The Lost Soldier (12 page)

He’d laugh then and roll off the bed. “Give your old Dad a kiss goodnight then,” he’d say, and, reaching down to put his hands round her face, would kiss her full on the lips. “And don’t tell your mam you was up so late, or we’ll both be in trouble. Our little secret, eh pet?”

When he left the room, Molly often found she was shaking. She could still feel his hands on her body and his lips on her mouth. He had always kissed her goodnight when she was little, but it had never been hugs and kisses like this, and for some reason she found she didn’t like it. She had said nothing to her mother because really there was nothing to say. She didn’t understand what was happening, all she knew was that if Dad was playing a game, she didn’t want to play any more.

One evening when he had finally left her to sleep, she gave long thought about what she should do. The idea, when it came to her seemed remarkably simple, and she decided to act on it. The next evening, when her mother was at home and they were all in the kitchen, Molly got up to go to bed. She said goodnight to her parents, but made no move to kiss either of them as she had always done before, just moved towards the door.

“Don’t we get a goodnight kiss, then?” asked her mother looking up from her mending with a smile.

“I reckon I’ve got a bit old for that now,” Molly said nervously. “That’s only for little’uns. I’m nearly grown up now.”

“Never heard such rubbish,” puffed her father. “Come here and say goodnight properly like.” He reached out his hand to her, but she evaded him and slipped round the table.

“No, Dad,” Molly said warily. “I don’t want kisses any more, not like last night.”

“Like last night?” queried her mother with a frown. “What are you talking about, Molly?”

“Daddy kissed me last night at bedtime, but I’m too big for that now,” Molly said firmly. “Grown-ups shake hands when they say good night.” She proffered her hand to her mother who took it with a rueful shrug and said, “Well you
are
a funny girl.”

Dad had taken her hand too, but his grip had been so hard that she almost cried out with pain. “Goodnight, then, Molly,” he said. “I hadn’t told Mam that I let you stay up late last night before I came to tuck you in, but it is clear that we mustn’t have secrets from her.” It was indeed clear. There was no doubting the message in that grip. It was clear that there would always be that secret from Mam, and Molly’s anxiety burgeoned into full-blown fear from that evening on.

She kept well clear of her father from then, and it became so obvious that her mother said to her, “I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Molly. Have you and your dad had a row or something? You hardly speak to him these days. What’s the matter? Tell me and perhaps I can put it right.”

So Molly tried to tell her, but it came out all wrong and her mother exploded with fury.

“How dare you say such things about your father!” she cried. “He loves you and wants you to love him too, that’s all. You’re a very wicked girl to say such things, and if I hear anything like it again I shall tell your dad what you say about him.”

Her mother must have done just that, because Dad came roaring at Molly for making up stories to upset her mam, and threatened to take his belt to her if she ever did such a thing again. In her innocence Molly had no idea what her parents thought she was saying about her father. She knew how lambs and calves were born, she had grown up with that, but she knew nothing about human intercourse; her reaction against her father had been entirely instinctive. She was accusing him of nothing, but his reaction to her perceived accusation was violence, and it was not forgotten. Whenever she did wrong in his eyes from then on, he would lash out at her with hand or belt, and Molly lived in fear of his anger. Mam had tried to make up for it all by being the buffer between them, but she soon realised that it was time for Molly to leave home and as soon as she was old enough to go into service Jane Day went to see Mrs Norton, the squire’s housekeeper and arranged for Molly to be taken on at the manor as a maid-of-all-work.

Life at the manor was strange at first and Molly had to learn fast to avoid Mrs Norton’s sharp tongue, but there were no beatings here and she soon got used to how the house ran and was comparatively happy. Half her wages were paid to her father, which left her with very little, but with no living expenses she had enough and it was worth it to be out of Valley Farm. She and her mother seemed closer now that they no longer shared a roof, and with her father there was a sort of armed neutrality.

Today was the first real confrontation they had had since she had left, nearly five years ago, and Molly was shaken that he could still frighten her. As she followed her mother down the track and began to pick the blackberries, Molly thought about her father’s ultimatum.

