Molly Cooper's Dream Date

by Barbara Hannay

  I never was quite sure what I’d do when I found him.

  Break his stupid, arrogant nose, I suppose. But Mother guessed what I’d planned and she begged me not to go. Begged me with tears streaming down her face.

  So I gave up that scheme, but I was left with so many questions.

  Along with everyone else who knew my parents, I could never understand why he did it—apart from the obvious mid-life crisis which had clearly fried his brains. Actually, I do know that my father worried about ageing more than most. He could never stand to waste time, and he hated the idea of his life rushing him towards its inevitable end. Perhaps it’s not so very surprising that he started chasing after much younger women.

  Fool. I still don’t see how he could turn his back on Mother. Everyone loves her. Molly’s response to meeting her was the typical reaction of anyone who meets her.

  Of course the one thing in this that I’ve totally understood was my mother’s reluctance to enter a second marriage. She didn’t want to be hurt again, and my father is to be entirely blamed for that.

  But her heart is safe in Jonathan Langley’s hands. He’s exactly like Molly Cooper’s dream man—a charming Englishman, a gentleman to the core—and he and my mother share a deep affection that makes the rest of us envious….

  I wonder if Mother wants me to write to tell Dad. She would never ask outright.

  To be honest, I don’t think I want him to know until Jonathan’s ring is safely on her finger and she’s away in Italy with him. Maybe I’m being overly cautious, but I’m not going to risk any chance that Dad might turn up and somehow spoil this for her.

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: Impossible dreams

  I assume from your silence that you’re not going to pass on any wise advice about how I might find my dream Englishman.

  Patrick, have you any idea how hard it is?

  I don’t mean it’s hard to get myself asked out—that’s happened quite a few times already—but the chaps haven’t been my cup of tea. My question is—would you believe how hard it is to find the right style of man?

  I’ve taken some comfort from reading that a clever academic has worked out that finding the perfect partner is only one hundred times more likely than finding an alien. I read it in the Daily Mail on the Tube. See how much progress I’ve made?

  The thing is, I’m not looking for the perfect life partner—just the perfect date. One night is all I ask. But even that goal is depressingly difficult to achieve.

  Some people—most people—would say I’m too picky, and of course they’d be right. My dream of dating an English gentleman is completely unrealistic. Mind you, my definition of ‘gentleman’ is elastic. He doesn’t have to be from an upper class family.

  I’m mainly talking about his manners and his clothes and—well, yes, his voice. I do adore a plummy English accent.

  I know it’s a lot to ask. I mean, if such a man existed why would he be interested in a very ordinary Australian girl?

  I know my expectations are naive. I know I should lower my sights. This maths geek from the newspaper has worked out that of the thirty million women in the UK, only twenty-six would be suitable girlfriends for him. The odds would be even worse for me, a rank outsider.

  Apparently, on any given night out in London, there is a 0.0000034 per cent chance of meeting the right person.

  That’s a 1 in 285,000 chance.

  You’d have better odds if you went to the cane toad races, Patrick. Of winning some money, I mean, not finding the perfect date.

  But then you’re not looking for an island romance. Are you?

  Molly

  CHAPTER FIVE

  To: Molly Cooper

  From: Patrick Knight

  Subject: Re: Impossible dreams

  Molly, I hesitate to offer advice on how to engineer a date with the kind of man you’re looking for, because in truth I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I hate to be a wet blanket, but I’m more inclined to offer warnings. The sad fact is that a public school accent and your idea of ‘gentlemanly’ manners may not coincide.

  Of course there are always exceptions. And you might be lucky. But don’t expect that any man who speaks with Received Pronunciation and wears an expensive three-piece suit will behave like a perfect gentleman. When you’re alone with him, that is.

  Sorry. I know that’s a grim thing to say about my fellow countrymen, but I do feel responsible, and I’d hate you to be upset. All I can honestly say is take care!

  Sincerely

  Patrick

  To: Molly Cooper

  From: Patrick Knight

  Subject: Cane toad races

  You’ve been unusually quiet lately, Molly, and I find myself worrying (like an anxious relative) that something’s happened. I’d hate to think I’ve crushed your spirit. I suspect I knocked a ruddy great hole in your dating dreams, but I hope I haven’t completely quelled your enthusiasm for adventure and romance.

  I trust you’re simply quiet because you’re having a cracking good time and you’re too busy to write e-mails.

  However, in an effort to cheer you up (if indeed you are feeling low), I thought I’d tell you about my experiences at the toad races the night before last. Yes, I’ve been, and you were right—I enjoyed the evening. In fact, I had a hilarious time.

  As you’ve no doubt guessed, I wasn’t really looking forward to going, but I desperately needed a break from my own company and decided to give the cane toads a try.

  I’d been curious about how these races were set up, and why they’ve become such a tourist draw. I’d read that the toads are considered a pest here. They were brought out to eat beetles in the sugar cane, but they completely ignored the beetles and killed all sorts of other wildlife instead. They ate anything smaller than themselves, and they poisoned the bigger creatures that tried to eat them.

