An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  Don’t think about it . . . don’t think about it, just keep walking, Molly . . .

  Gingerly she trod the steps to tap on the door with the lion’s head knocker, remembering the last time she had seen her dear friend Geer and the time before, on that rainy night only months ago when she was to learn the fate of her beloved. She hoped it was Mrs Duggan who opened the door. It was not. The door was, however, opened quickly, in the manner of someone who before a single word had been exchanged was making it clear they were none too happy to have been disturbed. Molly smiled at the woman who appeared, wrapped in a scarlet and gold silk kimono and with a newly lit cigarette in a holder between her fingers.

  ‘Yes?’ She was sharp and stony-faced.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you.’

  The woman huffed, as if suspecting this to be a lie.

  ‘I was hoping to speak to Mrs Duggan.’

  ‘Who?’ The woman took a long draw of her cigarette.

  ‘Mrs Duggan? I believe this is her house?’

  ‘Oh right.’ She looked up, as if recalling the name. ‘Yes, probably. Not here, though.’ She scratched at her scalp and blew smoke in a long plume. ‘She went back to her family in Ireland months ago. There’s only three of us here.’

  Molly was reluctant to leave, this being her only connection to the de Fries family. ‘I was hoping to make contact with someone who used to live here, Geertruida de Fries, and wondered if there was a forwarding address left for post or anything that might help me get in touch with her?’

  ‘No.’ The woman shook her head.

  ‘Could you check?’

  ‘No.’ She stared Molly in the eye.

  ‘I see.’ The two women stared at each other in silence for a beat. It was Molly who spoke first. ‘I honestly don’t know what to say to you. I’ve left my newborn son to come here because it’s important. Geertruida would have been my sister-in-law and I need someone to help me look after my son, to keep him safe and take him out of the city.’ She cursed the crack to her voice. ‘It’s not an easy thing for me to consider, but there we are and why would you give a damn? And, for the record, I find you rude.’

  The woman laughed and seemed to thaw a little. ‘Well, I am rude. I’m also working nights and you’ve woken me up after only forty minutes of sleep. I am therefore rude, exhausted and angry to have been pulled from my bed.’

  ‘Maybe you should put a note on the door.’ Molly felt chastened.

  The woman slapped herself on the forehead. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ She pointed to a rather crudely written postcard that sat shy of the letterbox, which Molly hadn’t seen. It read ‘DO NOT DISTRUB WORKING NIGHTS’.

  Molly shook her head. ‘I apologise for waking you. I didn’t think—’

  ‘No, you didn’t. And for the record, I do not know Trudy or whatever her name is, and there are no forwarding addresses for anyone, and I’ve never met Mrs Duggan, and I don’t know what to suggest.’

  Molly nodded. She turned to walk back down the steps.

  ‘Good luck with your little one and with finding your friend.’

  Molly looked back and smiled at the woman, who continued to draw on her cigarette, although her mood seemed to have softened a little. ‘Thanks. And you’ve spelled “disturb” wrong.’ She pointed at the sign.

  She decided to write to Miss Geertruida de Fries of Alresford, Hampshire, hoping that the vague address but unusual name might give the letter a better than average chance of delivery. It was a simple note, written with her father’s pen.

  Geer,

  Too much has happened and too much binds us for us not to be in touch. I miss you and hope we can find a way to come together, to build a bridge that takes us over all the things that have kept us apart. I have a beautiful son named Joe – your nephew.

  I need your help, Geer, help to keep him safe until after the war. There is no one else I would trust with his care: you are his family. I would love nothing more than for you and your parents to meet him. I miss Johan every day, but Joe is a comfort and a small part of him that lives on.

  With love as always,

  Molly

  She had as yet received no reply. And actually her words were not entirely true – there was, she decided after much deliberation and sleepless nights, someone else she would trust with the temporary care of her baby: her sister, Joyce.

