She made her way along the street, her leather-soled loafers barely making a sound on the pavement, and now noticed two policemen who were out of their car and standing in the street – right outside her house. Her heart gave a little skip of nerves.
Mrs Ogilvy – Jean – who lived in a house opposite, came running down the pavement towards her. ‘Oh, Molly! Oh my God!’ The woman, of whom Molly was not a fan, held her coat clasped at the neck, speaking in haste and apparently keen to deliver the full situation report to her neighbour. Molly found the woman’s excitement for whatever unfortunate event had occurred most unbecoming.
‘I didn’t know what to do! It’s all been such a shock. I told the police I might have a brandy with my cocoa tonight.’
‘What has happened?’ Molly asked, her voice steady.
‘I saw two men, well’ – Mrs Ogilvy breathed quickly – ‘the back of two men, but they were tall and big. I’ve already told the policemen. I watched them go through the gate, and I don’t like to be nosy, but there was something about them. So I watched from the window and they walked up the path, bold as brass, and so I thought, “Ooh, must be selling something or doing a survey”, you know the type of thing—’
‘They walked up your path?’ Molly was still trying to ascertain precisely what had happened.
‘No, thank goodness!’ Jean laughed with evident relief. ‘They walked up your path.’
Molly began to walk towards her cottage, quickening her pace, the woman still trotting along beside her. ‘They broke in, Molly! You’ve been burgled!’ There was something almost gleeful in Mrs Ogilvy’s tone – what was the word she was searching for: schadenfreude? Was that it? Ignoring her, Molly looked from the two burly policemen planted at her gate to the front door of her home, which was standing open. It was a strange and sobering moment, especially for someone who lived alone, in a house for which no one else had a set of keys.
My front door is open . . .
Someone has been inside my house . . .
Shock finally bit as one of the officers approached her.
‘This is her! This is the lady,’ Mrs Ogilvy called out, pointing at Molly. ‘It’s her house!’
‘Mrs Collway?’ the policeman asked, doing his best to ignore the overly keen neighbour.
‘Yes.’ Close enough . . .
‘I’m very sorry, but it appears your house was burgled this afternoon.’
She shook her head. ‘Oh dear, what a rotten thing to do to someone.’
‘Yes, it is. But don’t worry, we’ll come inside with you, and we’ve called a glazier to come and make the front door secure where they broke the glass to get in.’
‘They broke the glass?’
The man had spoken clearly enough, but her thoughts had been elsewhere, wondering what she might find inside.
‘Yes. They broke the little window and reached in to open the door. It’s very common. They can do that in seconds.’
‘Gosh.’ Her mouth felt a little dry.
‘Thankfully, there’s not too much damage; I’ve seen a lot worse.’
‘Do you want me to come in with you, Molly?’ Mrs Ogilvy asked.
‘That’s very kind, madam, but we’ll take it from here. Thank you for all your assistance,’ the policeman intervened, and Molly was grateful.
‘Right then . . .’ There was no disguising the woman’s displeasure at being summarily dismissed. ‘Well, you have my number and you know which house is mine, don’t you?’ She pointed across the street.
‘We do indeed.’
‘Because if you want any more detail or need me to go over again what I saw and the times, et cetera, then just knock on my door. I always have the kettle on.’
‘Thank you.’ He nodded, taking Molly by the elbow and guiding her along the path. It made her feel old.
Now, at close range, she could see the broken glass at the top of the front door. The hallway, however, looked relatively untouched.
‘What time did you leave the house this morning?’ the other policeman asked.
‘Erm, I always leave about seven fifteen, to travel into London. I work at Barts Hospital.’
‘And you live alone?’
It was clear Mrs Ogilvy had spared no detail.
‘Yes.’
‘We need you to walk around the place, Mrs Collway, and give us a rough idea of what, if anything, has been taken. It doesn’t need to be a definitive list, so don’t worry. You can always call us at the station if you discover anything else gone. We’ll leave our number for you.’
Molly nodded and walked into the kitchen. A couple of drawers had been pulled out and upended onto the floor. She looked up at the dresser, and the jam jar with forty pounds’ worth of cash in it was missing.
‘They’ve taken some money. I keep a jar on the dresser and put a few notes in it as and when. Forty pounds.’ She always knew exactly how much money was in there. ‘And some silver cutlery.’ She looked at the gap in one of the drawers left hanging open. ‘A set of twelve fish knives and forks that I have never used. They were my mother’s,’ she elaborated, thinking it odd how little she cared about these objects once handled by her mother, but now in the hands of God only knew.
‘Are you okay, Mrs Collway?’ Both of the policemen were staring at her, as if they expected more. These were boys who she knew had not lived through the war, or they would know that a few upturned drawers was nothing compared to the sight of a flattened house with all its belongings lying splintered for all the world to see.
‘I am, thank you,’ she offered calmly.
