs to change into her best costume, a grey flannel cut on the new utility lines with a short skirt and only one pleat and square military shoulders to the jacket. She brushed her hair until it shone, looked into the mirror and frowned slightly, added a touch of colour to her lips and ran back downstairs again.
Dora had abandoned the papers and was sitting with her feet propped up on the fender, staring into the fire.
‘That didn’t take you long,’ she said, and sniffed.
‘No, well, I have to catch the bus, don’t I?’ said Molly. ‘I’ll see you when I get back.’
‘Oh, don’t hurry on my account,’ said Dora. ‘Nor Beth’s neither. We’ll be all right, don’t you worry yourself.’
‘Dora –’
‘Aye. Well, go on then. An’ don’t forget to close the door properly. It’s getting cooler by tea-time now.’
It was only as she stood at the bus stop by the triangular green in Kirk Merrington that Molly allowed herself to wonder what Maggie’s reception of her might be like. Had word got back to Eden Hope that she’d had a baby? Perhaps not, she thought. After all, no one knew her in Ferryhill apart from Dora and the immediate neighbours. And these days there were often strange folk about, especially young mothers and children evacuated inland from Sunderland or Hartlepool, even Middlesbrough. As far as she knew no one in Ferryhill had asked who she was.
There was fifteen minutes to wait for the Eden bus. Molly, filled with excitement, couldn’t stand still. She walked up and down, up and down. Gazed at the corner from which the bus would appear as though she could make it do so by the power of her will.
‘I’m not going to tell her,’ she said aloud on the corner. A door opened in one of the houses borde
ring the green. A young woman came out, glanced at Molly, startled, then decided she couldn’t possibly have been talking to her and disappeared round the corner. Talking to yourself was a bad sign, thought Molly, and turned the other way and walked to the opposite corner.
She wouldn’t tell Maggie about Beth, she decided. At least not before she told Jackson. Jackson … Would he be there, in Eden Hope? In his mother’s house? Her pulse leaped at the thought and panic rose into her throat. She would have to tell him, wouldn’t she? And she wasn’t ready yet, oh, no. He would send her packing, he would too. Oh, God, if he should look at her with contempt, she wouldn’t be able to bear it.
The sound of an engine impinged on her anxious thoughts. The bus was coming. She couldn’t go, couldn’t face Jackson with what she had done, not now. She needed more time.
What a fool she was, Molly told herself as she climbed on to the bus, she had to go, had to see him one more time even if he did reject her. The bus set off, winding its way round the farming communities and colliery villages, coasting down hills and creaking slowly round corners, drawing nearer and nearer to Eden Hope and her own personal Judgement Day. All the time Molly’s thoughts whirled chaotically. One minute she was filled with wild elation that she could see Jackson at any minute and the next plunged into despair, sure he would cast her off. She alighted at the top of the rows, her stomach churning, and walked the short distance to the Morleys’ house on trembling legs.
‘Molly! Well, who would have believed it? Frank, Frank – here’s Molly come to see us.’
Maggie stood in the doorway, one hand on the door, her face breaking into a smile of surprised welcome. ‘Why, yer bloke, we were just talking about you, wondering where you were. Why the heck didn’t you keep in touch?’
‘Hallo, Maggie, Frank,’ said Molly as Maggie took her arm and drew her into a kitchen still redolent of Yorkshire pudding and boiled cabbage. ‘Eeh, who would have believed it? We were just talking about you, wondering where you were …’
‘Is it true? Is he alive?’ Molly butted in, unable to wait any longer to ask. She gazed anxiously round at Frank in his chair by the fire; an ordinary chair now with crutches propped against the wall beside it, not his wheel chair she noted with one part of her mind. No Jackson, though, he wasn’t here, she thought, and slumped in disappointment.