Molly's War (28 page)

‘I will speak to you in my office, Sergeant Mason,’ the doctor said now, and Harry had no choice but to go out into the corridor and along to the door marked ‘Dr West’. He stood by the window of the office, staring out at the garden, waiting for the doctor, wondering how he could convince him that Jackson would be better among his own people. Surely there in Eden Hope, with the people he had known all his life and the familiar accents of home, Jackson would remember, wouldn’t he?

‘I wish to keep him under supervision,’ Dr West said when Harry put this to him. Did he think that there were no doctors experienced in head injuries in the north? Harry clamped his lips tight together; he was a soldier and used to doing what his superiors told him to, no matter how wrongheaded.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Dr West said, and smiled in perfect understanding of what was passing through Harry’s mind.

‘Well, couldn’t he go north anyway? There are hospitals there too and he would be safer from the bombing, wouldn’t he, sir?’

‘That’s true,’ said the doctor, ‘and don’t think I haven’t thought of it.’ He sighed. ‘Look, I’ll make enquiries, see if there is a place for him. But I’d have to travel with him. Hmmm …’

Harry watched him as he sat down at his desk and picked up a pencil, began to doodle on his blotting pad. Suddenly he threw down his pencil and stood up.

‘Right, Sergeant. I’ll see what I can do. Now, I have other patients to see to. I’ll let you know of any developments.’

Harry had to be content with that. He wrote to Maggie and Frank, and also to Molly through them for he still hadn’t had word of where she was staying. But he was sure that Maggie would see she got the letter.

Don’t worry, Jackson is in good shape physically. Evidently he must have been caught in some blast or something and it has affected his memory so the doctors want to watch him. You know what they’re like, over cautious mostly. But he’ll be fine. He’s coming back up north as soon as there’s a place for him. I’ll try to get leave so I can come with him.

But Harry’s own orders came through before Jackson got his place. Early one morning he and his men were driven
to
a quiet air strip where they boarded a plane and headed north themselves. They skirted London and the Midlands, flying over the West Riding and turning north-east over the North Riding and County Durham. If there had been a porthole Harry would have seen the broad sweep of Teesdale and Weardale, Wear Valley and its clusters of villages with pitheads standing proud above them. And then the city with its ancient cathedral, majestic above the curve of the Wear in the early-morning light. Then they were out over the grey North Sea, heading for the fjords of Norway.

In hospital in Kent, Jackson was dreaming. He was on a parade ground in India, one of a company of men, and they were marching forward in a perfect straight line, right to the end of the enormous, dusty ground, left turn and one, two, three, four, and about turn, two, three, four, forward again, back and forth over the ground. The heat was tremendous, the sun beating down on them. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. The sun was so bright it made his eyes water, heat struck through the soles of his boots and still they marched, one, two, three, four. Until he felt himself falling. He was going to disgrace them all, he thought, and sank into a deep, black, bottomless hole.

‘Howay, Jack, man,’ said someone, and he knew the voice. He couldn’t open his eyes because the sun was so bright if he did it would blind him, but he knew who it was only the name eluded him for the minute. Think, Jackson, bloody well think! he told himself. You’re just not thinking
hard
enough. And then the name came to him.

‘Harry, is that you?’ he asked hoarsely. But there was no answer, only another voice then, a woman’s voice like Harry’s but not his. She needed him, he could tell. There was distress in her voice, panic even.

‘Molly?’ he called. ‘Molly?’

With a tremendous effort of will he opened his eyes, braving the light from the sun, defying it. Only it wasn’t the sun, it was an electric light directly above his bed where the sheets were damp with sweat. Jackson blinked and a face swam into view but it wasn’t Harry’s or Molly’s, it was a woman in a nurse’s cap that sat over her ears, covering all her hair.

‘Now then, Sergeant,’ said the nurse, ‘stop shouting, there’s a good boy. You must have had a nightmare. Why, you’re sweating like a bull. Here, have a drink. It’s nice cold orange juice.’

Jackson drank thirstily, thanked her and lay back on his pillow. He knew who he was now. It had come to him. ‘My name is Jackson Morley,’ he said.

