An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  FIVE

  Malet Street, Bloomsbury, London

  Late April 1944

  Aged 19

  Her guts quaking with nausea, Molly stared at Dr Cooper, the black-haired physician in Soho who had tested her pee sample from the previous week. He flicked ash from the end of his cigarette into an overflowing brass ashtray on his desk. His fingernails were overly long.

  ‘Your test came back as positive. You’re pregnant.’

  He spoke in a cool and professional manner without any hint of emotion or judgement, as one would expect of a medic, and yet his words were of such magnitude that it took her a second to process them. The news did not come as a surprise but was no less shocking for that. At nineteen, she knew her body well enough to understand what was going on.

  Molly thought about the day she had been interviewed for her job, keen to press on the board of men asking the questions that she was a reliable pair of hands, most unlike her counterparts, who would, when the right chap came along, be content to stay at home darning and cooking for a man, or worse, be beholden to the needs of some wailing child . . . Her stock phrase. And yet here she was. Strange that this should be her first thought and not how her mother or her love might receive the news.

  She let the news sink in as her eyes wandered over the greasy desktop on which sat what she assumed to be the doctor’s lunch, a stinky fish sandwich that smelled past its freshest. The oil had leached grease onto the brown paper in which it was wrapped. Her nose twitched in revulsion and her stomach heaved. It was almost impossible to imagine herself pregnant even, though it was clearly the case. But until it had been confirmed there was still the smallest chance that she might have been mistaken. This shock was diluted a little when she considered the father of this baby: Johan, quite possibly the one person in the whole wide world with whom she would actually be happy to undertake this particular adventure. She allowed the smallest frisson of excitement to ping around her veins.

  Dr Cooper blew smoke into the room and she wished the window were open. ‘I’m assuming this is not a planned pregnancy?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, resenting the question despite its accuracy. She held his gaze, already feeling a little guilty that the seedling that had taken root in her womb might hear such a thing. What did it look like at three months – could it even hear, feel? These very questions formed a bond of sorts that she had not expected at this early stage.

  Dr Cooper licked his lips, narrowed his dark eyes and stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette. ‘As is the case for the majority of young women I see here.’ He gazed at the walls, where paint in a dull shade of ochre peeled in damp patches, as if to suggest that no one who had planned a pregnancy would be visiting this backstreet clinic in Berwick Street with no nameplate on the door. ‘It might interest you to know that, for a reasonable fee, such matters can be taken care of in a room across the corridor, no questions asked, payment in cash. I have a nurse.’

  Molly kept her composure while her mind recoiled in horror. It was one thing to choose to visit this anonymous man rather than Dr Venables, who her mother knew socially and who was less than discreet, but quite another for him to assume . . .

  ‘That is of no interest to me.’

  ‘Well’ – Dr Cooper clasped his hands on the desktop and said with a faint smirk – ‘if you change your mind, you know where we are, although I should warn you that as time advances, the price of the procedure rises in direct proportion to the risks for us all.’

  At this reference to the illegality of his business, Molly practically ran from the premises, keen to put as much distance between her and the grimy place as possible. Not that she would be able to hide her state for ever, but she’d feel more inclined to tell the family doctor once she had spoken to Johan. Then at least when she sat opposite the man who had delivered her she would have some semblance of a plan.

  Johan’s face, his sincere open expression and his heartfelt words, ‘I love you, Molly. Be in no doubt – I do. I love you . . .’ was enough to buoy her up and allow her to think that fledgling though it might be, this was going to be one hell of a partnership.

  ‘Darling, it’s a terrible line, can you . . . can you hear me?’ Molly banged the receiver against her palm and then shook it, hoping this might help clear whatever blockage she suspected was blurring the call. Oh, Johan, hear me! I need to hear you.

