Chapter 3

Act 1, Scene 3: Going Swimmingly

We called it ‘Rose Monday’, the day I handed Molly a single red rose while wrapped in the arms of another woman. It marked the beginning of an intense affair. At the time we met, she was a formidable professional woman well able to hold her own, but she had reached that position at the expense of her social life. Until that morning, she had never sat in a car holding hands with a man. She rarely watched television and abhorred romantic novels, so she did not even have secondhand knowledge of romance.

What she did have was the intelligence and curiosity that had made her a formidable scientist. She had to consider all aspects of holding hands: it was not enough merely to enjoy something, she had to reason out why she enjoyed it. In the best traditions, we frequently repeated experiments, varying the conditions. Was the thrill of being hand in hand the same in public as in private? She was delighted to discover that some things, like kissing, were even more thrilling when there was a chance of being caught in the act.

At work, we kissed in every secluded spot, including both the ladies’ and gents’ toilets. At home, we were constantly stealing pecks when her mother’s back was turned. Not that Amanda would have minded if we had snogged right under her nose. She did watch romantic dramas and she was getting a real kick from being part of a real romance in her own home. She seemed to be quietly amused that her daughter was behaving so normally.

Molly could not remember a time when she did not argue with her mum and Amanda vaguely remembered she was about ten when they started scrapping. Our make-out sessions became a sort of competition between mother and daughter. Molly would devise ways to kiss me without being caught and Amanda would create situations where she could come upon us unaware. They both committed to the game with unbounded enthusiasm.

That enthusiasm was at the heart of Molly’s being; she kissed with passion every time our lips touched. On the other hand, there were whole evenings when we were alone together when we did not kiss at all. We would sit, side by side on the settee in my living room, holding hands and talking about everything from the work of the lab to the enthusiasm and dedication required to be a football fan. No topic was off limits. When our relationship moved to the bedroom, the talking went on. We could lie naked in each other’s arms discussing nothing more erotic than how much turmeric was just right in a curry.

It was in the bedroom that Molly surprised me most. Once naked, she behaved more like a courtesan than a virgin. When she learned to relax with me, she could be demanding, and she clearly knew what pleased her. Sucking on my cock was welcomed, although she always had a tissue handy to catch the cum. She had to be persuaded to let me go down on her, suggesting that it wasn’t something she would expect a real man to do. “I have medals to prove my masculinity,” I laughed. She was soon converted.

The intensity of our conversations started right at the beginning, and continued after she added physical intimacy. She never lost her interest in hand-holding and other minor touches, developing a theory that our entwined hands were a channel through which our feelings blended. I suggested that sweaty palms were rather less romantic than gazing into the soul of a partner through her eyes, but Molly told me, very earnestly, that it was the earthiness of the bodily fluid that made handholding so effective. The woman who had kept her admirers at a distance, the ice-queen I had seen when I joined the lab, turned out to be addicted to exchanging sweat and spit. The only similarity between the two aspects of her character was the intensity with which she pursued her chosen course.

The change that was most welcomed by her colleagues was that her dry wit was no longer tinged with bitterness. She still found a telling turn of phrase to demolish an argument but now she had everyone laughing, even the recipient of the put-down. She was still admired, but now she was liked as well. She never did understand the change.

“I’m just as sarcastic as I ever was but now they all think I’m being witty.”

“The bitterness has gone, darling.”

“You said that the first time we spoke, Mark. I don’t think I ever felt bitter, although I agree that I’m certainly not bitter now.”

I said nothing more at the time although, looking back, that might have been a pivotal moment. In my opinion, she had been emulating Peter in those days. We agreed that he was bitter, and she accepted that she had admired him enough to copy his mannerisms. He was the only topic we encountered in those first three months that we did not discuss openly and honestly.

Molly was reluctant to admit that she had considered him as a possible partner. At first, she refused to say more on the grounds that whatever had once been there had been flushed out her system after meeting me. She kept assuring me that I had no need to feel jealous and I failed to convince her that my interest in him had nothing to do with envy. He seemed to me to be such a bad choice for her that I was intrigued by her reasoning. It was no more than a passing thought: I had seen men and women choosing totally unsuitable partners often enough in the past.

We were sitting together in my living room one evening when I suggested that Peter appealed to a hidden dark side of her character. She totally lost her temper, jumped to her feet and rushed out of the house. We later made up, of course, but only on the condition that I should never mention his name again. I found it easy enough to agree: in fact, I wished that he would disappear in a puff of smoke.

