Dont worry, dear. Shes a premature baby, but shes strong. Everything will turn out alrightfor your daughter and for your granddaughter.
God grant it, the woman whispered to the departing doctor, then, once the door shut, muttered under her breath, What a tragedy.
The tragedy struck the Whitaker family six months earlier, when a nosy neighbour, Mrs. Hattie, stopped by for tea and a slice of apple cake. Between sips she blurted out, When are you expecting? Have you started stocking up on nappies yet?
What are you on about? Clara Whitaker snapped, stunned by the sudden question.
Dont play dumb, Hattie continued, eyes glittering. Your sisters farmhand was out twice last week. I saw her rush out of the cowshed with a rag over her mouth.
Clara tried to defend herself. Maybe she ate something wrong, she offered weakly.
Sure, youve never been in labour yourself, so you have no idea, Hattie snarled. Im not a midwife, but I know a thing or two.
That evening Aunt Margaret interrogated Clara, then broke down, cursing the fate that had delivered a stillborn infant, a sunburnt boy who had already left the world, and with him the whole line of men in the family.
The arrival of little Mollie brought no joy, only endless chores, resentment and a burning shame. Clara never showed warmth toward her child. She would lift her only to feed or to change a diaper, then set her down without a second glance. Aunt Margaret watched her granddaughter with the same cold indifference. It was already the fourth granddaughterwhat could she possibly be thrilled about? Even her own daughters birth had been a disappointment. So Mollie entered this world unloved, stumbling on unsteady legs through a life that offered no affection.
A year later Clara moved to the steeltown work settlement of Middlesbrough, chasing a sliver of happiness. Mollie stayed with Aunt Margaret, the only grandmother she knew, though she was no stranger. The girl required no special care; she ate what she was given, fell asleep on schedule, never fell ill. The doctors assessment was correctMollie was a sturdy child, yet still unloved.
Mollie lived with Margaret until she was seven. In that time Clara learned the painters trade, married a man named Charlie, and had a son, also called Charlie. It was then that Clara remembered Mollie, now a girl old enough to help around the house. She returned to the village for her daughter, but Mollie, who saw her mother only twice a year, offered no outward joy. Clara stared at her with a mix of reproach and pity.
Mollie, you behave as if youre a stranger. Another girl would have thrown herself into my arms, but you just stand there, aloof.
Seeing the girl off, Aunt Margaret let a tear escape, missed her for a few days, then, the following Saturday, was bombarded with two beloved grandchildrenLucy and Emilyfrom her eldest son. In the rush of caring for them, Margarets thoughts of Mollie faded. Mollie, spurned by her aunt, felt little sorrow for the old woman, but the parting from the newly hatched, bright-eyed grandchildren brought fresh tears.
In Middlesbrough Mollie was reluctant at first, but she had no choice. Over time she made friends, started school, did homework, ran errands for bread and milk, peeled potatoes for her mothers return. As she grew older she escorted Charlie to nursery, and, mimicking her mother, scolded a lanky boy:
Watch your step, youre testing my patience. Im pulling my strength from the last fibres, and you give me none!
Charlie never heard words of love from his sister; nor did Mollie ever hear them. She never expected themshe was born unloved. The girl suffered little, simply because she knew no other way.
She did, however, overhear how other girls called their mothers sweetheart or dear, and how her own mother would call Charlie sunshine or kitten. Once called Zinaida, then Zina, then simply Mollie, she believed she could never be anyones sunshine. She was an adult, unlike Charlie.
At home she wasnt scolded, nor denied a piece of bread. They didnt dress her up or spoil her with sweets, but she wasnt starving or ragged eitherjust unloved.
At fifteen Mollie fled the cold, unfamiliar house that had never become her home. She earned a place at a city college, studying confectionery, dreaming of a life surrounded by cakes. In the dormitory she shared a room with three other girls, each managing her own affairs.
Then she met Tom, a shy lad from the same block. Despite a bleak November, the sun seemed to shine solely for her. The other girls would pop out for a moment of television in the tiny red corner of the common room. Tom spoke in soft, lyrical words that made Mollies head spin and her breath catch.
Youre my favourite, he whispered, and Mollie, accustomed to perpetual indifference, melted in a flash of happiness.
Soon, however, morning sickness began. She delayed seeing a doctor and missed the crucial appointment. At eighteen she was still without a proper medical record, so she had to gather certificates and, with Tom now trembling with nerves, head to the register office.