Molly went into Winton Grange mother and baby home in June, 1941.

‘Well, if you must,’ Dora Fletcher had said, though it was not what she had wanted. ‘You can have the baby and bring it back here afterwards. I’ll look after the poor little mite, give up me job in the canteen, it’ll be all right. You can go back to work, you’ve no need to worry.’

‘I’m not,’ said Molly. Not about having the baby she wasn’t, not now. She sat in Mrs Fletcher’s best armchair and put one arm protectively across her swollen abdomen, waiting to feel the slight movements the baby made. Ever since she had first been startled by the fluttering in her belly she had begun to think of the baby as real, a little person, one she was responsible for. ‘I love you, baby,’ she said beneath her breath.

‘What? What did you say?’ demanded Dora.

‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Molly replied. She watched as Dora cast on a white matinee jacket. Molly had got the wool with the extra clothes coupons she was allowed for the baby; there was enough for three jackets. And a ball of pink which Dora had bought herself, using her own coupons.

‘How do you know it will be a girl?’ Molly had asked.

‘I know, I just know,’ Dora replied confidently.

Molly watched her now, feeling a slight sense of disquiet. Sometimes it seemed that Dora was taking over this baby. She seemed much livelier and happier these days. For the first time since her own daughter’s tragic death she was putting on weight, her pale face showing a hint of colour high on the cheekbones. And she was always busy. She had brought down an old wooden cradle from the attic, cleaned it up, given it a coat of varnish. Now it stood, wood shining in the light, an old soft blanket cut down to fit, a muslin-covered quilt fashioned from Molly knew not what.

It all looked very nice, she had to admit, and everything Dora had prepared for the baby was good and sensible. She had even begged a wooden fruitbox from the greengrocer and padded it with the remains of the blanket, covered with a muslin frill.

‘It’ll hold the bairn’s bits and pieces, talcum powder and such,’ she had said to Molly, displaying it with an air of triumph. Working in the canteen, she got home earlier than Molly and had fitted up the box in the interval.

‘Very nice,’ said Molly, sniffing the air for any smell which would indicate a meal was being cooked, but there was none. And she felt empty suddenly, dizzy with hunger. It was a feeling that came on her often these days, ever since she had been carrying the baby.

‘What’s for tea, Dora?’ she asked, sinking down into the armchair.

‘Well, me being busy, I thought I’d just pop along to the fish shop when it opens.’ Dora put the box down, frowning slightly. It was evident she was disappointed with Molly’s reaction, had expected more enthusiasm.

‘I’ll go, if you like?’ said Molly, though she was weary and all she really wanted to do was snuggle down in the chair.

‘No, I’ll do it. It’s about time now any road.’ She gazed keenly at Molly. Now that her attention was diverted from the baby box she noticed the deep shadows beneath the girl’s eyes, her white face.

‘You want to look after yourself better,’ she reproved
Molly
. ‘There’s more than yourself to think of now. Goodness knows I do my best for you.’

‘Yes, I know, Dora, and I’m grateful. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Aye, well, I’ll just go along the fish shop now, see if I can get you a nice bit of haddock.’

After she had gone, Molly rested her head back against the cushion and gazed into the heart of the fire, one which was on every day no matter what time of year it was for it was the only means of cooking and heating the house. There was a small fireplace in the sitting room but it was never lit. Though Dora had plans for Molly to be confined in there, in which case it would be. She was uneasy still; it was as if every decision about the baby was being taken out of her hands.

As ever when she had a few minutes to herself Jackson came to the forefront of her mind. He was always there, of course, but pushed to the back, waiting. She could feel his presence no matter how busy she was, what else she had to worry about.

What am I to do, my love? she cried silently. What else can I do? If Molly left Dora’s there was nowhere to go except the mother and baby home and she shrank from that. There had been so many whispered stories about those places, how awful they were, how the girls were made to work and not allowed to go out, slept with no wireless, nothing. A girl had come back to work at the factory after having her illegitimate baby there and she was
changed
out of all recognition. From a lively, outgoing girl she had become a silent, solemn-faced one, someone who rarely spoke to anyone, just sat like a frightened rabbit and got on with her work.