Even before Rose Monday, Peter had gone out of his way to be nasty about me. He seldom spoke directly to me, but he frequently made derogatory remarks about me to his friends where I could overhear him. After Molly and I became an item, he targeted me, doing everything in his power to make my life miserable. He tends to get lost in admiration for himself but when he does turn his formidable intellect on a problem, he can be a menace.

When I joined the lab, Molly was already in his sights; he judged that she needed time before she succumbed to his charm. He surveyed his rivals and decided that he could afford to wait, gradually insinuating himself into Molly’s plans for the future. I think he must have quickly identified me as a potential rival. Perhaps Molly showed some reaction that he sensed. He certainly encouraged her to join him in the low-key attacks he began as soon as I walked through the door.

What they did not know was that I had learned how to deal with such treatment in a very tough school – Aldershot barracks. Pretty well everyone knows that officers give orders and soldiers obey them. The more intelligent members of the public understand that obedience must be instant and total since lives can depend on obedience. Hardly anyone gives a thought to the feelings of the soldier.

The view they take is that orders should be reasonable. We have all signed up to put our lives at the disposal of our country, but we want some assurance that our officers will take proper care of our wellbeing. A soldier cannot easily question orders, so over the centuries they have devised ways of checking out the officers who will transmit the demands. A popular way to do this is the one chosen by Peter. A group of soldiers talking together will make a remark about a passing officer that he can overhear.

The response they get tells them a great deal about the man. Some young officers fly into a rage, demanding the matter be dealt with by a higher authority; some choose to ignore the remarks at the time, taking their revenge on the parade ground. I decided to step in and give as good as I got. When I happened to hear that I probably ran home to mummy when I got leave, I strode towards the group of private soldiers.

“Actually, mummy prefers that we go clubbing. She was an exotic dancer before she met daddy, and she likes to meet her old customers.”

I used my most affected accent. It was a show-stopper – the tune that everyone is humming when they leave the theatre after the performance. Three days later I was summoned by the Adjutant for a private chat. It had come to his attention that there was a scurrilous rumor circulating that my mother had been a stripper.

“I don’t know where it started, but I thought you should know, Ferguson. These things happen from time to time and the best advice I can give you is to ignore anything you hear.”

His intentions were good, so I told him that I was the source of the rumor. He laughed so hard he almost wet himself; mum did. At least, she told me that she laughed so much that her panty-liner had been well tested. She turned up at our passing-out parade, dressed to the nines, trying her best to look like a retired courtesan. Peter’s low-level innuendo did not stand a chance of disconcerting me; I did not even bother to respond.

Things changed on Rose Monday. His stream of mildly offensive remarks was fine while I was a distant threat, but he had to come up with another plan after I handed over the single flower. It took him less than an hour to devise a response. He and Molly attended a regular meeting at which he requested that I be attached to his team for the foreseeable future. He reasoned that I would be intimidated by the threat implied by that move; he was wrong.

I think his view was colored by the good impression I had made on the leaders of the other two teams I had been part of. Kurt in particular spoke warmly of the contribution I had made. Peter loses no opportunity to advance himself in the eyes of his superiors and he assumed that I would be equally ambitious. He put me into an office on my own and ordered the other team members to ignore me. I was supposed to become frustrated because I would not be given the chance to impress anyone, but I had spent too many hours as a soldier waiting for something to happen to be troubled by my inactivity.

I had never met anyone quite like Molly before, and I spent the hours alone during the working day, recalling all the things we had talked about the night before. We had lunch together on Rose Monday and I followed her home after work that day to meet her mum. From then on there was not a day when we did not meet, usually having dinner together in a restaurant or in her home or mine. Her mind is so quick and agile that I often needed the next day to review all the things she had mentioned.

Peter appeared to be satisfied that his scheme would eventually break me down. I might have spent the next six months in that little office if Paul had not intervened. The cold war with Peter seemed to have diverted attention from my primary purpose in the lab: not to mince words, Paul attached me to teams to spy on them. He was happy enough to leave me to worm out the secrets of Peter’s team, but I had no chance to make even the most rudimentary enquiries – I did not even know where they kept the paperclips.

It was almost three weeks before Paul called me to his office and demanded an assessment of the team I had been embedded in. I suppose the novelty of Molly’s company was wearing off a bit for I readily agreed to start stirring things up with Peter. Not that I would deal directly with him, I decided. Paul gave me carte blanche, so I began forcing my attentions on the other team members. Even though they were ostracizing me, I had learned a good deal about them in the three weeks I had been locked away. A prisoner has very little else to do but study his jailers.