Next she walked through to the dining room, where a silver coffee pot was missing from the sideboard, along with two small carved figurines, in soapstone she believed, although she had no idea how they had come into her mother’s possession. Things David and Joyce had set aside for her when they divided up the items after the sale of the house. Things she had kept purely because they had always been around.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Collway?’ one of the officers asked kindly.
‘No, thank you, but it’s very kind of you to offer.’ She felt uncomfortable at the thought of these strangers pottering in her little kitchen, boiling the kettle, touching her things.
She walked now into the sitting room, with the two policemen following on behind.
‘The TV is missing.’ She pointed to the obvious space on the unit next to the fireplace where the television had sat. Wires still dangled from the points on the wall. ‘And my radio – only a small transistor that I like to listen to in the afternoon at the weekend.’
She looked around the room and was somewhat relieved to see that the place was largely as she had left it, bar the seat cushions thrown on the floor and a picture that for some reason had been propped up against the wall. ‘Maybe they thought it wasn’t worth taking?’ she quipped, and the men laughed.
‘More likely they found it too big to cart away.’
‘Ah yes, probably.’ This made more sense. Molly’s gaze roved over the surfaces and suddenly her heart rate increased. She walked forward and stopped abruptly at the side table by her favourite chair in front of the fireplace. Plopping down onto the chair, she ran her hand over the surface of the table, despite seeing quite plainly that it was empty.
‘Oh! Oh no! Oh!’ Sliding from the chair, she got on all fours and with some urgency moved the seat cushion, searching beneath it on the rug, before feeling around on the floor, pushing the chair towards the middle of the room so she could get a good reach around underneath it. ‘I . . . I . . .’ She was finding it hard to get the words out, and equally hard to get a breath.
One of the policemen rushed forward and dropped to his knees. ‘What is it, Mrs Collway? Are you feeling unwell? You don’t look too good.’
Molly sat back against the fireplace and emitted a low, soft moan of despair. She closed her eyes and tried to swallow the desperate realisation that her little walnut box was not there.
‘I had . . . I had a box,
a smallish box made of walnut. Hinged at the back in brass and quite sturdy. I need to find it. I need to get it back,’ was all she could manage.
‘We’ll do all we can, Mrs Collway.’
She caught the subtle exchange of looks between the two officers, which told her it was less than likely her box would ever be returned. The very thought was almost more than she could take. ‘Please, I don’t . . . I don’t care about anything else! They can have it all, but I must get that box back!’ She was too distraught to care about the level of emotion on display in front of these strangers.
‘Was there anything in the box?’
She nodded sharply. ‘There were a couple of small black-and-white photographs in it, an old French franc and a centime’ – she paused – ‘and . . . and a little brass button with a naval crest and a knot of rope on it.’ She looked up at the two police officers, who looked a little bewildered, and said urgently, ‘It’s the button I really need to get back. I will pay any reward. Please!’
‘We’ll do all we can, Mrs Collway. There are several things we can do that sometimes get results, including putting a piece in the paper with a photo – if people can relate to the person it sometimes urges them to look harder, get involved.’
His words barely registered. All she could do was concentrate on the deep throb of pain in her chest and heart – an old friend, and one she had hoped she might never know again.
Molly decided on an early night. It wasn’t the invasion of her home that had caused depression to paw at her senses, but the taking of Johan’s button. She felt the loss like a kick in the stomach, just as winding and violent. Curled, she lay for a while, wondering how it might be possible to retrieve this thing that would have no value to anyone but her. The phone rang twice and, each time, she raced to answer it, leaping from the bed with her hair flying and her dressing gown flapping about her shins, hoping and praying it was the police with an update. But it wasn’t. The first call came from Joyce, for whom she had left a message. Her sister wanted to hear all the details and offered words of encouragement.
‘I mean, don’t fret, Molly – the chances of them coming back are extremely slim.’
Molly wrinkled her brow. ‘I hadn’t even considered the possibility they might come back until you said that.’ Molly, in even this most dreadful of circumstances, could see humour in her sister’s dire attempt at comforting her.
‘I know you’re joking, but it must have upset you.’
‘Well, of course it has’ – Molly thought of Johan’s precious button, her irreplaceable talisman – ‘but I’m not going to dwell.’
‘Well, you know where we are if you need anything,’ Joyce offered warmly.
‘I do. We’ll speak soon, dear.’
The second call was from a very well-spoken Mr Ian Morgan, who was apparently chair of the local Neighbourhood Watch. Molly rolled her eyes and assured him there really was no need for him to drop off a pack, which, according to Mr Morgan, contained a window sticker and a handy leaflet with hints on how best to secure her home.
‘It really is no trouble, Miss Collway. I shall be passing anyway, with Hugo. See you in a bit.’
Molly stood in the hallway of her cottage and wondered firstly who Hugo was – his partner? Quite possibly – and then, secondly, how quickly she might be able to get Mr Ian Morgan off her front path. The last thing she wanted was to have to pander to the ramblings of some old dear who had all the time in the world to stand in the cold and give her statistics on how very likely she was to fall victim to a heinous crime on her own doorstep. She had Joyce for that.