She had had her child adopted, Molly remembered. Oh, poor lass, she had thought at the time, how could she do it? She would never do that, no, she wouldn’t, she vowed to the baby inside her. ‘It’s you and me, petal,’ she whispered now, stroking her distended belly. And Dora was her best hope. She was the mother of the only real friend Molly had ever had, she wouldn’t fail her, no, of course she wouldn’t.

Molly got to her feet and filled the kettle, settled it on the fire. She spread a checked cloth on the table and laid out knives and forks, brought the milk and sugar from the pantry, spread margarine on bread. Her stomach rumbled and she took a slice of bread and ate it. There, she felt better for something in her stomach.

Dora was just excited at the prospect of a baby in the house after so many years, that was it. Of course she wasn’t trying to take over the child.

Chapter Twenty-six

MOLLY HAD TOLD
no one at work that she was leaving. Of course she had had to hand in her notice, secure her release, for no one was allowed to leave for no good reason. But the manager had said nothing. So many girls were working at the factory now that one more or less made little difference. He simply took the doctor’s note which Molly handed him, perused it briefly, didn’t even look at her again and the following Friday she received her severance pay. As a pregnant woman she was exempt from war work.

It was strange handing in her pass and walking away from the factory gates. The other girls chattered and laughed among themselves. Jenny called goodnight to her, waving cheerily as she went off to meet her soldier who was home on leave. Molly watched them, a strange feeling of melancholy sweeping over her. She had been happy here, she thought, most of the time at least.

Joan went past, sniffed and looked away. Molly drew her loose coat around her, turning away, dreading that Joan would find out and tell everyone in Eden Hope about the
baby
. It was just as well she was leaving. Her loose overall had served her well up to now but it wouldn’t cover her condition much longer, Molly was well aware of that. At least Gary hadn’t told anyone, or she didn’t think so. He had gone out of his way to avoid her lately. If he met Molly at all he looked away, embarrassment plain on his face.

What an escape she’d had from him, she thought. She would manage without him all right. Why, it was coming up to the middle of the twentieth century and what with the war and soldiers going away all the time there were many girls in her position. Though with more excuse, she told herself, feeling the by now familiar pang of guilty shame.

She had another job to go to, cleaning a school at Ferryhill. Then as soon as the baby was old enough she would go to another Royal Ordnance factory, the one nearer Darlington. It was easy to get to from Ferryhill. Oh, yes, she had everything planned. And when she had the baby she would have someone to love, someone who would be totally uncritical of her, a child of her own.

The work was hard at the school for the caretaker had gone to war and his replacement was a retired man. The hours were awkward too, early morning and evenings, but Molly didn’t care. She went through her days scrubbing and polishing until the classrooms shone. If she worked hard she would be tired enough to sleep without dreams or nightmares of a future without Jackson. Sometimes the dreams were worse than the nightmares for she was happy
in
her dreams. Jackson was always there. Sometimes they were in the woods or on the path from Shildon, and it was summer and the sun was shining, and Jackson would have his arm around her and it was one of the magical times again, like the time he was home and they were planning to marry. Then she would wake up and be filled with devastating despair for those days gone forever.

‘I have the baby to look forward to,’ she told herself aloud in the empty classrooms. But she wouldn’t have Jackson or even her brother Harry. She couldn’t bear to think that he might find out about the baby. Oh, if only it had been Jackson’s …

‘You don’t need to pay me any board, Molly, not now, not until after the baby comes,’ Dora said one Friday night. It was only three weeks before the baby was due and Molly had given up work at the school. She would have worked on, but the headmaster had insisted she leave.

‘After all, Miss Mason,’ he had said, looking away from her rather than at her noticeable bulge, ‘you are not a good example to the children, are you?’

‘Oh, go to hell!’ Molly had replied. It was a Friday afternoon and she was bone tired. She had worked late the evening before and this morning had come in early rather than lie in bed sleepless. She had gone to sleep in the armchair in Dora’s kitchen after scrubbing the place out and dulling the itching of the skin on her hands by rubbing them with olive oil and sugar. It was one of Dora’s remedies.