The Lost Soldier (11 page)

“I think I have to go, Mummy,” she said aloud. Sarah had never progressed to calling her mother anything but Mummy, a little girl’s name for a mother trapped in time, forever young. “Aunt Anne says they could do with all the help they can get. We can’t just leave this war to the men.” The final part of her plan slipped quietly into place in her mind, and with a quiet sigh, she followed her father to his armchair in the library.

Molly Day had been planning to spend her precious afternoon off with her mother as she usually did. Her father would be working, and she and Mam could have a quiet time by the kitchen range with a pot of tea and a pile of griddle scones, dripping with butter. She only had one afternoon off a month, and she and her mother looked forward to it with eager anticipation. Today she finished clearing the lunch table and the washing-up in the kitchen in record time and then pulled on her coat and set out into the bright autumn afternoon.

Her mind was still buzzing with the idea that Miss Sarah had put to her that morning, indeed she had thought of little else as she had spent the morning polishing the furniture in the drawing room. Her mind swung from one reaction to another. One moment she was terrified at the thought of travelling so far and with no other companion than Miss Sarah, and the next she allowed herself a sudden shiver of anticipation at the adventure of it all, to go to France! How would they ever manage, working in a hospital there?

I don’t speak a word of French, she thought. I don’t know how to be a nurse! I’ve never been further than Belcaster, not even to London. I couldn’t possibly go.

Then her thoughts swung the other way. I might be able to do something real for the war effort. I might help our brave men win the war.

Her thoughts continued to tumble over each other, churning in her mind, excitement one minute, alarm the next, so that Mrs Norton had to scold her for not giving attention to the preparations for luncheon.

As she walked home, Molly wondered if she should mention it to her mother; certainly not if her father was there, but Mam…? No, she decided gloomily, Mam would tell her father anyway, and it wasn’t worth a scene. Even so, as soon as she was in the lane which led out of Charlton Ambrose from the manor gate she felt better, almost light-hearted. She was away from the manor and work for a few precious hours. The amazing and completely unexpected suggestion Miss Sarah had made that morning could wait for its answer until later.

The sun flashed fire from the turning leaves, and those already fallen rustled and crunched under her feet as, childlike, she kicked her way along the path. Climbing over the old stone stile, she took the footpath across the fields and up the hill towards Valley Farm where she had been born and brought up. As she crested the rise and looked down into the valley that gave the farm its name, she saw there was a thin column of smoke rising steadily from the kitchen chimney. The farm was grey stone, long and low, its tiny windows peering out from under deeply overhanging eaves, the slate of its roof mellowed with lichens and moss. It looked from here, Molly always thought, as if it were nestling into the fold in the hill, like a hen fluffing out her feathers and settling on to her eggs. To the right of the farmhouse was the yard, on two sides of which were the hay barn and the milking shed. Beyond, in the fields that crept up the other side of the valley, the cows munched contentedly on the last of the summer grass. A cart track emerged from the farmyard and wound its way along the valley floor towards the road that led from Charlton Ambrose to Belcaster. It dipped down through the hedgerows in places only to reappear further on, the only link for a horse and cart between Valley Farm and civilisation. Often in the winter a fall of snow, driven by the wind, could cut them off for days at a time, and digging their way out the length of the track was the work of a week or more. Now however, the track, curving its way, muddy and rutted but reasonably dry, provided easy, if bumpy, access to the main road, and Molly knew the hedges that lined it would be heavy with blackberries, just ripe for the picking.

Molly wondered where her father was this afternoon. Sometimes from this vantage point she could see him working in one of the fields, but today there was no sign of him. She looked down at the house again and hoped he wasn’t indoors. He always came in for his supper before Molly set off back to the manor, but that was all she saw of him, and if she were honest, all she wanted to. It was Mam she came to see.

She climbed the last stile and hurried down to the farm, where she was given an ecstatic welcome by Daisy and Ben, the two collies, as she entered the yard. She returned their boisterous greeting with hugs and cries of “Good dog, Ben! Hallo, Daisy pet! Good dogs! Good dogs!”

