All the Days of Our Lives

by Annie Murray

  She was tempted to go and try for a life in London with Cath, but she just knew it didn’t feel right. Had it just been Cath it might have been different, but with both the Irish girls, she felt three was a crowd. And then Cath had her future with Derck and would be gone. Molly found the thought of London overwhelming. Her only memories of it were such painfully sad ones. Tony, the man she had loved when they met at a training camp on the Welsh coast, had been killed in London by an unexploded bomb that had been concealed in a nearby house. London, for Molly, was a place of grief and death.

  She had, at that moment, absolutely no idea what she was going to do next with her life.

  Even the train ride to the demobilization centre was fraught with painful memories. As chance would have it, they were to be processed at a Release Centre in Birmingham and had to travel up out of Euston, a journey that Molly also associated with Tony and what, for her, had been the darkest days of the war. And Birmingham, although the place she came from, was somewhere she would have been happy never to see again.

  As they had so much kit and most of the girls were eventually heading for all sorts of different destinations, they were allowed to leave some of their luggage at Euston.

  ‘You’ll be taking all yours, though, won’t you, Molly?’ Orla asked, knowing that Birmingham had been her home.

  Molly looked down at the case and khaki kitbag. In that split second she knew she was making a crucial decision. If she took all her luggage north to the Midlands, she knew somehow that she was opting for that – to go home to Brum. And her whole being rebelled against this. What was there in Birmingham for her. Her mother? God alone knew what state she’d be in by now. And the ghost of her brother, hanged by the neck, as well as the ghosts of her own childhood. Oh no, thanks very much, she thought.

  ‘I’ll only take overnight stuff up there,’ she said. ‘The rest can stay here.’

  She saw Cath and Orla look at each other.

  ‘But, Molly . . .’ Cath began. She was going to ask once again: What are you going to do?

  ‘I don’t know,’ Molly snapped, before Cath even got the words out.

  Their company distracted her from her thoughts for the next few hours. On arrival in Birmingham they were met by an army truck, which took them south again to Wythall, where they saw the huts of what looked like an army camp, but was in fact the exit door from the army. Molly found it all comforting, as she found all the orderly ways of the army comforting. They were given a meal and a bed and told to sort out what kit was to be handed in and what they were keeping. The next morning was a rush of activity, as the staff seemed to want to shift them through as fast as possible. They had to hand in their kit and be issued with their demob book, railway warrants and clothing coupons.

  And then it really was over. Molly travelled back with the others to New Street Station to say goodbye to Cath and Orla, who were going straight back to London. Already everything felt strange, each of them squeezed into old civilian clothes that they had outgrown in every way. Molly’s skirt felt uncomfortably tight round the waistband. None of them had yet had time to take their coupons and choose new ones. In the busy, echoing station, Cath hugged Molly warmly and looked at her in a worried way.

  ‘Where are you going to go, Molly?’

  Molly smiled bravely. ‘Tonight I’m going to go and see a pal of mine. After that – I don’t know. I’ll keep you posted. Now’ – her voice was turning gruff with coming tears – ‘go on, the pair of yer, sod off or you’ll miss it. You take care of each other.’

  ‘We will!’ they laughed, and they all hugged again and said TTFN, not somehow able to bear the word ‘goodbye’, and tried – not very successfully in Cath and Orla’s case – not to cry. Then the two of them boarded their train, waving until it gathered speed along the platform and Molly couldn’t see their tearful faces any more.

  Only then did the great well of sadness waiting inside her reach up into her eyes.

  Molly had joined up early in 1941 to get away from her family. Her childhood in Birmingham had been poor and full of suffering at the hands of her drunken mother, Iris, and sexually predatory grandfather, William Rathbone. Just before Molly joined the army, Iris had told her, with a sadistic kind of pleasure, that William Rathbone – the man whom she had loathed as a grandfather – was also her father, since he had also preyed upon Iris, his daughter. This news along with the fact that Bert, her thieving, cheating brother, lived with them had led Molly almost to a state of despair, which she hid from herself by drinking heavily. She was a big, attractive blonde who always had men buzzing round her, but her relationships with them usually turned sour. On those sickening, hungover mornings when she looked in the murky mirror in her bedroom with a splitting head, she had known that she was beginning to go the same way as her mother.

