Chapter 2

Act 1, Scene 2: Molly’s story

I had been looking forward to Friday night, but it turned sour even before we left the canteen. Recently I’ve been wondering if mum is right when she goes on at me about my lack of social life and I had made up my mind to let my hair down a bit, at least among my group of hangers on. It began just as usual, with me at the center of my swains, as Peter calls them. He was as attentive as usual, and I remember we joked about meeting early the next morning to jog.

The first hint that all was not well came when the cripple arrived, joined at the hip to the director, as usual. Pete made a crack about which team would next be blessed with his unwelcome presence when Karl spoke up. He normally says nothing, simply worshipping me from afar, with his big brown eyes.

“Mark Ferguson can stay with my group as long as he likes. He’s had some amazing insights since he joined us three weeks ago.”

“Well, I suppose he’s Ok if you don’t mind him stumbling about your lab bumping into things,” Peter scoffed.

“Take it from me, you forget about the crutches. There’s certainly nothing wrong with his brain.”

This was new territory for Karl who usually crumbles at the first adverse comment. Ferguson has certainly made a big impression. Then I recalled that Geoff, who was the first to give the newcomer a desk, had said nothing critical about the intruder. Now I come to think about it, it’s only Peter who is on the guy’s case all the time. I don’t think I’ve even spoken to him; I just ignore him when I see him in the canteen. He had been hanging from his crutches beside Paul but now the director moved away leaving the guy on his own. I was aware that Peter was demolishing Karl, who had reverted to type.

Physically I was still at the center of the group, but I found myself acting like a detached observer. Peter was being his normal dominant self and I suddenly recognized that he had cut me off from the others. Despite his almost daily invitations, I had never dated Pete, but he had convinced the others that I was his woman and that he would claim me in due course. It was true that we ran into each other fairly frequently when we were out jogging, but I understood for the first time that our meetings were probably not accidental. He was at the door of the lab every morning when I arrived – perhaps that too is no accident.

“If Ferguson tries anything on with Molly, he’ll have to answer to me,” I heard when my mind returned from its excursion.

All right, I thought, Peter is tall and fairly good looking, although his features are a bit sharp, but I don’t need protection from him or any man. That was the moment when I detached myself from the guys and walked across to introduce myself to the cuckoo in our cozy nest. Perhaps it was Peter saying that he would protect me, but I hardly waited to say ‘hi’ before I ripped into the poor guy. To my astonishment, he gave as good as he got. In fact, he did rather better, since he seemed to be totally unbothered by my snidest remarks while he got in several telling blows.

Despite the fact that he looked relaxed and happy, I accused him of being bitter and he told me that I was the one who was bitter. That got home because my mum had said something similar the last time she had lectured me on my lack of social life. Then I got annoyed with myself because I was peeved when he told me that I was passably pretty – everyone else raves about my beauty and it was a bit of a shock. I turned away, determined that I would accept a date with Peter before the end of the evening. At least he enjoys my sarcastic comments, giving tit for tat; it might be a bit wearing spending a whole evening saying nasty things about everyone we know, but we all do it, don’t we?

As I was crossing the foyer to the powder room, a gorgeous woman in an army uniform arrived to collect Ferguson. Paul came out, greeting her like an old friend, teasing her about saluting Major Ferguson. I don’t quite know why, but I held the toilet door open to earwig until they left the building. No wonder he hadn’t been too impressed with my looks. Peter doesn’t know it yet but he’s going to get lucky tonight, I thought, as I repaired my make-up.

As you might expect, things did not go to plan. Perhaps the possibility of dating Peter made me more conscious of him. He spent the evening running down every other man we both know, reserving the worst of his venom for Major Ferguson.

“It seems that the only way you can promote your own charms is to rubbish your rivals,” I whined, after about half an hour of this.

“Come off it Molly,” He grinned, putting an arm round my waist. “I’ve done enough to convince you. I know when a girl is playing hard to get. You’re mine, Molly, even if you’re not ready to admit it.”

I removed his arm and went to the loo, mumbling that I needed to throw up. I gave the matter some thought as I sat doing my business, and I finished up getting a taxi home without rejoining the party. Mum wanted to know why I was home so early, of course, and I don’t think she believed my story that it had been a tiring week. The next morning, I was up before she wakened, for a long jog. My success as a scientist is based on my ability to analyze complex problems, reducing them to manageable chunks.

