Chapter Five

William did get his tumultuous welcome home from his younger siblings and the family dog but, due to Molly's tactical decisions not to remind Freddie and Violet that William was due home that day and to keep them out in the park until after William had had time to adjust to being back home, talk to his bees and catch his breath, her eldest child was able to actually enjoy the attentions of his brother, sister, and canine companion.

Violet was almost as pleased to see William as the other two. Although Freddie was still her firm favourite, her eldest brother came a very close second, especially since he had somehow persuaded their parents that it was high time she left the Nursery and moved upstairs with the big boys. Freddie could barely contain himself, such was his burning desire to tell William about his new dance – the Punch and Judy trio. And Redbeard was just ecstatic to have the whole pack back together again. Although William spent less time in the pack den than anyone else – he seemed to come and go quite a lot - this was all the more reason to celebrate his returns, whenever they occurred.

While all that was going on, overseen by Sherlock – just to make sure nobody got physically injured in the scrum – Molly eyed her husband's facial bruising and recalled her words of caution that morning – Be extra careful. No doubt he would explain how he came about those bruises, once the children were safely tucked up in bed that night, so she contented herself with the fact that they seemed to be the extent of his injuries and were not life threatening.

During their Saturday morning trip to the High Street, Molly had purchased all the fresh ingredients needed for William's favourite dish – Spicy Chicken and Avocado wraps. So, once the homecoming ritual had played itself out, Sherlock set about preparing the meal in the kitchen, with all three children acting as sous chefs, while Molly unpacked William's travel bag and dealt with one boy's two weeks' worth of dirty laundry.

Domestic tasks had always been shared in the Hooper-Holmes household. There were no 'women's jobs' or 'men's jobs' – just 'jobs' that needed doing. They were very fortunate that Marie had always interpreted her role as 'nanny' quite broadly to include domestic chores too, which had enabled Molly to pursue her career even before Sherlock came on board as a hands-on dad and partner.

She felt extremely lucky, not having to choose between her professional life and a fulfilling family life. She knew that not every wife and mother was so fortunate – which was another reason why the woman's comments that morning had rankled so much. Maybe it had been intended as a throw-away remark, but the idea that girls who did not fit these old-fashioned sex stereotypes - such as a love of the colour pink – were 'strange' had cut deep for Molly. And she knew exactly why.

When she was growing up, her mother had never understood or accepted her deep and abiding interest in the sciences because, in her opinion, science was 'for boys'; it was 'unladylike'. It had been a major cause of friction within the family, especially since her father had actively encouraged her, every step of the way. And her career choice was the final straw!

It was only quite recently that she and her mother had been reconciled, so this inadvertent reminder of that difficult time in her life was very painful; and she had never wanted her children to be subjected to such prejudice. Fortunately, Violet had been too engrossed in the images of cephalopods in her book to notice what the woman said; and chances were she would not have understood the inference anyway.

But there was another dimension at play here - the fact that so many women of previous generations had made great sacrifices and fought hard against sex role stereotyping so that women of future generations could have greater autonomy and more choice in how they lived their lives. Women of today owed them a huge debt of gratitude. So it just seemed ungrateful…

The aroma of frying chicken and mild salsa wafted through to the Utility Room, along with the chatter of the children and Sherlock's running commentary on their culinary practices. Molly gave her head a metaphorical shake.

It was lovely to have William home again and, she reminded herself, carrying out these basic household tasks – like doing the laundry - was just as satisfying and rewarding as performing a complex post mortem or teaching a roomful of eager Pathology students...

Because she could do both! So, whatever that other woman might think or say was of no consequence whatso ever!

ooOoo

William's homecoming meal was a great success, with everyone seated at the kitchen table, helping themselves to whichever ingredients they preferred and constructing their own wraps – Freddie and Violet with some strategic assistance, of course – while William went into more detail about the things the choir had done and seen on their Scandinavian tour. By the time supper was over, it was way past Violet's bedtime so Molly took her and Freddie upstairs together to share a bath, while William and Sherlock cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher.

