Molly Cooper's Dream Date. Barbara HannayЧитать онлайн книгу.
feel! What I really need is a starting situation—something that will grab the reader.
It won’t come.
I’m still blocked.
I have a sickening feeling that this whole house swapping venture has been a huge, hideous mistake. The strangeness and newness of everything here is distracting rather than helpful. I can’t concentrate and then I procrastinate and the cycle continues.
I guess this is what happens when you’re desperate and you choose a holiday destination by spinning the globe. Normally I would have given such a venture much more thought. Thing is, apart from enjoying the beautiful scenery on this island there’s not a lot else to do. That was supposed to be a plus.
If the writing was flowing everything would be fine.
But if it’s not, what have I got? There are a few cafés and resorts, a pub or two, a gallery here and there, but no cinema. Not even a proper library.
I spend far too much of my time thinking about Molly in London, imagining the fun of showing her around, helping her to explore the hidden secrets she’s so keen to discover.
Funny, how a stranger can make you take a second look at your home town.
I feel like a fraud.
To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>
Subject: Rambling
Patrick, would you believe I actually woke up feeling homesick today? I can’t believe it. I haven’t been here long enough to be homesick, but I looked out the window at the grey skies and the sea of rooftops and streams of people and streets and traffic and fumes and I just longed for my tree-covered headland, where I can’t see another house, and to be able to breathe in fresh, unpolluted air.
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 <[email protected]>
From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>
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