As I trotted along, I applied the same method to my private life. There would be no problem if other people just left me alone. I’m not a virgin but I am not greatly taken with the joys of sex; a lot of sweaty effort for very little return, in my experience. I can think of no other reason why I should seek the company of a man. I can understand my mum to some extent: I’m an only child so she can only have grandkids if I cooperate, but why do so many people think that I am somehow incomplete without a significant other. I considered lesbianism at one stage, but I couldn’t see the attraction in that either. I like my own company – is that a crime?

My legs had continued to piston away while my mind grappled with my non-existent social life. I had just concluded that the problem lay not with me but with the rest of humanity when I stumbled on Peter. I was certain by now that he had carefully chosen his route to make this meeting happen, but I felt sufficiently guilty about the way I had behaved the night before to trot along beside him, even letting him treat me to a coffee at a kiosk.

I apologized for running away without explanation and he also apologized to me. It would have been fine if he had stopped there but he just had to explain.

“I get very protective when my girl has been insulted,” he crowed, reaching his hand out to caress my shoulder. I spilled what was left of my coffee.

“Get it through your thick skill into your miniscule brain that I am not your girl; I have never been your girl; and I never will be your girl. Now take your hand off me before I break your fingers.”

I thrust my empty cup into his hands and left him looking stunned, to run all the way home. I wasn’t even angry with him, just disappointed that he hadn’t measured up. I’ve always been attracted to tall, dark, and handsome men: perhaps I should start with the intellect and work outwards in future. I quickly banished the thought that there could be a place in that description for a man on crutches. Mark Ferguson, I assured myself, meant nothing to me. I didn’t even need to feel sorry for him since he was clearly coping very well without my sympathy. He would probably be dull company if he didn’t have his own wounds to talk about.

Mum wheedled part of the story out of me. I told her the whole tale of my exchanges with Peter, but I barely mentioned Mark. I wasn’t clear in my head about what I thought about him so it would have been impossible to explain it to mum, especially if she suspected that I was trying to hide something from her. We went shopping in the afternoon and watched a couple of weepy movies on Netflix during the evening.

I decided not to risk a jog on Sunday morning. As usual, I spent the day writing up the diary of the working week. I spent an hour going through some of the earlier entries, accepting that recent progress was much slower than in the heady days when I first put the team together. We are working every bit as hard, but it seems to be taking longer and longer to overcome obstacles. I had the fleeting thought that Karl felt he had benefitted from Mark’s insights, but I gave myself a shake: I solve my problems, always have and always will, without assistance from anyone.

It would be nice to talk things over with an equal, of course, but none of the other team leaders appeal. I could take my troubles to Paul, but not until I could offer him a solution to my problem. I had tried different approaches, but I just could not see a way past the obstacles that were slowing our progress. David is a great assistant, but it would help if he talked more openly about our work. Still, no use complaining: just get on with it, Molly my girl, same as always.

At seven, mum told me she had booked a table at Meadow House and that I was going whether I liked it or not. By that time, I was nothing loth since my mind was racing round the same problems like a rat in a maze. When mum sold the house in London after I got the job in Cambridge, she put some mad money away; when she thinks we need it, she does something wildly expensive like this to cheer us up.

It was working too, until the maître d’ led us to a table right next to one where Mark Ferguson was sitting with a slightly older couple; the man was tall and handsome, while his wife was petite and beautiful. The last thing I needed was to be stuck at the next table to a man who thought I was no more than passably good looking. I had seen him now with two other women, both of them beautiful by any standards. I tried to discreetly tell mum that we should ask for an alternative table, but she did exactly the opposite.

“I believe you’re a colleague of my daughters,” she gushed.

Mark and his friend were on their feet welcoming her and extending an invitation for us to join them. Mum, Morag and Hector all thought that was a wonderful idea; I was mortified, and Mark made no secret of his amusement at my discomfiture. To be fair, he did his best to put me at ease, but he could do nothing to stop the blatant matchmaking of mum and Morag. If mum mentioned something I was interested in, Morag would respond that Mark was either an expert or had always expressed the wish to try it for himself.