  I was a bit worried that if cane toads are considered a pest the races might be cruel, so I was relieved to discover that, apart from having a number stuck on their backs and being kept in a bucket until the race starts, the toads don’t suffer at all.

  The mighty steeds racing last night were:

  Irish Rover

  Prince Charles

  Herman the German

  Yankee Doodle

  Italian Stallion

  Little Aussie Battler

  By the time all the toads were safely under a bucket in the centre of the dance floor, and the race was ready to start, there was quite a noisy and very international crowd gathered. Naturally I had to put my money on Prince Charles.

  A huge cheer went up when the bucket was lifted and the toads took off.

  At least the Italian Stallion took off. The other toads all seemed a bit stunned, and just sat there blinking in the light. I yelled and cheered along with the noisiest punters, but I’d completely given up hope for my Prince Charlie when he suddenly started taking giant leaps.

  What a roar there was then (especially from me)! You have no idea. Well, actually, you probably do have a very good idea. As you know, the first toad off the dance floor wins the race, and good old Prince Charles beat the Italian Stallion by a whisker. No, make that a wart.

  There’d been heavy betting on the Australian and American toads, so I won quite a haul—a hundred dollars—and the prize money was handed over with a surprising degree of ceremony. I was expected to make a speech.

  I explained that I was a banker from London and, as a gesture, I wanted to compensate for the unsatisfactory exchange rate as quickly as possible by converting my winnings into cold beer.

  That announcement brought a huge cheer.

  The cheering was even louder when I added that if everyone would like to come up to my place (that is, Molly Cooper’s place) there’d be a celebratory party starting very shortly.
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  Everyone came, Molly. I hope you don’t mind. We all squeezed in to your place and had a fabulous night. I lit every single one of your candles and Pandanus Cottage looked sensational. It did you proud.

  The party went on late.

  Very.

  I do hope you’re having a good time, too.

  Warmest wishes

  Patrick x

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: Re: Cane toad races

  Dear Patrick

  That’s great news about the cane toad races and the party. I was worried that, working so much by yourself, you might have given the islanders the impression you were a bit aloof. Clearly that’s not so.

  I’m afraid I haven’t been up to partying in recent days. I’m laid low with a heavy cold, so I’ve been curled up at home, sipping hot lemon drinks and watching daytime television. Cidalia’s been a darling. She’s come in every day to check on me and make these lemon drinks, and a divine chicken soup which she calls canja.

  She said it was her grandmother’s cure-all—which is interesting, because it’s almost the same as the soup my gran used to make for me. Seems that chicken soup is an international cure-all.

  But that’s not all, Patrick. Your mother telephoned while my cold was at its thickest and croakiest, and when she heard how terrible I sounded she sent me a gift box from…

  Harrods!

  Can you believe it? I was so stunned. It’s a collection of gorgeous teas—Silver Moon, English Breakfast, Earl Grey—all in individual cotton (note that: cotton, not paper) teabags. Such a luxury for me, and so kind of her. But how can I ever repay her?

  As you can see, I’ve been very well looked after, and I’m on the mend again now, and cheered by your account of your adventures at the toad races. I’m trying to picture you cheering madly and delivering your tongue-in-cheek speech. Fantastic.

  I’m more than happy that you hosted a party at my place. The candles do make the little cottage look quite romantic, don’t they? And with all that beer, and with you as host, I’m not surprised people wanted to stay. I bet I can guess who crashed and was still there next morning.

  And I’m also betting that you heard Jodie Grimshaw’s entire life story at around 2.00 a.m. Looks like you’re really settling in, Patrick. That’s great.

  Oh, thanks for your advice re: English gentlemen, but don’t worry. Your warnings didn’t upset me—although they weren’t really necessary either. I might sound totally naive, but I did see the way Hugh Grant’s character behaved in Bridget Jones, and I have good antennae. I can sense a jerk at fifty paces.

  Best wishes

  Molly

  To: Felicity Knight

  From: Patrick Knight

  Subject: Many thanks

  Dear Mother

  I’m sure Molly’s already thanked you for sending a gift box when she was ill, but I want to thank you, too. As you know, Molly’s totally on her own in the world. She puts on a brave face, but she was very touched by your thoughtfulness, and so was I.

  Love

  P

  To: Molly Cooper

  From: Karli Henderson

  Subject: Your house swapper

  Hi Molly

  It’s Jodie here, using Karli’s e-mail. I’m helping her to pack because she and Jimbo are heading off to Cairns. I just thought you might be interested to know that your house swapper Patrick is totally hot and throws the best parties evah. Oh, man. That party last Saturday night was totally off the chain.

  Bet you wish you were here.

  Jodie G

  To: Karli Henderson

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: Hands off, Jodie

  Sorry, Jodie, I’m going to be blunt. Patrick Knight is not for you. He’s—

  The message Subject: Hands off, Jodie has not been sent. It has been saved in your drafts folder.