Overtly, they all respected Peter, but in many cases, it was fear and not admiration that underpinned their regard for their leader. I made three lists, although I could not commit them to paper since my desk was searched every other evening when I had left for the day. I concentrated on the group who feared Peter; in the end I identified two targets. Most of them were so intimidated that they would have run to confess if I had approached them. Mike and Helen were as scared as the others, but they made no secret of their resentment at their situation; I considered that, given discretion on my part, they would tell me what they knew.

I went into full James Bond mode. I still did not talk to my fellow team members at work, but I enlisted Pat, the receptionist who had been embracing me on Rose Monday, as my agent. She arranged assignations after work in pubs far from the lab. Mike could only spare a few minutes on his way home to his family and I usually met him alone. Helen is single so Molly and I got into the habit of taking her to dinner. Pat loved the excitement of her role.

The results were less than spectacular. Peter is very good at his job and there were very few things he had missed. I was ready to report to Paul with nothing more damaging than an idea or two from a junior that had been dismissed a shade too quickly – hardly damning. The guy is arrogant, but he is clever and well-organized. I was about ready to ask Paul for a move when the shit hit the fan.

It was perhaps the fourth time Molly and I had taken Helen out to dinner. She is a handsome woman rather closer to forty than to thirty but still attractive; her manner is calm, and I was satisfied that she was cooperating because she felt that Peter was stifling her ambitions. After she had reported on the work of the team and answered all my questions, we were chatting about life in general. Molly had already told me not to mention Peter’s name and Helen did not talk about him. I had been thinking of my report to Paul, not bothering to follow the conversation, when Molly remarked that Peter was a cretin.

“He’s a lot smarter than you, Molly. You think you’re queen of the lab but Peter has something you’ll never have.”

She had been gathering her things while she shouted this message, and now she rushed out of the restaurant. We learned later that she drove straight to Peter’s house and confessed everything. I had seen Molly acting the ice-queen for long enough, that I should have guessed that Helen’s calm exterior hid a cauldron of emotions. She loves Peter and had hoped that he would turn to her when I took Molly off the playing field. She had some notion that he would be so disgusted when he discovered the part Molly had played in our deception that he would overlook Helen’s contribution.

The following morning, I arrived at work to be handed my few personal belongings by a sheepish-looking Pat. I phoned Kate, Paul’s secretary, who told me to wait in the canteen. It was only quarter past nine, but Peter had already been ranting at the director for ten minutes. Helen and Mike were huddled together at a table in the canteen waiting to be fired.

“I was acting under orders. I admit that I may have exceeded them a little but you two are not going to be punished for my sins.”

Mike looked dreadful, the tension having brought on an asthma attack, so I called his wife to come and collect him. While we waited, we chatted about the other labs in the group that they would be happy to join. After Mike had gone, Helen became weepy.

“Peter will never talk to me again,” she wailed.

“Only because he’s a prat,” I told her. “You put your career – and your heart – on the line for his sake. If he had any sense he would propose marriage to you.”

That cheered her up, and she was still building castles out of nothing more substantial than hope when Pat came in to summon me to Paul’s office. I had phoned Molly to tell her what was happening and now she intercepted me in the corridor, concerned that I would be sacked.

“If Paul fires you, I’ll resign.”

“Don’t talk daft: no one is going to be fired, although Peter might have to be persuaded not to leave.”

I was not as certain as I tried to sound. I knew that my co-conspirators would be kept on or moved, with a strong recommendation, but I thought I might have pushed Paul into a corner where he would be forced to choose between Pater and me. If I had been in his shoes, I would have made an example of me: Peter is a gifted team leader and I do not actually have a proper job, except as a snoop.

What Paul actually did was none of the above. He said nothing at all about Peter or his team, nor about the discussion they had only just concluded.

“Rajit was asking when you would be free,” were his opening words. “It seems that he has a little bottleneck and Kurt has convinced him that you’re the man to help resolve the issue. Take the rest of the day off and report to him first thing tomorrow.

“And I do mean first thing. I’ve been getting reports that you are sometimes half an hour late getting here. I’m not prepared to let that continue.”

He slapped my wrist about timekeeping while failing to mention that I had mortally offended one of his team leaders. Kate was less subtle. As I passed through her office, she attacked.

“I have my own views on what you’ve done to Peter, but I will not stand by and let you hurt Molly. You should never have allowed her to become part of your plot, or whatever you call it.”

I thought of telling her that Molly had insisted on taking part and had shown every sign of enjoying the experience, but Kate had only paused for breath.

“And you have behaved disgracefully to Pat. That little girl is half out her mind for love of you and you drag her into your sordid affairs.”

Pat is twenty-eight, divorced and with two children, hardly justifying the term ‘little girl’. I was ready to defend myself when Kate got her breath back.

“Get out of my office before I say something we’ll both regret!”

