It was hard to believe that it had only been two days since she had last set foot in Eaton Square Gardens. Her pulse raced as she recalled being bundled into a cab and sent home to Bloomsbury with the shock of Johan’s death ringing in her ears. It was still almost impossible to think about him without wanting to give in to the tears that were always under the surface, but whenever she felt this way, a quick rub of her stomach, a reminder that she needed to be strong, kept her emotions in check. Molly didn’t know exactly what she wanted to say to Geer, but trusted their friendship enough to imagine that the words would flow.
Mrs Duggan opened the door and recognised her, of course. Her smile was brief and sad, no more than a cursory twitch at the sides of her mouth. ‘I shall go and call Geertruida, dear. Do come in.’
Molly stood in the hallway of the grand house, gazing at the hands of the grandfather clock, wishing, wishing she could have had more time with Johan . . . She heard feet on the stairs and turned to see her friend.
‘Oh!’ she gasped. Her heart swelled and her tears broke their banks at the sight of this girl who had lost her brother, her eyes swollen and raw from crying. Molly noticed for the first time how much she looked like Johan, a fact both wonderful and unbearable in equal measure. Molly rushed to her, taking her in her arms and holding her fast, but Geer remained stiff, upright.
‘Geer!’ Molly sniffed. ‘Oh my goodness, Geer! I don’t know what to say; I don’t know what to do. I can’t believe it – I can’t! I am so very sorry, sorry for you, sorry for us all. And you were right – he was a wonderful human, more wonderful than I can say. One of the good ones! And your poor, poor mother. I can’t imagine what she’s going through, and poor you. Oh God, Geer, I just can’t accept that it’s true.’
Her friend pulled out of her embrace and looked over her head towards the front door. ‘My brother had two opportunities to see his family.’ She paused to clear her throat, swallowing as if it were lined with glass. ‘The first one he spent with you, walking on the Embankment. And the second time’ – she paused as if the words were too hard to say – ‘the second time he told my mother he would be home for tea, but he never turned up, because he was with you.’
Molly lowered her arms and stared at the other girl, whose tone was sharp, her words stilted. Suddenly they felt like strangers to one another.
‘But you . . . you left us alone. You said you didn’t want to play gooseberry, and we . . . we—’ She paused, having been about to say, ‘We were glad of it; we were grateful,’ but decided against it. ‘And that weekend . . . we ran out of time, Geer!’ Molly pictured lying on the tartan rug with her head on Johan’s chest while the spark of life took root in her womb. ‘He said your mother would understand and that he’d write to her immediately, and—’ She ran out of puff.
‘You took that from us,’ Geer spat, ignoring Molly’s words, as her own tears now pooled. ‘My mother waited for him on that Sunday, waited all afternoon. She . . . she had baked a cake and he never arrived. You took that last day from her. You took it from us! And I will never, ever forgive you for that.’
Molly shook her head and tried to compose herself. Her friend’s words were like daggers that lodged in her heart. It was a confrontation she had not expected, could never have imagined, but then, if life had taught her anything over the last few days, it was that you never knew what was around the corner and how quickly everything you thought you could rely on might disappear.
‘I’m sorry, I truly am. I would never want to hurt your mother, but we had no way of knowing.’ She let her head fall to her chest, thinking of all the things she might have said had she known. ‘But trust me, Geer, when I say that it was a wonderful, precious day for us.’ She cried again at the thought of the promises made in the sunshine. ‘I . . . I loved him, you see, and he loved me and we, we talked about his dog, about Dixie, and . . . he took me to his special place,’ she gabbled.
‘Love?’ Geer laughed loudly, cruelly, dismissing her words. ‘You met him a couple of times – that’s not love! How can it be? Love is what families have: love is how my mother felt about the boy she gave birth to, and love is what I, his sister, felt for my big brother, so don’t talk to me about love.’
