Molly fell onto her single bed with its walnut headboard and popped on her cosy old bedsocks before climbing beneath the cotton sheets softened with age, loving the feel of them against her chilly toes. She placed her hand on her still-flat stomach, where nerves and excitement mingled, and let her mind drift as sleep claimed her.
It was a bright day, which made her walk to work pleasant. Her breakfast egg filled the gap left by her lack of supper. Her navy beret had found the right jaunty angle on her head and the air was still. The temperature promised much for the weekend. Perhaps on Sunday, after attending a church service with her mother at St George’s in Bloomsbury, she might take a walk along the Embankment, replicating the steps she had taken with her beau and hoping the echo of their interaction might linger if she looked and listened hard enough. How she missed him. And how she longed to know his reaction to her news. She decided to invite Geer along for the walk and then they could possibly go for a cup of tea. Not only did she enjoy the company of her friend, she was also keen to hear any snippets about Johan that might have made it to the ears of the family. Plus, she thought with no small thrill, she would soon enough be able to confide in Geer about the baby, and how wonderful would that be? It was hard not telling her, but the last thing she wanted was for Johan to hear this monumental news second-hand, or even worse, third- or fourth-hand, but not being able to talk to Geer openly felt akin to lying and didn’t feel right either. They had few secrets between them.
It was a strange thing, but despite the situation which some in her position would have described as desperate if not hopeless, Molly felt mostly joy. She was nervous, yes, and unsettled at times, but Johan was right, this was war and it changed everything. Everything. Time was compressed and time was stolen. Normal rules did not apply.
Molly reached into her bag for the letter and was about to pop it in the postbox outside the office when Beryl, one of the girls from her department, walked up to her. She was a big-boned girl with huge feet and a cumbersome manner.
‘Morning, Molly!’
‘Oh!’ She popped the letter back in her bag, ridiculously aware of its contents. ‘Morning, Beryl.’
‘Are you coming in?’
‘Yes, of course.’
The two walked into the lobby, opened the concertina-like cage of the lift and rode up to their floor. She felt the weight of the letter in her bag, hoping that Geer wouldn’t see it and become inquisitive. Thankfully, it was safely deposited in her locker by the time Molly had poured a cup of tea from the urn and was seated at the wide table waiting for her friend. Two old men from the policy department whom she had seen before sat in the leather wing-backed chairs by the window, both smoking pipes and nodding seriously as the discussion turned to recent events. She wished, not for the first time, that her baby was being born into a different kind of world, taking comfort at least from the fact that it would not always be this way.
The clock on the wall showed five minutes past eight and there was still no sign of her friend. She wondered what Geer had got up to at the Ritz the night before. Surely she had not made good her promise and let some rich old man buy her cocktails? Or maybe Richard had written a letter so beautiful that Geer was too busy reading and re-reading to bother with work. Highly unlikely, though. Her mouth curved at the thought of the lovelorn Richard, who wrote such loving correspondence, and again she pictured the envelope, which she would now post after work.
Mrs Templar opened the door of the dining room and made a show of looking at her wristwatch and then the clock on the wall. ‘Time, ladies, please!’
The girls all placed their cups and saucers on the long, narrow table next to the urn for the char lady to clean and put back, ready for their break for elevenses. They walked in an orderly fashion to their desks. Molly glanced along the corridor, half expecting to see Geer come running in with her coat flapping, stockings twisted and hair a mess. But it was Marjorie who walked briskly into view. Their eyes locked and Molly thought about the last patchy phone call, and just like that she remembered the frustration of those few snatched words and missed Johan terribly. Suddenly all the good about the day, her perfect egg and the clement weather, was wiped out, leaving her with a hollow ache that she knew only seeing him and talking to him could possibly mend.
The lunch table was strangely subdued without the endless burble of Geer’s chatter. Molly considered the possibility that her friend might be sick and mentally sent her wishes to get well soon.
Mrs Templar approached Molly during the afternoon tea break and said matter-of-factly, ‘Miss de Fries has not made contact today.’