I picked up a couple of coffees and took them to Molly’s den. I reassured her that Mike and Helen would not suffer; I was going to visit him at home when I left her, and Helen was probably already talking to Paul. Remembering what Kate had said, I apologized to Molly for dragging her into my dispute with Peter.

“You didn’t drag me into anything, Mark darling. My man was under attack from a superior force, and I stood by him – it’s what lovers do, you silly man. Especially as I was the cause of the problem in the first place.”

I wondered at her describing Peter as a superior force but forgot it as the discussion stalled on my suggestion that she join me in taking the rest of the day off. She reminded me of how busy she was but promised to get away as early as she could. We were dining at her house that evening. There was something slightly wrong with what she was saying but I could not decide what it was.

When I reached the foyer, Pat pulled a box from under her counter, presenting it to me.

“Peter sent your belongings down,” she grinned. “We really got to him, the arrogant prick,” she crowed.

“I probably shouldn’t have dragged you into the affair.”

“It’s been the highlight of the job so far. I sit here smiling politely saying ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ for months and then along comes our very own super spy and for a few days I’m a Bond girl.”

“James Bond has a reputation for loving them and leaving them, you know.”

“I could put up with the leaving if I got a bit of the loving. What about it, Mark?”

“My double-’O’ license has expired.”

“I can wait until you renew it!”

I sat in my car thinking for a minute or two before I drove to Mike’s home. His wife greeted me with a smile, inviting me into the lounge where her husband was lying on the settee watching horse racing on television. He had his phone beside him, so I guessed that he was having a flutter. He also smiled as he muted the sound but left the horses silently straining round the track. His wife got me settled while he watched the conclusion of the race, greeting the result with a grimace.

He gave me my third surprise. Molly had told me that I had been up against a better man, Pat told me that she was ready to date me and now Mike told me that he was glad that we had been found out. He has been trying to pluck up the courage to accept a better paid job across town. Did I think that Paul would give him a ringing endorsement? I called Paul at once, handing the phone to Mike to speak for himself. It may have been the presence of his wife that gave him the courage, but he showed more determination in those few minutes talking to Paul than I had seen from him before.

When I got home, there was a letter waiting for me inviting me to attend the surgery in Newcastle for assessment. I should arrive on the Sunday evening for scans starting at six in the morning; the surgeon would see me on the Tuesday morning. Later, over dinner, Molly offered to drive me there on the Friday, giving us two nights together before she returned to Cambridge on the Sunday evening. I would catch a train on Tuesday after my meeting with stepdad’s friend.

We tramped the Yorkshire dales all day Saturday and half of Sunday before she dropped me at the hospital. I spent Monday from five in the morning until after nine at night being scanned and tested, prodded and pummeled. The staff were friendly enough, but they were all strangers to me and were careful not to say or do anything that would indicate what the tests were showing. I was accustomed to being part of a familiar team with mother always lurking nearby to tell me what was happening.

I was aware that they were behaving as they had been trained to do but I went to bed on Monday night quietly fuming at being cut out of the loop. It was, after all, my body that had been tested and there was no one more interested in the results than me. Things were not a great deal better the next morning when I waited more than an hour in a corridor until the surgeon could see me. It was understandable that the staff on the ward would want access to my bed, but I could have waited in a café with a cup of coffee.

Stepdad is always upbeat, convincing his patients that the result will be good, but the Newcastle specialist began by describing the worst possible outcome, only slowly admitting that the likely result could be much better. He pointed out, reasonably enough, that the injury was an old one: he would, he said, have been happier if I had come to him sooner. In view of that, a further delay was of no importance – speak for yourself, I thought. He sent me off to a physio to get a regime of exercise to strengthen my upper torso. Come back in six weeks, I was told.

On the train, I called stepdad who reassured me that the bedside manner was not an accurate guide to the surgeon’s skill in the operating theatre. Next, I spoke to Hector who told me that the extra exercises could do no harm. Later he and I had a video conference with the Newcastle physio. By the time Molly picked me up at the station I was resigned to the delay, although I was still not happy. We argued because she advised me to cultivate patience and I pointed out that I had been patient for almost four years.

As it turned out, the six weeks were amongst the happiest of my life and certainly the most tranquil. I joined Rajit’s team, and we hit it off right from the start. We took his research apart and rebuilt it; we always seemed to be on the same wavelength, passing the ball between us as we sliced through the obstacles. Even better in many ways was the response of the other team members. Rajit and I put together the skeleton but all of us worked to put flesh on the bones. The excitement we felt permeated the whole lab; there were more smiles exchanged at that time than ever were before or since.