Shrugging off her dressing gown, lest she give Mr Morgan the impression that she was a slattern, she put the kitchen drawers back into their grooves, fishing around on the floor for the odd spoon, a ball of string and a nifty pair of mini-secateurs she hadn’t seen in an age but had clearly been lurking somewhere and found by her burglars.
The phone rang in the hallway. Again.
‘Chelmsford 57286.’
‘Auntie M, it’s Joe.’
‘Hello, darling.’ She smiled, as she always did at the sound of his voice, a visceral reaction whenever he made contact.
‘Mum called Estelle and she’s just told me what happened. Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?’
‘No, darling, not at all. I’m fine, I really am. It’s not a disaster zone or anything like that; the policeman said it could have been a lot worse—’
‘Well, of course it could – they could have murdered you in your bed!’
‘Yes, thank you, dear. Joyce was similarly reassuring.’
‘Do you need anything?’
‘No. That’s very sweet, but as I say, I’m fine, and so grateful you called.’ And she was.
‘Is there much damage?’
‘No, a small window broken and a few upturned drawers, and they took the TV,’ and your father’s button – all I had, Joe, his little button . . . ‘So not too bad in all. How’s Adam?’
She heard her son sigh. ‘He’s a bloody nightmare!’
‘Well, I think if they are going to be, sixteen is the age to do it,’ she said consolingly, knowing this only by observation and not experience.
‘I suppose so. Not to mention his girlfriend, Tamara, who hasn’t spoken more than two words to us in the seven months she’s been seeing Adam, and who also happens to be a vegetarian, if you will. Have you ever heard the like? She only eats vegetables! No meat, not a scrap, and Estelle said the girl gave her a hard stare the other day when she pulled on her leather boots.’
Molly couldn’t imagine what the girl ate if not meat for her main meal. ‘What does Tamara wear on her feet?’
‘Oh, these kind of black canvas plimsolls, hardly sturdy and sure to sog up in a puddle. Anyway, they’re planning on both dyeing their hair some lurid colour! What can I say?’
‘What colour are they thinking of?’
‘Well, that is hardly the point!’ Joe laughed.
‘Really? I think it’s entirely the point! I mean, if you’re going to alienate him, fall out with him and comment on his choices for the sake of some temporary wash in his hair, then it would be foolish, but if they’re favouring, say, a permanent shade of bright purple, then yes, I would speak out.’
‘Hmmm, that’s probably good advice. I shall investigate. And if you need anything?’
‘Yes, yes, Joe.’ She cut him short, touched by his offer. ‘I know where you are, and thank you, dear boy.’
The front doorbell rang. ‘Must dash, I have a visitor. Love to Estelle and Adam!’ She ended the call.
Molly was, despite the shock of her intruder and the loss of her things, feeling quite all right with the world. Talking to Joyce and then Joe was a timely reminder that while bad things might happen, with a loving family only ever a phone call away, things were never going to be truly terrible.
She opened the door to a handsome man with short grey hair and a large nose. He wore a wine-coloured cravat at the neck of his open shirt, inside his tweed jacket.
‘Oh!’ He stared at her. ‘Forgive me. I thought you’d be very old!’
Molly laughed in spite of herself. ‘Oh, you did? Well, sorry to disappoint. Who are you?’
‘Ian Morgan.’ He stepped forward with a slight bow. ‘And this is Hugo.’
She followed his eyes downward until they locked with possibly the ugliest dog she had ever seen. ‘Oh, Hugo, you poor love.’ She bit her bottom lip to stop from saying anything else inappropriate.
‘Don’t be fooled.’ Mr Morgan bent and ran his palm along the white back of the one-eyed bull terrier, whose lower teeth sat proud of his top set. ‘He’s a massive hit with the ladies.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. And by the way, I am old.’
‘No, you’re not,’ the man laughed.
‘How old do you think I am?’ She folded her arms across her chest and was surprised that she was, despite the upset earlier, enjoying the rather flirtatious nature of their conversation
.
Without any of the usual reticence that might go hand in hand with guessing a lady’s age, he tapped his chin. ‘Hmm, fifty-four? No, fifty-six!’
She liked his earnest attempt that was in no way overly flattering.
‘I’ve just turned sixty.’
‘Ah, close. Well, I’m sixty-two.’
‘I wasn’t aware I’d asked.’ She tried to be curt, but her wide smile belied her tone.
‘You’re funny!’ He chuckled. ‘Now, down to business.’ His tone and expression changed. ‘Rotten luck about your burglary, but it happens.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably kids, looking for stuff they can sell quickly in the pub, but no less upsetting for that.’
‘The policeman said it could have been a whole lot worse.’ She kept repeating this cliché, at a loss of what else to say and unwilling to share what she had lost – not only was it too personal, but she knew no one else would understand her attachment to a shiny button.
An Ordinary Life Page 33