‘Oh?’ Molly wasn’t sure quite how to respond.
‘I assume you have no knowledge regarding her absence?’
‘I don’t. I’m sorry, Mrs Templar, but if I hear anything—’
‘Yes, if you hear anything, then please do ask her to report to my desk first thing in the morning.’ The woman walked briskly away and, even though it was nothing to do with her, Molly couldn’t help but feel that she had in some way done something wrong.
It was drizzling slightly when she stepped out onto the pavement after work, a blessing not only for all the home veg growers who would welcome a spot of rain, but especially when clouds helped obscure targets on the ground in the event of a bombing raid. Molly looked left and right, before kissing the envelope. She let her eyes linger on the side of the postbox, on the spot where her love had surprised her, leaning there and looking so very handsome.
She decided on the spur of the moment to go and visit Geer, thinking that if she was poorly, the least she could do was make the girl a cup of beef tea and regale her with Mrs Templar’s extreme displeasure at the situation. It made her smile, knowing her friend would find humour in it. In the same way they had enjoyed the retelling of Mrs Templar’s reaction to Geer’s brand-new red lipstick a few months earlier, when the woman’s thin top lip had practically curled as she stared at the carmine slick on Geer’s full mouth.
‘Garish! That is the word that comes to mind, Miss de Fries – garish!’ Even the poker-faced Marjorie had had to stifle her laughter.
‘You walking this way?’ Marjorie’s voice distracted her and Molly swiftly tucked the letter back in her handbag, guilty that she had lately been thinking mocking thoughts of her.
‘That’s right.’ Molly broke into stride alongside her. ‘I’m off to see Geer, actually. It’s not like her not to turn up without a word.’
‘Well, there was no bombing last night so at least you know she was safe from that.’
‘Yes, absolutely. How are things in your neck of the woods?’ Molly asked, grabbing the branch of friendship Marjorie had extended since that evening in the lavatory when she had been riven with nerves.
‘It’s . . .’ The other girl drew breath and adjusted her glasses. ‘It’s bloody awful, actually.’ She paused. ‘Absolutely bloody awful. Only a couple of miles from here as the crow flies but feels like a world away from up west.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
Marjorie exhaled. ‘Nothing anyone can do till it’s all over.’ She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘You still keen on Geer’s brother?’
Molly nodded. ‘Yes, keen and, erm . . .’ The urge to tell someone was almost overwhelming, but if she told anyone other than Johan it would be Geer. ‘Keen to hear from him.’
‘Things have a funny old way of always working out, Molly.’
‘Yes, I guess they do.’ She concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, wondering if Marjorie was letting her know, as subtly as she could, that she could tell she was pregnant. The two went their separate ways at the top of the road, both looking back at the other before turning out of view.
The grand house in Eaton Square Gardens where Geer lived was run by the formidable Mrs Duggan, who had let six of her seven bedrooms to young unmarried women like Geer, whose parents paid monthly for board and lodging.
‘It’s a house of glorious chaos!
’ Geer had beamed.
The landlady was fierce when it came to noise, wasting soap, using any more than the bare minimum of toilet tissue, and anyone who forgot to keep the blackout curtains drawn after dark. When, however, it came to courting, sharing cosmetics, washing stockings in the sink and hanging them to dry over the tub or the consumption of alcohol, Mrs Duggan turned a blind eye and was even described by her tenants as ‘exceptional fun’.
Molly removed her beret and gave it a good shake, watching the droplets run down onto the Belgravia pavement. She raced up the steps to the front door and let the heavy lion’s head knocker do its job. It was a minute or so before the door slowly opened and Mrs Duggan stood on the top step. Her face was pale, her expression not the welcoming smile that Molly had previously seen.
‘Hello, Mrs Duggan. How are you?’
The woman stared at her wordlessly.
Molly smiled more brightly, trying not to be put off by the landlady’s odd manner. ‘I was hoping to see Geer. I’m sure you know she wasn’t at—’
Mrs Duggan shook her head, cutting her off mid-speech. ‘Yes, dear, I do know.’