‘But it’s true!’ Molly hated her pleading tone. ‘It was love, and I have something to tell you.’ She placed her hand on her stomach and took a deep breath. Geer stared at her hand, which moved slowly over her flat tum. ‘I never got to tell Johan, but—’
‘Don’t you dare! Don’t you fucking dare!’ Geer spat. ‘You think that would help? What do you want from us?’
‘I don’t want anything from you!’
‘Good, because you are not and never will be welcome. You have done quite enough!’
‘But, Geer,’ Molly faltered, shock making it hard for her to think straight, ‘this is Johan’s baby!’
‘No, it’s your baby, Molly – yours. Just let us be!’
‘You don’t mean that – you can’t . . . This child, it—’
‘What don’t you get?’ Geer rushed forward and opened the front door. ‘Don’t talk to me about it because it’s nothing to do with us. You think we can handle that on top of losing him?’ Her face crumpled at the words. ‘In fact,’ Geer said, tucking her hair behind her ears and wiping the residue of tears from under her eyes, ‘don’t ever, ever talk to me again.’
Molly couldn’t have spoken even if she had wanted to. Shock and grief sat like a physical plug in her throat, rendering all speech impossible. Her tears fogged everything. She fled as the door slammed behind her, keen to put distance between herself and Johan’s sister and, right on cue, felt the first kick of her little one in her stomach.
‘Oh – oh my darling! And oh my baby!’ she murmured, crying harder now as she looked back to the house where, in another time and in other circumstances, she would have been running to share the good news with the girl she so loved. Her dear, dear friend . . .
SIX
Birdcage Walk, London
May 1944
Aged 19
Molly put her hands in her coat pockets and watched her elegant sister walk towards her across the road. Joyce stood out as a classy beacon against the dull background of London at war, as army trucks with roaring engines trundled around them. Joyce’s neat heeled shoes showed off her slender ankles and her camel coat hung beautifully on her frame. Her hair was set with a side parting and fat waves that fell around her neck. Her eyebrows were plucked and arched and her lips painted red. She looked beautiful.
‘Well, I must say this is all very cloak and dagger, not that I’m complaining.’ Joyce beamed. ‘It’s been rather exciting, wondering what it was you couldn’t possibly say on the telephone! Of course, Albert wouldn’t let me take the train. The railways really are such a nightmare at the moment – he insisted on driving me up. He’s parked over on the Mall, no doubt having a not-so-secret smoke of his pipe. I hate the ruddy smell; he’s supposed to be cutting down.’ Molly reached for her big sister and wrapped her in a hug. ‘Hey! What’s up, darling? This isn’t like you.’
‘Thank you for coming into town.’
‘That’s how it works, kiddo. You need me, you call me and I come to you. That’s how it has always been and how it always will be – you know that, don’t you?’ Joyce gripped her clip-topped handbag in one hand and with the other moved stray wisps of hair from Molly’s face and softly ran her finger down her cheek.
Molly nodded. She did know this: the proof being that she had made the phone call only yesterday and her sister was standing in front of her right now.
‘You look exhausted, pale. And I’m assuming that whatever it is you need to say you want kept from Mother, otherwise we’d be meeting there, of course. I’ve been racking my brains, trying to—’
‘I’m pregnant,’ Molly interrupted, knowing that if she didn’t just say it out loud, it would get stuck in her mouth or buried under a pile of other words and pleasantries, and there was no time for that. ‘I’m pre
gnant,’ she repeated, wondering if her sister’s silence was because she might not have heard correctly.
‘Good Lord!’ Joyce blinked. ‘I was not expecting that.’ She took a step forward and pulled Molly again into her arms. The two were silent for a beat, letting the enormity of the situation wash over them, standing still while soldiers and airmen, messengers, military police and the public raced around them in a hurry to get to wherever it was they were heading.
‘Are you sure?’ her sister whispered.
Molly nodded her response against her sister’s neck.
‘Oh, you poor love. How far gone are you?’ Joyce pulled away to study her face better.
‘Around five months.’
‘Gosh, you don’t even have a bump! Not really.’
‘It’s my build, I suppose. I can feel it, though.’ She smiled at her sister, the two sharing the intimate detail of this bittersweet situation.
