Before the Dawn (2 page)

"But you haven't yet?" her father guessed shrewdly and Molly shrugged.

"There's hardly been time..."

"I was thinking perhaps you didn't want to."

"Not you too, Dad," Molly protested. "Everyone is hoping we'll reconcile, but it's not going to happen."

"I've said I'll support you no matter what," her father replied steadily, "but of course I'd rather see you happily married--"

"That's it, though, isn't it?" Molly interjected. "Happily."

"Were you two happy before this incident at the Christmas party?"

Molly bit her lip. "Yes, we were. A bit stressed, perhaps..."

"About what?"

Molly looked away, trying to keep her voice casual. "Well, you know we were trying for a baby." She didn't mention, didn't want to remember, the two miscarriages that had preceded the ill-fated party, or how low she'd been feeling because of them... even though the doctors said it was just bad luck.

"That can be stressful," her father agreed. "Your mother and I tried for you for quite some time, as you know."

Molly's heart ached. How could she ask her father about Edward Longton? How could she even give voice to the suspicions clamoring inside her?

"Tea?" her father asked and Molly nodded, her heart suddenly thudding.

"Dad," she said, her voice sounding too loud in the little lounge, "have you ever heard of Edward Longton?"

Her father's hand stilled on the kettle for a moment, even though his face remained blank. When he looked up at Molly, he smiled easily.

"It's been awhile, but yes. He was a friend from the old days."

"How did you know him?"

"He was a friend of mine from university. When I travelled for business, he checked up on Mum for me. You know I was gone for weeks at a time... it made me rest easy to know she was being looked after."

Looked after all too well, Molly thought. Her father glanced at her.

"How have you come to hear of him?"

Molly took a breath. She couldn't evade her father's question, as much as she wanted to. She wished she'd never brought the issue up, even though she knew it would have had to be dealt with at some point.

"He died, and his solicitor sent me a locket. Apparently he wanted me to have it."

"Ah." Her father looked bemused as he carefully unwrapped two tea bags.

Something about that 'ah' made Molly say slowly, "you know, don't you? Whatever it is, you know."

"Molly," her father replied, "there is very little concerning your mother that I don't know."

Molly swallowed. "And me?"

Her father's look was sharp. "What about you?"

"Why would Edward Longton send me a locket? With a picture of Mum inside?" Her voice broke, and she blinked back tears.

Her dad crossed over to her and grasped her hand in his. "Are you thinking that Ed--Edward Longton--is your father?"

Molly stared at him with wide eyes. "Is he?"

"Molly." Her father closed his eyes briefly. "Look at your face, my girl. Look at your nose. No one can doubt you're my daughter."

Sweet relief rushed through her, making her almost dizzy. "Then why did..."

"He send you the locket?" her father finished. He shook his head slowly. "I don't know. Maybe as one last link to your mother." He paused, his expression thoughtful. "He loved her, you know. Very much."

"How can you say that?" Molly spun away, filled with a sudden, nameless rag. "She cheated on you, didn't she? Cheated."

"I was partly to blame."

"How?" The word came out like a bark. "I thought I knew her."

"You did." Her father grabbed her hand again, gave it a warning squeeze. "This should never, ever diminish your mother's memory, Molly. I mean it. She was a wonderful woman. Nothing--nothing--can change that."

"Then why...?" Molly shook her head helplessly.

"I told you I was away most of the time. I was caught up in business, drunk on my own ambition." Her father shook his head wearily. "I know you don't remember me that way. In fact, your mother's relationship with Ed Longton was a wakeup call. I realized I was driving her away. She found comfort with him because I wasn't giving her any."

"That still doesn't excuse..." Molly began.

"No, it doesn't. But there are two people in a marriage, Molly, and it often takes two people to make it work... or fall apart."

"So you just forgave her?"

"She came to me, admitted what happened, told me she was terribly sorry. It was her choice to break ties with Ed. We never saw him again, and that alone probably broke that man's heart. I felt sorry for him, after awhile."

"You make it sound so simple."

"No. Never simple." Her father smiled briefly, tiredly. "It was hard, and painful, agonizing at times. But I loved your mother and I looked at the alternative... life without her. I wasn't ready to face that."

"Weren't you scared?" Molly whispered. "That it wouldn't work out?"

"For awhile, every day. But you know what? We were both committed to it working. And that made all the difference."

Molly rubbed her hands over her face. She was relieved that the stranger was not her father, and yet he had a relation to her, a tie to her mother. She felt mixed up inside, as if someone had taken all her certainties and scattered them like chess pieces across a nameless board. "I don't know anything anymore," she said after a moment, her expression rueful.

Her father smiled. "That's a start," he said. "That's a start."

Later, as Molly drove home, her father's words echoed relentlessly in her mind. We were both committed to it working.

She was just about to turn onto her street, to the house she and Dan bought together, their heads stuffed with silly dreams, when she braked suddenly and then kept going, all the way across town--and seemingly into a new country--where she knew Dan's bedsit was.

Rubbish blew against her boots as she navigated the sidewalk and slush to his door. She rang the bell, heard his voice, tinny and strange on the intercom.

"Hello?"

"Dan, it's me." Her voice came out shaky, and she forced it to sound stronger. "It's Molly. I want... I want to talk." She let out a breath, touched the intercom as if Dan could see her, as if she were touching his face. "Please. I want us to talk."

There was a moment of silence, and Molly could hear her heart thudding against her ribcage. Rain slashed across her face and wet her hair.