At the sound of their welcome the back door opened and her mother came out. As always she was dressed in a wrap-around overall over her skirt and blouse, with a scarf tied up round her hair, but Molly, not having seen her for four weeks, noticed that she looked different… tired, well even more tired than usual, her face pale and drawn, her lips slow to curve into a smile of welcome.

Molly reached out to her, and they hugged briefly, a little awkwardly. Mam had never been one to demonstrate affection, though Molly never doubted that she loved her.

“Mam,” she said now, “Mam, are you all right?”

“All right? Course I’m all right, why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason,” Molly said hurriedly. “You just look a bit tired, that’s all. You work too hard.”

“And who’s to do it if I don’t?” enquired her mother. “Quiet, you dogs.” At the sharpness in her voice, the two dogs stopped barking and wandered back to their kennels at the farmyard gate.

“Come on in,” Mam said, and turning she led the way into the warm kitchen.

Molly loved the kitchen. It was always warm, and the comforting smell of baking ever-present, part of the atmosphere even if it were not a baking day. The huge deal table stood foursquare in the middle, and there were rag rugs on the flagged floor adding splashes of colour and warmth. Windows looked out on two sides and through one the afternoon sun poured in, beaming on the polished case of the grandfather clock that ticked solemnly in the corner. The range was always alight, and on their afternoons together, Molly’s mother would open its door and they would sit before the open fire, enjoying its direct heat. Today the front was open already, the chairs drawn close for gossip, but sitting in one of them was her father.

“Hallo, Dad,” Molly said a little uncertainly, taking off her coat and hanging it on the back of the door. “Why’re you here?”

Her father looked up and glowered at her. “Why shouldn’t I be in my own kitchen?” he growled, and taking his pipe from his pocket began to fill it from tobacco in a twist of paper.

“Oh, no reason,” Molly replied hurriedly, “I—I well I wondered if you was ill or something… not working I mean.”

“Ill?” repeated her father. “No, I’m not ill. Your mam told me you was coming this afternoon, and I wanted a word with you that’s all.”

Keeping the big table between herself and him, Molly said, “With me? Why what have I done?” and then was angry with herself. Why did she instantly assume she must have done something wrong when her father wanted to speak to her, and why did she allow him to see that he could still alarm her?

“Nothing,” he replied, striking a match on the mantelpiece and applying it to his pipe. He drew hard, and said no more until the tobacco was well alight and glowing. In the silence, Molly looked anxiously across at her mother, but Jane Day was studiously making the tea, as if she had heard nothing of the exchange. She set out cups on the table and said casually, “Will you have a cup of tea, too, Edwin?”

Edwin continued to draw on his pipe, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth, but he nodded and waited while his wife poured tea for all three of them. Molly pulled out a stool from under the table and perched on it, still keeping the table between her and her father. Her mother took a plate of griddle scones out of the oven where they had been keeping hot and set them on the table.

“I thought we might go blackberrying in the lane this afternoon, Molly,” she said evenly. “I want to make some more blackberry jelly this year. It is so good for colds in the winter.” She put plates and knives on the table and a pot of last year’s jam, but neither her daughter nor her husband took a scone.

“What did you want to say to me, Dad?” Molly asked, trying to keep her voice firm and strong.

Her father finally looked at her and said abruptly, “You’re to give your notice in at the manor, and come back here.” He blew a plume of smoke across the table. “You can go and work in the munitions factory at Belmouth. The money there is far better, you can make as much as five shillings a day there.”

Molly stared at him in horror. “But I don’t want to work in the munitions factory,” she stammered. “I want to stay working at the manor. I like it there.”

“Can’t always have what we want in this life,” her father said grimly. “You should know that by now. We need your wages to keep things going here.”

“But Dad,” protested Molly. “You already have half my wages every week.”

“So, this way we’ll all have a bit more,” he said. “You’re to give your notice in to the squire when you get back this evening, and move back home at the end of the month.”

“Mam,” Molly turned in appeal to her mother. “Mam, I don’t want to work in a factory. I don’t want to come back and live at home. I’m happy at the manor, I like being in service.”

“You heard what I said, Molly,” said Edwin Day implacably. “You should be doing your bit for the war effort, my girl, not running round after gentry what sit in their houses and do nothing.”

“Mr Freddie’s at the front…” began Molly, but Edwin cut across her.

