‘I asked why you were ill?’ repeated this girl with the social grace of a rhino.
‘I had a mental breakdown, Janice. I lost my mind for a bit. Quite literally. So I went to a facility dealing with mental illness and I stayed for a few months until I felt better.’ She looked the girl in the eye, giving the facts pure and simple, without shrouding them in a blanket of shame.
‘So why did you have a mental breakdown, do you think?’
‘Well, that’s a good question.’ Molly liked the girl’s candour and paused from her task, tapping her pencil on her teeth. ‘I think it’s because too many sad things happened to me in a short space of time. It was as if I didn’t have a chance to process any of it and then it all hit me at once, like a conveyor belt going slowly and then suddenly speeding up so fast that everything falls in a heap on the floor. That’s what happened to me. I fell on the floor.’
‘Oh my God! Did you get bombed? Was that one of the bad things?’ the girl asked, wide-eyed. ‘My nan’s road did. One whole family gone in a minute, she said! They were in bed when it hit and my nan said that bits of bed and all the blankets were hanging on to the planks of the floor still left and you could see the wallpaper on the walls and the pictures and the wardrobes with clothes in, even the bath, but all the people had tumbled to the basement and were dead, like toys in a smashed doll’s house. Can you imagine?’
Yes. Yes, I can . . .
‘And you don’t have a husband, Miss Collway?’
‘No. No, I don’t.’
‘Are you . . . I mean, do you like . . .?’
Molly swallowed the embarrassment rising up from her chest and over her neck; this was a subject that left her feeling uncomfortable, no matter how modern. She thought of the ghastly Mr Allan making a pass at her.
‘I do like men, Janice,’ she offered, ‘or rather I liked one particular man.’ And no one, no one has ever ignited the flame for me that burned so brightly for a short time . . . ‘Let’s just leave it at that, shall we? I really don’t know what it all has to do with sorting patient records, which is precisely what we are here to do.’
‘I can’t wait for today to be over!’ Janice said, spitting on her fingertip to remove some flecks of mascara from beneath her left eye. The words pulled Molly back to the present.
‘Janice, we haven’t started work yet and you’re already wanting to be gone,’ Molly commented in her firm but friendly way, reminding herself daily that Telsie had needed more kindness than perhaps she had offered and not willing to make the same mistake with Janice. She knew from her own experience that you never really knew anyone’s story.
‘I know, but I’m going to see The Doors at the Roundhouse tonight and I am so excited!’ The girl jumped up and down on the spot, the vinyl of her white go-go boots creaking, and Molly nodded, quite unaware that the girl had any interest in buildings or their architectural features. It gave her hope for Janice – maybe there was more to her than at first appeared.
Mr Kendall waltzed over and rested his beringed hand on the wooden counter of the half-door where files were handed in and collected, his jewels entirely in keeping with his role as Barts royalty, having worked in the hospital since before the war and being popular with all and sundry.
‘So here we are, ladies – another glorious day awaits!’
‘Indeed.’ She smiled at the man. ‘You look very smart today.’
‘What do you mean today?’ he said, placing a hand at his throat. ‘Darling, I look extremely smart every day!’ he called as he sauntered up the corridor.
She laughed at this truth. The man was always as neat as a pin. Molly admired his natty, brightly coloured silk bow ties, which added a splash of joy in all weathers.
Mr Kendall fascinated her: the first man she had ever known to be openly homosexual. Although, of course, there would have been others in her life who sadly would have had to keep their life and their loves secret up until the previous year, when private acts of homosexuality had been decriminalised between men over the age of twenty-one. Molly knew full well what it felt like to live a life tethered by convention and disapproval, at least for a while. It was as stifling as it was cruel.
‘Ten minutes, Janice!’ She liked to give the warning so that make-up was put away and smiles fixed in place by the time the medics were forming an orderly queue at the counter.
‘I need to visit the ladies,’ Janice announced, pulling a face.
‘Janice, you have had all morning to visit the lavatory!’