Then the door signalled its unlocking with a harsh buzzing, and feeling hopeful for the first time in months, Molly pushed it open and walked inside.

She saw Dan at the top of the stairs, smiling uncertainly, and she knew then that her father was right.

It could take two to make a marriage fall apart. It would take the two of them to put it back together.

A tremulous smile on her lips, she started up the stairs. "Hi, Dan," she began, and he held open his arms.

TRIANGLES

Have you ever noticed how awkward a shape a triangle is? Nothing smooth or equal; all sharp points poised to stab or wound. And three is an awkward number as well; no matter whether it's sides, wheels, or friends, it doesn't quite work. It's an odd number. Unequal. Unfair.

I formed this particular triangle by accident. At least, I think it was by accident. Sometimes it's difficult to remember.

I was standing at my front window, gazing out at the sleeting rain when I noticed my next door neighbor's eleven year old son, Jamie, slouching up to his house. I watched while he fished for his key without success, and then hopelessly rattled the front door handle.

He slouched back out onto the pavement, kicking the stones with his trainers, his oversized black hoodie making him a big, dark blur (the local comprehensive's uniforms are all black--they make them look like gangsters, in my opinion).

I knew his mother Alix (why the i?) didn't return home from work till sixish, so Jamie was on his for two hours at least. Then with a flutter of both fear and excitement, I grabbed my umbrella from the stand and opened the front door.

"Jamie! Are you locked out?" I called. "You can come wait here, if you like."

I watched indecision flit across his boy-man features; I knew what he was thinking: What was preferable? Two hours in the rain or two hours of conversation with an old bat like me?

Not that I'm that old. I'm forty-six. But to Jamie, I'm sure I appeared ancient.

Finally he shrugged and said, "Yeah, all right," and slouched into my front hallway.

For a moment I was quite taken aback by my decision--and his presence. He was so large, so young, so male. Even my husband didn't affect me the way Jamie did. When he took off his trainers I could smell wet socks. Wet boy. I couldn't decide if it was a scent I liked or not.

"Come in, come in," I finally said, and I ushered him into the kitchen. Somewhere I found orange squash and a packet of ginger biscuits. Jamie glanced at these refreshments with a dubious air, and I realised they were more suited for a toddler than a strapping young boy.

"Eat up," I said cheerfully, but in my mind I was remembering to buy something he liked for next time. If there was a next time.

I tried to make conversation for a few minutes, but it was awkward and really rather painful for both of us.

"Perhaps you like the telly?" I finally ventured, and Jamie brightened.

"Yeah, that would be good," he said and soon he was sprawled on my settee, watching something mindless on channel four, his mouth hanging half open.

At six I started looking out for Alix, and when I saw her old rattle trap of a car pull up I hurried out.

"Hi, Alix," I said in a cheerful voice that must have surprised her because we  hadn't ever shared much conversation. "I've got Jamie."

"You've... what?" Alix looked tired and hassled and frankly nonplussed. I quickly explained the situation, Alix thanked me, snapped at a sulking Jamie, and then they were gone.

Funny, how empty the house felt then.

I mentioned it briefly to Brian when he arrived, passing it off as really a rather amusing way to pass the afternoon.

"Why wasn't there a key under the doormat?" he demanded and I shrugged.

"You know how people are these days. They never think."

And that would have been the end of that, if Alix hadn't taken our little exchange to heart, and confided in me a month later that Jamie was slipping in his school work and needed some adult supervision after school to make sure he got his homework done.

"I'd put him in the after school care," she said with a sigh, "but frankly they're overrun and hopeless."

I made sympathetic noises, waited a moment, and then said, as if this was something that was just occurring to both of us, "why doesn't he come over to my house? I'm usually just puttering about in the afternoon--" my part-time job bookkeeping from home didn't seem worth mentioning-- "and I'd enjoy the company."

"Would you?" Alix looked so pleased I knew she'd been hoping I would make that exact suggestion. "Would you?" she asked again and I smiled.

"Yes," I said. "I would."

Of course, Jamie didn't appreciate my company at first. But I was prepared for that. I'd bought things I thought he'd like, frozen pizza and disgustingly flavoured crisps and soda.

"You must tell me what you like," I said gently, "and I'll be sure to have it for you."

Jamie looked at me suspiciously for a moment, but there was a gleam in his eyes.

Of course, part of the bargain was that I actually had to help him with his homework. But I didn't mind that. I plied him with crisps and fizzy drinks and had endless patience and jokes; it was easy when I only had him for a few hours.

We would sit at the table, his head bent over his work, his face in an almost comical grimace as he tried to work out a maths problem, the curve of his cheek still so smooth and as round as a child's.

A child's.

Brian started to become concerned, of course. I knew he would.

"You're spending a rather lot of time with that boy," he commented one evening over dinner. "Don't you mind it?" He looked curious and just a bit suspicious.

"No, not really. I'm glad to help and the afternoons get a bit dull, you know."

"You could take on more work."

I looked up and met his stare levelly. "I'm fine," I said. "I'm fine."

One afternoon about a month after he started coming everyday Jamie asked me, "Do you have any children, Mrs. D?"

He called me Mrs. D. instead of Mrs. Dunning. I found I quite liked it.

For a moment I imagined what was going through his mind; blurred images of adult children who existed quite separately from the house he knew, the me he knew.

I imagined those children, as I had many times before.

"No, Jamie," I said quietly. "They never came along in the end."

He shifted uncomfortably, and I knew he'd never expected such an innocent question to reveal the complications and disappointments that seemed to have littered my life.