An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  Upon hearing her words, Joyce had wept with what sounded like relief.

  ‘Oh, oh, Molly! I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how to—’ She had stopped abruptly, choked by emotion. There was then a beat or two while Joyce cried and Molly gripped the phone.

  ‘I guess I will be his aunt.’ She had closed her eyes and her chin had dropped to her chest.

  ‘The best aunt! The very best!’

  Aunt. It was this word that caused the biggest flash of hurt – it relegated her in the worst way possible. She felt the loss deep in the centre of her being, where the pain was most intense. But then Molly had gathered herself and, leaving a trail of regret in her wake, she had kept calm and carried on.

  Molly put her key in the front door and kicked off her shoes. She raced to the kitchen and popped the kettle on before making toast, which was all the supper she fancied. Her plan for the evening was simple: she wanted to prune the lilac and deadhead her roses before watering the lawn, and then tomorrow – well, who knew? She might, as a woman without gainful employment, even sleep in! At a little before 9 p.m., she was starting to think about turning in her toes for the night when the telephone rang in her hallway. Joyce and David had insisted on her installing it when Joyce and Albert went to Canada.

  ‘Chelmsford 286?’

  ‘Molly! Guess where I’m calling from. I’ll give you a clue: Tonbridge!’ Joyce sounded excited.

  ‘That’s not a clue, you dolt, that’s the answer!’ Molly laughed as her throat tightened with emotion. ‘You’re home!’ Joe’s home . . .

  ‘I am, my darling. So I suggest you cancel your plans for the weekend and get over here. I can’t wait to see you!’

  ‘Can’t wait to see you either.’

  ‘I’m a bit nervous, Moll.’

  ‘Me too.’ Molly nodded. ‘But it’ll be okay, won’t it?’

  ‘Of course it will. We’ll make it okay . . .’

  It had been seven years since she had last made the journey. Tonbridge had in that time grown. It felt lively, busy with the building of houses to accommodate all the newly arrived families who had moved out of the city. She turned into the road, where memories lurked, remembering the weekend she had finally got to hold her boy and they had learned that her mother was ill. She pushed the memory back down in her gut; it was too much to consider on top of everything else today. Slowly, she walked up to the front door. And there it was, coming from an open window upstairs: the sound of a child’s laughter, the sound of a little boy who was happy. Her heart thumped in her chest as she rapped on the door.

  ‘She’s here!’ Joyce yelled over her shoulder as she opened the front door, and the two sisters stared at each other, taking a second to note any obvious changes. Joyce looked neat and well, her skin clear and her hair shiny, despite the inevitable shadows of fatigue under her eyes after the lengthy journey from overseas. She looked to Molly like a woman who lived a good and healthy life, and Molly was glad for her, knowing that her boy, too, had shared that environment. There was a sliver of nervous tension in the air as the two navigated their way through this moment they had both been looking forward to but simultaneously dreading.

  ‘I worry, Molly, that you might change your mind and take my son! I can’t write any more plainly than that. It’s the one thing that jolts me from my sleep in the early hours. Selfishly, I can’t even bear to consider it: it’s far too terrifying . . .’

  ‘I worry that when I see him I won’t be able to contain myself. I’m scared of falling apart, of embarrassing myself or upsetting him . . .’

  And now here they were.

  ‘Oh, Joyce!’ Molly’s first words. ‘You’re here! You are actually here.’

  Her sister stepped forward to trace her fingers across Molly’s cheek, exclaiming, ‘How wonderful it is to see you! I’ve missed you so much.’

  ‘Same.’ Molly nodded, feeling a surge of love for her big sister, this woman she had entrusted with her own most precious flesh and blood.

  Joyce cried. ‘We’ve been such a long way distant.’

  ‘It has been a long way.’

  ‘Come in! Goodness, come in!’ Joyce stood back and beckoned her inside. ‘I have to warn you that the house does smell a little strange.’

  ‘What is it?’ Molly asked, sniffing at the less than fragrant atmosphere.