‘Can I see her? She’s not poorly, is she? There have been some rather rotten tummy bugs going around. My own mother’s gone for a tonic only today.’
Mrs Duggan took a deep breath and leaned on the doorframe. ‘No, dear, not a tummy bug. But she, erm . . .’ The woman coughed and took a step forward, her tone and the tilt of her grey head most conspiratorial. ‘She’s had some rather bad news.’
Molly stared at the landlady and wasn’t sure if she had spoken or simply thought the words: What bad news?
Either way, Mrs Duggan answered. ‘All rather sudden, but she’s gone home to Hampshire – caught the early train this morning. I can’t recall exactly where the family home is—’
‘Alresford.’ Molly filled in the blank.
‘Yes, that’s it, Alresford.’ The woman drew breath. ‘Well, she’s at home with her people and I don’t know when she’ll be back.’
‘With her people . . .? Why . . .? What’s . . . Has something happened? What bad news exactly?’ Molly asked quietly, as if she didn’t really want to know, while desperate to quieten the terrible scenarios that had started to race around her head.
‘Very unexpected,’ Mrs Duggan said, biting her bottom lip. ‘It concerns her brother, Johan. Circumstances are all a bit murky and we don’t really know quite what happened, but he’s been killed. Her parents got the telegram late yesterday. A terrible business.’
Molly made a strange noise, a bit like a nervous laugh and a bit like a yelp of pain. Everything seemed unreal and her legs suddenly buckled beneath her. Mrs Duggan’s voice echoed through the ringing of her ears, and Molly welcomed the darkness that enveloped her as she plunged headlong through the woman’s front door.
‘Goodness me, what a to-do.’
Molly, with her eyes closed, recognised her mother’s voice as she was guided from the kerb and into the house. She grasped her mother’s hand – something solid to reach for in the dark fog of shock in which she stumbled.
‘I paid the cab.’ Mrs Collway’s tone was one of displeasure. ‘The driver said he’d come from Belgravia. What on earth were you doing over there?’
Molly spoke quietly, her voice thin. ‘I was . . . I was visiting my friend Geer.’
‘Yes, I know the one. Dutch.’ Her mother uttered the last word as if it might be some kind of affliction.
‘But she wasn’t there.’ Molly’s tears fell and she let them. ‘She had to go home because her brother . . . her brother . . .’ Her sadness threatened to consume her and stoppered the words in her throat, which felt narrowed and raw. ‘He was killed, Mum.’ She gave voice to the monstrous words that refused to sink in. How can it be possible? You’re one of the lucky ones, Johan, you told me so – you said you were safe, safe and sound in Devon . . . Instinctively she placed her free hand on her stomach.
‘And he’s the chap who took you for tea some weeks back?’
Molly nodded through her tears.
Yes, the most perfect day, when we lay on a blanket under a weeping willow . . .
‘Goodness me, you seem awfully sad about someone you barely knew,’ her mother tutted. ‘These are tough times, Mary Florence, and they call for resilience. I mean, there are of course exceptions – poor Mrs Davenport is still bed-bound, but that I understand: Anthony was her only son, after all. And as hard as it is and as sad as it is for your Dutch friend, you need to toughen up. We’re fighting a war! This is what happens, and it happens to us all.’ She looked at the portrait of Molly’s father on the wall in his best suit, seated at a desk and with the fountain pen that would become Molly’s poised in the air and ready to write.
Molly extracted her hand from her mother’s clasp and gripped the banister. ‘I’m . . . I’m going to bed.’
‘You don’t want supper?’
Molly bit her tongue to stop the furious tirade from flying from her mouth. ‘Supper? Supper? He’s dead and you want to know if I want fucking supper?’