  The army had saved her, given her a place to belong, where she felt safe and where, at least for some of the time, she was recognized as being capable of things – of far more than she had ever dreamed. She had wanted it to go on forever.

  But now it was over. There would be a few ATS continuing work for a time, but after that the army would only be for men again. A terrible kind of silence seemed to fill Molly even as she walked through the busy railway station. She made her way slowly out to New Street, oblivious to everything around her, the bomb-damaged streets, the people who weaved around her. All she could see was the greyness of it all. It felt as if life – the life she now knew and wanted – had just dropped away from her, and she was left stranded and alone in a barren place where the colour had seeped out of everything. Only now it truly came home to her. This was it: the war was over, her time in the army was finished and it no longer wanted her. For a moment she stopped, dizzy at the thought. She was back here. Birmingham: where she had begun. In those seconds she felt as bad as at any time she could remember. It felt as if her life was finished.

  The ride on the trolleybus did nothing to cheer her. It was still an overcast day, neither raining nor sunny. Everything looked smaller, meaner and more run-down than she remembered. The streets appeared narrower and the bomb scars still looked raw and a mess. She looked out of the murky window, catching glimpses of children playing on the bombsites, of underfed people who looked washed out and harassed after all the months of shortages and worry. Everything looked drab. She was so caught up in looking out at it all that she almost missed her stop and had to push through to get out, causing people to mutter in annoyance.

  As if in a dream, she walked along to Kenilworth Street, memories flooding back of the neighbours: Jenny and Stanley Button, who had been so kind to her and who had been killed in the bombing; the elderly twins who ran the sweet shop; Dot Wiggins, another kind neighbour who was now happily remarried to her Italian husband, Lou, in Duddesdon nearby; and of course the Browns, Em and the rest, the family she would have liked to have grown up in, instead of her blighted one. She hesitated at the entrance to one of the back yards where her family had lived for a time. The entry still looked the same, dark and dingy. And there was the ghost of her younger self sidling out onto the street, arms itching with eczema and impetigo, clothes smelly, trying to join in the street games with the other children, hoping and praying they’d let her have a go . . . All of it filled her now with a sense of rage, a furious sadness for her younger self.

  I can’t come back and live here, she thought. I’ll go anywhere – but not here.

  Pulling herself together, she stood up straight and went across to knock on the Browns’ door. It was Em who opened it, an older-looking but still sweet-faced Em, with her straight brown hair and freckled nose. She held the door back, bewildered at first, then gasped, beaming with pleasure.

  ‘Molly! Oh my word!’ She rushed to hug her. ‘Come on in – I knew you’d turn up one day. Took your flaming time, didn’t you?’

  Twenty-Four

  The Browns’ house looked exactly as Molly had always remembered it, and she found this both a comfort and a bit depressing at the s
ame time. She had been here on and off throughout the war, whenever she could, but as she followed Em through to the back kitchen, saw the table and chairs, the stove, the same plates and pots on the shelves, and Em’s mom Cynthia sitting at the table with the family’s ration books in front of her, she found herself wondering how so little could have changed, when she had been so far and seen so much.

  ‘Guess who’s here, Mom!’ Em announced, though Cynthia was already looking up to greet her.

  ‘Hello, love!’ Cynthia cried, delighted. Molly went over and gave her a kiss. Cynthia had been like a mom to her. ‘You back for good now, are you?’

  ‘Well, the army’ve had enough of me,’ Molly joked.

  ‘Here, sit down – Em’ll bring you a cup of tea. Don’t you look well – it’s suited you, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Molly said, thinking this was an understatement indeed. She knew she looked more healthy and better fed than most of the civilians. She saw that Cynthia had aged a good deal since she’d last seen her, her skin looking tired and her once-dark brown hair a long way towards grey. But her dark eyes were still full of life.