Joyce took a deep, slow breath. ‘I don’t know where to start.’ She looked towards Buckingham Palace. ‘How you have kept this to yourself?’
Molly shook her head, as if in horror at the very idea. ‘I don’t really have a choice,’ she said ruefully. ‘Mum’s bound to be a little upset when she finds out.’
Joyce huffed at the understatement.
‘And I can’t risk losing my job,’ Molly continued. ‘I need to save as much as possible and work up until the very last minute so I have enough to see me through my confinement and then to pay for childcare when I go back. I’ve done the sums and I think I can do it, just about.’ She ran her fingers over her brow; the words were logical, smart, but she knew the reality might be far more challenging.
‘But will they keep your job open? You know how employers are about these things. It’s hard enough to keep a job if you get married, let alone . . .’
‘I know, but I don’t see why they shouldn’t. I’m good at what I do, fast and accurate, and I work hard.’
‘And you’ll stay in Bloomsbury?’
‘Initially, yes. I don’t have too many options; housing is hard to come by as it is at the moment, without adding the unmarried mother element to it. I know many landlords wouldn’t entertain the idea. But eventually, I want my own place, of course I do.’
Joyce nodded. ‘And what kind of childcare?’ she asked, her gaze steady.
Molly bit her lip and wished she had a more concrete solution. ‘I’m hoping Mum will be on hand. I have this image I cling to of her seeing the baby and any disapproval being swept away, and she can look after it while I’m at work. I can pay her extra on top of my board and lodging contribution, and that would be welcome, I know.’
Joyce averted her eyes as if not so certain of their mother’s likely reaction. It was unnerving.
‘Or I’m thinking maybe someone we know, a family friend or neighbour. It’s at times like this we all must pull together, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, dear, but pulling together because of circumstances created by war and pulling together for something like this . . .’ Joyce shook her head. ‘It might be harder than you think. People can be very judgemental.’
‘Are you judging me, Joyce?’ Molly’s voice cracked at the thought, conscious as she was of how others would view her single status when pregnant.
Her sister reached for her hand and held it tightly. ‘Oh, my love. No. But I can’t pretend I’m not a little fearful for you.’
Molly appreciated the truth.
‘Do you have a boyfriend? I mean—’ Joyce faltered at the delicate nature of the topic. ‘Where is the father in all of this?’
Molly took a sharp breath and did her best to keep her voice strong. ‘He was someone I loved very much. His name was Johan, and he died, Joyce. He was killed.’
‘Oh my goodness!’ The bloom of tears in her sister’s eyes was reassuring and welcome. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘It is terrible.’ Molly gave a dry laugh. ‘He didn’t know I was pregnant. I wrote to him but never sent the letter. I’ve hidden it in my wardrobe. And then, just like that . . .’ She shook her head. ‘A lovely future that felt within reach turned to smoke. I’m scared, Joyce.’
‘Of course you are, dear.’ Her sister nodded. ‘I wish I could tell you it will all be fine, but I think you’re in for a rough time.’
This much she knew already.
‘Are his people in contact? Do you know the family?’
‘You remember my friend Geer?’
‘Yes, of course! Loud and fabulous.’
Molly winced, feeling the loss of her friendship acutely. ‘Johan was her brother. But since he died . . . We’ve fallen out and she doesn’t want to speak to me and has made it plain that neither she nor her parents want anything to do with me or the baby.’ It was a state no less painful to consider, no matter how many weeks had passed.
‘They’ll be in shock and grieving, of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you, my poor little sister, you must be shredded. Grieving and pregnant.’
‘I am, Joyce.’ Her bottom lip quivered but she managed to swallow the threat of tears. ‘But actually, being responsible for this baby means I need to keep it together. I can’t fall apart. I have too much work to do and too many things to plan. It’s all on my shoulders.’
‘It is. But if any woman I know has the strength to get through this, it’s you. You’re smart and sensible and you can do it.’
