The telephone call
Molly had finished lunch and washed the dishes before lying down for a nap. Her husband, David, had driven to his friend’s cottage in the Cotswolds to help mend the fence and wouldn’t be back until late tomorrow—he had work on Monday. Molly had retired a year ago, while David still had two years left before his own pension.
A sudden ring startled her awake. Disoriented, she fumbled for the phone, not bothering to check the screen.
“Yes?” Her voice was thick with sleep.
Who else would call but her daughter or David? He hated phone calls, so it must be her daughter. She lived in Manchester with her husband and was due to give birth soon.
“Molly? Were you asleep?” The voice on the other end was unfamiliar.
“Who is this?” Molly tensed.
A loud, exaggerated sigh crackled down the line.
“You don’t recognise me? How long has it been?”
“Lillian…?” The name left her lips before she could stop it. “How did you get my number?” She wasn’t pleased.
“Is that important? I ran into your mum a few years back—she gave it to me.”
Molly vaguely remembered her mother mentioning it.
“Are you in town?” A foolish question—why else would she call? “I heard you’d moved to America,” she added.
Laughter burst through the receiver, instantly morphing into a groan.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?” Molly sat up straighter.
“I’m in hospital. That’s why I’m calling. Can you come? I need to tell you something. And don’t bring anything—it’s not necessary.”
“In the hospital? Are you ill?”
“Hard to talk. I’ll text the address.”
Before Molly could reply, the line went dead. A moment later, the message arrived. *St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.* Her fingers trembled. *Oh God, cancer.* She reread it, stunned.
She checked the clock—half past five. Visiting hours would be over before she got there. In the kitchen, she pulled a chicken from the freezer for broth. Lillian had said not to bring anything, but who visited the hospital empty-handed? Homemade stock was as much medicine as food. She set the chicken thawing in the sink and sank into a chair. Her daughter was twenty-eight—that was how many years it had been since she’d last seen Lillian.
As she’s grown older, Molly had learned to greet all news—even good news—with caution. The call left her uneasy. And of course, David wasn’t home. Maybe it was for the best. Tomorrow, she’d make the broth, visit Lillian, and find out the truth. But for now, she couldn’t shake the dread.
Lillian had been raised by her paternal grandmother from the age of ten. Affection was scarce; she’d often stayed with Molly late into the evening, doing homework together. The grandmother brewed moonshine, supplying half the local drinkers. Naturally, Lillian’s parents drank too. Wives of alcoholics had threatened to burn down the grandmother’s illegal still. Maybe they had—or maybe, as the police believed, her father had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette. Either way, her parents never made it out of the burning house. The grandmother vanished somewhere, but Lillian, as always, had been with Molly. They survived.
After the fire, Lillian and her grandmother were given a council flat. No more distilling in the shared kitchen. The grandmother turned sullen, counting pennies, snapping at Lillian for every mouthful she ate. Lillian ate at Molly’s instead.
Her grandmother despised Lillian’s mother, calling her a witch—claiming she’d cursed her son, ruined him, driven him to drink. Conveniently, she never mentioned the free homemade gin. Lillian’s mother had been beautiful. Few men, young or old, could pass her without a second glance. Her father’s jealousy was violent—he’d beaten her more times than anyone could count.
Lillian grew up looking just like her—tall, willowy, with wild copper curls and full lips. The freckles dusting her face didn’t spoil her looks—instead, they gave her a golden glow.
Right after school, she fled home with some traveling lad. *Useless, just like her mother*, her grandmother had sighed.
Molly’s mother disapproved of the friendship, though she pitied the girl. When Lillian disappeared, she’d even sighed in relief. She always feared Lillian would lead Molly astray. What bound them together? Molly never quite knew, but life with Lillian was never dull.
Molly finished her course at the polytechnic, found work, met David, and married him. A year later, their daughter was born. Lillian became a distant rumour.
Her mother worked—no time to help—and with David home in the evenings, she was too shy to visit. Molly juggled it all alone, sometimes collapsing from sheer exhaustion.
All she wanted was sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes nursing her baby, she’d slip under instantly, jolting awake in panic—afraid she’d dropped her or smothered her beneath the weight of her own body. The baby, full, slept soundly. Molly would tuck her into the cot, then pump milk, cook, scrub nappies—forcing herself to keep her eyes open.
And then Lillian reappeared. She was even more like her mother—more beautiful, impossible as that seemed.
“God, you look awful. Knew marriage and kids would ruin you. Never having them,” Lillian said by way of greeting.
“Don’t swear off it,” Molly smirked.
Lillian told her about the abortions—so many she could never have children. But some maternal instinct lingered. She enjoyed helping—playing with the baby while Molly napped or cooked.
Soon after, she left the man she’d run off with—the one who’d gotten her pregnant the first time. The next was older. He rented her a flat in Mayfair, visited twice a week.
“Lived like a queen,” Lillian sighed.
“Why *like*?” Molly asked. The men bored her, but she humored Lillian.
“Old. Bad breath.” She wrinkled her nose. “But generous—cash, gold, fur coats.”
“What about his wife? His kids?”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
When he found out about the other men, he threw her out. There were others—even a Norwegian. That’s where the America rumors came from.
“Enough about me. How’d you end up a milk machine? You call this happiness? Not for me.”
David was wary of Lillian.
“Didn’t know you had friends like *her*,” he muttered after meeting her.
“Quiet—she’ll hear you.” Molly bristled. “She’s staying a few nights. Nowhere else to go. Her grandmother’s dead. She’s kind. Helps with Lucy.”
Then Lucy developed a fever. Nothing brought it down. On day three, they called an ambulance. An injection, then hospital. Molly rushed out in her slippers and dressing gown.
David froze—but Lillian brought fresh clothes, shampoo, a toothbrush. A week later, they came home. The flat was clean. Soup and meatballs in the fridge.
“Did you cook?” Molly blinked. “And mop?”
“Lillian,” David admitted, avoiding her gaze.
“And you called her a tramp.” She nudged him. “Where is she?”
“Gone. Stop worrying about her—how’s Lucy?”
That night, craving closeness after days of fear, Molly pressed into him. The stress had dried up her milk—no pain now when he held her. But David mumbled something and turned away. Again the next night.
“David—what’s wrong?” Her voice trembled. “Did you stop loving me? I was exhausted, but I never refused you.”
He muttered excuses. Eventually, things smoothed over. The weight melted off—no need to eat for milk supply.
Lucy grew up, married. Now it was just Molly and David. Peaceful in a way they’d never known in youth.
And then Lillian called.
Molly couldn’t imagine her—vibrant, reckless Lillian—dying. A mistake. She tossed all night. In the end, she rose before dawn to start the broth.
She didn’t wait for visiting hours—poured it into a thermos and went to the hospital, hoping to bribe security if needed.
The ward was cramped, two beds along opposite walls. One held a thin woman in a headscarf—frail as an old lady.
Molly almost asked for directions—then the woman opened her eyes.
Lillian.
Gone was the fiery beauty. Her face was gaunt, skin stretched over bone. Even the freckles had vanished. Her hands, resting atop the blanket, were withered twigs.
“You didn’t recognise me,” Lillian whispered.
Molly forced a smile and approached. “What happened?”
“What I deserved. Sit.”
She perched on the bed’s edge, clumsily unscrewing the thermos.
“Don’t. Won’t eat.”
“I”I’ll leave it here in case you change your mind,” Molly said, placing the thermos on the bedside table before turning away, stepping out into the corridor with a quiet sigh, knowing some things were better left unsaid.
