Page 13 of The Three of Us
Friday comes around quickly and he does something he hasn’t dared do before, not while he’s still settling in and learning the lie of the land. He sneaks off early. Molly has booked them reserved seats on the six fifteen train and he needs to get home, get changed, and get them both onto the Tube and to Liverpool Street in time. If anyone notices or wants to make a fuss about it, it will have to wait until Monday, but it doesn’t look as if anyone cares. Half the office is empty by four, so he’s probably not the only one wanting to start the weekend early.
Molly’s waiting for him, a weekend bag packed and ready by the door, one of her special plastic cake carriers loaded up with the special lemon cake she’s so proud of. She’s wearing a thin floaty dress in a flowery pattern that skims her ankles, and a bright-pink jacket he can’t remember seeing before.
‘I went shopping,’ she says. ‘Do you like it?’
He nods, looking her up and down. ‘You’ll do nicely. As long as it didn’t cost too much. We are living on only one wage, remember,’ he jokes, flicking at her hair as he rushes into the bedroom to get changed.
‘It didn’t,’ she says as he emerges into the small hallway, and grabs his keys, ready to go.
‘What didn’t what?’
‘It didn’t cost too much. Not that I know how much too much is. I just wanted something new, that’s all. Something nice.’
‘Okay, okay. I didn’t mean anything by it. If you like it, that’s fine.’
He can’t help feeling, as they hurry towards the station, that he’s said something wrong. She’s walking with her head down, saying very little, and it’s impossible to grab for her hand while she’s concentrating on balancing the cake and he’s trying to manoeuvre a case with a wonky wheel along the busy pavement without rapping it into someone’s ankles.
‘You okay, Mol?’ he says, as he stows their bags on the train and they finally settle into their aisle seats, facing each other across a table. So far, nobody has turned up to claim the seats beside them, so there’s room to spread his legs out a bit. The big cake in its plastic container dominates the table in front of them.
‘Fine,’ she says, laying her head back against the headrest and closing her eyes. ‘Just tired.’
‘Did you bring anything to eat? Make any sandwiches or anything?’
She gives a quiet sigh. ‘We’ll be there in time for dinner. Mum’s making a roast.’
‘Oh, right.’ He feels his insides rumble. Norfolk feels like a long way away on an empty stomach, and seeing that cake on the table and knowing he’s not allowed to touch it doesn’t help. ‘That’s going to be pretty late though, isn’t it? I’ll just go along to the refreshment place and grab a quick coffee and a muffin or something. Or a beer, if they’ve got any. Want anything?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m okay, thanks. Maybe just a tea?’
‘Right. Won’t be long.’
He has to wait a few minutes for the coffee place to open, and there are already three people in front of him in the queue. He places his feet apart, allowing his body to sway with the motion of the train and watches through the window as the grubby London buildings pass by.
He hasn’t given a lot of thought to home since they’ve been away, but now he finds he’s looking forward to getting back to the village, seeing their families, breathing a bit of good old country air. He has no regrets about leaving but something in him still craves the familiarity, the safety of a place he knows like the back of his hand. Seeing his mum and dad, and that easy comfortable way they have with each other. Loyal, trusting. He could never imagine them wanting anyone else, doing anything to hurt each other, or ever being apart. It’s the sort of relationship he’s grown up around, the sort he just naturally expected to find for himself one day. Is there passion there? Who knows? It’s not something anyone wants to think about, their parents having sex. But theirs is an uncomplicated, deep and steady, forever kind of love, the kind that’s just there, always, unspoken but ingrained, right through to their bones. He knows, without ever having to ask, that there have been no Carly moments in his dad’s life, and that there never will be.
Molly is asleep when he gets back to their seats. He puts her tea down on the table and tries to decide whether to wake her up or just let it go cold. She’s a pretty sleeper. Not one of those whose tongue lolls out or who dribbles down her chin. Not a snorer. He likes watching her sleep, wondering if she’s dreaming, and what about. He knows he’s lucky. That she is a good wife, a loving and loyal wife, just as steady and capable as his mum, and hers, in it for the long haul.
He doesn’t deserve her. What man gets horny sitting in the park with a woman he hardly knows? Wonders, every time he gets out of the lift at work, if he’s going to bump into her, and hopes he might? Wonders why he can’t quite get her out of his head? He remembers their conversation, what Carly had said about him being the right man at the wrong time. She was right, of course. It had been a mistake, and one he could not let himself repeat. For that one evening though, down by the river, there had been magic in the air, something new and exciting in his life, something he had never felt quite so intensely before. But, just as in all the best fairy tales, magic rarely lasts. Reality comes back with a bump. This isn’t Cinderella, and he is no Prince Charming. Molly is his life, his reality.
‘Oh, sorry, did I nod off?’ She opens her eyes and pushes her messy blonde hair back behind her ears, reaching for her cardboard cup of tea and taking a sip. ‘Can’t have been for long. It’s still warm!’
He rests his elbows on the table and reaches out, finding her fingers and rolling her rings around. ‘Looking forward to being back?’ he asks.
‘God, yes! Seeing our mums and dads, and Flossy, of course. The fresh eggs, the pub, the lumpy bed…’
‘Not so sure about the bed. That mattress will be the death of me. But the pub sounds good. I could just eat one of their famous pies right now.’
‘Tomorrow maybe. I expect we’ll be going out to eat for your mum’s birthday. Your dad won’t want her to have to cook. But we’ve got the roast tonight, remember.’
‘With Yorkshire puddings? And roast potatoes? And parsnips?’
‘Jack! I can see you drooling already. Of course. When did my mum ever do a roast any other way?’
‘I must say, Maureen’s gravy alone is almost worth the long journey home for.’
She kicks him playfully under the table. ‘It’s not a long journey, Jack. We’ll be there before you know it. We should make sure we do it often. There’s nowhere quite like home, is there?’
He smiles, takes his hand away from hers and reaches for his beer. Home’s fine, he thinks. In small doses. But home – that home – is not somewhere he wants to live again. He’s moved on now, and taken Molly with him. The last thing he wants is to be sucked back into that dead-end life. They’ve only been out of London for half an hour but already he’s thinking about Sunday, and itching to go back.