  ‘Good job you came today,’ Em said. ‘I’m off work ’cause Robbie’s not well. He’s asleep at the moment. Mr Perry’s nice like that, if I need time off.’

  They all sat round the table. The rest of the family were out at work. Molly tried to adjust to being here, to the thought that she would not be going back tonight or tomorrow to an ack-ack battery somewhere. It was a dismal thought, even though she was pleased to see them and to have a chance to catch up.

  ‘See your mother?’ Cynthia asked, a careful tone in her voice. Molly saw her exchange glances with Em.

  ‘No, and I’m not going to,’ Molly said firmly. ‘It never does either of us any good. Is she still in the same place?’

  ‘I think so,’ Cynthia said. ‘Down Lupin Street, though I’ve not seen her in a few weeks.’

  ‘She’ll have taken it hard over Bert,’ Molly said. ‘He was always her favourite. I s’pose he sort of looked after her, in his twisted way.’ She looked at Em. ‘Thanks for letting me know about it all – you know, for going along.’

  Em had written after Bert was hanged, telling Molly that she had been to Winson Green, that the deed was done. There was nothing much to relate, except that she had run into Katie O’Neill again. Molly had greeted that news with a shrug. She had never liked Katie, whom she thought stuck up and spiteful.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Em said. ‘I just thought someone ought to pay their respects. Whatever he was, he was your brother.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Molly sighed. She knew Bert had never stood a chance really. His life had been sad and unpleasant, and his response had been to become vile to everyone.

  ‘I think your mother’s all right, in her way,’ Cynthia said. She hesitated as if not sure whether to go on, but then added, ‘There’s someone living with her.’

  Molly looked up. ‘A bloke?’

  Cynthia nodded. ‘I don’t know who he is – a great big fella, and dark . . .’

  Molly thought of the last time she had seen Iris, sleeping it off in bed at four in the afternoon, beside a huge, stubbly, pot-bellied man. Was it the same one? It might be, might not. It hardly mattered.

  ‘She’ll survive, I expect,’ she said drily.

  They sat catching up on news of everyone. Em’s brother Sid had recently married his girl, Connie, and they were living in one cramped room in Saltley.

  ‘It’s the devil trying to find anywhere to live,’ Cynthia said. ‘They wanted to move out on their own, but since Hitler’s done for so many of the houses, there’s not much going. They were lucky to find anything.’

  ‘That’s two weddings since the end of the war,’ Em said. ‘Sid’s was nice, we had a lovely day, didn’t we? And then there was the wedding of Carolina, Dot’s stepdaughter and Lou’s daughter. Well, I say girl, but she was over thirty: she’d left it ever so late! Anyway that was a real Italian do – hundreds of ’em – it was lovely, though, wasn’t it, Mom?’

  Cynthia laughed. ‘Yes, it was a good day. Dot looked happy – she and Lou suit each other, they really do.’

  ‘Our Joyce’ll be next,’ Em said. ‘She’s a proper one for the boys, but she’s been knocking around with Larry for a long time now . . . Hang on’ – she cocked her head – ‘that’s Robbie calling me, isn’t it? Back in a sec.’

  She reappeared with a very feverish-looking little lad in her arms. Hot and half asleep, he cuddled up against her, hardly seeming to notice that Molly was there. Em stroked his head.

  ‘Hello, Robbie,’ Molly said. ‘Oh, he does look poorly. His hair’s lighter than I remember, Em – more like yours?’

  ‘Yes, I think it is a bit,’ Em said, attentive to every tiny detail about her son. ‘Course Norm and I are about the same, colour-wise. Come on, Robbie – have a sip of water before you go off to sleep again.’ She looked up at Molly. ‘He starts school in a few months – you wouldn’t believe it, would you?’

  ‘Where’s Norm now?’ Molly asked. ‘Any sign of him coming home?’

  Em shrugged. ‘I hope so. But I don’t know – they don’t tell you, do they?’

  ‘D’you need a bed tonight, Molly?’ Cynthia asked.