  ‘Mustiness, damp, mothballs and I think I detect a base note of rotting mouse.’

  ‘How lovely!’ Molly smiled.

  ‘Yes, quite lovely,’ Joyce said with a grin.

  Molly stepped over the threshold and Joyce enveloped her in a fierce hug. Releasing each other, they then stood side by side and gazed at their reflection in the looking glass in the hallway. Joyce seemed to look at her for the first time, drinking in every detail of her face, which Molly knew had aged twenty years in the last eight.

  ‘We’re starting to look like Mum,’ Joyce said, pulling a face.

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ Molly smiled, knowing it was true and also that the older they got, the less apparent was their age difference. Before they had time to plan things further, the sound of feet thundering on the stairs caused them both to look up, and there he was: standing on the stairs in a smart checked shirt and cardigan, her beautiful, beautiful blond boy! He looked so much like Johan it was almost painful to stare at him. Her temptation was to cry, to wail aloud at the very sight of him, to run to him and hold him. Instead, she bit the inside of her cheek and stood still, trying to readjust the picture in her mind of her baby boy.

  ‘Hello, Joe.’ She managed to keep her composure and could sense the quake of nerves in her sister, standing so close by her side. The words felt like sugar on her tongue, being able to address him in person like this.

  ‘Hi!’ He smiled, a gap-toothed smile that melted her heart. He was so handsome, his expression so self-assured! He gripped the banister and Molly tucked her hair behind her ears and took a step forward, keeping her voice steady and her manner calm, in contrast to her heart which stuttered with longing and the pang in her gut as she yearned to hold him. It was wonderful to be this close to him, to Johan’s boy!

  ‘Now, I don’t suppose you remember me, but I’m . . . I’m your Auntie Molly.’ There. She had done it. Said it. Set the tone. Placed the framework and carved out the future. It was a simple enough word and yet one from which there was no going back. This was a huge moment and yet, to his ears, almost casual, just the way it had to be.

  ‘Oh sure!’ he said, and she heard the faint twang of a Canadian accent. ‘She talks about you a lot!’ He rolled his eyes as if ‘a lot’ might just be ‘too much’. The two women laughed.

  ‘I do.’ Joyce, too, stepped forward now, her voice thin. ‘I tell him all about our childhood and how you were always brave and fearless and such fun! And how I envied your and David’s closeness.’ She winked at Molly.

  ‘Thank you for your presents, Joe – you’re a very good artist. I’ve put some of your pictures on my wall and they look wonderful.’ She spoke casually of these items, which, over the years, had arrived in the post and knocked her sideways. The things she held to her chest and touched to her lips: paper he had drawn on, dough he had shaped and photographs he had posed for. All of it meant more to her than this little boy could ever possibly know.

  ‘No problem.’ He looked to Joyce. ‘Mom, can I go and explore out the back?’

  And there it was, another small word – ‘Mom’ – and one that spilled so easily from his sweet mouth while at the same time it pierced her breast. This was, she knew, something she would need to get used to if they stood any chance of making this thing work.

  ‘You can, but don’t get dirty.’

  The two women watched as he raced down the stairs and out of the hallway.

  ‘Oh, Molly!’ Joyce turned to her sister and took her in her arms, holding her tightly as Molly screwed her eyes shut and just for a second imagined this was herself welcoming Joyce into her home to see Joe, her boy . . . It was sad but wonder
ful to picture.

  ‘He’s tall,’ Molly noted.

  Joyce nodded at her sister. ‘Cup of tea?’

  Molly followed her into the kitchen, which was littered with half-unpacked boxes. The kettle and cups, however, were on the countertop, essential. Joyce filled the kettle and set it to boil.

  ‘He looks like you. Can you see it?’ Joyce asked with her back to her. ‘And because of that, people say he looks like me and I love to hear it. It makes me feel more connected to him.’

  ‘I can only see his dad when I look at him, but then maybe that’s because I want to.’

