Outwardly composed and smiling, Molly hid the giddiness that threatened to burst from her. ‘I didn’t know there even was a back door,’ she laughed, ‘or I might have.’
‘Hello, M.’ Johan stood leaning against the postbox, gazing down at her with such intensity she knew it was longing, and all she could think of was that she never would have imagined someone as beautiful and incredible as him looking that way at someone like her.
‘Hello, you.’
‘I was wondering if you might like a walk?’ He smiled that wide, easy smile that was even better than it had been in her memory.
‘I would like that very much.’
‘Right, that’s enough!’ Geer screwed her eyes shut and shook her head. ‘I refuse to play gooseberry and will leave you two young things to it. Just take care, Joe, and happy Christmas. God, how I long for better times!’
‘Me too.’ Johan hugged his sister warmly.
‘And come home again soon, won’t you, darling?’ She kissed her brother on the cheek and paused only to squeeze the hand of her friend. Molly noted that neither she nor Johan had asked Geer to stay.
‘I thought the Embankment?’ He seemed a little nervous, buttoning up his woollen coat over his uniform and crooking his arm, through which Molly slipped hers as though they had done this a million times before and not merely once. Her frisson of joy as they made physical contact was more than she could describe.
‘Lovely,’ she murmured, falling into step beside this man in naval uniform. ‘This is quite a surprise. How long are you . . .?’ She couldn’t bear to discuss him leaving, but wanted to know how much time they had.
Johan looked at his wristwatch. ‘I have exactly fifty-four minutes with you.’
‘Fifty-four minutes? Could you be any more precise?’ She laughed.
‘You may joke, M, but I’m a stickler for getting the time right. It’s important when it goes so quickly.’
‘I guess so.’ She liked his quirkiness.
‘Actually, it will now be fifty-three minutes before I need to rendezvous with the car taking me back to . . .’
‘Back to where?’ Her question was automatic and they held each other’s eyeline.
‘Back to the coast from whence I have come.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I often wonder if after the war we will all be so used to talking in code and withholding information that we might forget altogether how to speak plainly. Can you imagine: “Would you like a cup of that dark brew made from leaves freshly plucked from Assam?” – “My dear, you can just say the word ‘tea’ these days!”’
Molly laughed, the feeling like little bubbles of air floating up inside her. ‘“The coast” is vague enough, don’t worry. Although if I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably a coast somewhere in the UK as you’re driving there.’
‘A clever deduction, Miss Marple, and, yes, you’re right. I’m going down to Devon.’
‘Devon!’ she laughed teasingly. ‘Come on, Johan, what on earth could be that important to the war effort in Devon?’
His smile made his top lip and thin moustache hitch up at one side. He was to her quite beautiful and yet again there was that fold of longing in her gut. ‘Now I really should not have said that, so keep mum.’
She drew a cross over her heart.
They both chuckled at the absurdity, leaning in so that their arms and hands were as close as could be. Their hips and thighs bumped as they strolled, sending electrifying pulses of desire coursing through her body.
‘I hope Geer doesn’t think we’re frightful, not asking her along.’ She thought suddenly of her dear friend with the tiniest pulse of guilt.
‘She’ll understand. And I really don’t want to waste our’ – he again looked at his watch – ‘fifty-one minutes talking about my sister.’
‘So what do you want to talk about?’ she asked as they headed towards Horse Guards Parade.
Johan placed his free hand over the one he had captured under his arm, his tone level. ‘I want to talk about you, Marvellous Molly. I want to say that you have been in my thoughts, and I wanted nothing more than to tell you that and to see you in the flesh, just to make sure.’
‘To make sure of what?’ she asked, unable to wipe the smile from her face as his thoughts echoed her own. There was something quite incredible about the thought of her feelings being reciprocated.
‘To make sure that you really did make me feel how I remembered and to make sure your eyes actually are this big and your face just . . .’ He shook his head and looked away, as if it was all a little too much.
