Molly Cooper's Dream Date

by Barbara Hannay

  I stopped myself from moping by going to Wimbledon Common. It involved a bit of jumping on and off buses, but I got there—and it was perfect. Just what I needed with its leafy glades and tangled thickets and stretches of heath. I love that it still has a wild feel and hasn’t been all tidied up—and yet it’s right in the middle of London.

  The minor crisis is over. I’m back in love with your city, Patrick.

  Molly x

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: Your mother…long!

  You win, Patrick.

  Your mother came, she saw, she conquered. In the nicest possible way, of course. I have now ventured into the bowels of the Underground, I’ve travelled all the way to Paddington Station and back, and it didn’t hurt a bit.

  Let me tell you how it happened.

  WARNING: this will be a long read, but it’s all of your making!

  It started with a phone call this morning at about ten o’clock.

  ‘Is that Molly?’ a woman asked in a beautiful voice.

  I said, tentatively, ‘Yes.’ I couldn’t think who would know me.

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased to catch you at home, Molly. This is Felicity Knight. Patrick’s mother.’

  I responded—can’t remember what I actually said. I was too busy hoping I didn’t sound as suddenly nervous as I felt. Your mother’s voice is so very refined and my accent is…well, very okker. (Australian!)

  She said, ‘I have some errands to run this afternoon, and I’ll be just round the corner from Alice Grove, so I was hoping I could pop in to say hello.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said in my plummiest voice. ‘That would be lovely.’

  But I could smell a rat, Patrick. Don’t think you can fool me. I knew you’d sent her to check up on me—maybe even to hold my hand on the Tube. However, I must admit that even though I told you not to speak to your mum about my little problem I am honestly very grateful that you ignored me.

  ‘We could have afternoon tea,’ your mother said.

  I tried to picture myself presiding over a tea party. Thank heavens my grandmother taught me how to make proper loose-leaf tea in a teapot, but I’ve never been one for baking cakes. What else could we eat for afternoon tea?

  I shouldn’t have worried. Your mum was ten jumps ahead of me.

  ‘There’s the loveliest little teashop near you,’ she said next. ‘They do scrumptious high teas.’

  And you know, Patrick, I had the most gorgeous afternoon.

  Your mother arrived, looking beautiful. Doesn’t she have the most enviable complexion and such elegant silver-grey hair? She was wearing a dove-grey suit, with a lavender fleck through it, and pearls. I was so pleased I’d brought a skirt with me. Somehow it would have been totally Philistine to go to high tea in Chelsea in jeans.

  And, you know…normally, beautifully elegant women like your mother can make me feel self-conscious about my untidy curls. My hands and feet seem to grow to twice their usual size and I bump into and break things (like delicate, fine bone china), and I trip on steps, or the edges of carpet.

  Somehow, magically, Felicity (she insisted that I mustn’t call her Mrs Knight) put me so at ease that I felt quite ladylike. At least I didn’t break or spill anything, and I didn’t trip once.

  We dined in fine style. The tea was served in a silver teapot and we drank from the finest porcelain cups—duck-egg-blue with gold rims and pink roses on the insides—and the dainty food was served on a three-tiered stand.

  And, no, I didn’t lift my pinkie finger when I drank my tea.

  We stuffed ourselves (in the most delicate way) with cucumber sandwiches and scones with jam and clotted cream and the daintiest melt-in-your-mouth pastries.

  And we talked. Oh, my, how we talked. Somehow your mother coaxed me to tell her all about myself—how my parents died when I was a baby and how I was raised on the island by my grandmother. I even confessed to my worry that living on an island has made me insular, not just geographically but in my outlook, which is why I’m so keen to travel. And that my first choice was London because my favourite childhood story was 101 Dalmatians, and I’ve watched so many movies and read so many books set in London.

  And because my father was born here.

  I was very surprised when that little bit of info slipped out. It’s honestly not something I dwell on. My parents died when I was eighteen months old, and I only have the teensiest memories of them…so wispy and fleeting I’m not sure they’re real. I think I can remember being at floor level, fascinated by my mother’s painted toenails. And lying in a white cot, watching a yellow curtain flutter against a blue sky. My father’s smiling face. My hand in his.

  It’s not a lot to go on. My gran was the most important person in my life, but she died just under a year ago, and if I think about my missing family too much I start to feel sorry for myself.

  But, talking to your mother, I learned that your father lives somewhere up in Scotland now, and you don’t see him very much. Why would any sane man divorce Felicity? I’m so glad Jonathan has arrived on the scene. Yes, her new man got a mention, too.

  In the midst of our conversation it suddenly felt very important for me to find where my dad was born. I’d like to know something about him, even just one thing. So I’m adding his birthplace to my list of things I want to discover while I’m here, although I’m not quite sure where to start.

  You’ll be relieved to hear that I stopped myself from telling Felicity about my dream of dating a British gent. A girl has to have some secrets.

  It’s different talking to you, Patrick. I can tell you such things because we’re not face-to-face. You’re a safe twelve thousand miles away, so you get to hear everything. You’re very tolerant and non-judgemental and I love you for it.