‘I didn’t want to go then, but I want to go now,’ she said with some urgency.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ It bothered Molly that the girl could not judge her own bladder. ‘Surely you can wait until your break.’
‘Well, you’d better hope I can wait until my break or else you might want to call Fred the caretaker to come over with his mop and bucket.’
Molly ignored the girl’s vulgarity but made a mental note to recount this scene to Joyce.
‘Aye aye,’ Janice said softly, scooting over to Molly. ‘He’s here again.’
‘Who’s here again?’ Molly asked, confused, having totally lost the thread.
‘Dr Jones,’ Janice hissed from the side of her mouth.
Molly looked up and saw the man approach. ‘That’s not Dr Jones, it’s Dr Bradford,’ she whispered back, recognising the man.
‘Yes, but that’s what I call him because I think he looks like Tom Jones.’
Molly tutted.
‘I think he fancies you, Miss Collway,’ Janice whispered, pulling another face.
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous!’
‘Well, how else should I say it?’ Janice looked genuinely perplexed.
‘I don’t want you to say it in any way at all because it’s complete poppycock!’ In her embarrassment, Molly’s reply was perhaps a little snappish. She was unnerved and surprised at her small frisson of excitement at the possibility that Janice might just be right. It was true that Dr Bradford and she had in the past shared a small smile and maintained eye contact a fraction longer than was strictly necessary as he collected his patient files. The girl’s words were, however, as ridiculous as they were flattering.
Janice fiddled with her hair. ‘How many senior doctors come down to collect or drop off their own patient files?’
‘I really have no idea. Where exactly is this heading, Janice?’
‘That doctor comes down at least once a month, if not more—’
Molly rolled her eyes.
‘And I’ve noticed that if I’m at the hatch, he makes out to look at a file and then stands in the corridor until I disappear inside and then he pops up and you help him with his query – suspicious, don’t you think?’ Janice was now chewing the ends of her hair, a habit Molly found quite revolting.
‘Well . . .’ Molly thought about it and was surprised to find that her memory where the doctor was concerned was surprisingly sharp. He did indeed come down to the records department with more regularity than any other doctor . . . and he did always wait for her to assist him . . . Molly stopped talking and looked at Janice as the penny dropped . . . Could it be . . . could it be, as the girl was suggesting, that he did in fact just want to talk to her? Her heart beat a little faster at the prospect. There certainly did seem to be some kind of connection between them. ‘Maybe he’s simply passing by and it’s easier than waiting for the files to be collected.’
Janice laughed more loudly than was appropriate in a hospital setting.
‘Yes, that’s right! Silly me!’ Janice sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘I have noticed how the doctors tend to do the nursing chores just to save the poor ladies some work!’
‘I think you’re making something out of nothing – don’t you have work to do? Why not dust the shelves?’ Molly suggested, grabbing the yellow duster from the drawer and flinging it playfully at her junior colleague.
‘Well, maybe I am making something out of nothing, but here he is – again.’ Janice laughed. �
�Just nipping to the ladies.’
Molly wanted to call her back, but under what pretext? The fact that she did not want to be left alone with the doctor who was heading straight for the counter because of teenage nerves swirling in her stomach? It really was all as farcical as it sounded.
He walked over with a somewhat cautious air.
‘Good morning,’ he said, running his fingers through his thick, dark hair.
‘Good morning.’ She smiled, as if she had only just noticed him. ‘How are you today?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, and thank you for asking.’ He coughed. ‘I need the files for follow-up appointments under my name, please.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It’s Bradford, Dr Rex Bradford.’
‘Yes, I remember. But I didn’t know the R stood for Rex. That sounds like the name of a movie star.’ She spoke without any apparent shyness and, much to her relief, he laughed loudly and without reservation. It was flattering, being able to elicit a response like that from a man as handsome as him.
‘A movie star, eh? Well, that might be nice, but no, I am nothing of the sort. Although I did a long time ago take part in a couple of army revues to lift morale. The critics loved me.’