When they discovered something we had in common, they behaved as if they had scored the winning goal in the cup final. Hector didn’t say much in his deep, gentle voice but he always had a twinkle in his eye as he intervened to stoke the fire still higher. I had gone beyond anger, and even Mark was showing signs of losing his cool. In a lull, Hector asked if Mark was keeping up his swimming. Mum said that I loved swimming, and I was sure that she was about to arrange a tryst for me.

“I did love it, but the pool gets so crowded nowadays that it takes away all the pleasure.”

“You should swim when I do,” Mark blurted out. “There’s just me in the pool.”

Mum jumped in with both feet. What could be better, she asked me? She wanted me to swoon with joy. I was so cowed by this time that I found myself agreeing that Mark would collect me at six-thirty the next morning to take me swimming. Hector suddenly became serious, trying to get mum and his wife to treat it as a joke; Morag almost relented but, after drawing me a look that pierced my soul, she insisted that I go through with it. I don’t think she likes me much.

“This has gone far enough, Morag,” Mark said, sounding really troubled.

I got the clear impression that he didn’t want me along – there is probably yet another beauty there to massage his male ego. Never one to duck a challenge, I insisted that the date was on. Mark and Hector exchanged shrugs but accepted the decision. No one argued when mum and I left shortly afterwards, using the early rise as an excuse. The irony of my position was not lost on me when I reviewed the weekend later in bed. I had set out on Friday considering accepting a date from my most persistent suitor; now I was planning to strip to my bikini with a man I hardly knew at an hour in the morning that I rarely saw.

We arrived at the university swimming club pool at a minute before seven where my escort was warmly welcomed by the lifeguards arriving for work. I was shown to a changing room and, when I came out, Mark was already in the pool. I could see at once why he was reluctant to invite me. The truth is that he wasn’t much of a swimmer, struggling with a pedestrian breaststroke. I got in and completed two fast lengths of front crawl before he had finished a length.

I was standing in waist deep water at the shallow end watching Mark make his slow passage down the pool.

“I thought you said you could swim, slowcoach,” I yelled.

“Who the hell are you?”

I turned to see a woman with short, iron-grey hair standing beside the pool glaring down at me. She had on a bulky sweatshirt announcing that she was the manager, so I suppose she had the right to ask the question.

“Mark said it was Ok,” I told her, turning to face her.

She ignored me, yelling for Mark over my head. When he stood up quite close to me, she told him to get up beside her. Thinking we were in trouble I kept my eyes on her until he waded past me to climb out of the water. That was when I glanced at his back, almost falling over in shock: his shoulder was covered with a tracery of scars. He looked the way I imagined you would if you had been hit by a bus. By the time I recovered he was standing beside her. She was still glaring but he was grinning happily.

“You think he should swim a bit faster, do you?” she growled at me standing beneath her. “When he first came here Mark had to be lowered into the water on a lift. What you see as an inept performance looks to us as little short of a miracle.”

“Give it a rest, Susan,” Mark complained. “Molly is my guest so let me put her right if she oversteps the line. Lighten up! She was only teasing.”

“Just stand there for a minute while I introduce you properly. This is Major Mark Ferguson, Fellow of Dowling College, hit by three high-velocity bullets. First bullet went through his shoulder; he would love to do front crawl, but the joint no longer allows that freedom of movement. Second bullet hit his body armor; it didn’t penetrate but it ruptured his appendix and almost killed him. The final bullet shattered his right femur; beneath the tasteful scars there is a jigsaw of bone and stainless steel.”

“How did you learn all this, Susan?” Mark asked, in a cold voice.

“Your mum sent me your medical records.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t just send them to The Times and have done with it.”

I felt a sudden warmth towards my host: it seems that I’m not the only one with an impossible mother.

“That’s beside the point, Mark. I’m not having anyone come in here and criticize you.” Then she turned to me, still standing up to my waist in water: “Go and get changed, girl.”

I didn’t wait to be told twice, but I stopped when I was out of sight in the entrance to the changing rooms.

“I can’t believe you did that Mark,” Susan said as soon as she thought I had gone. “I thought better of you. That poor girl had no idea of the state you were in, did she? We’ve grown used to it over the months, but it takes a strong stomach to see you in Speedos. If you want a date, there’s not one of the girls who would turn you down – half the boys too, if I’m honest.””