The Secret Notebook Page 8

  She wondered if Justin had any children and wondered why she hadn’t asked him. Izzie suspected that if he did have children, then she didn’t want to know. Suspected that she may feel nothing but a raw jealousy for his partner. He hadn’t mentioned Lorna – the beautiful model he had been reported as dating, and a quick peep at his online profile described him as currently unattached…

  If she dug too deep, she suspected she may still yearn for the life she had originally planned with Justin, still longed for a family with him – twins or otherwise.

  To hold her and Justin’s baby… A misty vision rose for a moment, then disappeared. Sniffing, she took a deep breath against the brief, powerful image, and the lump in her throat that it caused.

  Izzie dashed the seductive thoughts from her mind, blew her nose and settled into the chair to read more of Molly’s story.

  Chapter Seven

  Molly

  Blackpool, Wednesday January 19, 1944

  I still have the growing suspicion that I’m expecting…

  All day, whilst I worked, I composed the letter to Joe in my head. I was certain he loved me, I was sure he would get leave as soon as he could and marry me before the baby showed too much. Although I’d spent all day deciding what I would say in a letter, when it came to the evening, it was hard to find the right words. In the end, I kept it short, wrote it first in my notebook and then copied it into a letter:

  Dearest Joe,

  * * *

  I hope you’re keeping well. I have news that should be certain to see you write back to me this time! I’m expecting your baby around September time, so it would be best to be married as soon as you can get some leave. I think about you all the time and even more now I carry your child.

  * * *

  Never doubt that I love you,

  * * *

  Your girl,

  * * *

  Molly.

  I couldn’t help getting excited at the possibility that Joe would just turn up rather than write – he was always spontaneous and full of fun.

  In my mind’s eye, he would stride up to the boarding house, handsome as ever in his dark blue uniform, and he’d smile that smile that made me feel I was the luckiest girl in the world.

  I’d fly into his outstretched arms and we’d float off into the future in a cloud of happiness with our new baby, to a home of our own.

  Those were my daydreams, Dear Diary.

  In reality, I felt dreadful – nauseous, tired, worried sick and my appetite shrank whilst my chest appeared to expand. I couldn’t tell anyone or let anyone see I wasn’t feeling well.

  I had to hide everything from Enid for fear of being thrown out before I had a ring on my finger.

  Blackpool, Wednesday January 26, 1944

  A week crept by and one morning when I hung about in the bay window, I could see the postie getting closer and made an excuse that I needed to pick up some litter blowing about on the front doorstep so I could go out and collect the mail.

  Our female postie announced, ‘Just two today!’ and I looked to the sky to thank the man upstairs that there was a letter for me from Joe. I pushed that one into my pinny pocket to look at in private later on, and took the brown envelope with Enid’s name on through to the back room, where she took a break and ate breakfast.

  It was such a busy day that the only promise of being alone was at bedtime. I caught up with all my jobs and hurried up to my room earlier than usual, having promised myself total privacy so I could revel in Joe’s words undisturbed.

  Thankfully, it was Enid’s night to lock up and turn everything off.

  I pulled the eiderdown around my shoulders and my fingers shook with excitement as I tore the envelope open and eased out the flimsy paper.

  I held the folded paper to my pounding chest before finally – finally – reading it.

  I prayed silently as I held the thin paper tightly, prayed that Joe’s written words would be the answer to my prayers, whispered, ‘Please…’ in the hope that the letter would say all I needed to hear.

  My fingers shook as I unfolded the letter. I had no idea just how my life was about to sink, my Dear Diary, and plunge me into the depths of hopelessness…

  Dear Molly,

  * * *

  I’m writing to put the record straight. I’m sorry to hear you got pregnant, but I thought that, like me, you were just after a good time. In any case, I should think there’s a good chance that the baby isn’t mine because we only got down to business once.

  * * *

  I don’t want to settle down yet with anyone. I’m not ready for the responsibility. I was with other girls sometimes when we were in Blackpool, and thought you knew that I wasn’t really out studying some evenings.

  * * *

  I did like you a lot, but as I say, I’m not ready to have a family. I didn’t make any promises and I thought you’d get the message that I didn’t want to go steady when I didn’t answer your letters.

  * * *

  I wouldn’t have answered this one, but Jack said I owed you the truth.

  * * *

  Regards,

  * * *

  Joe Blackshaw.

  The air stuck in my chest; I couldn’t breathe.

  No! No! It couldn’t be right.

  Couldn’t be right.

  I read the letter over and over to make sense of the words that danced before my eyes…

  I read it until every word was burned into my mind and clawed at my heart.

  But reading the words over didn’t alter them. Anger ripped through me in a hot surge; I punched the pillow until it exploded and feathers puffed feebly over the bed. To add to my misery, I was ill in the bucket I’d put in my room.

  A sense of denial settled around me. He couldn’t mean those words. Surely not. He’d been so loving, so attentive, so charming…

  Hadn’t he said he loved me?