“I’m not going back to live there,” she told herself fiercely. “I’ll never live under his roof again.” Now that she was old enough and less naïve, Molly had some idea of what her father had been doing. She realised too, that her mother probably had believed her, but had been in no position to protect her. She, too, was afraid of Edwin, and though Molly had never seen any actual bruises on her mother’s face, she never saw the rest of her body unclothed, and didn’t know if it carried bruises like her own or not.

Today Molly had felt the usual fear when confronting her father, but there had also been something else, something extra which made her feel different. She had felt anger, and this anger had lessened her fear. “Why should he treat me like this?” she thought crossly as she stripped the ripe berries from their brambles, hardly noticing the thorns which ripped at her fingers. How dare he tell me what I can and can’t do, where I must work? He may be my father but he don’t own me. She said this several times under her breath, “He may be my father, but he don’t own me!”

Hearing her voice her mother called across and said, “What did you say, Molly?”

Feeling suddenly brave, Molly called out, “He may be my father, but he don’t own me, and I’m not going to work in no munitions factory, neither. I’m going nursing, to France, with Miss Sarah.” As she shouted it out, Molly knew that her decision was taken. She put down the bucket and went over to her mother, who was staring at her open-mouthed.

“I’m sorry, Mam. I was going to talk to you about it this afternoon, but well, things was different today.” She took her mother’s basket from her and set it on the ground, then she looked up at her. “Mam,” she said softly, “Mam, I’m sorry, but I’m going to go with Miss Sarah. She asked me this morning if I’d go to France with her to help nurse our wounded soldiers. I said I’d think about it, and I have. I can do more good in a hospital in France than I can in any munitions factory. Still doing my bit for the war, even Dad will see that. I’m not coming home to live. I’m going to France.”

“Your dad won’t let you,” her mother said flatly. “He won’t let you go, a girl of your age.”

“He won’t be able to stop me,” Molly said firmly. “Not unless he locks me in the barn and throws away the key.” She took her mother’s hand and gripped it tightly. “I could go without telling him,” she said softly. “He wouldn’t know I was going if I didn’t tell him… and you didn’t.”

Jane Day stared at her daughter, her mouth working with agitation. Molly seemed different today, suddenly adult and positive, and Jane feared for her. She knew only too well what happened if you crossed Edwin, and she could see the same obstinacy in Molly’s eyes now, that she had seen so often in Edwin’s.

“I don’t know anything about your weird ideas, Molly,” she said indifferently, pulling her hand free and turning away. “I expect you to go back to Squire and give in your notice and then we’ll see you in a month’s time. I doubt if we’ll see you before.” She picked up her basket and set off back to the farmhouse. For a moment Molly stared after her, wondering if this time Mam actually meant she wasn’t going to tell her dad what she planned. Had she just been offered the breathing space of a month, or did Mam really mean that she expected her to come home when the month was up? She picked up her bucket and followed, and when they reached the farm, her mother led the way into the farmhouse, made more tea and set Molly to sorting the blackberries, just as if the conversation had never taken place, and Molly left early, before her father came in for his evening meal.

Rachel arrived at her grandmother Rose Carson’s home just before lunch, and made the short dash up the path to the front door through the driving rain. Her grandmother, who was as fiercely independent as Rachel, lived in a ground floor flat in a block of sheltered housing on the edge of the town. She had given up her old home when Rachel had moved out and was now comfortably settled in Cotswold Court, where she could have as much independence as she liked, but where there was a warden on hand if necessary. There was a tiny kitchen where she could prepare food if she wanted to, but a main meal was provided at midday in the communal area every day. It suited Rose Carson very well.

Rachel had her own key and to save Gran from having to come to the door she used it now, calling out, “Hallo, Gran, it’s only me.”

Her grandmother was in the sitting room, her wheelchair pushed up beside the window that looked out over the dank, winter garden. Her tapestry was on her knees, but there was no thread in the needle that lay on the table beside her, and the local paper was folded tidily, apparently unread. Her face lit up with a smile as Rachel came into the room and crossed over to give her a hug and the chocolates she had bought the day before in Charlton Ambrose village shop.