Molly sat on the children's toilet seat cover, leaning over the side of the bath and swishing the water with her hand, testing the temperature as it gradually filled with soapy water. Once it had reached the required depth – four inches – she shut off the taps and called to the children, who were disrobing in their respective bedrooms.

Violet was first to arrive, having undressed all by herself - except for her t-shirt, which was hanging around her neck. She had manged to get her arms out of the sleeves but getting the whole thing over her head had proved stubbornly impossible; it kept getting caught on her pigtails.

'Dem pidtails is bad,' Violet grumbled, tugging at the elastic bands that held her hair in place. 'Tut dem off, Mummy!'

Molly gave her daughter a sympathetic smile. Violet was often frustrated by her lack of physical maturity.

'Cut off your pigtails, darling?' she exclaimed, manoeuvring the t-shirt around the offending articles and easing it off over her head. 'Surely not!'

'Yesh, I doh lite dem,' Violet insisted, shaking her head and frowning as Molly lifted her into the bath. 'Vi'let want sort hair, lite Fweddie an' Willum.

Arriving in the bathroom in his birthday suit, Freddie heard Violet's demand and declared,

'You can't have short hair like me, Violet.'

Molly turned to Freddie in surprise. She had no idea he held such strong views about his sister's hair.

'Yesh, I tan!' Violet insisted, most put out by Freddie's categoric dismissal of her very reasonable demand.

'No, you can't, Violet. Cos my hair's straight, like Mummy's,' he pointed out, pragmatically, as he climbed into the bath and lowered himself into the water beside his sister. 'Your hair is curly, like Daddy's and William's. So, you could have short hair but it would be like theirs, not like mine.'

'That's very true,' Molly agreed, smiling fondly at Freddie for his rather Sherlockian nit-pick.

She slid the hair bands off Violet's pigtails and ruffled the bunches of hair loose before scooping up some bath water in a plastic jug – kept in the children's bathroom for this express purpose – and carefully pouring water over the little girl's head prior to applying shampoo.

Molly had worn her hair long for as long as she could remember and couldn't imagine herself with short hair but that was her preference; and since, it would seem, the hot topic of the day was girls and women having more autonomy and individual choice, it would have been hypocritical to deny her daughter's right to choose for herself.

'If you really want to have your hair cut short, Violet, of course you can,' she declared. 'It's your hair. And the good thing is, if you don't like it short, you can always grow it back again – though that might take a while.'

She massaged shampoo into Violet's long blonde curls and swirled them up into a knot on the top of her head then tilted the little girl's chin up, to meet her gaze with a smile.

'OK?'

'Fantoo, Mummy!' Violet grinned. 'Tut it now?'

'Not right now, sweetie,' Molly replied in a placatory tone. 'We'll make an appointment at the hair salon and get it done properly.'

Violet seemed satisfied with that idea and nodded her acceptance.

Having washed and rinsed Violet's hair, Molly left her playing with her favourite bath toy – a multicoloured water wheel, attached to the side of the bath by a sucker, that would spin around when water was scooped into the little cups on the ends of the spokes; and turned her attention to Freddie.

'Turn around, sweetie, so I can wet your hair,' she said. And Freddie dutifully turned his back to her…which was when she saw the bruises…

'Darling!' she exclaimed. 'What's happened to your back?'

Across his back and shoulders were a series of developing black and blue marks. Based on the colouration, Molly calculated that they were relatively fresh – less than twelve hours old - and fairly superficial but still tender.

'How did you get these bruises?' she asked, ghosting her hand over the welts, not wanting to touch them for fear of causing her son more discomfort – because they must have been painfully delivered.

'Oh, those,' Freddie replied, rubbing his shoulders with his own hands, 'that was Izzy.'

Molly had never heard him mention anyone called Izzy before.

'Who's that?' she asked, as her thoughts raced through several ways in which these bruises might have been inflicted – none of them innocent!

