Mrs. Pride dropped into a chair. “You always were a most practical child.”
Molly sat down and looked expectantly at her.
“What I told you about your mother is true. She is in a sanatorium in Cornwall. I really hesitated to tell you.”
“Why?”
“Well, some might consider it shameful. And I have always been so protective of your mum. The dearest lady to walk the earth... before her... odd ways came on.”
Molly drew a breath. “And how long has she been at this sanatorium?”
“About four years now.”
Molly’s jaw went slack. “Four years! What on earth happened to her?”
“She started acting a bit strange before that, but your father believed we could manage things here. But then...” She stopped and looked down at her hands.
“Please just tell me!” implored Molly.
Mrs. Pride gave Molly a ferocious look. “It was the bloody Germans, at least partly. They came one night with their bombs. I was visiting a friend; it was my night out. But your father got your mother to the tube shelter not that far from here. And...” Mrs. Pride once more looked down at her hands.
“And what? Was the shelter bombed?”
“No. But in all the rush, your mother and father became separated. He looked all over for her, but the station was chock-a-block with folks, and it was also very dark. When the bombs stopped he kept looking for her. And he finally found her.” Mrs. Pride stopped speaking and traced her mouth with a shaky hand.
“Where was she?”
“He found her in a little room down a long, dark corridor, he told me. Some... excuse my language, bastards had brought her there, no doubt taking advantage of her fear and confusion.”
Molly put a hand to her chest. “Some...”
“I don’t want to call them men because they certainly didn’t act like men, more like animals.”
Molly’s eyes began to fill with tears.
Mrs. Pride saw this and gripped her hand. “Oh, Molly, you don’t want to hear this.”
Molly composed herself as best as she could. “I’m afraid I need to hear everything, Mrs. Pride. No matter how... awful.”
“Well, when your father found her, she was disheveled, and battered and bruised and crying. Her purse taken, her clothes... torn... her... dignity stolen.”
Molly let out a small moan.
“Your father was, of course, beyond furious. Here they had come for safety from the damn Germans and she’s attacked by her own people.”
“What did Father do?”
“He found a policeman is what he did. And tried to get him to take a report, to go after the men who’d done it.”
“What do you mean tried?”
“Your father was sitting in the chair you’re in now when he told me this, while Mrs. Wakefield was upstairs wailing her head off. The constable tried to ask her some questions, but she was too distraught to answer, of course. Hysterical, really, and your father said the constable seemed more frustrated and bothered than concerned or helpful. When your father tried to explain that, the bobby didn’t want to hear it, did he? Had other things to do, didn’t he? A war was going on, he had the impertinence to say. How could he know that anything happened a’tall? She might have gotten lost and fallen and torn or lost some of her clothes that way, he had the gall to suggest. She might have dropped her purse. As if,” she added with a scowl.
“What did Father do?”
“Oh, he didn’t stop with that bobby. He went to a detective chief inspector, and then to the chief superintendent, and then, when he got no satisfaction there, he took it up with the assistant commissioner at Scotland Yard.”
“And?”
“And nothing seemed to matter, Molly. To them, it was a bit of odd bother during a war. Women get attacked all the time, they said. Men too. Unfortunate, yes, but many things were unfortunate during such troubling times. They didn’t have the manpower to run down every report, did they? Half their force was in the military, they told your father. They were dragging old men out of retirement, and young men who didn’t qualify to carry the sword for England were now wearing a bobby’s uniform. It’s a scandal is what it is.”
“So nothing was done?”
“No. As far as I know they never even looked for the men.”
“And Mother?”
Mrs. Pride looked pained. “Well, your mother was always an excitable, nervous person, even before that. You saw that while you were here. Fretted over you in some ways that weren’t so healthy, I guess, looking back on it. And when you left she fretted even more, certain that you were never going to return.”
“She could have come and seen me.”
“Well, she wanted to, but it wasn’t that easy to leave London at the time. And, to tell the truth, I don’t think your mum was up to traveling that far. And after what happened to her in that shelter, well, things rapidly became very bad.”
“How bad?”
“We would try to get her to take a walk, even offered to go with her, but we would get her to the front door and she would start to scream and fight us.”
“My God.”
“It was like she withdrew into a little shell. She’d walk around here like a ghost.”
“Didn’t Father try to get her help?”
“Oh, yes. But you can’t find a doctor these days to set a broken bone, deliver a baby, or take your temperature, Molly, much less the sort of doctor she needed. Where expectant mothers would be without midwives, well, I don’t know. But it’d be no place good.”
“I’m sure,” said Molly in a hollow tone.
“She would write you letters and slip them under your bedroom door, like you were still with us, things like that. Or sew a new collar on an old dress of yours and hang it in your room for you to wear the next day. She would even have afternoon tea and talk to you as though you were there.”
“You mean my mother was going quite mad?” said Molly dully.
“I would never say that. She’s the gentlest, sweetest creature.”
“One can be gentle and sweet and still be quite mad,” replied Molly.
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” said Mrs. Pride, glancing at her hands. “But I believe that she was trying to go back to a time when there was no war and her family was all together and happy. That was a safe place for her. So she pretended that was where she was. And who could blame the poor woman?”
“I think you may be right about that,” said Molly thoughtfully.
“Well, I’m no head doctor or anything, but I do have common sense.”
“So how did Mother end up in Cornwall?”
Mrs. Pride took a few moments to clear her throat and wipe her eyes with a tissue. “One morning she got up before any of us. She came down to the kitchen, put some cooking fat in a pan on the stove, lit the gas, and apparently forgot all about it. When she realized her error, she came in and chucked water on it to stop the smoke. Well grease and water don’t mix too well, and we nearly lost her and the kitchen. Luckily, your father heard her cry out and came down in time to stop any further damage. When she’d seen what she’d nearly done, your mother, well, she went a bit berserk, I guess one could say. Shouting and punching your father, and tearing at her clothes and hair, and well, raving.”
“My God, Mrs. Pride,” said a visibly shaken Molly.
“That was why Mrs. Brand left. See, your mother went after her too when she came to your father’s assistance. ‘Who do you think you are, taking liberties with Mr. Wakefield, you dreadful hussy!’ she screamed at her. And Mrs. Brand was sixty if she was a day. Anyway, she gave her notice that very morning, and we had a devil of a time getting a replacement because your mother insisted on interviewing them. And, well, most of the ladies ran out of the house after a few minutes of being shouted at and berated by her. So then, it just fell to me.”