“It’s decided. You’ll come home here and work in the factory. You tell Squire.” He put his pipe in his pocket and downing the cup of tea in one swallow, he got to his feet and headed to the door. As he passed her, Molly instinctively shrunk away from him, but he made no move to touch her, simply picked up his cap from a chair by the door, and cramming it on his head went out into the farmyard, where he could be heard calling to the dogs.

“He speaks to the dogs far better than he does to you or me,” Molly muttered, picking up her teacup. “Mam, I don’t want to leave Squire and Miss Sarah. I like working at the manor.”

Her mother shrugged slightly and said, “You’d better do what your dad tells you, Molly. He knows what’s best.”

“Mam,” Molly looked beseechingly at her mother, “you know why I don’t want to come home.”

Her mother’s face went suddenly rigid. “Now, Molly, let’s have no more of that nonsense! I won’t have you say things like that about your father, and if you so much as hint at such a wicked, wicked thing again, I’ll take a stick to you myself.” She banged her teacup down in her agitation, slopping the contents on to the kitchen table. “You give you’re notice in, like your dad says, and let’s have no more of this. Now, pick up that pail over there and let’s get out to those blackberries.” She turned away from her daughter, and taking a basket from a cupboard, headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Come along, now, there’s a good girl. It’s a lovely crop this year, and with two of us we’ll have plenty in no time.”

Molly set her own cup down with a sigh of resignation, and picking up the indicated bucket, followed her mother out into the yard. There was no sign of her father, but the brilliance of the day had gone. As her own horizons loomed grey and ominous, so the sun had slid behind heavy clouds which scurried in on a rising west wind, and the day became overcast and chill. What would have been, on any other September day a pleasant afternoon’s occupation, seemed now to be a chore. The thought of coming back to live at Valley Farm permanently filled Molly with dread.

Ever since she had turned nine, she had had to fend off her father’s attentions, and as the months had turned into years her childhood love for him had turned into fear. He had not been unkind to her at first, but his cuddles altered in some way that she didn’t understand, and gradually Molly grew to dread them. She began to withdraw from him, slipping from his grasp when they were alone together in the house. Often her mother went over to Granny Cook’s house to help her. Granny was her mother’s mother, and very old so that, although she stayed in her own cottage, refusing to move, she needed Mam to come in each evening after tea to help her get ready for bed. It was then that Dad would sit Molly on his knee and stroke her hair. Then one day he asked her to stroke him. At first she laughed awkwardly, and said she couldn’t stroke someone big like him, it was silly.

“But you stroke Pusskins,” he pointed out, leaning down and picking up the cat by the scruff of its neck. He dumped it in Molly’s lap and almost automatically Molly began to stroke the cat so that he set up a steady rumbling purr.

“See? See how much he likes that, you stroking his tummy?”

Molly giggled nervously and said, “But I can’t stroke your tummy, Daddy!” She pushed the cat down scrimmaged her way off Dad’s knee. He had let her go that time, but his strange attentions didn’t cease. By the time she was twelve, he had taken to coming to her room when she had gone to bed and her mother was out. There he had made a game of saying goodnight, tucking her in; but he touched her in places that Molly didn’t like, private places, patting her bottom and slipping his hand under her nightie. He told her she was growing into a lovely girl, and placing his huge hands on the budding breasts that stood out through the woollen night-dress, he stroked them with his thumb.

“Lovely little bubbies, you’ve got, Moll,” he muttered.

She would push him away and say, “Go on, Dad! Get away with you.” But he had not been so easily put off and he said, “All dads like to see their daughters growing into lovely girls, it’s only natural,” but his voice was gruff and he sounded funny. Sometimes he leaned over and lifted her out of the bed as if she were no more than a doll, sitting her on his lap and bouncing her up and down so that her little round bottom bumped against him. “Dad, you’re hurting,” Molly cried, but he laughed and bounced her all the more, his breath hot and ragged on her face. Other times he lay on the bed beside her, holding her against him in a bear-like hug, rubbing himself against her and saying, “See, I’m like Pusskins!” Molly pushed him half-heartedly away, saying “Dad! Give over! It’s too hot. Get off!”