'She's Judy in our Punch and Judy dance,' Freddie explained, turning to look at his mother, as he could hear the concern in her voice. 'They don't hurt that much,' he tried to reassure her but he could tell she wasn't convinced.

'What did she do to you?' Molly asked, trying to remain calm but not really succeeding.

'Well,' Freddie began, in a matter-of-fact tone, 'when Mr Punch drops the baby on its head, Judy goes and gets the policeman to come and arrest him. But Mr Punch runs away and the policeman can't catch him because he's too fat so Judy grabs the policeman's truncheon and chases after Mr Punch, hitting him with the truncheon and chasing him away.'

Molly stared at her son in stunned surprise.

She had never really taken much notice of Punch and Judy. She knew it was a form of seaside entertainment for children but whenever she visited the seaside as a child, she had been more interested in rockpool dipping or searching for fossils on the beach than watching puppet shows. She had a vague recollection of Mr Punch having a club of some description and shouting, 'That's the way to do it!' quite a lot, in a rather squeaky voice, but that was the extent of her Punch and Judy knowledge.

'So, Izzy hit you with the policeman's truncheon as part of your dance?' she asked, just for clarification.

'That's right,' Freddie nodded, grinning. 'But it's not a real policeman's truncheon,' he added, since his mother still looked very concerned. 'It's a plastic one.'

'She must have hit you very hard, though, to leave these marks,' Molly declared.

'Well, yes, she did a bit,' Freddie nodded, ruefully.

'And what about Miss Simone? Did she see Izzy hitting you hard with the plastic truncheon? Did she say anything to her about it?' Molly was quite appalled that this could have happened to her son in an environment where she had assumed he would be safe from harm.

'Oh, yes, she did!' Freddie assured her. 'Miss Simone told Izzy it was just pretend and she wasn't to really hit me. Just mime it.'

'And did that work? Did she stop?'

'Sort of,' Freddie shrugged. 'She didn't hit me quite as hard.'

Molly had heard enough. She was going to have to have words with Miss Simone. But for now, she smiled at Freddie to reassure him and proceeded to wash and rinse his hair.

Once both children were out of the bath and Violet was safely tucked up in bed, Molly went into Freddie's room, where he was sitting up in bed 'reading' his favourite Mr Men book, Mr Bump – quite appropriate, under the circumstances. She smeared some arnica cream over his back and shoulders, to stimulate blood flow through the capillaries close to the surface, which would ease the pain, reduce the swelling and help reabsorb the blood from the bruises; then hugged and kissed him good night.

ooOoo

'Everything alright?' Sherlock asked when Molly entered the kitchen and flopped down onto one of the dining chairs with an audible sigh.

Having heard Molly coming down the stairs, he had flicked the kettle on to make a fresh pot of tea. William was taking a shower in the Utility-cum-Shower Room so it was safe to have a grown-up conversation - which it was clear Molly needed to have.

'It's this new dance of Freddie's…' she began and he nodded, giving her his full attention. 'I had no idea Punch and Judy was so violent!'

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. He had a vague recollection of sitting on a beach once in front of a sort of little tent on stilts, watching a Punch and Judy show. And yes, now he came to think about it, it was quite violent.

'Mmmm,' he mused. 'Perhaps I should have asked more questions before agreeing to Freddie doing the dance.'

'Oh, gosh, no!' Molly exclaimed, eager not to apportion any blame to her husband. 'It would never have occurred to me to ask. I just assumed that any dance being given to a five-year-old would be…child friendly! But now…to be honest, I think we've both been a bit too trusting.'

She went on to explain about Freddie's bruises and his explanation of how he came by them.

'And while we're speaking of bruises…' She fixed her husband with a questioning look.

And Sherlock came clean about his encounter with the City of London police.

'Well, I'm going to have say something to Miss Simone,' Molly concluded, back on the subject of Freddie's dance. 'I can't have our son beaten up in the name of entertainment.'

Sherlock nodded his agreement and placed a soothing mug of camomile tea in front of his wife. Molly would deal with this far more diplomatically than he ever could. He had every faith in her.

ooOoo