‘I don’t feel terribly smart or sensible right now.’ Molly felt, as she did on occasion, the flicker of resentment that her life plan had been thrown so wildly off track. Not only by losing Johan, but also, she had always seen herself stalking the corridors of the Foreign Office, and now? Her ambitions were, if not thwarted, then certainly a little dented.
‘I do think you need to tell Mum. Sooner rather than later.’
‘I’m waiting for the right time. I practise telling her in the middle of the night and it’s easy in my head, but then I see her and I fold. It’s a lot harder than I thought.’
‘I bet.’ Joyce exhaled as if the thought was scary enough. ‘What do you need from us? What can we do to help?’
Molly noted the way Joyce spoke for herself and Albert, for their partnership . . .
‘Nothing right now, but I already feel a little better because you know about it. I feel less alone.’
‘You’re not alone, darling. I’m in Tonbridge, not that far away, and if you need me, get word to me and I’ll be there for you always.’
‘Thank you, Joyce.’ Molly welcomed the slow hug her sister wrapped her in.
I want to hold you tight and set you free. I don’t want you to be lonely . . .
‘I do love you, Little Moll.’
‘I love you too.’
Joyce had sent Molly a wrapped package tied with string; in it was a housecoat she had made. Their mother had been delighted to run her fingers over the peach quilted material, modelled by Molly, with the wide tie belt and the patch pockets edged in grosgrain ribbon in a darker shade.
‘Well, isn’t she a clever old stick?’ From her puffed-out chest and lifted chin, it seemed Mrs Collway took no small credit for her older daughter’s ability with a sewing needle. Molly thought it was funny she had never seen her quite so pleased about her own proficiency for languages or her promotion at work last year.
‘She really is.’ Molly had smiled, but not for the reason her mother might think. For, opening the package in the confines of her bedroom, as per the written instruction on the outside, Molly had unfolded the housecoat to find six nappies, two darling nightgowns and a small cardigan in lemon with the tiniest matching booties imaginable. It had made Molly’s heart sing as well as filling her with a cold dread, as the clothes somehow made her pregnancy real and were a reminder of how little she knew about motherhood. She held the little booties in her hand and tried to imagine the baby feet that might fill them.
Molly was now a little under eight months pregnant. In her head the idea of keeping her situation secret mad
e a little bit of sense in a world that did not; she was certain that when her mother did find out there would be hell to pay. Quite what that hell might look like she wasn’t sure, but of one thing she was sure – it would be loud and accompanied by tears. Keeping her confinement under wraps enabled Molly to carry on working and earning, adding to the savings that were growing slowly and steadily in her savings account. This money was, she knew, her ticket to a smooth transition from single girl to working mother. Molly knew enough to understand that without a ring on the third finger of her left hand, the corset she was about to put on stopped the inevitable looks and judgement from anyone she encountered and the predictable conversation, which she did not want to have. Geer’s reaction the last time she had seen her lived on in her mind.
With the changes in her form becoming harder to hide and her mother’s consternation at the fact Molly was avoiding her, Molly knew it was only a matter of time before she was forced to come clean. Following Joyce’s sage advice, she had on a couple of occasions earlier on in her pregnancy prepared to broach the topic, once as her mother was warming the large metal pot for tea, but faced with her disapproving frown as she complained about ‘the lack of flour in the shops’, how she craved ‘tinned sardines’ and the fact that ‘her teeth felt loose in her gums,’ among many, many other moans and ailments, Molly felt that the moment had passed. It was starting the conversation that she struggled with, and with a fellow female who had in the past shot her down and made her feel mortified for having been brazen enough to mention her periods. If she had to think about her future, the one vastly altered now from the picture Johan had painted, she saw the nursery on the first floor restored and imagined her mother putting the baby in the old family Silver Cross pram and wheeling it up and down the streets of Bloomsbury with pride. It was not, of course, the life she had wished for, knowing that without Johan by her side her happiness would be measured, but she would not give up on this child – she was determined to make the very best life possible for it.
An Ordinary Life Page 8