17. Molly
Chapter 17
Molly
J ack’s been back in London for eleven days now and they’ve only spoken twice. At first, Molly was upset, but gradually that’s been overtaken by anger. How dare he cut her off like this? As if it’s her who’s done something wrong? She’s as surprised by this pregnancy as he is, but he’s acting like a spoilt child who can’t get his own way, throwing his toys out of the pram. Which isn’t a bad comparison really, considering it’s all about a baby he clearly doesn’t want.
Molly can feel the tears brimming up as she takes out her feelings on the cake mix, turning the mixer on to full speed and battering it so hard she’s likely to break the bowl.
‘Calm down, love,’ her dad says as he strolls into the kitchen with an empty mug in his hand. ‘What’s that cake ever done to you?’
‘Sorry, Dad. Just feeling a bit stressed.’ She doesn’t turn round, not wanting him to see her on the verge of crying. ‘Can I make you another cup of tea?’
He goes over to the sink and refills the kettle. ‘It’s fine. I can manage. Better than you can probably, with that wrist of yours. But I’d like to know what’s bugging you, and I think it’s more than just a broken bone, isn’t it? You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?’
She nods, still not turning to face him.
‘Is it painful still? You’re looking so pale lately, and you were sick again earlier, weren’t you? Sorry, but those bathroom walls are thin, you know that.’
‘No. It’s a pain, but not painful, if you know what I mean. Just feeling a bit down. A headache and a bit of a dodgy tummy, that’s all.’
‘Is that all? Really? Not Jack then? Something he’s done. Or not done?’
She switches the mixer off and turns round. Her dad’s pouring the boiling water into the teapot, not looking at her. She knows that’s deliberate. He wants her to talk.
‘Because I can’t help wondering why you’re still here and he’s not,’ he says, easing himself down into a chair and tapping the one next to him, inviting her to join him at the table. ‘Well, he has work, obviously, but why didn’t you go back with him? You’ve never explained, and it’s been, what? Getting on two weeks and you’re still here. Not that we don’t love having you, of course, and you know I don’t like to pry, but shouldn’t you be at home, with your husband?’
Molly lifts the mixing bowl off its stand and tips the creamy yellow mixture into two baking tins, then puts it down again and runs a spoon round the bowl to scrape out the bits left behind. Once they are safely in the oven, she takes two mugs to the table and sits, pouring tea from the big old brown teapot that’s so much a part of this kitchen it’s probably older than she is.
‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘The beginning’s usually a pretty good place.’
‘A kitchen drawer, that’s where it began.’ It sounds silly, but it’s true. ‘And a diary with nothing written in it…’
‘Well, now I am intrigued.’
She looks into his eyes and sees real concern there, and she knows this isn’t fair. They deserve to know. If she’s going to tell all, it’s going to need to be with both of them here. Mum and Dad, together. The way married couples are meant to be.
‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Upstairs, changing the beds, I think. Shall I fetch her?’
‘Yes, please. I know you’re both worried and I don’t want you to be. And I’m sick of keeping secrets.’
Her dad looks so relieved now she’s told them. ‘There was me thinking all sorts – divorce, money worries, even cancer, would you believe? And it was a baby all along! My little girl having a child of her own. Wow! We really should be celebrating, Maureen, and a mug of cold tea doesn’t really cut it, does it? Where’s that bottle of champagne we tucked away from our anniversary?’
‘Dad! You do know I’m not supposed to drink?’
‘Oh, it’s not for you, love. This is a special occasion for your mother and me too, you know. Our first grandchild!’
Maureen is dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a screwed-up hankie. ‘Oh, Molly, I’m so pleased. Why ever didn’t you tell us? All this time you’ve known. Three months already! I should be knitting bootees by now, and ordering you a pram. The grandparents always pay for the pram! And your dad and me will be opening a little savings account for him just as soon as he’s born.’
‘Or she!’
‘Well, yes, of course, but it will be a boy. I have a feeling, and you know my feelings are never wrong.’
Molly stands up and moves to behind her mum’s chair, throwing her arms around her neck and kissing the top of her permed head, and in seconds her dad is up on his feet too, sandwiching Molly between them in a really strange kind of group hug.
‘And Jack? Where does he fit into all this?’ her dad asks quietly, as he goes back to his chair, his gaze not leaving her face. Molly can almost hear his thought processes gearing up. ‘Why isn’t he here?’
‘He’s… well, let’s just say it came as a bit of a shock. I don’t think he feels ready. We hadn’t actually planned on this happening just yet.’
‘Babies come when they’re good and ready. A gift from God.’ Maureen doesn’t often bring religion into things but she is a Christian, and family means everything to her. ‘He should be thrilled. Just like your father was when we first found out you were on the way.’
‘Oh, yes, I downed a few pints that night, I can tell you. And bought one for everyone in the pub. It’s not every day…’
‘I’m amazed you can remember,’ Maureen says, cutting his memories off with a shake of her head, but she’s smiling, so no matter how drunk he must have been she’s clearly long since forgiven him.
‘He’ll come round. Your Jack.’ Her dad hesitates for a moment. ‘But it’s not going to happen while you’re miles apart, now, is it? You’re going to be a mummy, and he’s going to be a daddy, in six months, whether he’s ready or not, so it’s time he stepped up. And manned up. I think the sooner we get you on a train back to London the better, my love. If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed…’
‘I think I’m more of a mountain these days than he is. Have you seen the size of my tummy?’ Molly lifts up her baggy jumper and lays her hands – one of them encased in plaster – on the little rounded mound of bare flesh.
‘No, because you’ve been hiding it away, Molly, love.’ Maureen smiles wistfully. ‘But it’s time you showed it off with pride. May I?’ She waits for the nod, then reaches out and touches her daughter’s skin, gently stroking it. ‘Fancy a bit of shopping later? Your first maternity clothes? My treat. We might as well send you home looking the part.’
‘Shopping would be lovely. I just need to rescue this cake from the oven before it burns.’
Her dad produces the champagne from the back of the enormous fridge and pops the cork, showering them all with sticky bubbles.
‘To baby Doherty,’ he says, raising the bottle in the air as if he’s about to swing it at the side of a ship. ‘And all who sail in her.’
‘Him!’ Maureen says, very firmly. ‘I told you, Bill. It’s going to be a boy, I just know it. When it comes to a mother’s intuition, I am never wrong.’
Molly laughs, for the first time in a while.
‘No champers for me,’ she says, shaking her head, her hand still cradling her bump. ‘Booze is off the menu. From now on, this little one comes first.’