“Hallo, darling! How lovely. Black Magic, my favourite!” Gone was the lethargy that had seemed to hold her and she spun her chair away from the window. “What a dreadful day out there! Lunch will be ready in about half an hour. Why don’t you pour us both a drink?”

“Yes, all right. Gosh, Gran, it’s cold in here,” Rachel scolded. “You should keep the fire on.” She went to the fireplace and pressed the starter. The gas ignited with a whumpf and immediately the room looked more cheerful.

“I usually do,” Gran said equably. She was used to Rachel ticking her off for being frugal, but to her it was a way of life. All her life she’d had to watch every penny and she couldn’t bring herself to waste money on gas when a blanket over her knees and a shawl round her shoulders kept her as warm. Rachel looked across at her affectionately and switched on the standard lamp as well, suffusing the room with warm light and making the aspect from the window even bleaker.

A drink to Gran meant a glass of sweet sherry, and Rachel went to the cabinet in the corner and poured two glasses. “How’ve you been this week?” she asked as she handed Gran one glass and sat down with the other on the opposite side of the fire. They chatted easily for a while before Rachel dished up the casserole Gran had in the oven.

“By the way,” Rachel said, “I’ve got a message for you. A man called Nick Potter sent you his love.”

Gran looked amused. “Did he now? Isn’t he a wizard?”

Rachel laughed. “No,” she said firmly. “That’s Harry Potter! This one’s a very ordinary man.”

“Is he indeed? And why did this very ordinary man send me his love?”

“I told him I was coming to see you today, and well, he just did.”

“How very kind of him,” said Gran with a speculative smile. “Do give him mine back.”

“I will if I see him,” Rachel said casually.

It was as they ate their meal Rachel began to tell Gran about the Ashgrove.

“Yes, I saw your piece in the
Chronicle
,” Gran said, “all about Charlton Ambrose. It was very interesting. You know I lived there when I was a little girl.” It was a statement, not a question and Rachel looked up, startled.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know that. When did you live there?”

“My grandparents lived there,” Rose said. “When I was born my mother went home to them. My father had been killed in the war, in France. I never knew him.”

Rachel stared at her grandmother in amazement. “I never knew that!” she said. “I mean, I know your father was killed in the first war, but I never knew you lived in Charlton Ambrose, I thought you’d always lived in Belcaster. Where did you live? How long were you there?”

“On and off till I was about fourteen, I suppose,” answered Gran.

“Fourteen!” Rachel shook her head. “So you were living there when they planted the Ashgrove.”

“I suppose so,” Gran agreed.

“Do you remember it?”

“I have a vague memory of people standing about on the village green and planting trees,” said Gran, “but I didn’t really know what it was all about.”

“But Gran, that’s amazing. You were actually there! Can you remember any of the people from the village… any of the families?”

Gran laughed. “Darling, I was only four.”

“But you said you lived there till you were fourteen.”

“So I did, most of the time, but I can’t remember many of the people. We kept very much to ourselves.”

“So you don’t know anyone who lives there now?”

Gran shook her head. “No, no one.”

It’s strange, Rachel thought as she looked across at Gran, dear Gran, who had taken her in so readily when her parents had been killed in a motorway pile up. I’ve lived with her for years, but I know so little about her early life. She never talks about it, and, Rachel thought ruefully, I’ve never asked.

She said as much now and Gran gave a sad smile.

“All so long ago,” she replied. “I don’t talk about it because I’ve tried to put it out of my mind. It wasn’t a particularly happy childhood.”

“But you spent it all in Charlton Ambrose? I never knew that,” Rachel said again.

“Not all of it. My mother and I moved away for a while, but when she died I had to go back and live with my grandparents. They took me in out of duty and I left as soon as I left school.”

“Out of duty?”

“Oh yes. They didn’t approve of me, you see,” Gran’s eyes twinkled, “I was a scandal. My parents weren’t married! My father was killed before he could make an honest woman of my mother.”

“That was hardly your fault,” retorted Rachel.