All was not sweetness and light, of course. Peter was determined to get his revenge, but he could think of no fresh approach, so he simply repeated his offensive remarks at my expense. There was a brief time when it looked as if he would divide the lab into two camps but people simply lost interest. He had lost the girl and should have been man enough to move on. There was also the fact that I was better established than when he had first attacked; Kurt and Geoff recognized the contribution I had made, and they were prepared to say so.

Perhaps Peter’s campaign would have fizzled out anyway, but the word soon got round that Rajit and I were reforming the whole approach of his team. Peter’s snide remarks about my rusty or non-existent brains fell on deaf ears. It all sounded like so much sour grapes. Mike let it be known that he had felt stifled as a member of Peter’s team. Before the six weeks were over, I was accepted as Paul’s troubleshooter and there were several team leaders vying for my services when I left Rajit.

There were only two people left in the building who still doubted my credibility as a scientist. Peter, of course, could not concede that I was worth my salary, but the other doubter was my almost fiancée, Molly. It took some time for me to notice. She and I talked constantly, and it was easy to miss in the ocean of words we exchanged that some words were never mentioned. She had warned me not to talk about Peter but there were other subjects which she never brought up and quashed or ignored when I raised them.

I was invited to her house for dinner on Rose Monday. Afterwards we sat together on the settee opposite her mum in an armchair. Our hands were entwined, and our knees were touching but we were having a heated argument about Paul’s age. Molly claimed he was in his mid-fifties, but I had a fleeting memory that I had heard he had not yet reached his half century. Amber began laughing, which stopped the argument in its tracks.

“Oh my, Mark, you have no idea what a treat it is to find someone giving as good as he gets when Molly is on her high horse.”

“I don’t get on my high horse as you call it, Mother, but when I know I’m right I never will agree just to be polite.”

“Ditto,” I grinned, leaning over to give her a gentle kiss.

I did not remark on it at the time, but the discussion ended, as so many have since, with my capitulation. Establishing the date of birth of the director was such a trivial thing that I readily conceded the victory to my new, wonderful girlfriend. It was only much later that I realized that I conceded every argument to Molly: she liked to win and would show no restraint in seeking her goal. Most of our arguments were over things that did not matter but, sooner or later, we will come to a point where I can only yield by crossing one of my red lines.

When Hector was at odds with Morag, he would tell me that men married their mothers. He claimed that Morag with her dander up (one of his special words that hardly need a dictionary to understand them) she was exactly like his old mother.

“I could have had my pick of girls down here but no, I had to go back home and marry a clone of my own mother! And to think I talked her into accepting me.”

There was a time when I laughed at his droll sense of humor, but since I have known Molly, I have reconsidered. My mum must be in charge. She has been more affectionate to me since I was wounded than she ever was before. She never could control dad, who goes his own way unperturbed, and I now think she left when I reached an age where I was beginning to express an opinion. Rather than argue with a five-year-old she joined the army where she could give orders to her heart’s content.

Seeing me again, unconscious and needing to have everything done for me, she was able, perhaps for the first time, to express the true depth of her love for me. As I regained my strength, she fought a rear-guard action to keep me by warning off the young nurses who might have dated me. My stepdad rules his operating theatre but outside it he wants to be looked after; mum does everything for him, without even pretending to consult his wishes. Was Molly attempting to do the same to me?

I am not interested in winning every race I enter but there are some things in life which matter to me a great deal. At first, I thought that Molly and I discussed absolutely everything, but I slowly began to notice that there were some subjects which came up a lot less often than you might expect. Molly told me she was not a virgin, but she dodged all the attempts I made to find out about past boyfriends; she would talk about her experience but not about the individuals. I respected her wish not to kiss and tell, but her reticence rankled.

She was a bit shifty on the subject of marriage. Again, she would chat about general aspects of being a couple, but she changed the subject when I wanted to discuss times and places. In fact, the date of a formal engagement receded as we got to know each other better. In the first few weeks we were dating, she would talk about getting a ring ‘soon’, but by the time I went to Newcastle for my second appointment, she had changed that to ‘eventually’. If I pressed for a date, she became angry and refused to talk about it.

It was my mum who really set my alarm bells ringing.

“Molly’s such a sensible girl. It’s refreshing to meet a young woman who is prepared to put her career ahead of children. You’re better off without a parcel of brats, Mark, take my word for that.”

The army likes its soldiers to have a last will and testament before they are sent to the front, so in my mid-twenties I was forced to think about my future. I did nothing to change my life, but I did decide that I would one day settle down with a wife, a cottage, roses round the door and a couple of kids. I did not judge my girlfriends by their desirability as mothers or their child-bearing hips, but that ultimate goal was always at the back of my mind.