  She had called from the phone box on the corner. She waited for the operator to clear the line, then blurted, ‘Can . . . can you come here, Joyce? I need to see you.’ She had swallowed, looking skyward, as if still hoping that some other solution might present itself.

  ‘Of course, dear, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I need your help.’ Molly cursed the slip of tears down the back of her throat. ‘I need you to help me with Joe.’

  As the words left her mouth, so did the strength from her legs. She slipped down in the telephone box, her body slumped against the glass door and with the phone still in her hands, reaching up as if in prayer. A loud tapping on the glass from outside caused her to look up. An older lady in a headscarf and with a crocodile handbag dangling from her wrist was looking down to where she sat. ‘Are you all right in there? Do you need assistance?’ she asked. Molly needed so much assistance it felt easier to dismiss the question with a laugh, while she fought for composure and struggled to her feet.

  The country, more specifically the cities, having been battered and bruised by war, was experiencing a shortage of housing. There were not enough beds for all those displaced by the bombing, and some families were still, some years after seeing their homes destroyed, sleeping in the homes of relatives and neighbours or in communal school halls or huddled with their belongings on the platforms of the Underground. These facts, however, did little to help justify her decision when emotion threatened to overwhelm the practicalities of the matter. But it was the simple truth: where could she possibly take her little boy that was safe? She was stuck, unable to work with Joe in her arms and unable to go away and keep Joe safe without a job and, as would be the case very soon, no roof over her head. Molly was damned if she was going to stay at her mother’s house for one night longer than she had to.

  In the face of the emotional turmoil she savoured every second with her boy. Shutting herself away from the rest of the world, able only to tend to Joe’s immediate needs, changing his napkin, holding him while he slept and feeding him when he woke. And, in truth, when she was able to pretend that it might last for ever, life inside this little bubble she had created was the happiest she had ever been. To wake with his rosebud mouth seeking her breast for food and to hear his snuffles of slumber as he slept next to her was, she knew, a memory she would take to her grave.

  Baby Joe was asleep at that very second, quite oblivious in his knitted jumper, leggings and bonnet, and she again could not resist the temptation to lift him to her face and kiss him. He had changed so much in his short lifetime: his cheeks were already more rounded, his nose sharper, eyes brighter and more focused. His hair had also grown a little and now sat in a downy cap on his little head.

  Joyce had, as per her promise, agreed to visit. Their telephone conversation had been brief before Molly’s collapse, but she had managed to outline her intentions.

  ‘So you’ve asked your sister to come here?’ her mother queried as they ate a thin stew with soda bread at the kitchen table.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a way for her to come for a catch-up . . .’ Mrs Collway let this trail.

  Molly rested her spoon on the side of the bowl and sat up straight. ‘I’m going to ask Joyce and Albert to take Joe to Tonbridge, just for a bit, to keep him safe until the war is over. I can then go back to work and save for the day that war ends and I can get him back. At which point, housing, childcare – everything – should be a bit easier to come by.’ She kept her voice steady despite the squeeze to her heart at the very suggestion.

  Molly knew she would never forget her mother’s grin then, displayi
ng her small teeth, and the way her shoulders slumped with something like relief. A baby was, she knew, the missing piece in Albert and Joyce’s puzzle and, while he was away, she also knew he would be a missing part of herself.

  ‘You’re seeing sense at last! And no one would think twice having seen you out and about with your sister’s baby. I’m sure even Mrs Granton-Smythe wouldn’t question that.’ Mrs Collway beamed. ‘It really would be for the best.’

  Molly stared at her mother and was surprised to recognise her overriding feeling towards her as one of pure hatred.

  When Joyce arrived, the two sisters stared at one another, both a little overcome with emotion, bound by the simultaneous sadness and beauty of what was about to occur.

  Unwilling to watch her mother’s satisfaction as she witnessed their conversation, Molly suggested they speak in her room. Joyce sat on the edge of the bed and was close to tears, as the two held hands and Joe slept on his mummy’s lap. They sat this way for a minute until composed enough to speak.