‘Just what?’ She swallowed, her mouth a little dry.
‘I like how smart you are, M, how direct. You’re not coy or false. You seem steady and . . . as I say, I just wanted to make sure.’
‘And was your first assessment correct?’ she teased. ‘Have you made sure?’
‘Yes, I have.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. ‘We have so little time, so let’s get down to it. Questions,’ he bellowed. ‘I have so many questions!’ He spun in a circle on the pavement, as if dizzy with all the things he wanted to ask.
‘You can ask me anything!’ she breathed as they slowed their pace.
‘Right.’ Johan bit his bottom lip and seemed to consider where to start. ‘Your parents. Tell me about your parents.’
‘Well, Papa was a bank manager before enlisting and becoming Major Lindsey Arthur Collway. He died when I was very small. He was badly wounded in the war, suffered terribly, and never truly recovered. I didn’t know what he was like before, but in my mind I steal the memories told me by my big brother, David, and my sister, Joyce, and I make them my own. It helps.’
Her brother had told her often how their father would sit in a chair by the fire in his study, his face animated, eyes bright, moustache twitching to conceal laughter, foot tapping on the rug, as David and little Joycey gathered around his feet in the parlour. Their mother rapt – a plain woman ordinarily and yet on these occasions, by all accounts, quite beautiful in the candlelight. Her hands, consciously or not, would clasp over her heart as if to witness such joy and tenderness in her own home between those she loved was almost more than she could bear.
Molly’s own memories were very different, with her father a shadowy figure resting upstairs. A world away from the man who before her birth had penned poems and ditties for his older children, always far funnier in the telling than when she read them alone as an adult. One memory came to her now, of one Christmas when she was no more than five or six. With her father asleep upstairs, a tree had been decadently festooned with pom-poms, which she and her older sister Joyce had made in a variety of colours, as well as old family baubles depicting Nativity scenes. These were made of the thinnest glass that splintered almost to nothing if dropped, leaving piles of glittery Christmas dust on the wooden floors. It would fall between the cracks of the floorboards and David, her big brother, would whisper to her that it meant a little bit of Christmas magic lurked in that room for the rest of the year. She had loved this idea.
Molly also pictured herself ripping the brown wrapping paper from her present to reveal a china-faced baby doll with rosy red cheeks – and how happy and excited she had been at the sight of it. Her mum had been smiling, her sister Joyce similarly engrossed in freeing her own gift, a doll with long hair. Joyce, however, had rather frivolously tossed the wrapping paper in the air, from where it had landed over their mother’s face. Molly and her siblings had held their breath. Christmas for one beat was sucked out of the room and replaced with nervous apprehension as to how their mother might react. She had sat very still on an old embroidered nursing chair that lived in the corner of the room and pushed the paper to the top of her head before pulling a funny face that sent David into gales of laughter. Taking his cue, she and Joyce had joined in and, just like that, the festive spirit was back. It had been the very best day she could wish for. She smiled now at the memory.
Her brother’s glorious descriptions of their f
ather were immensely precious to her and so detailed that time had helped fuse his stories with her dearest wishes and Molly had almost convinced herself that she had been present for all of them.
‘Yes. It helps me to picture him before he was so broken – it makes me feel less alone.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’ She took her time, this not being something she ordinarily shared. ‘My mother is distant. My brother and sister have their own lives, of course, and I seem to be . . . waiting.’
‘What are you waiting for?’ His tone was direct yet soft.
You. She swallowed the desire to say this and shrugged instead. ‘Waiting for my life to start, I suppose. I thought my career would be a bit more advanced. I want to join the Diplomatic Corps or the Foreign Office and travel the world.’
‘A career girl, eh?’
‘Yes, very much so.’ She held his eyeline, happy that he did not balk at her modern ideas. ‘I don’t always quite fit, Johan, with what is expected of me.’
‘And what is expected of you and by whom?’ he asked sincerely.