  ‘I can barely . . . It’s . . .’ His voice fractured and stuttered between the silences. The connection was terrible, faint and crackling. ‘I’m going . . . for a while . . . Nothing to . . .’ and then he was gone. And even though she knew this, Molly pushed the phone against her face, her eyes squeezed shut. Please, Johan, please be there. Please . . . She offered up the prayer to no avail. The call was no longer connected and pip-pipped irritatingly in her ear. Her legs shook as she put the receiver into the cradle and stood for a second to compose herself, wiping her top lip, which felt a little moist. She steadied herself against the edge of the green-leather-topped bureau, smoothed the folds of her pin-tuck silk blouse over her chest, and hooked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear before walking determinedly from the room. Marjorie had, as requested, been keeping watch outside one of the few offices with access to a phone and an outside line.

  ‘Thank you so much, Marjorie. I do appreciate your discretion.’ She let a small smile form in thanks for her colleague having done so without asking any questions, particularly, ‘What is so urgent you need to sneak a phone call during working hours?’ Not to mention, ‘Why did you ask me to keep watch and not your pal Geertruida – when the two of you are usually joined at the hip?’ Molly dared not confide that since she and Johan had failed to turn up at Alresford for afternoon tea, Geer had seemed disinclined to discuss the budding romance. Molly felt a little sheepish and was uncertain as to how she might justify their absence without risk of disclosing what had happened, and so she remained silent, hardly able to confess that they had been cavorting on a rug in the winter sunshine. Not that there was any real awkwardness, they were far too close for that, but it was as if lines had been drawn that neither wished to venture over.

  ‘Discretion is important. We know that, don’t we?’ Marjorie held her eyeline, while clutching a foolscap file.

  Molly nodded. ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘You all right, Molly?’ Marjorie asked carefully.

  ‘I’m fine! Perfectly fine,’ she replied, with more of a snap than she’d intended. It was part of her armour: remaining calm and unflustered. The thought of being viewed in the same vein as Clara, her sister-in-law, with her tendency to fall apart, was mortifying.

  ‘It’s just that—’ Marjorie bit her bottom lip and looked to the heavens, as if searching for the right phrase. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say—’

  Molly stared at her and her heart raced.

  ‘I suppose what I am trying to say’ – Marjorie reached out and squeezed Molly’s arm in an unexpected and uncharacteristically affectionate display – ‘is that you know where I am if you need me, all right?’

  Molly nodded stiffly at this girl with five siblings, this girl who had probably lived a far less sheltered life than herself and who just might recognise the signs of pregnancy more easily.

  ‘Thank you, Marjorie.’ Molly gave her a brief smile before heading down the corridor and back to the office, trying to concentrate on the mountain of correspondence that needed translating and typing in triplicate, rather than the frustration of not being able to speak to Johan.

  At 5 p.m., Molly went to gather her coat from her locker. It had been a long day, made even longer by her frequent need to visit the bathroom and her slight jump every time she thought of Johan, still ignorant of the situation in which she found herself – in which they found themselves. She was a little chilly and pictured sliding into bed with a hot-water bottle to bring rest to her weary bones.

  ‘How about a cheeky snifter on the way home?’ She was suddenly conscious of Geer standing next to her, windin
g her scarf around her neck. ‘We could nip into the Ritz and drink something lovely! Oh come on, Moll! It’ll perk us up. You look disgustingly pale and today has been bloody dull.’

  Molly shook her head. ‘Not tonight, Geer. I promised Mum I’d get home,’ she lied. ‘Plus I’m all done in.’

  ‘I know, just plain exhausted, you poor old thing!’ Geer rolled her eyes. ‘Well, in that case, I shall have to go on my own and try and get some rich old man to buy me a drink.’

  ‘Money isn’t everything, Geer! Why don’t you go off to Soho and find a poor artist to spend the evening with?’

  ‘Oh God, no! I’d rather be with a rich man I didn’t like than a poor one I loved!’

  ‘Geer!’ Molly couldn’t hide her disapproval.

  ‘I’m joking! God, your face!’

  ‘Anyway, what would Richard say?’ she asked in mock disapproval.