  But… no…

  No, he hadn’t.

  My Dear Diary, that truth dawned as great gulping sobs rose to the surface. I’d stupidly assumed that he loved me because we’d made love. I pulled the maligned pillow to my face to stifle the noise of my pain as I wailed out loud … for fear of being overheard.

  My dream of a happy future crashed into a nightmare in the time it took to open the letter and read it. I shook with anger, with shock, with misery.

  I knew I was in trouble, but at that moment I couldn’t think beyond the agony of reading Joe’s words, words that held my real-life future. The opposite of what I’d imagined in my own foolish romantic vision of the future.

  I felt alone, desperate, could think of no way forward, could think only of my desolation.

  My pillow was wet and cold.

  Miserable and exhausted and against all the odds, I fell asleep.

  Blackpool, Thursday 27 January, 1944

  The following morning, my Dear Diary, I felt happy for a split second, then I remembered. Joe’s letter… Self-pity overwhelmed me, rendered me barely able to move until Enid knocked on my bedroom door.

  ‘Time you were up. Stop your lollygagging, girl.’

  Pride forced me out of bed, shocked at the mess of feathers on the floor and bedcovers. ‘I’ll be down shortly, Mother.’ I was surprised that my voice sounded normal, that apart from swollen eyes and feathers all over the place, there was nothing to betray the cruel news I’d had.

  Within minutes, I’d washed and dressed and during that time had given myself a talking to. Enid was not going to know about the misery I felt, I could give no hint of what was happening until I had a plan.

  No one, my Dear Diary, except these pages would know.

  The trouble was, I had no idea what to do. I didn’t know how to carry on. I knew I had to find a way to deal with this, and this was whilst dealing with the waves of misery that I had so stupidly been taken in by Joe’s handsome face, his engaging smile, urgent kisses and clever love-making. And then the little details I’d ignored at the time – that slight smell of roses on hi
s uniform, and another niggle I had completely pushed out of my mind: When I returned from the cloakroom in the Tower one time, I saw Joe leaning casually against a pillar, and a woman who was running her fingers down his chest. He appeared to smile down at her, then glance around. On seeing me, he pointed her in the direction of the opposite side of the room.

  On our way out of the Tower, I asked Joe who the woman was and he said it was someone Jack had been seeing and that she had got mixed up between them. Of course, I accepted that explanation and brushed aside the questioning frown Jack shot at Joe, gladly letting myself be distracted as Joe whispered how beautiful I was against my ear.

  The worst of it was that Enid and all of her dire warnings about young women playing fast and loose and ‘getting caught out’, now also applied to me. Empty, sick, bereft, I had to think of something.

  I still didn’t know how I could afford to move out of the boarding house and start my own life away from Enid; she would never put up with the stigma of me expecting, unwed and living in her home.

  She has made that blatantly clear.

  Dear Diary, one moment I’m weighed down with misery about my future, the next I feel a tickle of excitement, of expectation that a new life has begun.

  I dreamt both nights since Joe’s letter that Denis proposed and I was trapped into marriage by my expectant state. Imagining marriage to Denis … the sense of dread grew, the thought of Enid, hands on hips, shaking her head, forcing the issue, telling me how lucky I was that such a decent young man offered to marry me, even though I’d behaved like a slut.

  In the dream she said, ‘I knew something like this would happen… You should have listened to me.’

  Dread increased in the daytime, too. I’d an awful feeling that, any time, Denis would turn up at the door and that, rather than be turned out on the street by Enid, I would be forced to beg Denis to marry me… I could imagine he would be high-handed, so full of himself for taking on a loose woman. That is my worst nightmare.

  Dear Diary, there has to be an alternative. I will find one.

  Work is an escape. I am numbed by impotent anger at Joe – but blessedly busy. I had to find work away from here, from Enid … maybe down at South Shore or further away.

  Blackpool, Friday January 28, 1944

  This morning, something happened that shone a shaft of hope back into my life.

  A letter arrived.

  Not from Joe, but from Jack.

  My Dear Molly,

  * * *

  I feel badly for the way Joe has treated you and what he has left you to face alone.

  * * *

  I was with him when he wrote to you and I’ll admit I made him write because he was going to ignore your letter.

  * * *

  I know what he wrote and I want to tell you now that I won’t let any niece or nephew of mine be born in shame. I don’t want you to feel alone and I will look after you and the baby as my own. No one need ever know that the baby isn’t mine, if you’re happy with that.

  * * *

  If you agree to be my wife, I’ll secure a pass for us to marry as soon as I can.

  * * *

  I understand if you need time to think about this. I’ll write again in a day or two and hope you’ll write to me, too. Joe knows that I’m writing and what I’m asking, so don’t worry that I’m doing something underhand.

  * * *

  I’m thinking of you and I look forward to hearing from you. I care a great deal about you, Molly, and would be a happy man if you’d do me the honour of marrying me.