She pictured her sister. ‘I guess there’s an expectation within my family and society . . .’ She let this trail. ‘It seems to be that my goal should be to get up the aisle pretty sharpish and start reproducing, whereas what I want to do is—’
‘Use those languages Geer told me about?’ he interrupted.
‘Yes.’ She smiled, happy that he had remembered. ‘Not that I don’t want all that other stuff, but—’
‘You want both.’ Again he finished her sentence.
‘Maybe I do. Do you think I’m mad or selfish or foolish?’
He shook his head. ‘None of the above. I think you are unique and a woman to be taken seriously. You don’t yearn simply for domestic bliss—’
‘I just want bliss!’ It was her turn to interject. ‘Domestic or otherwise!’
‘Amen to that.’ He ran his fingers through his long, fair fringe, which had broken free from its oiled bounds and hung momentarily over his face. She captured his expression in her mind’s eye like a photograph.
‘The war has rather put a halt to things, changed the course for many people; not just me, I know, but it doesn’t mean that I resent it any the less. I guess I’m just not living the life I thought I would,’ she admitted.
‘Are any of us?’
‘I suppose not.’ She caught the flicker of sadness in his eyes. ‘Some days I want to scream at the world, furious at the mess we’re all in and because my father thought he was fighting to make a difference.’
‘I am furious for your papa.’ He nodded sincerely, suggesting that he too was a man who had experienced the darker side of battle. ‘And your distant mother – tell me about her?’
‘Her name is Elizabeth – Betsy – and she’s . . .’ Molly struggled with how best to describe her mother’s outlook on life. ‘She’s angry at the world and I know she misses Papa, but it’s as though she’s stuck somehow. Stuck in grief and disapproval and I suppose, if I’m being honest, not always the best company.’
‘That’s bad luck for her.’ She liked his humanity, the lack of scorn. ‘And bad luck for you, I’m sure.’
‘It is.’ Molly felt more than a little guilty for not saying something kinder.
‘And David and Joyce?’
She smiled, ridiculously happy that he had remembered their names. ‘Joyce is married to Albert, who’s a very steady sort of man.’ She decided not to offer anything more negative. ‘He works in the energy sector. They live in a nice house in Tonbridge, and Joyce fusses, but is a darling and she loves me, that much I do know. She’s kind and gives people the benefit of the doubt, is never cruel and always thinks things will turn out for the best. I want to be more like her. She’s unflappable, reliable, organised and the exact opposite of me!’
‘So you’re flappable, unreliable and disorganised?’ He raised his eyebrows, as they made their way to the Embankment and came to rest at a bench overlooking the river.
‘I think I’m pretty reliable,’ she offered, making no attempt to deny the other two.
‘And David?’
‘He’s in the army like our father was, but as a medic. He’s overseas; we don’t know where. Somewhere hot. And his wife, Clara, a rather sweet and submissive sort of girl much of the time, is with their adorable little daughter, Clementine, down at her parents’ place in Dorset. They visit us in Bloomsbury occasionally, where Clara reverts to a child herself and sits with misty eyes and a handkerchief pressed to her nose, as if she’s really the hardest done by in all the war, while my mother chases Clementine around the garden. Clara is on occasion hardly what one would call a coper.’
Johan laughed. ‘Poor Clara.’
‘Yes, poor Clara. And between you and me: poor David! I get the impression that no matter how this war pans out, he’ll be in deep trouble for abandoning her. Clementine is very quiet – I rather think she’s sensing her mother’s unhappiness.’
‘Indeed. Children need to feel safe, don’t they? Need to know there’s a steady hand on the tiller, otherwise it’s not fair. Poor little mites.’
Molly felt her stomach bunch as Johan expressed such sweet concern. She sat on the bench and he took up the space beside her, their legs touching as they looked out over the murky water and the cluster of vessels cluttering up the Thames. It was unbelievable to her that this was only the second time they had met.
‘Okay. So now tell me about your family.’