It felt easier to ignore her. Molly trod the stairs with leaden limbs up to the landing and then trudged slowly to her bed, which she fell upon, still in her damp coat, with her beret askew and the brown brogues tied on her feet. Her heart physically ached, her thoughts tumbled and her eyelids felt raw and heavy. Tears slid down her nose as she wept. Her crying left her breathless, her sorrow was all-consuming.
The realisation that she was now truly alone and pregnant sent a bolt of panic through her very core, followed by a very real fear. She had been counting on Johan’s love and support. It was hard to open her eyes, trying to kid herself that there was the faintest chance that she might wake to find the whole thing had been some ghastly nightmare. I need to make a plan. I need to stay afloat. I need to figure out how to make this work! But, oh my God, it hurts! Molly knitted her fingers in the sheet as if she were physically holding on not only to her bed, but also to reality.
She finally drifted into an exhausted slumber in the early hours, until her mother woke her by popping her head around her bedroom door.
‘You’re going to be late for work, Molly.’
‘I’m not going,’ she managed. ‘Not today.’ Her eyes were swollen and her voice no more than a croak offered from the depths of her pillow.
Her mother tutted, and no doubt Mrs Templar would too when she noted Molly’s absence, but that was too bad. Molly’s whole world had been turned upside down. The wonderful future she had seen, spent with Johan by her side in a plentiful world full of colour and laughter and freedom . . . Only now did she realise how very much she had wanted it, which in itself was almost more than she could bear.
Her mother closed the door.
Molly rose slowly the next day with the grit of sadness behind her eyelids and a deep hollow ache in her gut. It had been another fretful night of broken sleep, and she wanted nothing more than to stay in bed and pull the blankets over her head, but that was not an option. Not only was Britain a nation at war and she had a job to do, but also she knew that in her current predicament she would need a steady income and must save what she could until her confinement, when her wages would stop. There was barely time to pay heed to the physical weight of grief she now carried, as the survival of this child was down to her and her alone. This thought was sobering and terrifying in equal measure.
‘I can do this – I can – I can do this,’ she repeated with every step of her journey, hoping it might strengthen her resolve and distract her from the despair she felt every time she pictured the beautiful man she had lost. She laid her hand on her stomach and walked slowly along the grey streets of London, struggling to put one foot in front of the other without stumbling, feeling a little as if she was floating and thinking for the first time of the letter she had written and which still sat in the bottom of her handbag. How cruel it seemed that he would never know his child or even of its existence. Her future had turned to ashes. The lightness she h
ad felt – that perfect bubble in which she had found herself when in his company – was nothing more now than a memory. He was gone for ever . . .
She shook her head and quickened her pace; she had a job to get to and money to earn.
Mrs Templar was kinder than she had expected, assuming no doubt the reason for her distress was that her best friend’s brother had been killed. And she was of course right, in part. None of the other girls in the department spoke to her, and she understood. In these critical times, sadness and desolation were contagious and every single one of them had reason to cry, but keeping it at bay was absolutely necessary to survive day to day. Their looks, however, were knowing and kind and their tones hushed. Molly poured a cup of tea from the urn and forced it down before taking a seat at the big table. Marjorie pulled the chair out next to her and sat down, and without saying a word placed her hand on Molly’s arm, and the slight pressure of it was a comfort. The two remained in this position until Mrs Templar called them through to take up their seats.
‘It’ll all be okay, Molly,’ Marjorie whispered.
‘Thank you . . . my friend,’ Molly managed.
Mrs Templar cornered Molly as she made her way back to her desk. ‘I spoke with Geertruida’s landlady today. She confirmed that Geertruida won’t be returning to work and will remain with her mother, which is unfortunate but of course understandable. I believe she’s only returning to London today to gather her things. I was hoping you might pass on my sincerest condolences when you talk to her next.’
Molly nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’ She was reeling from this added news that her friend, her dear, dear friend, would not be returning to work. If Johan’s death had not already soaked up all of her sadness, she knew this would have been the biggest blow. At the end of the working day she made the decision to visit Geer, knowing that once she had returned to Hampshire for good, visiting would be a whole lot harder.
An Ordinary Life Page 7