Page 14 of Strangers in Time

H OME A GAIN

M OLLY KNOCKED AND WAITED , for she did not have a latch key.

Presently, the door opened. It was not her mother or father standing there, but her old nanny, Mrs. Pride.

She looked at Molly curiously. “Yes, Miss?” As her gaze fixed on Molly something flickered behind the woman’s eyes.

“Mrs. Pride, it’s me, Molly. I wrote that I would be returning today.”

Mrs. Pride was now close to sixty, large in stature, and respectability itself in the cut of her stiff, wide tweeds that managed to conceal any trace of female figure beneath the pleated folds. Her hair had gone white since she had come to oversee Molly, but her full cheeks still carried a robust dash of girlish pink. She looked at the young woman with a mixture of emotions that surprised Molly. Surely, she thought, happiness would be the only order of the day for her homecoming.

The next moment Mrs. Pride hugged Molly so fiercely that the girl thought she might crack. When Mrs. Pride let go Molly saw clusters of tears attached to each corner of the woman’s sunken and anxious eyes.

“Molly, dear, how you’ve grown. Has it been years or decades, child? Come in, come in.” She glanced at the driver, who stood there unsteadily on his gimpy leg; he picked up Molly’s bag.

“Here, give me that, cabbie.” She took the bag while Molly paid the driver.

He smiled at the generous tip and doffed his cap. “Well, good luck to you, Miss.”

Molly walked in and Mrs. Pride shut the door. “Let me look at you. My goodness, you’re such a young lady.”

Molly stared around at a space that she had known intimately for the first decade of her life. It appeared remarkably unchanged, but as she ran her gaze around the boundaries, it did look decidedly smaller and shabbier than she remembered.

Situated against one wall next to the door were pegs to hang hats and coats with a mirror set above, and a long metal canister where walking sticks and umbrellas were collected. She picked up a hat that was hanging from a stout wooden peg.

It was her father’s homburg, Molly knew. She noted several strands of gray hair clinging to the liner. This startled her because her father’s hair had been a dark brown when she had left.

Years aged one, obviously. She thought of the taxi driver. War years accelerated all that.

Next to the hat hung a gas mask on another peg. From the size of it, she reckoned it belonged to Mrs. Pride. And of course her father would no doubt have his with him, wherever he was presently. She didn’t see her mother’s mask, though.

“Where is Mr. John? I thought he might pick me up at the station in the Singer.”

“Well, we never did get a letter from you, dear, but that’s hardly unusual. The post hasn’t been what it was.”

“And Mr. John?”

“He’s no longer with us, dear.”

“What! Is he all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure that he is. But he got another position, you see.”

“I’m surprised Father let him leave. He was very fond of Mr. John. And Father doesn’t like to drive.”

“Yes, well, everyone has had to make sacrifices,” replied Mrs. Pride firmly.

Molly felt a sudden twinge of guilt for voicing concern over no longer having a driver for their luxurious car. “Yes, of course. Oh, before I forget.” She reached into her purse and drew out a small pamphlet. “My ration book. You’ll need that with one more mouth to feed.”

Mrs. Pride took it and said, “Thank you, dear. By law the shops where you register have to stock the things you registered for, but I’m not sure the law has been round the shops lately.”

“Yes, there were shortages in our village, too.”

“Have you eaten, dear?” said Mrs. Pride. “I can prepare something.”

Molly gaped. “ You? Is Mrs. Brand no longer with us, either?”

“No, no she’s not. She lost both her grandsons in the war, poor dear. And, well… working here no longer suited her.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. I remember her grandsons. They would come by sometimes when I was very little.”

“Yes, yes they… would.” Mrs. Pride’s voice dropped to almost nothing.

Molly noted her distress and thought it better not to speak further of Mrs. Brand’s loss. “I had some food on the trains.”

“Then perhaps a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” Molly looked around. “And Mother and Father?”

It took a considerable length of time for Mrs. Pride to answer this simple query. “Your father, bless him, is at work. He’s at the Ministry of Food now. If we knew you were coming, of course he would have met you at the station. He’ll be back in time for dinner, I’m almost sure.” She wrung her hands as she said this, and didn’t look remotely sure of anything.

“And Mother?”