‘Well, Geertruida you know, of course. My father, as you also probably know is Dutch, a physician. He came over here to work and fell in love with my mother, a nurse – how clichéd is that? She is also a career woman and carried on working after we were born, fully supported by my father, of course. I think that’s how you thrive as a couple, don’t you? By not squashing the other’s hopes and dreams?’
Molly nodded. His words made her so deliriously happy it was a struggle in that moment to speak.
‘They settled in Hampshire, where I grew up. He’s working in London, staying here, so Mum’s pretty much abandoned too, but she doesn’t seem to mind and he gets home when he can. What else to tell you? I have a dog.’
‘Oh, you do?’ She liked the idea of a dog very much. ‘What kind?’
‘She’s a golden retriever called Dixie and she’s my most loyal friend. I miss her as much as I miss my parents when I’m away – is that wrong?’
‘Not to Dixie.’ She smiled, liking the softness to his nature and his openness too.
‘Probably not. I talk to her, but that is strictly between you and me. I don’t tell people that.’
‘Your secret is safe with me.’
Two RMPs walked past, hands behind their backs and in step. They had guns in white holsters over their shoulders, red bands around their hats and shiny black shoes.
‘Evening, sir, madam,’ one of them nodded in greeting.
‘Evening,’ Johan answered, reaching for his cigarettes. He shook two out into his palm from his cigarette case and offered her one. She raised her hand in decline, watching as he popped it back into the case and lit his with a match, taking a good long draw and blowing the smoke out into the evening air.
‘I feel that time is ticking by and there’s so much I want to say to you,’ Molly said boldly, ‘but mainly I want not to have to say goodbye to you in whatever time we have left. It feels like the most enormous pressure to make every minute count.’
‘I don’t want you to feel under pressure. I want you to enjoy my company.’
‘Very well then. And I do.’
‘I’m glad.’ He took another drag. ‘I don’t want much in life, Marvellous Molly. I don’t want a castle or pots of gold. I want simple things: home-grown apples, a comfortable chair, enough firewood to keep the chill at bay and a glass of beer on a Friday after a good working week – and of course someone to share it all with.’
‘I want the same, but I’d swap beer for tea, I think, if it’s in front of the fire.�
�� She smiled at him. ‘I want that same feeling of satisfaction at a job well done, and I like the idea of sharing chores with someone.’
‘A partnership,’ he surmised.
‘Yes.’ Exactly! ‘A partnership.’
They were silent for a beat as if this new level of openness so in sync was to be savoured.
‘I’ve always worried that I’m not very exciting,’ he confessed finally. ‘I want routine, the ordinary.’
‘I think you’re exciting,’ she whispered.
‘I’m really not. And I don’t want you to be disappointed . . .’ His face coloured.
‘Disappointed?’ She let a small laugh escape.
‘Yes! You’re so accomplished and fabulous and . . .’
‘I could never be disappointed. I think you are . . .’ She struggled to find the words. ‘I think you’re wonderful. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, not for a second. It’s quite thrown me.’
‘That is such a compliment.’ He turned to face her and they held hands, gazing at each other like lovers. ‘So what is happening here, Marvellous Molly?’
‘I don’t know.’ She lied because she did know, but lacked the confidence to say. This felt like falling, like diving into the joyous abyss that she had been wary of and intrigued by for so long, and now even the thought of it was intoxicating. There was very little doubt about it – she was thoroughly smitten.
‘Can we meet again? In a few weeks? I have a day, possibly two, at the weekend and then I’m afraid I will be away for some time.’ He lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed them. ‘And I think going away would be a whole lot easier if I could see you before I left.’
‘I would like that very much.’ Her voice was steady in the face of his words, which were so big she thought they might swallow her whole.
‘Happy Christmas, M.’
‘Happy Christmas, Johan.’
Molly walked home in a bit of a daze. Her stomach jumped with pure joy when she recalled that there were plans afoot for her to see him in a few weeks’ time!
‘That you, Molly?’ her mother called from the scullery.
An Ordinary Life Page 4