  Her sister turned to face her now, her eyes brimming, as if this misfortune was something she could not bear to imagine. ‘You must miss him so much.’

  ‘I really do.’ I miss them both . . . Molly paused to wonder what Johan might have made of the whole business. ‘I keep waiting for the hurt to properly fade, and it has a lot, but not entirely. He once said that children need to feel safe, need to know there’s a steady hand on the tiller or else it’s not fair on them, and I cling to that – it justifies where we are, really. I wish . . . I wish you could have met Johan. He was special.’

  ‘Well, if he was good enough for you, I don’t doubt it. You’re making a good life, Molly. You still love the cottage?’

  ‘I do, the garden particularly. It’s the place where I’m most happy. I can’t wait to show it to you.’ She remembered the first time she had seen it, picturing her baby boy hopscotching over to find secret dens built in the wide hedging – and now he was an eight-year-old boy out exploring in a different back garden and it had all happened in a blink. She knew that in another blink she would be almost a decade older again, and then another blink . . . and all with Joe at arm’s length. Her sister’s boy. She tried not to think too far ahead, unable to imagine how it all might pan out.

  ‘David still has some of the bigger antiques and bits and bobs in storage for you – pictures, ornaments and whatnot from Mum’s house.’ Joyce changed the topic and with it the atmosphere.

  ‘Yes. I’ve never got round to collecting them, but I suppose I should.’ Molly thought of the house and of her mother without the gut-folding anger that had been present for so long and with something much closer to love, because life was too short.

  ‘Hello, Molly!’

  She turned to see Albert, who had gained weight and lost hair, but still retained that stoic half-smile that got him through life. There was a beat of unease that the intervening years had failed to dilute. She wondered if he, like her, still thought back to the day he had broken down in her hallway and cradled baby Joe in his arms.

  ‘Albert.’ She smiled, pleased to see him. To her surprise and with a measure of unease, she watched him walk forward and wrap her in a cautious hug and then, to her mortification, he started to cry. ‘I don’t know how we can ever thank you, Molly, I just don’t . . .’

  She pulled away from the big man’s grip and put her hands on her hips, moved by his words and grateful for his actions. ‘Well, here’s the thing, Albert. The last time I saw you, you cried, and I’ve not seen you for an age and, apparently, you’re still crying. This really won’t do! We need to find a way to stop those tears or else the next fifty or so years are going to be a little awkward.’ She seated herself at the table.

  Joyce, she noted, mopped her own face with a tea towel before speaking from the heart.

  ‘We are lucky, you know, we all are. Just to have a part in his life, just to spend time with him, which you can, too, Molly, whenever you want. Yes, you’re his aunt, but you are also a spare mum to him, as well as my sister and my greatest friend. He will always be in your life and you will always be in his.’

  ‘That’s all I’ve ever really wanted.’ Molly swallowed the tears gathering at the back of her throat.

  ‘Our boy will be so loved.’ Joyce beamed.

  ‘Our boy . . .’ Molly liked the sound of that.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Joe asked from the back door, where he had appeared with a leather football under his arm.

  ‘Nothing!’ Joyce sniffed. ‘It’s just very emotional for Molly and me as we haven’t seen each other for a long time and we love each other very much.’

  He pulled a face and dismissed her words with a slight shake of his head. ‘Do you want to come outside and stand in goal, Auntie Molly?’ he asked, bouncing the ball on the floor.

  ‘In goal?’ she asked, as she rose from the table.

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘You have to try and save my goals while I kick the ball at you.’

  ‘Why, I’d love nothing more!’ She walked towards the boy, who, without further ado, took her hand. An act so simple, so small and yet she knew she would never be able to describe the feeling of his little fingers wound around her palm, but knew also that she would never forget it. She looked back over her shoulder to see Albert with his head on Joyce’s shoulder, both clearly overcome with emotion, and she quite understood, walking into the garden with her son by her side, her hand inside his, as if it were not the most magical moment of her life.