  ‘Well, he’d fly into a rage, of course.’ Geer leaned towards her and whispered, ‘But I quite like the idea of him showing that he’s jealous – a girl likes to be fought over, you know. Plus he’s never going to find out, is he? Don’t let the bedbugs bite!’

  Molly laughed as her pal skipped along the corridor, blowing a kiss and then waving over her shoulder as she disappeared from view. Molly placed her hand on her stomach and thought of Johan. She replayed the few words she’d been able to make out from their conversation earlier and filled in the blanks, finding it strangely reassuring:

  ‘I can barely . . . stand to be away from you, darling M!’

  ‘It’s . . . been far too long.’

  ‘I’m going . . . to come to London this weekend and take you to the Army and Navy Club for a gin and a twirl on the dance floor and for a while . . . we will think of all the good things that are going to come our way once this damned war is over.’

  ‘You have nothing to . . . worry about, my love. Nothing to worry about. Everything is going to work out splendidly!’

  And to think that, at that very moment, he had no idea she was carrying his child. Tonight, however, that would all change when Molly put pen to paper, writing the letter that would tell her beloved of the news, which could not be kept secret any longer. She had considered informing him over the last few weeks, but had wanted to make absolutely sure of the situation before she concerned him. Dr Cooper had certainly done that.

  After dinner, having politely refused her mother’s offer of soup, Molly rushed to her bedroom, happy to remove her clothes and slip into her nightgown, rubbing at her breasts, which were already sore and felt a little heavy, even when there was no visible difference to her body at all. Her boyish frame and flat chest were her greatest allies in being able to keep her predicament secret.

  Molly took a seat at the small leather-topped bureau in the corner of her bedroom. She unscrewed the top of her fountain pen and held it up towards the halo of light from the lamp on her desk, watching entranced as the mother-of-pearl inlay shimmered with faint flecks of iridescence. It was beautiful. This pen was one of her most treasured things and had belonged to her father. What on earth would he have made of such a missive, she wondered – a whole world away from ditties about Brussels sprouts and dancing moles?

  Molly bent over the desk and let the scratchy nib of the fountain pen dart fervently over the page.

  . . . and so that’s it, my love. I am with child – our child. I so wish the news could have come from my mouth into your ear and then my lips could have touched yours, but this is the next best thing, a letter. Can you believe it, my darling? Johan, truly I alternate between joy and delight at such a thing and then more than a hint of nerves at what might be your reaction to this news. I have nothing to go on, you see, but our spoken trust, in which I do have the utmost faith, but the sooner I hear that you’re happy, the happier I shall be as a consequence. How I wish I could hold you, feel you, see you . . . I would like nothing more than to lie against you and hear you whisper into my hair that there will be a time when we will live in a world where you come through the door each night and take me into your arms and that after supper we will waltz the way we did at the Army and Navy Club to music only we can hear, my hand in yours . . . Oh my darling, I can’t wait for it all to be over so it can all begin. I hate this bloody war! I hate our separation. Keep safe. My love. My only love . . .

  She wrote the words, stopping occasionally to tap the fountain pen on her bottom lip or to roll the precious brass button in the palm of her hand, a treasured talisman that she often held to her mouth or ran over her cheek. She had found a little walnut box in which to keep it safe, polished and with a delicate inlaid surface; this too had once belonged to her father. A knock on her bedroom door made her jump, and Molly pulled the top sheet over her words and turned the writing pad face down. Her mother walked in.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Molly – you’re either darting out of the door or are cloistered away up here. And you’re in your nightclothes already!’ Mrs Collway knitted her brows.

  ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘God does not look kindly on the slothful.’

  Molly nodded, as ever, finding her mother’s God-based admonishments tedious, to say the least.

  ‘Anyway,’ her mother said, softening her tone, ‘I thought you might be interested to know that I’ve received a letter from David.’

  ‘Oh, that is good. How is he? What’s his news?’ Molly loved her brother and was keen to hear how he was faring.