  To: Molly Cooper

  From: Karli Henderson

  Subject: So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, etc.

  Hi Molly

  I’m afraid this is going to be my last e-mail. What with the move and everything, Jimbo and I are a bit strapped for cash, so I’ve sold this computer, along with half our CDs, in a garage sale. This is my last e-mail to anyone, and I won’t be back online for some time, but I’m sure things will improve once we’re settled in our new jobs in Cairns. Will be thinking of you, girlfriend. Have a blast in London.

  Love

  Karli xxxxxxxxx

  To: Molly Cooper

  From: Patrick Knight

  Subject: An address in Clapham

  Molly, my (secret) contacts at the bank have found a Charles Torrington Cooper, born in 1956, who used to live at 16 Rosewater Terrace, Clapham.

  I can’t guarantee that this is your father, but Torrington is an unusual middle name, and everything else matches, so chances are we’re onto something.

  If you decide to go to Clapham by tube, don’t get out at Clapham Junction. That’s actually Battersea, not Clapham, and it confuses lots of visitors. You should use the Northern Line and get out at Clapham Common.

  Warmest

  Patrick

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

  Bless you, Patrick, and bless your (secret) contacts at the bank. Please pass on my massive thanks. I’ll head out to Clapham just as soon as I can.

  I hope 16 Rosewater Terrace is still there.

  Molly xx

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: Re: An address in Clapham—another long e-mail

  I’ve had the most unbelievably momentous day. A true Red Letter Day that I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

  Until today all I’ve ever known about my father was what my grandmother told me—that he was charming and handsome and he swept my mother off her feet, and that he didn’t have a lot of money, but managed to make my mum very happy.

  Oh, and she would also tell me how excited he was when I was born. How he walked the floor with me when I had colic and was so patient, etc.

  I was quite content with these pictures, and because I never knew my parents I didn’t really grieve for them. I had Gran, and she was warm and loving and doted on me, so I was fine.

  But ever since I’ve been in London I’ve been thinking rather a lot about Charlie Cooper. I’d look at things like Nelson’s Column or Marble Arch, or even just an ordinary shop window, and I’d wonder if my dad had ever stood there, looking at the exact same thing. I’d feel as if he was there with me, as if he was glad that I was seeing his home town.

  The feeling was even stronger today when I arrived in Clapham. Every lamppost and shopfront felt significant. I found myself asking if the schoolboy Charlie had passed here on his way to school. Did he stop here to buy marbles or there to buy cream buns?

  And then I found Rosewater Terrace and my heart started to pound madly.

  It’s a long narrow street, and it feels rather crowded in between rows of tall brick houses with tiled roofs and chimney pots, and there are cars parked along both sides of the street, adding to the crowded-in feeling. There are no front yards or gardens. Everyone’s front door opens straight onto the footpath.

  When I reached number 16 I felt very strange, as if tiny spiders were crawling inside me. I stood there on the footpath, staring at the house, at windows with sparkling glass and neat white frames, and at the panels on the front door, painted very tastefully in white and two shades of grey.

  The doorknob was bright and shiny and very new, a
nd there were fresh white lace curtains in the window and a lovely blue jug filled with pink and white lilies.

  It was very inviting, and I longed to take a peek inside. I wondered what would happen if knocked on the door. If someone answered, could I tell them that my father and his family used to live there? How would they react?

  I was still standing there dithering, trying to decide what to do, when the door of the next house opened and a little old lady, wearing an apron and carrying a watering can, came shuffling out in her slippers.

  ‘I was just watering my pot plants and I saw you standing there,’ she said. ‘Are you lost, dearie?’

  She looked about a hundred years old, but she was so sweet and concerned I found myself telling her exactly why I was there. As soon as I said the words ‘Charles Cooper’, her eyes almost popped out of her head and her mouth dropped like a trap door. I thought I’d given her a heart attack.

  It seemed to take ages before she got her breath back. ‘So you’re Charlie’s little Australian daughter,’ she said. ‘Well, I never. Oh, my dear, of course. You look just like him.’

  Daisy—that’s her name, Daisy Groves—hugged me then, and invited me inside her house, and we had the loveliest nostalgic morning. She told me that she’d lived in Rosewater Terrace ever since she was married, almost sixty years ago, and she’d known my dad from the day he was born. Apparently he was born three days before her daughter Valerie and in the same hospital.

  ‘Charlie and Valerie were always such great friends,’ Daisy told me. ‘All through their school years. Actually, I always thought—’

  She didn’t finish that sentence, just looked away with a wistful smile, but I’m guessing from the way she spoke that she’d had matchmaking dreams for my dad and Valerie. Except Charlie was one for adventure, and as soon as he’d saved enough he set off travelling around the world. Then he met my mum in Australia. End of story. Valerie married an electrician and now lives in Peter borough.