  * * *

  Yours hopefully,

  * * *

  Jack Blackshaw.

  Dear Diary, tears rolled down my face when I read Jack’s words. Quieter than Joe, Jack looked the same but personality wise, could not be more different. I recollected his quiet patience as he taught me how to play rummy, his warm smile. The way he sketched whenever he had a spare minute – people, plants, me… There was a certain sensitivity about him, too, which was missing in Joe.

  It took my breath away that Jack was willing to take on the responsibility of the baby and me.

  I had loved Joe deeply, but had been wrong about him loving me. His letter though, had left no hope that he would take on his baby. He’d even made certain I knew I hadn’t been the only young woman he went around with.

  That thought still makes me feel sick to the stomach. As does his assumption that I’d done the deed with some other man – men, even.

  Jack’s letter, when I’d reached rock bottom, was an unexpected offer of salvation. We’d chatted in the evenings, many evenings, played cards, drank tea, talked about his family and shared a joke or two; it struck me that I’d probably spent far more time with Jack than I had with Joe. And I like him a damn sight more than Denis. But marriage?

  How strange life is, how one simple letter threatened to destroy me and the future of my unborn child; how another has given me hope. Not only hope, but vigour. I’m afraid to test too hard how I feel about the escape Jack has offered.

  In case it wasn’t real, in case Jack changed his mind.

  Chapter Eight

  Izzie

  Blackpool, Thursday June 29, 2017

  I felt alone, desperate, could think of no way forward, could think only of my desolation.

  Molly’s heartbroken words echoed in Izzie’s mind whilst she deposited yet another couple of tied rubbish bags by the hatch for taking down from the attic.

  It wasn’t just that Nan had been expecting a baby, but that she’d been rejected by Joe in no uncertain terms.

  ‘Oh, Nan.’ Izzie held the gold, skin-warmed locket around her neck, teeth biting into her bottom lip as she considered how her beloved Grandpop had offered to step up in his brother’s place for the sake of the unborn baby, for the sake of Molly, so she wouldn’t be left alone to face an uncertain, unmarried future.

  Molly had loved and expected to marry one man, but had she too married another? It had turned out amazingly well though as their love for one another was always, always evident. There was never ever any hint that Grandpop had been anything other than the love of Molly’s life.

  Izzie wondered because she too had loved and expected to marry one man, but had married another. She empathised completely with Molly’s desolation at the time of her rejection.

  Desolation. Izzie had felt exactly that when Justin had failed to meet her… Hadn’t known how to cope with the misery engulfing her. She’d had no inkling of what she should do next, only that she had to run, get away and return to London where she could hide from reality, bury her pain, lose herself in the routine of work.

  And then Rufus had presented her with an unexpected escape route – a route Izzie ran down blindly without hesitation in an attempt to out-run her agony.

  Marriage, work, art, admin, caring – all with Rufus as the focus.

  She hadn’t realised at the time what she was doing; it was only hindsight that allowed her to have a clearer picture of her reaction, to fully recognise that marrying Rufus had been her way of reaching subconsciously for an emotional balm.

  Molly’s situation, though, pushed Izzie’s woes into perspective. ‘Just get on with it, Izzie!’ she chided herself.

  Carrying an old, dismantled bed head towards the loft hatch, she caught sight of the framed photograph she’d set on the desk – the much-loved photo of Nan and Grandpop on their wedding day. She stopped for a second, smiled at the photo and then looked to the ceiling and whispered, ‘I swear you are still with me, Nan, thank you.’

  Blackpool, Saturday July 1, 2017

  A few days later, Izzie handed the dismantled bed in pieces down the ladder to Justin. Luckily, the spare old mattress was thin and spongy, easily bent in half and shoved down through the loft hatch.

  ‘I know a decent decorator if you don’t want to do it all yourself?’

  ‘No, I’m going to stay here and do some of the work. It feels good to have a purpose again.’

  She watche
d whilst Justin rolled up the old, disused crumbling foam mattress and tied a length of string around it, then climbed down the ladder.

  When he turned back to face her, he had a definite twinkle in his eye. Izzie heard his words in her head before he spoke.

  ‘We had some fun on that.’

  Laughing, she felt the heat creeping up her cheeks. ‘It was sort of innocent.’

  ‘You think?’ There was no mistaking the heat in his eyes when he spoke.

  A sharp thrill shot through her at his words, followed by the heated memory…

  Laid side by side they’d taken off their T-shirts – because of the heat, they’d claimed.

  Then Justin had pulled her against his torso and they’d discovered the intense pleasure of skin against skin, his mouth covering hers, his tongue exploring against hers, his palm running up the outside of her ribs; unashamedly, she’d wriggled so he was atop her, her own hands ran over his shoulders, his back … and their kissing and touching became more urgent, more intimate…

  Slowly, she let out her breath. The powerful recollection had taken her right back to that hot summer day.

  Their eyes met and Izzie thought Justin’s looked dark and sexy, as though he too shared the memory.