  ‘You want me to take him – that’s what you said on the phone,’ Joyce managed, her voice small. ‘Is that really what you’re asking?’ There was no doubting her distress, but Molly detected the faintest glimmer of happiness in the eye of her beloved sister, who had always wanted a baby of her own to hold, and she understood.

  ‘Well,’ Molly said, drawing a long breath, ‘I don’t want you to, absolutely not, but I think it’s for the best. Just for a while, until the war is over and the threat of bombing has gone. I can’t keep him safe here, Joyce, and Tonbridge is safer, isn’t it?’ Her voice broke and Joyce reached out to move her hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear, an act so kind and motherly it was moving.

  ‘It is much, much safer, darling.’

  ‘I thought so. I’ve lost Johan and I can’t lose Joe too.’ Molly stared at her boy and found it hard to fathom the depth of pain that the prospect of separation caused. It hurt her physically as well as mentally, but she knew it was for the best. ‘I couldn’t cope with that, I know I couldn’t. There’s a reason there are no children around, Joyce – they’ve all gone to safe places, haven’t they: been evacuated?’ Her question was rhetorical, but her sister nodded nonetheless. ‘And who knows what’s going to happen to our country? I want to believe it will end well and end soon, but . . .’ She paused. ‘I’m afraid.’

  ‘We all are, dear,’ Joyce confirmed.

  ‘Yes, and I certainly can’t stay here.’ Her eyes wandered the walls of her bedroom, remembering the night she came home after dancing with Johan, the excitement she had felt and the first night she had held Joe in her arms . . . This was a room with too many memories. ‘I need to go back to work and don’t have money for decent childcare. It’s not fair on him.’ Her voice broke and she held her child tightly to her. ‘I’m being brave and trying to do the right thing, Joyce. I’ve seen countless little ones shipped off to the countryside with their name and address labels pinned to their coats, but inside my heart is breaking.’ Molly nestled his sleeping form into her chest and breathed in his scent deeply with her eyes closed.

  ‘I know, darling, I know, but I promise you that for however long he is in our care, we will love him like you would and care for him like you would. I’ve bought formula for him and aired the little room. We will tell him every day about his funny, smart mummy. And we will write and make the absolute best of it.’

  Molly nodded. Her sister’s words were cruel to her ears, placing distance between herself and her child, and yet she knew were so sweetly intended.

  ‘Just for a while, Joycey – a few months maybe, and then who knows? Things will be different, the country will be different, and when it’s safe and I’m more established in my own place’ – she drew breath – ‘then he can come home to me.’ She turned to her son. ‘You can, darling, you can come home to me!’ she sobbed, her voice thin and high with distress.

  ‘He can and he will.’ Joyce lifted Molly’s chin with her finger. ‘It’s going to be okay, Little Moll. There’s just one thing I need to tell you, and it might dictate how long we have Joe for.’

  Molly watched anxiously as Joyce swallowed nervously.

  ‘Albert has accepted a job offer as a contractor in Canada, and so the plan is to head over there for a bit.’

  No, it’s too far! Molly did not want her sister to be any further away, knowing the reason she had managed not to crack until now was because Joyce was on hand when she really, really needed her. ‘How . . . how long is a bit?’

  Joyce shrugged. ‘A few months, a year at most. Albert is quite in demand with his knowledge of the oil and gas industry and we think it’ll be good to go somewhere new and reset—’

  ‘Canada? Joyce, that is so far away! When will you go?’ Molly felt desolate at the prospect of her one ally in the family leaving her all alone, while wondering how long she would be able to mind Joe before she left, wanting him above all else to be safe.

  ‘We don’t have a date yet, but it’ll be a while before we leave, possibly not till the end of the war even, so the timing might be perfect in terms of getting this little one back to his mum. I just wanted you to know it’s on the cards.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. Canada!’ Molly couldn’t imagine her life without her sister in it.