  ‘Yes, please – if that’s all right,’ Molly said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t warn you I was coming.’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t have done, could you? Don’t be daft – it’s nice to see you.’ Cynthia looked concerned. ‘Are you going to look for a job then, Molly? Settle down?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Molly said bleakly. ‘To tell you the honest truth, I’ve got no idea.’

  It was nice to be there, she thought, lying in Sid’s old bed that night. Good to see them all. Joyce was really grown-up now, at nineteen, quite sassy and full of it, and Violet, the babby who was fifteen, had grown into a very pretty girl, sweet like Em and quite studious, with more confidence than her older sister.

  She had had some time to talk alone with Em, and Em had poured out her heart over Norm, how she knew he had been in Italy, how much she had longed to have him back, but that now the time was growing nearer – and she blushed confessing this, with a frankness that surprised Molly – she was also frightened of it, dreading it almost.

  ‘Sometimes I just long for him to be here and take me in his arms, and for us to be a proper married couple again. But then I worry that we shan’t have anything to say to each other and everything’ll have to change. I suppose we’ve got quite settled here now, into a routine, just Mom and me and Robbie. We’re all used to it. And Norm’s been away for so long – he might be quite different.’ She looked across at Molly helplessly. ‘All I can do is wait and see, isn’t it?’

  Molly lay in the dark, unable to sleep, even though it had been such a long day and the night before so bad. She felt keyed up, worried about everything. Now she was alone, lying there, she allowed herself to think. She cast her mind back over the war, both the good times and the bad. There’d been her first Corporal, Phoebe Morrison, who had in her brusque way, encouraged Molly to carry on, to succeed in the army. Phoebe Morrison had also been Molly’s Subaltern in Belgium for the first months, and it had been with great regret that she had parted from her when the war finished.

  In the spring of 1945 the ack-ack batteries stationed in Belgium were definitely no longer required and were to be stood down. Some of the staff were sent home. Molly, even while celebrating Victory in Europe with everyone else, was desolate that she would have to go home. However, Phoebe Morrison gave her to understand that this need not be the end: Molly, along with Cath, took the aptitude tests to remain in the force, which was to become the 21 Army Group HQ in Brussels. They were both sent on to the Headquarters of the British Army on the Rhine at Bad Oeynhausen.

  It was clear that most of the roles were to be taken by men. The appointing officer seized on the fact that Molly had experience in cooking and told her that she could cook for one of the messes. Cath came t
o work on the telephone exchange. While Molly had hoped for a more challenging job, by this stage she was just happy to be allowed to stay, and she and Cath and the others had some happy times in the gracious surroundings of Bad Oeynhausen barracks. She had never seen Phoebe Morrison since, but she knew she would never forget her for her encouragement, for the fact that in the end she seemed to have a special place for Molly in her toughly guarded heart.

  Amid all the rest of it, of course there had been Tony, the lovely times they’d had together on the cliffs in Wales, and in London. But then came the agony of his death. Any place she had been with Tony was associated with sadness.

  After that though, after some other postings, during her greatest time of sadness, she had been sent to Clacton. Lying there that night, Molly’s heart began to beat faster. Now that was one place where she felt she could go and see it in a positive light. She thought of her friends there – Cath and Nora and Ann and, strangely, Ruth, a studious girl who had fallen out mightily with Molly in their early days of training together, before they became unlikely friends. None of them would be there, of course: it was no good looking back. But maybe she could find work, away from here, by the sea. A fresh start in a place where at least the memories were good? In her mind she walked the long parade at Clacton, remembering how the guns had fired continually from the practice camp along the coast. She remembered the Viennese Ballroom at Butlin’s where they had danced. She fell asleep thinking of it, a smile turning up her lips.

  Twenty-Five

  Molly flung her case down on the attic-room bed and went straight to the window. The casement was fastened with a rusting catch, but the window opened readily enough, and she leaned against the rotten sill, which was level with her chest, the window being set in the gable. She was pleased to realize that the room faced south, so that although it was dingy and the ceiling low, it would not always be dark. She lit a cigarette and let the smoke stream out through the window.