  Her mother reached into the pocket of her cardigan and waved the yellowed envelope in front of her. ‘Lots of words saying nothing – the usual. No news to speak of and all a bit too vague to be of any real interest. He seems to think that filling pages is more important than sending anything of note. But lovely to hear from him, of course.’ Her smile was fleeting.

  Molly thought of her brother, who, since their father had died, had taken his responsibility as the man of the house seriously and might well want to spare his mother the full horror of his war. ‘Well, no doubt his letters are censored, or maybe the war has turned him into a man who’s selective with what he shares. He might take after Papa in that respect.’ The words left her mouth before she’d had time to properly consider them, before she’d had time to remind herself that any perceived negativity directed towards her father would be seen by her mother as a personal attack as well as an assault on his memory, and so would invite a frosty monologue from her remaining parent, who saw herself as the true victim in the whole terrible debacle of her husband’s premature death.

  ‘You make it sound as if my husband was a sour man, and he most definitely was not!’ Mrs Collway spat. ‘And please do not confuse someone who has the horrors of war playing heavily on his mind with someone who is merely secretive.’ Her chin wobbled.

  ‘I don’t, I really don’t, I—’

  ‘Good, because I shan’t allow it. He worked hard for us at the bank for all those years. Just ask Mr Mason—’

  Mr Mason lived in their street with his plump wife and had been a junior colleague of her father’s, taking over his role when her father was deemed unfit to return to work. The idea of going to ask Mr Mason anything was almost comical, a man with whom she had barely exchanged a sentence.

  ‘And then he gave his youth to that damned war and worked hard when he thought it was all over!’

  ‘I know, I know he did, and I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Life might come easily to you as you sleep soundly in the house he provided for you and you enjoy the luxury of a job in an office – an office in London! And it might be wartime, but our hardships are minor in comparison. Can you imagine—?’

  ‘Living in mud, Molly, for months and months! Mud! That is what Papa and Uncle Max endured, with sights and sounds around them that no man should have to see . . .’ Molly said the words in her head while her mother drew breath.

  ‘Living in mud for months and months! That is what Papa and Uncle Max had to put up with, with sights and sounds around them that no man should have t
o see—’

  ‘I know, Mummy – I do know.’

  ‘And’ – her mother was not done. She stowed the letter back in her cardigan pocket and jabbed her index finger in Molly’s direction – ‘your brother might be a medic and doing great things for the war, but he would do well to remember what Papa sacrificed and how he suffered when he was home, taking years to draw his last breath with his nights disturbed and his lungs failing.’ Her tears came right on cue, and Molly watched as she unfurled her lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed it beneath her eyes before wiping her nose. She was struggling to see how David had ended up being blamed for whatever offence had been committed. Her big brother would have laughed at this fact, the way he used to when she watched him smoke out of the attic window and taught her swear words, which she would then repeat verbatim as he recoiled in laughter, one of her favourite memories of him.

  ‘Bugger off – that’s a bad one.’

  ‘Bugger off!’ Molly would repeat, while David howled until he cried.

  As was customary, her mother ran out of steam and left the room, slamming the bedroom door behind her. Molly watched the small mirror that hung above the chest of drawers in the corner list to the left in reaction to the impact.

  She looked longingly out of the window over the higgledy-piggledy rooftops of London, hoping that tonight there would be no siren, no bombs, nothing to disturb her sleep, as she was tired. A big moon hung in the sky and stars twinkled. She pictured David, a nice man, a good man, who she hoped was indeed eating well and sleeping well. God bless you, David, wherever you are. Come home soon. Come home safely to little Clementine and your Clara – God knows she needs you. Come home and meet this wonderful man I’ve fallen in love with, and come home and meet my little one . . .

  With her mother finally silent and in bed for the night, Molly took her fountain pen in hand and finished the letter with a flourish.

  And so, my darling, I’ll be seeing you . . .

  With love

  M x

  On the back of the envelope she wrote ‘Personal Correspondence’ to ensure it was placed directly in Johan’s hands and not read out in dispatches. God, the very thought! In simply writing everything down, it felt as if a small weight had lifted from her shoulders.