  ‘Yes, Alberta, to be precise, where they’re exploring fresh oil fields, but we’re keeping the house in Tonbridge. It’ll be good for his career and it’s an adventure, but I shall’ – Joyce coughed – ‘I shall miss you and I shall miss this little darling.’ Again she kissed Joe’s head and the sisters locked eyes. Parting, they knew, was not going to be easy.

  ‘Whatever will I do without you, Joyce?’

  ‘I . . .’ Her sister faltered and Molly felt a very real beat of fear as the answer felt terrifyingly elusive. ‘Would you like us to take Joe today?’ Joyce asked softly. ‘I assumed that was what you were asking on the phone?’

  Molly gripped her boy even more tightly and found it hard to say the words. ‘I don’t think there’s any point in delaying things, as much as I want to.’ She spoke sense and yet each word was like an arrow fired straight down her throat and into her gut.

  ‘All right then, my love.’

  Molly wanted to explain to her little one just what was going to happen and, selfishly, she wanted to feed him some more, hold him some more, kiss him some more. She knew, however, that she would never be ready to hand him over.

  ‘Just give me a minute with him, Joyce.’ Her eyes never left his darling face.

  ‘Of course! Oh, of course! I’ll go and have a cup of tea with Mum and tell Albert what’s happening.’

  Molly was only vaguely aware of the bedroom door closing. She stared at Joe, drinking in every little detail. He began to fret and she opened her blouse to feed her baby, but he wouldn’t suckle. She settled him instead by rocking him in her arms.

  ‘Don’t you forget me, Joe. Don’t you forget that I’m your mum, and know that I love you. I do. I love you more than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone in my whole life and I always will, my little one. Always . . .’ She hummed to him softly the tune of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’, pretending this was any other day and she was simply rocking him to sleep, aware that if she fully acknowledged what was about to happen she might just fall apart. Her tears slipped silently from her nose nonetheless. She pulled out Johan’s button from its little wooden box.

  ‘This is my most precious thing, Joe. My most precious.’ She placed it briefly in the palm of her son’s hand so that it carried his touch as well as his daddy’s, knowing this would bring her comfort. It made her smile, the sweet connection between the two people she loved most in the world. ‘It might bring you luck, darling. I hope it does,’ she cried.

  Half an hour later, the door slowly opened. Molly felt her mother’s presence in the doorway as she cradled Joe to her chest with both hands, trying not to give in to the temptation to grip him tightly and smother him with hard kisses, wary o
f alarming him. She could only take very shallow breaths. The pain in her chest was physical, as if her heart hurt. Molly knew that if her mother reached for him willingly for the first time ever on this day that he was leaving, she might actually rage at her. Thankfully, her mother did not.

  ‘You’re going to be fine, my darling,’ Molly cooed. ‘You are going to be just fine. It won’t be for ever, baby Joe. It won’t be for ever.’

  ‘He will be fine,’ her mother offered, in a tone softer than Molly had heard of late. She walked over to the window and looked down to the street. ‘Albert has started the engine running to warm it up. Joyce will be with you in a second.’

  ‘I . . . I . . . just . . .’ There seemed too many words cued up on Molly’s tongue. Marshalling them into some kind of order was impossible, along with the rising wave of cold panic that had started in her toes and was now at her chest. She felt as if she were drowning in this moment, the utter horror of it, and the fact that she knew she had to put her boy first and do what was right by him. She coiled Joe against her chest and breathed in the scent of his little soft head, trying to fix it in her memory. He reached out his tiny fingers and laid them against her face and she felt his touch like a sharp thing.

  ‘Oh, Joe! Oh, my little one.’ Her words coasted on a fractured breath, accompanied by fat tears on her cheeks, which she cursed, lest they wash away the touch of his tiny fingers against her skin. As she held him tightly, Joe began to cry.

  ‘Shhhh . . . shhhh . . .’ she breathed into his downy hair. ‘Don’t cry, my darling; don’t cry, my baby boy; don’t cry.’ Her voice was high and reedy. To speak at all took every last ounce of her strength. Her sister appeared in the hallway, her face ashen.