Once more Mrs. Pride didn’t respond right away. “Yes, well, actually your mum’s having a bit of a lie-in. Now, you can have your tea and then we’ll see what’s what, shall we?”

Mrs. Pride took Molly’s coat and hat and hung them up, then flitted out of the room. Molly started to follow her.

Mrs. Pride turned back and said, “I’ll make the tea, dear. If you want to go to your room and put your things away? I’ll be up directly with your cup.”

Molly carried her bag up the stairs. Her room was on the right at the end of the hall. Her parents’ room was on the left just at the head of the stairs. She eyed their door and then leaned over the stair railing. She heard the kettle clattering against the stovetop and imagined she could hear the sharp strike of the match and the whoosh of ignition as Mrs. Pride heated the water.

Molly went over to her parents’ door and listened at the wood. Hearing nothing, she eased the door open and peered in, expecting to see her mother asleep. However, the bed was made and there was no one there. She looked around. The furniture was all the same, at least that she remembered. The square of rug was a bit ragged with a few odd loops of thread sticking up. She saw one of her father’s coats hanging on a peg along with a set of frayed brown braces. The room held a mustiness that she had never noticed before. The light coming through the windows was weak and diffused, throwing all she saw into shadowy relief, which somehow seemed ominous to Molly.

Surely Mrs. Pride had said that her mother was having a lie-in. And where would she be doing that other than in her own bed?

Molly continued to her room, opened the door, and stood there for a few moments taking it all in. Her room was exactly as she had left it, as though time had ceased passing. Lying in the center of her bed was one of her old dolls. And it had something in its hands. She hurried forward and saw that it was a letter. She eagerly unfolded the crisp paper.

It was on the official letterhead of the Ministry of Food.

Dear Molly,

I wish I could have been here to see you when you arrived back from the country. I have been quite busy as of late. I will be home as soon as I can.

With affection,

Your Father

Molly recalled that her father had worked in a position that required frequent trips to the continent. Now he had apparently taken a job with the Ministry of Food, as Mrs. Pride had said.

Yet there had been one puzzling omission in his letter: There had been no mention of her mother.

And Mrs. Pride had said they hadn’t received her letter. So how would her father have even known that she was coming home today?

Her head full of disquieting thoughts, Molly put the paper in her pocket as she heard the whistle of the kettle. She was still putting away the clothes from her bag when the door opened and Mrs. Pride bustled in with her tea, a small jug of milk, and a plate with two thin and cracked biscuits and a spoon.

“Here you are, dear,” she said, setting the cup and plate of biscuits down on the table next to her bed and pouring the milk into the tea and spooning it around. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you back home, Molly. So very, very pleased. I mean, I can scarcely believe my eyes.” She handed the cup to her.

Molly smiled and took a sip of her tea. “I, um, found the note from Father.”

Mrs. Pride’s features tensed. “Oh, yes, I suppose you did.”

“I checked Mummy’s room, but no one was there. You said she was having a lie-in?”

“Well, I should have told you that while she was having a lie-in, it wasn’t here.”

Molly very carefully set her cup down and, with panic rising in her, said, “Not here?”

Mrs. Pride’s hand flew to her mouth and worried at it a bit with her index finger. “The truth is, dear Molly, that your mother has not been well as of late. She has left here to convalesce at another… place.”

“Place? What place?”

“A sanatorium,” she replied, her gaze now averted from the girl’s.

Molly gasped. “A sanatorium ?”

Mrs. Pride dropped her hand. “It’s a place where people with unsettling troubles travel to get some peace. It’s in… it’s in Cornwall.”

“Cornwall! Are there no sanatoriums in London?”

“Well, London has been right hard hit, and though they don’t come every night like they used to, the Germans do still come. There was an odd bombing or two last night, in fact.”

Molly felt her throat tighten. “I want to see my mummy straightaway.”

“Yes, I suspected you would want to do that. The fact is, Molly, your father should be the one talking to you about this.”

“Is she all right, Mrs. Pride? Please tell me.”

The woman finally met her gaze. “The war has been hard on all, Molly, from the King on down. But it has been far harder on some, and unfortunately, your mother is one of them.”

And on that rather ominous note, Mrs. Pride fled the room.