She could tell by the crease at the sides of his temples and the downward tilt to his gaze as he said the words that he meant during the war, and also that he wanted to say no more. This was quite common – the ‘least said, soonest mended’ approach to the horrors of war that could keep a chap awake. She thought for the first time in a while of her own dad and his night-time shouts of terror.
‘And now I work on the top floor.’
‘Cardiology,’ she added politely.
‘That’s right. And I believe you have a connection to David Collway?’
‘That’s my brother – my much, much older brother.’ She gave him a warm smile.
‘I’ve heard he’s a good chap. I don’t know him other than on nodding terms.’
‘Well, I think he’s a good chap, but then I am a little biased,’ she said.
‘My office is on the floor above his,’ he said, pointing to the ceiling.
‘Gosh, that’s really quite a trek to come and collect your own patient files.’ She liked the fact that he actually blushed.
‘Yes, I do visit rather a lot.’ He smiled at her.
Molly felt emboldened by the tone of their exchange. ‘Do you like the exercise it gives you, Dr Bradford? Is that why you make the journey?’
‘Please call me Rex. And in the spirit of openness, no, I do not particularly like the exercise or the trek, but I do like talking to you.’ He held her gaze and she felt the stir of something in her gut, a bit like excitement, a bit like happiness.
‘I see.’ She looked him in the eye, feeling confident, sassy and with a rare pull of sexual attraction for this man.
Rex leaned forward. ‘Is that “I see”, as in now I’ve come clean you would rather I did not darken your counter again, or is it “I see” as in I would love to accompany you for a cup of tea on Sunday, somewhere yet to be decided as my mind has gone completely blank!’ He laughed again.
Molly was unused to this kind of interaction. It felt risky and exciting. She took her time, making a judgement call.
‘I think . . . I think the latter. I would like to come for a cup of tea with you, Dr Bradford—’
‘Rex.’ He cut in.
‘Yes, Rex. And I’m Molly.’
‘I know.’ He held her eyeline. ‘I made it my business to find out – Molly.’ It was as if he was trying the name out on his lips, and she liked the way it sounded.
Janice came trotting across the floor and took up her position behind the counter. Molly avoided making eye contact with her. Rex gave Janice a cursory nod.
‘Let’s say Claridge’s, three o’clock?’
‘Yes. Splendid. Lovely.’ She wanted him to leave or, more specifically, wanted him out of Janice’s earshot.
He glanced at his watch and set off towards the stairs.
‘You forgot the files!’ she called out.
‘I’ll send someone down for them,’ he replied, smiling.
‘So? What did he want?’ Janice asked with a slight smirk.
‘He wanted to take me out for a cup of tea.’ Molly decided to come clean, knowing the girl would only badger her for ever after if she did not.
‘Aha!’ Janice leapt forward and wrapped Molly in a crushing hug. ‘I bloody knew it!’
‘Janice, please, for goodness’ sake – we’re at work!’ Molly disengaged herself and smoothed the front of her blouse, but in truth she was delighted at the whole carry-on, Janice’s reaction included. Excitement stirred in the pit of her stomach for the first time in as long as she could remember.
Rex . . . She sounded the name in her head – the name of a movie star . . . Dr Rex Bradford . . .
EIGHTEEN
Mayfair, London
1968
Aged 43
Molly paced the Brook Street pavement with anticipation in her gut. It was 3 p.m. on the dot and, while she didn’t want to be late, she was also overly concerned with arriving first, which would not be the done thing. Her nerves fluttered and she hoped she had chosen the right outfit. She remembered what Mr Kendall had said:
‘Breathe and remember it’s supposed to be fun, not an ordeal. Don’t wear the coral lipstick; it will drain your complexion in this winter light. Go for a bolder shade, a rust or a red, and smile, Miss Collway – remember to smile!’ He had pinched his cheeks to draw up the corners of his own mouth to demonstrate for her. The memory alone was enough to make her laugh and there it was, her smile.