  Felicity, of course, told me loads about you, but you know that already, so I won’t repeat it. Anyway, you’d only get a swelled head. Your mother adores you—but you know that, too, don’t you? And she’s so proud that you’re writing a novel. You wrote very clever essays at school, so she knows you’ll be a huge success.

  Anyway, as I was saying, we got on like the proverbial house on fire—so much so that I was shocked when I realised how late it was. Then, as we were leaving, Felicity told me she was catching the Tube home.

  That was a shock, Patrick. I’d been lulled into a false sense of security and had totally forgotten the possibility that she might know about my Tube issues. Besides, your mother has such a sophisticated air I assumed she’d catch a taxi if she hadn’t brought her own car.

  But she said the Tube was fast and convenient, and so I walked with her to Sloane Square Station and we chatted all the way until we were right inside. And then it seemed like the right thing to do to wait with her till her train arrived. Which meant stepping onto the escalator and heading down, down into the black hole of the Underground!

  That was a seriously freaking-out moment.

  Honestly, I could feel the beginnings of a panic attack, and I was sure I couldn’t breathe. But Felicity was so calm and smiling, telling me what a lovely afternoon she’d had, and suggesting that maybe we could have another afternoon together some time. She made me feel so OK I managed to start breathing again.

  I must admit that once I was down there, standing on the platform, the station seemed so very big and solid and well-lit and I felt much better than I’d expected to. I actually told Felicity then that I’d been a tiny bit frightened, and she said she totally understood; she would be terrified if she was in the Australian Outback, and why didn’t I travel with her to Paddington?

  She had to change trains there, but if I felt OK I could travel back on my own, and I’d soon be a Tube veteran. She even gave me her mobile phone number in case I got into trouble. She wouldn’t have reception until she was above ground again, but it didn’t matter—I was over the worst by then, and actually sitting on the train was fin
e.

  Everything went so well I was able to text her: Thanks. This is a breeze!

  So I think I’m cured.

  And I know that ultimately you’re the person I should thank, Mr Patrick Knight-in-shining-armour. Because you arranged it, didn’t you?

  I wish there was some way I could help you, but I don’t know the first thing about writing a novel.

  Molly XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  PS Feel free to tell me to pull my head in, but I did wonder if it’s possible to over-think the planning of a book. The way I over-thought the whole business of entering the Tube. Do you ever get the urge to just leap right in and let the words flow?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Felicity Knight

  Subject: Mission accomplished

  Dear Patrick

  It’s a pity you’re on the other side of the world and unable to carry out your own rescue mission.

  I only say this because Molly Cooper is charming, and I thoroughly enjoyed a highly entertaining afternoon with her. It seems to me that your taste in women improves considerably when you change your selection criteria. Perhaps you should try choosing your girlfriends by their houses.

  Molly may not be a pint-size blonde, as most of your girlfriends are, but she can hold up her end of a conversation. She’s very smart, Patrick, and you should see the way her blue eyes sparkle. They’re breathtaking.

  Darling, thank you for sending me on a very pleasant errand. I must say I was very curious about the girl you’d swapped houses with. Now that curiosity is happily satisfied.

  I hope you’re having as much fun with writing your novel as Molly seems to be having here in London.

  Love

  Mother xx

  Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 30th

  Note about character development: it might work quite well if I give my heroine a private fear that she must overcome.

  To: Molly Cooper

  From: Patrick Knight

  Subject: Re: Thank you!

  Hi Molly

  Your map of the island’s reefs arrived today. Thanks so much. The information will be very helpful, and your request that I don’t show the location of these reefs to too many tourists was duly noted. I’m honoured that you’re sharing some of your island’s secrets with me, a mere visitor.

  I also enjoyed very much your drawings of the coral fish and the other weird and wonderful creatures that I’m likely to encounter when I finally enter the Pacific Ocean.

  Your artistic efforts made me smile. Have you ever thought of a new career as a cartoonist?

  I’m very keen to see a Chelmon rostratus (thank you for the helpful labels). Those fish are gorgeous, with their bright black, yellow and white stripes and their long snouts. And I’m fascinated by the anemone fish.

  You were right about the crocodile. He was caught in Florence Bay—six brave fellows from the National Park manhandled him, trussed him up like a giant Christmas turkey and relocated him further north. Apparently he won’t come back this way now that we’re approaching the winter. Thank God.

  So I can’t wait to start diving. You’ve certainly whetted my appetite for discovering what lies beneath.…

  Molly, I’m very pleased to hear that you’ve got the Tube business sorted. I know my mother enjoyed meeting you. Well done.

  It’s getting a little cooler here at last. Today it’s hard to believe it’s autumn. The temperatures are almost down to those of an English summer’s day.

  If you’d like any help with looking for your father’s birthplace, do sing out.

  Best

  Patrick

  To: Molly Cooper

  From: Patrick Knight

  Subject: PS

  Molly, another thought. You might be surprised to know that you could quite possibly help me with this novel by sharing your reactions to London.