  David and Clara arrived in Tonbridge a little before teatime with the teenage Clementine in tow and Hetty, who was seven. Her brother was as pleased to see her as ever, while looking at her carefully with his professional hat on. It was only when he gave her a subtle nod and a wink that she felt she had passed the test. The adults congregated around the kitchen table.

  ‘Why don’t you go and play in the garden with the little ones?’ Clara suggested to Clementine, who these days preferred to sit among the grown-ups, thereby stifling their conversation.

  ‘I’d rather stay in here, thanks,’ she huffed.

  ‘You might like to spend time with Joe? You haven’t seen him for an age?’ her dad said, in an effort to coax her.

  ‘I don’t want to play with the children. I hate children! Hetty drives me mad and Joe is just another child, like Hetty!’ She folded her arms across her pale pink cardigan.

  ‘You won’t always hate children, darling. You’ll most likely have some of your own one day!’ Clara said to placate the thirteen-year-old, as Joyce and Molly exchanged a knowing look.

  ‘I am never going to have children because I am never going to get married!’ Clementine asserted. This time, Joyce pulled a face at Molly and she knew that, like her, her sister was thinking that the two were not mutually exclusive. It was a nice moment of shared humour that reminded her of why they were close.

  ‘Clementine, would you mind keeping an eye on the little ones for us?’ Albert fished in his pocket. ‘I would fully expect to pay for your babysitting services.’ He pulled out a few shillings and handed them to his niece.

  ‘Wow!’ Clementine grabbed them, her mouth open, eyes wide. ‘Thank you, Uncle Albert!’ she said, beaming, and strode out to the garden to get on with the job in hand.

  ‘Takes after her mother,’ David chuckled. ‘Easily swayed with a bribe.’ Clara slapped her husband with her gloves and laid them back on the table. It felt good to have the family reunited, as if peace of mind was now restored, the jigsaw complete. And Molly felt surrounded by people who loved her and whom she loved back. Despite everything, she really did feel like one of the lucky ones.

  ‘So what’s it like to be back?’ Clara asked as she sipped her tea.

  ‘It’s wonderful, of course, apart from the house,’ Joyce said, wincing.

  ‘What’s wrong with the house?’ Molly asked.

  ‘I don’t want to sound spoilt, but where we stayed in Canada was spacious and open-plan. This now feels a little claustrophobic. I’d like to smash down the wall between the kitchen and the dining room and make one, bigger room.’

  ‘But everyone would see the kitchen and you’d be able to see everyone eating!’ Clara added, a wrinkle appearing at the top of her nose, as if the very thought was preposterous.

  ‘Well, that would rather be the point, Clara.’ Joyce smiled. Molly hid her laughter in her teacup.

  David intervened to ch
ange the topic. ‘I see there’s a new Agatha Christie play opening later in the year – The Mousetrap. A friend of mine is involved in the score. He can get us good tickets if anyone’s interested. I thought we should go when it opens in case it only has a short run.’

  ‘Think I’ll pass!’ Albert grimaced. ‘I am not a theatre person. Bloody chairs are always too small to be comfortable.’

  ‘What about you, Molly? You like the theatre.’ David smiled at her, her lovely big brother.

  ‘Yes, I’ll come. I mean, why not? I like being in town, and now I’m footloose and fancy-free, for a while at least . . .’

  ‘You should come in for lunch next week! The Barts canteen isn’t up to much but the lunch steward is not averse to serving the odd sherry to toast the King.’

  ‘Queen!’

  ‘We have a queen!’

  ‘There’s a queen now!’

  Molly, Clara and Joyce all chorused together to remind him that they had a new monarch on the throne.

  David hit his forehead with his palm. ‘I still can’t get used to it. Not that I don’t think she’ll do a marvellous job, but a king is all I’ve ever known! Anyway, Little Moll, we can have a proper catch-up.’ He looked her in the eye and she knew this meant a heart-to-heart about her mental health. She was grateful for his love and concern.