Thus began Mollies married life, and simultaneously the end of that brief, bright love. The young couple moved into Toms parents house. Toms mother and grandmother showed no special affection toward Mollie, yet they allowed her to stay in a small rented room. It was a modest start, but it was a start.
A friend from the settlement, jealous and bitter, taunted her:
Lucky you, youll live in the city, become a city girl.
Mollie didnt argue. She confessed that city life was no fairytale. The house was a modest terraced home; the gardens tap was a water column at the end of the lane. She accepted the cold water, the chill in her feet, and the constant drips that reminded her of the unborn child she once carried. Her motherinlaw scolded her, but did she truly mean it?
Tom seemed to pity her at first, for a day or two, then he fell back into his old habitsdrinking, wandering with friends, neglecting his duties. His mother and grandmother never drove Mollie out; they let her linger, helping where she could. Yet the promise of a stable future evaporated when Tom brought home another woman, declaring he never loved Mollie.
Mollie, exhausted, gathered a few belongings, obeyed his mothers cold command to leave, and shut the door on a house that was never hers.
She moved into the factory dormitory, where a mess hall and a workers club stood just beyond the gate. Life is simple, they said. Eat, work, smile. Mollie learned to smile, too. She walked to the canteen, shared jokes with comrades, went to the cinema on weekends. She seldom visited her mother, stepfather, or brothernone of them awaited her, and she never imposed herself.
When Aunt Margaret died in Mollies twentyfirst year, the funeral was a quiet affair. Margarets will left her modest cottage to Lucy and Emily, the beloved grandchildren. Mollie felt no bitterness; they were the apple of their grandmothers eye, while she had always been the overlooked branch.
If Mollie had claimed the inheritance, the family would have torn itself apart over Margarets modest estate. The loudest cries came from Clara, who wailed that her dear Charlie would inherit a warped silver spoon that the old woman had not left for him. Isnt he a grandson? she sobbed, Why should Lucy and Emily get more? Yet Clara never mentioned her eldest daughter, and Mollie received nothing.
Mollie tried twice to build a new life, courting men, but each affair collapsed. No suitor ever escorted her to the register office, and she never felt the urge to force the matter. One man drank and chased after women; the other drank and turned violent. She chose, finally, to let go of the register and its tangled promises. She packed a few trinkets into a battered suitcase and returned to the modest bed she shared with her steadfast friends.
For over a decade she drifted from dormitory to dormitory, growing weary of foreign bunk beds. By then she was approaching thirty, and any woman in her thirties yearned for a corner of her owna kettle on her shelf, a space she could call hers. Single women were given rooms last, families first.
Occasionally she visited Aunt Alice, who worked the night shift scrubbing floors at the steelworks. After three or four months of such talks, Alice asked Mollie, Zin, a year ago my niece died in childbirth, leaving a baby and a widower. Ive been watching youhardworking, reliable. Her husband, Martin, is a decent man. He doesnt beat, only drinks on holidays and in moderation. Hes shy, not much of a talker, but he cares for his child. Think about it.
Mollie considered and moved in with Martin. She brightened his modest room for the May holidays, bought curtains, stitched little dresses from yellow and blue cloth for the baby, a tiny girl they named Sophie.
Martin was gentle, never abusive, handed over his wages, never uttered a word of lovesomething Mollie had never expected anyway. After three years of marriage, Sophie ran into the kitchen clutching a handful of dandelions, leapt into Mollies arms, pressed a sweet, candykissed cheek to hers and whispered,
Mum, I love you. I love you more than anyonemore than Dad, more than Aunt Alice, even more than my doll.
Mollie held her daughter, laughing and crying at once, finally feeling the warmth of being loved.
A year later she gave birth to a son, Oliver. Martin tended to him at night, changed nappies, helped push the pram up the stairs. Soon the factory awarded them a spacious, bright flat. Live well, be happy, the foreman said. Mollie finally had something to celebrate.
Together they raised their children, awaited grandchildren. In their garden cottage, greyhaired Mollie boiled jam while the youngsters played nearby.
Grandma, I love you, shouted Olivia.
Grandma, we love you too, echoed Daniel.
Granny, I love you, babbled little Lily.
We all love Grandma, declared grandfather Martin, his beard dusted with silver, even if we hide smiles in our whiskers.
Mollie brushed away a sudden tear, amazed that the girl once born unloved now basked in a tide of affection. The years had turned her sorrow into a quiet, fierce love she never imagined shed feel.