  You were worried about sending me extra-long messages but I’ve enjoyed the descriptions in your e-mails…and I’ve found them helpful.

  I’m still learning the ropes, so to speak, and it would be extremely useful to see my home town described through a fresh pair of eyes. In fact your reactions to life in general could be helpful, as it’s hard for a fellow to get inside the female mind. In other words, feel free to continue sharing your discoveries and insights. Positive or negative—you won’t hurt my feelings.

  Just if the whim takes you.

  Warmest wishes

  Patrick

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: My London eye

  Dear Patrick

  I’m more than happy to rattle on to you about my London adventures, and please feel free to use anything I say in your novel. Wow! What an honour.

  I’ve been thinking that writing must be a lonely occupation, so I can imagine you’d enjoy getting e-mails at the end of a long day at the keyboard.

  But if I get too carried away, flooding you with too much information, please tell me.

  I had to laugh at a sign I saw today in a Tube station: A penalty fare will be charged to any passenger who fails to hide true emotions fully or makes any attempt to engage with other passengers.

  That is so what it’s like. I do love the way the British poke fun at themselves.

  Yesterday I spent the loveliest morning checking out the Kensington Roof Gardens. They’re gorgeous. Have you been there? It’s amazing—one and a half acres of trees and plants growing thirty metres above Kensington High Street and divided into three lovely themed gardens.

  There’s an English woodland (which I think might be my favourite), with curving lawns and surprisingly large trees, a stream and little bridges, even a lake with ducks and pink flamingos. I’m so glad it’s spring, because there were also lovely flowers everywhere, but unfortunately I don’t know their names.

  There’s also a Tudor garden, with a courtyard and creeper-covered walls and brick paths laid in a herring-bone pattern. It’s filled with fragrant flowers—lilies, roses and lavender. And the Spanish garden is very dramatic, with its stunning white walls. Apparently it’s inspired by the Alhambra in Spain.

  By the way, thanks so much for offering to help with my family history research. My grandmother kept a box of papers that belonged to my parents, including their marriage certificate. When I was younger I used to take it out often and read every word. I haven’t done that for ages, but I’m almost certain I remember that my father was born in Clapham. I used to want to call it Clap-ham. I know the year he was born was definitely 1956.

  Molly

  PS Would you like to send me a list of questions that might help you with getting inside your female character’s head?

  To: Molly Cooper

  From: Patrick Knight

  Subject: Questions

  It’s very generous of you to offer to help with my female character. I hesitate to make these kinds of demands on your time, but authors do need to know an awful lot about what’s going on inside their characters, and I’d truly appreciate your input.

  My heroine is Beth Harper and she’s a bank teller, about your age, and I’m supposed to know about her likes and dislikes—her favourite kinds of clothes and jewellery, favourite colour, music, animal, etc; her least favourite of these; her spending habits; her most prized possession; her talents (piano player, juggler, poet?); nervous habits. Any thoughts along those lines would be welcomed.

  I’m hoping to create a girl who feels real and unique.

  So…whenever you have time… Gratefully

  Patrick

  PS If you could tell me your father’s full name, I just might have the right contacts to do a little research for you.

  To: Patrick Knight ymail.com>

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: Re: Questions

  Patrick, I feel like I’m always thanking you, but the very thought of finding out more about my father makes me feel quite wobbly with excitement and emotion, so thank you so much for offering to help. His name was Charles Torrington Cooper, which I think sounds rather dignified, but I’m told that in Australia he was only ever known as Charlie Cooper.

  You will no doubt already know what he looked like as there’s a photo of him and my mother on my bedside table. You can see that he’s to blame for my brown curly hair, but don’t you think he has the nicest smile?

  Now, about your book. I have to warn you, Patrick, that if you want your character to be unique, I may not be your woman. Truth is, I’m careful and conservative—as ordinary as oatmeal. And, whatever you do, don’t give Beth Harper my hair.

  Also, my favourite clothes—a bikini and a sarong—might not ring true for a teller in a bank in London.

  So last night I sat down and tried to pretend I was Beth and to answer your questions as if I was her—and I suddenly understood your dilemma. It’s really, really hard to just make someone up, isn’t it? But it’s fun, too.

  So let’s see. If I was Beth, working in a bank, I think I’d be super-prim like a librarian during the day, but I’d wear sexy lingerie underneath my work clothes (to remind the reader of my wild side and because it feels so lovely against my skin). And I’d wear wild colours on my weekends—rainbow-coloured leggings or knee-high red boots with micro-mini-skirts. And I’d be the queen of scarves—silk, crocheted, long, short. For when it’s cold I’d have a coat with a big faux fur collar.

  I’m getting carried away, aren’t I? But it’s so much fun to pretend to be English. I don’t get to wear any of that sort of gear on the island.

  Beth’s favourite colour would change every week, and her spending habits would be a perfect balance between thriftiness and recklessness—because she wants to enjoy life, but she’s also a sensible bank teller. Unlike me. I’m always the same about money—as penny-pinching as they come. I have to be.