Well done, Mr Kendall!
Molly checked that the chunky faux-malachite necklace was sitting straight under the collar of her navy blouse and then strode confidently through the door. She was, after all, the same woman who had flown into France in the dead of night and boarded a train in the dark with a toxic cargo sewn into her handbag . . . The place was glossy and glamorous in the way that big hotels did so well, and something she had quite forgotten. Vast plants sat proudly in brass planters atop marble tables. Art deco wall lights gave off a uniform glow. It put her in mind of the Ritz, where she and Geer had on occasion gone for a tipple in the bar. Her smile was wistful now, knowing how her friend back in the day would have danced into these shiny surroundings, arms flung wide with devilment coming off her in waves that proved alluring to all who surrounded her.
Dear, dear Geertruida . . . where are you now?
Molly spied Dr Brad— Rex, sitting at a table and was delighted to see he looked a little anxious, smoothing his hair as if a stray lock might seem important to him. It helped to see that he was not overly suave or cocky. Noticing his shirt and tie, she was glad that he found her worthy of making an effort with his dress. He looked up and waved her over. She was thrilled that someone was waiting for her, waiting to spend time with her.
‘Hello, Rex. Well, isn’t this lovely?’
‘Molly.’ He smiled and pulled out the chair for her. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘Thank you.’ She sat and popped her handbag on the floor by the chair.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering afternoon tea. I hope that’s all right?’ There was the slightest quaver of nerves to his voice.
Molly noted the waiter in white gloves who was standing to attention mid-restaurant. She gazed at the white china teapot and the dainty milk jug next to the cups and saucers set just so. Rex poured. For the time being, they both ignored the silver three-tiered cake stand with its delicate array of dainty finger sandwiches and beautiful patisseries.
‘This is such a treat. I can’t remember the last time I had afternoon tea, unless you count a cup in front of the fire with a biscuit,’ she said with a laugh.
‘So where is home for you?’ he enquired, briefly meeting her eyes.
‘I have a little cottage in Chelmsford. It’s a lovely spot in a quiet street, but the town is growing.’
�
��Everywhere is growing – a good thing, I think. People need housing and, if there are jobs, it has to be good for the country.’
‘Yes, I agree. I think going through war can make you fearful of change. All we wanted was stability, wasn’t it? We tried so very hard to keep our world from changing back then, and so now, when it happens by default, it can feel quite alarming, even when it’s change for the better.’
‘I’ve never thought of it like that, but yes, I think you’re right . . .’
‘And where do you live, Rex?’
‘Richmond – been there for nearly ten years—’
‘Richmond’s nice, not that I’ve been for yonks. I tend to spend my spare weekends with my sister, her husband and my nephew.’ After all these years, she was finally comfortable with the shape of the word in her mouth. ‘They’re down in Tonbridge, Kent.’
‘I like to be near the river – a place to walk and clear my head.’ He rubbed his forehead.
‘For me that place is my garden. I’ve become a bit obsessed with it – you know those green-fingered people who go out in all weathers with a pair of secateurs in a sou’wester? Well, I’m one of them.’
Rex gave a short laugh. ‘My wife was the gardener. She passed away three years ago now.’ He blinked.
‘Oh, I am sorry.’ She held his stare and he nodded, as if acknowledging the hurt and Molly’s acceptance of it.
‘Well, that’s life, isn’t it? We all go through it.’ Rex reached for his teacup. ‘We all think we’re immune from the bad things, but none of us are.’ His words felt like another connection of sorts – she herself had not been immune and hoped he might understand a quiet, complex character such as hers.
Molly sipped her own tea. ‘That’s true, and yet sometimes it can feel as though we’re the only ones who have ever been hurt.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded, and the two locked eyes.
And just like that the conversation was suddenly easy and Molly felt the residue of any nerves leave her stomach. She smiled at the man sitting opposite her, who, she had to agree, in a certain light did have a bit of the Tom Jones about him . . .
An Ordinary Life Page 29